FREE ADVENTURE MAGAZINE / SPRING 2015
DAVE RASTOVICH | SANUK.COM
COver Photo Chantal Anderson chantalanderson.com
Contributors “TroubleMakers” Shannon Nixon, Brianna Kovan, Mel Greene, Amy Morrison, Camper Morrison, Justin “Scrappers” Morrison, Noah Smith, Lisa Dougherty, Keito Swan, Dan Kuras, Chris Hornbecker, Monica Choy, Hunter Meece, Jeremy Okai Davis, Brooke Masters, Skye Larcade, Alex Guiry, John Hook, Kahana Kalama, Evan Schell, Jeff Edwards, Joseph Harmon, Todd Gillman, Georgia Hopkins, Christina Lonsdale, Malcolm Johnson, Scotty Sherin, Rene Gauthier, Thor Drake, JP (Jon Patrick), Scott G Toepfer, Anthony Georgis, Angéline Moizard, Laura Berger
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Simple, cool and practical, the new Burton Hybrid Shorts are the answer to pretty much any adventure. On land or in the water, these keep the fun and functionality going no n. matter what, thanks to their unique design and fabricatio Wet/dry versatility and style, what more do you need?
H A P P Y 1 S T B I R T H D AY S T AY W I L D ! YOU
KNOW THAT FEELING you get when you stand on the edge of something really, really tall? Like your guts get scared and pull up and hide behind your ribs (see Kaito Swan’s story about base jumping in this issue). Well, we’ve got that feeling as we stand on the edge of our Spring 2015 Issue. A year ago, Spring 2014, we started this magazine to give voice to a community we had a hunch was out there. As soon as that first issue came out, we knew Stay Wild served a real community — your community. Together, we’ve helped redefine what adventure means in these modern times without turning the stuff we love into some kind of freaky fetish. Our Kickstarter got way overfunded with support from people like you. Our Instagram followers grew organically from 0 to 20,000 (we use other social media outlets, but they’re not as much fun). We’ve made over fifteen tiny movies about naked bike riding, motorcycle camping, skating in cities around the world, urban fly fishing, and stuff. We’ve published four beautiful, large format issues of the magazine (available online too), overflowing with a wide range of inspired adventure stories (sprinkled with a healthy dose of trouble). We’ve made friends with hundreds of high-quality distribution spots, including art galleries, outdoor stores, motorcycle coffee shops, radical surf shops, flagship stores, fancy boutiques, gnarly bike shops, and more. When we invite people our events, they actually come and have fun!
Oh-Mah-Gawd! All that, and other waves of other glory-infused success stories, was made possible in the shortness of a year. The magazine has been free to the public since it first kickstarted, due to the good graces of our advertisers, partners, collaborators, volunteers, contributors, subscribers, and bad ass helpers. It’s a beautiful venture, and we’re going to keep it that way, thanks to you. (((THANK YOU))) This issue marks the beginning of a new year of Stay Wild magazine. I’m not going to pretend to know what the future holds — I have no idea what comes next. Nevertheless, I’m here to face it, shake its hand (or claw), and dance hard and long with whatever saints and demons the wild unknown sends this way. Anyhoo, thanks for letting me share. I usually can’t stand those dumb “Letters from the Editor”, where people tell you how awesome their lives are, and how their personal experiences relate to the magazine you’re holding. Crap! I think I just wrote one of those. Double crap! Sorry. Just kidding, I’m not sorry. But, I should shut the fuck up already.
Justin “Scrappers” Morrison, Stay Wild magazine’s “Main Helper” STAYWILDMAGAZINE.COM
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PHOTO BY DAN KURAS // @DPKURAS
WE ALL HAVE A PLACE, A CITY PARK, A MOUNTAIN TRAIL, A DESERT FLOWER, A PREFECT BEACH BREAK. SOME PLACE THAT BRINGS US OUTSIDE. OUTSIDE OUR WORK, OUTSIDE OUR LIVES, OUTSIDE OURSELVES. WE MIGHT SHARE THEM WITH OTHERS, BUT THEY FEEL LIKE THEY ARE JUST FOR US. MOST OFTEN, THEY ARE NOT. THESE PLACES, AS NATURAL AND BEAUTIFUL AND UNTOUCHED AS THEY SEEM, ARE LARGER THAN US. TO EXIST, THESE PLACES REQUIRE EFFORT. SO UNDERSTAND THE PLACES YOU LOVE. LEARN WHO WORKS TO PROTECT THEM, AND WHO MAKES DECISIONS ON THEIR BEHALF. GIVE YOUR EFFORTS TO THESE PLACES, AND TRULY GET OUTSIDE. Amy Morrison
Stay Wild Magazine's Practical Business & Environmental Responsibility Manager
The Conscious Kind Project by Lisa Dougherty
You see, the thing is, I had every reason to stay. To trudge on at my "grown up" job, remain in the comfort of my home, enjoy the consolation that my friends are just a text away, and basking in the glory of exploring the Northwest wonderland. Then it began. It started out as a faint whisper — a fleeting thought. As time passed, the murmur grew to a soft voice. I could make out what it was saying, “dream, run, live, and never look back.” I tossed it a bit of attention, but decided to reduce the “thought” to an unrealistic, fanciful whim. One afternoon, my entire being was flooded by something similar to a thunderous roar. As it settled into a calm, I recognized it as the call I had ignored so many times before. “Come”, it said. I was overwhelmed with a sensation, a resolve — it’s the kind that everyone feels, but only a few dare to answer. It’s what makes us the "wild ones”. It’s the call of the wild and untamed — an invitation to live. This particular calling came to me about two months ago. "I'm going to drop everything and travel around the country by train,” I thought. The next thing I knew, my resignation letter was delivered to the office, my room was available for new residents to move in, and I was left with the task of filling my backpack with enough supplies for two or three months. I chose to travel by train because I'm fascinated with the amount of time saved, as opposed to driving a car. What would I do with all of this extra time? I came up with a haphazard route, which has made me have to rely on old friends, strangers, and myself in order to get anywhere when I'm off the train. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going to end up, or who I'll stay with, which is equally terrifying as it is intriguing. This is how adventures are born. It's been one week since I left everything in Portland, OR and made my way to Los Angeles, successfully completing the first leg of my trip. In between stops, I've found myself sharing stories and drinks with strangers on the train, exploring hot springs in the eastern Sierras with old friends, and camping alone in Yosemite National Park. So far, I've gotten lost, sunburned, had splinters lodged in my feet, and an incessant back ache from my over-packed backpack. I've made up songs on my harmonica, read stories, and learned how to tie some knots (you know, for survival and stuff). I've got about three more months of this. Some people are calling it a "mid-life crisis". Others are referring to it as a "life-altering" experience, questioning, "are you ready for something like this?” Fortunately, a lot of people are wonderfully supportive. Me? I'm just going through the motions. This whole escapade might seem outlandish, but it is anything but impossible. Call it what you want, but to me, this is the idea… the feeling… the calling… the ultimate adventure. We are the “wild ones”, and we say “yes, and amen” to every crazy invitation that life throws at us. KEEP UP WITH LISA ON INSTAGRAM @THECONSCIOUSKINDPROJECT
YOU KNOW THE FEELING you get when you’re standing on the edge of something sketchy, and your breath catches in your lungs as you mumble, “holy… shit.” Your stomach goes into knots, as your heart races and pounds like it’s going to explode out of your chest. I can’t help but chase that elusive, but invigorating feeling. Most people would call me an “adrenaline junkie”, but I resent their need to label the holy nature of my endeavor - it is too glorious to title. I am in constant pursuit of the feelings associated with being behind the camera. When I’m photographing a BASE jump, it isn’t enough for me to stand safely away from the ledge. No, I’m drawn to the very edge, egged on by an inward voice telling me to, “take a closer look.” It is at these moments that I experience a heady rush as I position myself to capture the optimum shot. This is of such great importance to me, that I often maneuver to the point where I am forced to rope up and climb off the edge myself, igniting the “pucker factor”- a term I coined to define those moments of such intense fear or nervousness that the adventurer’s butthole puckers up. I want to harness a shot that is capable of inviting its viewers to bask in the type of feelings I experience when I am on the ledge. A lot of people have a hard time understanding why anyone would risk putting themselves in such a dangerous situation. Taking the leap, flailing past cliffs, and wondering why the hell you don’t have a back up parachute (at least skydivers have this consolation). My friend, Gary, claims that the draw for him is, “The aspect of being in complete control over myself. I get scared on every exit, and the fear is the same every time. The only difference is my ability to control my fear and disconnect my feet from the earth. The freedom of the fall is second to none.” KEITOSWAN.COM
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OR T C A F R E K C U THE P
AN W S O KEIT
THE ORIGINAL’S ARE CRAFTED WITH BLACK SANDALWOOD TEMPLES, A HAND-DRAWN ACETATE FRAME, CR-39 POLARIZED LENSES, AND SPRING HINGES.
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SUNGLASSES WE WOULD WEAR IF WE WERE YOU
A PHOTO STORY BY CHRIS HORNBECKER // HORNBECKERPHOTO.COM // @ HORNBECKER
SABRE // DREAM ON // $115
SMITH // REBEL (NUDE) // $80
SPY // DAFT // $149.96
BRUSHWOOD // THE CRAFTSMEN // $140
REFLECTIONS IN THE SUNGLASSES WERE PROJECTED IN THE LENSES AND THEN PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHRIS HORNBECKER. ALL SHOT FOR REAL, NOT IN PHOTOSHOP.
PROOF // ONTARIO ECO // $110
SABRE // SHEENA // $130
RAEN // MAUDE // $125
RAEN // CONVOY // $235
SCHWOOD // CANBY SELECT // $325
WOODZEE // CARDIFF WATER BUFFALO HORN // $75
WESTWARD LEANING // VOYAGER 11 // $195 D'BLANC // GUILTY PLEASURE // $160
ZEAL // EMERSON // $199
PROOF // HAYBURN ECO // $110
HAND-EYE SUPPLY // SPECTACLE // $20
HAND-EYE SUPPLY // AVIATOR SAFETY SPECTACLES // $20
SMITH // COLETTE // $80
WESTWARD LEANING // VOYAGER 1 // $195
RAEN // SUKO // $150
ELECTRIC // MAINSTAY // $100
SELF SHAPE SURF CONTEST P rese nte d by Vi ssla
MAY 2ND 2015 SEASIDE REEF, CA RULES
Ride your own hand shaped surfboard. #SelfShapeSurfContest
Pic: Ravean Kretowicz
Visit www.shaperstudios.com for more contest info.
These New Poutines
We’d tell girls we were in a rock band traveling to South America. We’d say “Yea, we’re from California, we’re called These New Poutines.” The poutine part referencing the Canadian cuisine - or lack thereof. Thinking we were rockstars we’d take the piss out of everyone. I was in South America for four months with friends, surfboards, and 9 rolls of film. We’d party, get naked, surf, and travel but when the waves faded, so did the laughs. I spent a lot of my time alone in solitude, wrestling with my mind. I was chasing something far less tangible than the fleeting dopamine. I still am.
by Alex Guiry ALEXGUIRYPHOTO.COM // @ALEXGUIY
LET'S EXPLORE THE TENDER R E L AT I O N S H I P B E T W E E N S U R F E R AND PHOTOGRAPHER. SHALL WE?
John Hook is a pretty regular contributing photographer here at Stay Wild, so when we saw him hanging out with our favorite surfer Kahana Kalama at the new Aloha Sunday store in Honolulu, we were like, “WHAAAAAT!? These two dudes are making sweet, bromantic magic together?” Check out the photos John shot of Kahana surfing, as well as the “love notes” they wrote about each other.
ThaliaSurf.com 915 S. Coast Hwy, Laguna Beach, CA 92651
We linked up for a measly 2ft swell at Rocky Point and he shot a roll of film on his Nikonos. I thought the photos would suck and, no joke, when he emailed them over I was completely blown away. It’s not that he made me look like I was ripping way harder than I was, it was that for the first time in my life the photos he took actually captured how much fun I was really having. He’s pretty much one of my favorite humans largely in part because I feel like we both share the same disdain, frustration, and love for everything that Hawaii is. It’s like I know I’m going to get made fun of by mokes for wearing short shorts and crazy aloha shirts… but it’s okay because at least there’s another weirdo with a camera who thinks my shorts are cool.
JOHN ❤ KAHANA Hollywood would cast Kahana as the Hawaiian rascal boy in a surf movie. In the end, he'd show his heart of gold by helping the main kook get the wave of his life. In real life, Kahana is just some ridiculously good looking dude that loves surfing and hanging out with his family and friends. Aloha Sunday, as a brand, kinda represents the wild Hawaiian rascal that actually wants to look good. Opening the outpost in Kailua, Honolulu, made perfect sense, since that's where Kahana was born and raised. Bringing the brand officially back home from San Diego's North Park. "The Local" is a shave ice spot connected to Aloha Sunday. They serve up delicious shave ice made with all natural locally sourced (from all the Hawaiian islands) syrups. Buggah so good, broke da mouth.
PHOTO OF JOHN HOOK BY EVAN SCHELL @THESLIPPERYSALTWATERCHRONICLES
KAHANA ❤ JOHN
Explained by Jeff Edwards of losangelesswimmin.com
LAST NIGHT I GOT A TIP OFF ABOUT A HOT SPRING TUB on Forest Service land close to Los Angeles. Considering how close this supposed haven was, my buddy Duncan and I decided to make the trek. After eating a healthy breakfast at Baker’s drive-through, we rolled up to the spot around 11 a.m. Perfect start to a day of undisturbed soakin’ in the springs. Our homie Derek was already there and was fixing one of the corners in the tub. It had been bashed in by some kid who walked on it while the concrete was still wet. The springs are insanely hot (around 120 degrees Fahrenheit), so we spent a good half hour cooling the pool with a bucket of cold water drawn from the creek nearby. During this entire process, some random kid in his 20s was standing around naked talking to us, occasionally adjusting his wiener. I thought nothing of it; some people like to stay chubbed up so people think their shlongs are thicker than they usually are. Then I noticed he was staring at our friend Mariah, and he frantically began to stroke it, RIGHT THERE, IN FRONT OF ALL OF US. I yelled at the kid and told him it wasn’t cool. He replied that he had ADD—somehow that was supposed to make it OK. After the confrontation, he said he had to go to work at the UPS store, so he put on his sweatpants and left. After soaking for a bit, we noticed some sticky white stuff on a rock next to the tub, and you guessed it: the kid was jerking it in the tub before we even got there. It was still thick and globby. The sun hadn’t even had a chance to dry it out
So, for all of you people out there who want to know about hot spring etiquette here are a few rules:
1. NO STROKING IT IN THE HOT SPRINGS 2. IT’S NOT OKAY TO JERK IT WHILE TALKING FACE TO FACE WITH SOMEONE 3. NO LURKING IN THE BUSHES AND POUNDING YOUR MEAT 4. JERK OFF BEFORE YOU COME TO THE HOT SPRINGS These are just a few rules, there are definitely more, but I’ll save that for later.
READ MORE ABOUT HOT SPRING ETIQUETTE AND WERE TO GO SWIMMING IN LOS ANGELES AT LOSANGELESSWIMMIN.COM @LA_SWIM
JOSEPH HARMON // JOSEPH-HARMON.COM
ins my Coll by Jere rk o w Art
ing w e r B ium g l e B ... t n New e s e r ld p i W y a and St
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GOT AN EMAIL INVITE from a couple Fort Collins, Colorado-based coworkers to join them and a Santa Cruz, California-based mutual friend on a bike tour of sorts. The details were sketchy at best, but the invite list, comprised mostly of New Belgium Brewery coworkers, included some of the most reliable and hilarious adventure companions on the planet. It’s well-known that our brewery has built its brand and reputation on an ethos deeply-rooted in all things bike-related. Subsequently, it’s not a stretch to imagine a handful of beer-loving, bike-obsessed, New Belgium employees rallying around a harebrained, desert adventure to escape the winter doldrums. The proposition was muddled in mystery from the onset, because the trip leader, Covey, only revealed scant details of the itinerary and location of the mission. The following is an excerpt of the invite that stole my attention: “Getting pretty darn excited for our secret, desert adventure! Six days of daring, intrigue, camaraderie, and RAD! If you’re up for the adventure, trip-specific emails will follow with the packing list, meal arrangements, and code words for secret plans. Warning: this is a Fatbike-only experience… Don’t even think of bringing your scrawny, 2.4” tires! The hope is to have a sag-wagon meeting us at camp each night. My dad is on board, but he may have to bail. Let me know if you think of anyone who would be interested in driving.”-
FTER MANY YEARS of imagining up elaborate escapades into the backcountry, I’ve become a bit lazy in recent years, focusing most of my planning muscle on the many work projects that dominate my time. Unsurprisingly, when a bulletproof plan (one that allows me to sit back and leave the heavy-lifting to a thorough trip leader) is delivered to me like a gift from the heavens, it’s pretty much a no-brainer. What could possibly go wrong? I jumped on a cheap fare to Vegas for Thanksgiving day, where the Colorado team of JP and The Professor, with my rental bike in tow, would scoop me up just in time for a truck stop, Thanksgiving meal en route to our first night of camping at Red Rock. From there, we’d hit the road and head west to meet up with Covey and his dad in Mammoth Lakes, where the adventure would begin in earnest. At this point, only Covey and his dad knew the itinerary or had an idea about what the actual ride might be like. We dicked around in Bishop for a bit, securing last-second necessities, such as gallons of extra water poached from a garden hose at a downtown office, and a pellet gun (naturally), and then we rallied into Death Valley National Park, battling an incredibly stiff and disconcerting crosswind on the way. As a Pacific Northwest resident, Death Valley had never been on my radar as a destination for an adventure or vacation, so in the weeks leading up to the trip, I’d spent late nights researching the area, soaking up everything that made it interesting and worthy of National Park Service designation. I also passed countless hours trying to imagine where our “secret” tour might take us. Covey had leaked a vague play-by-play ride route, which included only the need-to-know stats, like mileage and elevation gain. One day in particular looked brutal. Climbing thirty plus miles (more than six thousand
SLOW RIDIN’ IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH A Top-Secret Bikepacking Expedition to the Benevolent Vortex of Weirdness Super weird, and right up my alley. A quick check of the Outlook calendar confirmed that the dates, which coincided with both my birthday and Thanksgiving, were more or less free from work obligations. Happy Birthday to me! Never mind that I didn’t own a Fatbike or the bikepacking accoutrements required to pull off an expedition of this sort. Eh, we’d work that out later. The packing and prep lists followed shortly thereafter and were equally entertaining. For example:
by Todd Gillman
Whiskey Dusty stems and caps 2 gallons of water Snacks Lunch Electrolyte drink mix
feet) of treacherous terrain, all while mounted on expedition-loaded bikes.The rest of the route was more enticing to me, but you have to be willing to suffer a bit to enjoy such spectacular highs. Once on our bikes, the pre-trip anxiety melted away, and became instead a vast and beautiful high desert landscape. Our minds were free to roam, as our eyes began to absorb the endless, undulating horizon lines formed by the Inyos and the Salines. The ambiguity of the trip would soon reveal itself, beginning with the merging of our car onto a fork in the road, which revealed ragged, uncharted territory — was Covey planning on cycling this beast? Once off the road, we followed a dry arroyo for miles until it pinched down into an incredible twisting, slot canyon known as a “snotch” in bikepacking parlance. The surface was volatile, to say the least. Inconsistent sizes of cobble, soft sand, hard-packed, desert “playa”, tube-popping goathead-studded brush — all conquered by the Fatbikes with graceful agility, while maintaing a ridiculously fast pace. I was quickly becoming a Fatbike believer. We were finally spit out into a broad, sand-covered valley, just as the sun was beginning its descent. The last signs of civilization had disappeared hours ago, and all that remained was white sand and mountains as far as the eye could see. We were still a good ten miles from where we had arranged to meet Covey’s dad in our New Belgium Sprinter van. It felt as if the prospect of dinner and beer was merely a mirage painted on the desert sands, because as we trekked further, we only seemed to reach more sand dunes. We found ourselves in a seemingly endless range of open desert. The event that followed will forever remain one of the most spectacular adventures I’ve ever been on, and certainly the coolest bike ride I’ll probably ever do.
WE RACED IN TIGHT BLUE ANGELS FORMATION THROUGH HARDPACK SAND GULLIES THAT RESEMBLED MINI HALFPIPES THAT RAN FOR MILES, HOOTING LIKE A PACK OF COYOTES.
HE SLOG UP THE DUNES was tedious and exhausting, but was made enjoyable by the orange and purple hues of the sky and alpenglow on the barren mountains as the sun dipped below the horizon. By the time we descended the other side and made our way onto the flats, the moon reflected off the sugar-white, desert sand, illuminating our way through sparse creosote bush and the occasional rock. We raced in tight blue angels formation through hard-packed, sand gullies that resembled mini half pipes, extending for miles. We howled like a pack of coyotes, as we smacked off the lip of the gully and did little tail whips the whole way. We kept a fast pace while pedaling without the aid of artificial light, which, it turns out, was all part of the plan. Bright headlamps in a wide open desert could easily draw attention to us and the questionable legality of our endeavor. The moon was bright enough. We woke the next morning at the foot of the largest set of dunes in California, and shivered in sub-twenty degree temperatures, as we busied ourselves with coffee, breakfast, and shooting beer cans with a pellet gun. The good life, really. Amazingly, within two hours, the sun had warmed the Eureka Valley enough that we were soon in short sleeves. After we saddled up, we began our long climb to Steele Pass, pausing in intervals to peer at the sand that stretched out behind us, and the mountains that seemed to stare back in reverent approval. As we climbed, we made our way through another series of snotches, which eventually gave way to a myriad of Joshua Trees. Covey had been coming to Death Valley with his dad since he was a kid, and had worked a few years as a ranger with the California Department of Fish and Wildlife. As a result, he is intimately familiar with the region’s lore and ecosystem. We’d be getting a brief lesson in Death Valley’s archaeology, history, or ecology, only to geek out a moment later over a giant tarantula sauntering across the path. Witnessing the grandeur of our surroundings from the seat of a bike allowed us the time to take it all in. I was fascinated by the abundance of beauty and life that existed in such a seemingly harsh and remote place. Little, tough-as-shit desert dwellers, and an abundance of plant life, have managed to carve out tolerable niches in almost every inch of this inhospitable environment. Summiting Steele Pass was an occasion de-
serving of a victory dance, and it’s times like these that the well-equipped adventurer will enjoy the best beer of his or her life. Fortunately for us, being well-equipped with a delicious IPA is second nature. After a beer on top of the world, we bombed thousands of feet down the other side of the pass, headlong into another spectacular sunset. Spotting the New Belgium Sprinter across the desert in the low light was a relief, but as we approached, we were shocked by unmistakable juxtaposition of palm trees silhouetted against the luminous sand. That didn’t seem right — palm trees in the desert? Yet, there they were, clustered, to our amazement, around a series of hot spring pools set against a backdrop of the rugged Inyo Mountains. We’d arrived at Saline Valley. A remote, mystical, and downright bizarre zone that would serve as our base camp for the next several nights. The warm showers and hot pools were magic for our sweaty, sore corpses, and over the length of our stay, we began to absorb the history and embrace the weirdness. The valley had been inhabited by hippies and alternative life-stylers since the 1960’s. They had been the “guardians” of the springs when the Nation Parks Service annexed the valley to the National Park in the early 1990’s. In recent years, the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding goings-on in the valley seemed to emerge and be relatively accepted, so long as the regulars do most of the maintenance and don’t cause trouble. Because of this, the park’s whereabouts are something of a mystery to the general public — a success for the returning visitors. The roads are unmaintained and are notorious for chewing up and spitting out city rigs. Signage is nonexistent, which leads to a sense of remoteness and exposure, and keeps the park well out of reach from the average tourist. For us, pedaling our bikes for a couple of days to get to this secret haven made it all the more sweet, which was Covey’s intent from the beginning. California’s first winter storm of the season had been well predicted, and we had been on the lookout for it as the trip neared, but with some amount of skepticism, because, well, it’s Death Valley and it just doesn’t rain much there. When it finally hit, right in the middle of our expedition, the storm brought several feet of welcomed snow to the parched Sierra, before crossing the Inyos and settling in for a couple of days in Saline Valley. Although a perk for the desert, it
successfully crushed our plans for the thirty mile, six thousand foot trek. We contented ourselves with downing beers, shooting the cans, exploring, playing naked whiffle ball, getting to know ALL of the hot pools, and becoming acquainted with most of the trippy drifters and folks who call the place home for part of the year. We were the young dudes that rode our bikes to the valley — the crazy bikes with the bloated tires. We were the dudes with the beer van. Everyone else had a “thing” too. One guy had a collection of rocks for sale. He gave us some cool, local rocks and regaled us with tales from the valley. Another, was a guy in the giant Unimog conversion RV. One gal we referred to as simply “Florida.” Most of them were retired or on their way, and all of them spent the majority of their time in the buff. The love they had for the place was evident. They thought of it as “their” place, and they took care of it as such. At one point, our group sat in a pool, soaking and watching as the work crew, comprised of sunburnt seniors wearing nothing but hats and sandals, dug a trench and replaced a pipe to carry water from the origin of the hot springs to one of the pools. Clearly, being shut down for days on end by foul weather was not the expedition we had in mind, but the unexpected plot twist yielded opportunities to find entertainment and enlightenment in ways that we hadn’t planned. Our time around the campfire was prolonged, giving us time to indulge in our weirdest stories and worst jokes. On our last day, I’d finally summoned the courage to ask some of the charismatic regulars we’d been getting to know if they’d mind if I shot some portraits of them on my film camera. They all obliged. Later on, I realized that a camera glitch had caused my film not to fully auto-wind back into the canister, and so I unwittingly shot nearly a full roll of images, many of them portraits of Saline Valley locals, on top of an already-exposed roll of film. Brilliant. But in the end, the double-exposures turned out to be kind of analogous to our trip experience as a whole. Completley different from what was planned, yet strangely beautiful in their own way — perfectly trippy, just like the benevolent vortex of weirdness that we found ourselves in. See more photos from the trip on instagram #SlowRideInTheValleyOfDeath @TODDGILLMAN
A New Adventure Festival FIELD TRIPS / WORKSHOPS / TRADE SHOW / PARTY
Joshua Trees, Patti Smith, Margaritas, the Integratron, and a Dome in the Desert by Georgia Hopkins
t’s hard to describe the wonder of Joshua Tree, but the desert will speak for itself. We love the light, the clear open skies, the stars, and the Mojave heat. We come back for the crazy looking Joshua Trees and the rad little hikes you can do through the 800,000 acres of national park. Sitting on any of the billion rocks at dusk, as the sky is color-popping from blue to orange to pink to purple to black, is mind-blowing. There’s a familiar sense of belonging here. Our desert adventuring caused us to stumble upon a cute little dome that was hosted through the vacation rental service Airbnb. Only five minutes from town, this self-contained dome boasted a modern gypsy aesthetic, which was complete with a meditation loft, vintage palm-reading books, hanging chairs, a guitar, and miles of clear open skies made perfect for stargazing. Needless to say, we wanted to stay forever. (@domeinthedesert)
We drank tea and read Patti Smith’s Just Kids in the desert sun. If you haven’t already read it, make sure you do. A perfectly evocative memoir of the ever-colorful punk rock legend, which tenderly captures a moment when bohemian Ms. Smith and Robert Mapplethorne were young and inseparable. They were roommates, friends, lovers, and consequently each other’s muses. Witnessing Ms. Smith onstage a few weeks later at the ACE Theatre in Downtown L.A. confirmed her talent, beauty, and ability to completely immerse the audience in her music. I found myself caught up in the realization of her journey and how it led her to this very moment. Patti Smith, at age 68, is living proof that punk doesn’t age. Her enthusiasm is infectious and impossible to resist—but why would you want to? We hiked to an oasis that was filled with the coolest looking pineapple-palm trees. Naturally, we imagined what this shady little patch of desert heaven would have been like hundreds of years prior and imagined how stoked we would have been to stumble upon it. We drank margaritas with local desert rats and escaped city slickers at Pappy and Harriet’s near Pioneertown, then moseyed on down to the Sunday Band to grab some ice cream.
No trip to Joshua Tree would be complete without indulging in an aura-check at the Integratron. A place of spiritual healing and musical sound baths, this white-domed structure was built in the 1950’s by UFOlogist George Van Tassel. He claimed the dome was capable of rejuvenation, anti-gravity and time travel. Van Tassel died in the 1970’s, and the Integratron was newly managed by a few sisters who began running “sound baths” in the acoustically perfect structure. Basically, visitors lie on yoga mats stretched across the floor with their heads in the center of the dome while listening to transcendental tones played from quart-crystal singing bowls. This posture represents the powerful center of the energy vortex — a truly meditative and awesome experience. The website promises “waves of peace, heightened awareness, and relaxation of the mind and body.” And damn, did they deliver. Everyones experience is different, and some of my mates reported feeling like their feet were burning on fire as the energy gushed out of them. I, on the other hand, felt completely at peace. It was a beautiful and total relaxation—something not to be missed. (integratron.com) Itsbeautifulhere.com @_itsbeautifulhere
THIS IS ACTUAL SCIENCE MAGIC. MOOD RINGS DEAL WITH TEMPERATURE, WHEREAS THIS AURA CAMERA IS AN INTERACTIVE TOOL THAT DEALS PRECISELY WITH YOUR NATURAL ELECTRICITY.
ARE YOUR PERSONAL VIBES REAL? Everything you ever wanted to know about Aura Photography but were too tripped out to ask. An interview with Christina Lonsdale of Radiant Human What was it like growing up in a hippy commune?
How does the camera capture a person’s aura?
It was exactly what you would imagine; naked people, carob chips, and the great outdoors. I didn’t have a lunch box, I had a basket, and my name was Savatri, not Christina.
There are two hand sensors that translate your electromagnetic energy to a vibrational frequency, which then gets matched to a color (because color also has a vibrational frequency), and this color comes out as a second exposure on an instant polaroid photo.
When you left home did you rebel against all that hippy shit? I started rebelling when everything fell apart and we moved to California. This is when I went to public school for the first time, and I had a complete melt down because my mother refused to buy me white bread and bologna. It was the beginning of the end. I eventually moved to Los Angeles, joined a corporation, and embraced fashion. Who turned you onto aura photography? Auras and energy are pretty common dinner table talk with my parents. My mother actually paints auras and spirits that she sees in her meditations and my dad used to hang out with a lady who channeled the wizard Merlin - no joke. It was my dear friends Lisa Butterworth and Meredith Jenks that took me to get my first aura photo, though. It was an amazing experience and everything just clicked for me. I’ve always enjoyed vibey science and interactive art, so this was a perfect platform for me to explore my culture in a way that made sense to me.
What do the colors mean? This is where the science ends, and we enter the fascinating world of color theory. I would have to write a book to tell you what all the colors mean, but I will give you the abbreviated version (but keep in mind abbreviations are always limited). Red is passionate and physical, orange is creative and good with people, yellow is optimistic and uninhibited, tan loves a to do list and a schedule, green is goal-oriented and deals with growth, blue is depth of emotion, trust, and loyalty, purple is the visionary, and white is higher awareness. Are the aura colors some hippy mood ring magic, or are they actual science magic? This is actual science magic. Mood rings deal with temperature, whereas this aura camera is an interactive tool that deals precisely with your natural electricity.
What is an Aura? It is an electromagnetic field that surrounds the body.
RADIANTHUMAN.COM @RADIANTHUMAN_ Radiant Human is available for pop-ups and private events anywhere in the world.
This part of the coast was one slab after another, without a single other surfer around. Itâ€™s a barren landscape in this areaâ€”Newfoundland definitely deserves its nickname, The Rock.
Photo by Scotty Sherin
This beach was at a closed campground, but a friendly local gave the crew a key to the gate so they could go camp by themselves and surf their brains out. Sometimes it was barreling wedges, and sometimes it was beautiful little longboard waves like the one Reid Jackson thought he'd surf in reverse. Photo by Scotty Sherin
Some friends loaned the crew a prospector’s tent. It was below freezing outside at night, but the stove inside kept it plenty cozy. Sometimes too cozy.
Photo by Scotty Sherin
Photo by Rene Gauthier
Newfoundland is stunning to look at, with many beautiful backdrops awaiting the traveling surfer. The waves aren’t always so hot, but if you surf like Peter Devries you can always make something out of nothing.
Maybe they were trying to trick people into buying heritage vacation properties. At some point, things stop surprising you here.
Photo by Rene Gauthier
Photo by Rene Gauthier
The cod is mostly gone, but there’s still plenty of lobster about. It’s considered a delicacy now, but back in the day it was considered a poor man’s meal in Newfoundland. People even fed it to their pigs and cows.
You don’t hear much about surfing in Newfoundland. It’s not because there aren’t any waves. There are plenty of waves. And it’s not because it’s cold. It’s cold enough that great white hunks of ice float past the coast after shearing away from Greenland and being carried off by the currents. It’s mostly because Newfoundlanders are unusually suspicious of anyone from the “Great Away.” The few surfers of The Rock, as this harsh-weathered island is often known, have never felt inclined to set up surf schools or post their spots all over the Internet. If you want to find waves here, you will, but you’ll be on your own, which only adds to the allure of experiencing an adventure few have been on. Newfoundland, if you’re not familiar with it, is the easternmost landmass in North America and boasts the North Atlantic Ocean as its playground. It’s big—bigger than Ireland, almost as big as England. Newfoundland declared itself a self-governing colony of the British Empire, and remained so until 1949, when it reluctantly became a province of Canada. The glaciers scraped its bones bare in the last Ice Age, leaving what one nineteenth-century visitor called a “monstrous mass of rock and gravel, almost without soil, like a strange thing from the bottom of the great deep, lifted up suddenly into sunshine and storm, but belonging to the watery darkness out of which it has been reared.” Buffeted by storms and blizzards, Newfoundland isn’t an easy place to make a life—not then, and certainly not now. Sometime long ago, a group of people that archaeologists refer to as the Maritime Archaics settled on the island, surviving by hunting birds and seals. Later, it became the domain of the ancestral Mi’kmaq and Beothuk, an indigenous group who drew their life from the land. Around 1000 C.E., the ships of the Vikings broke into the waters of Newfoundland. The voyage was led by Leif Erikson, more popularly known as Leif the Lucky. It was he, not Christopher Columbus, who should be credited with the discovery of the New World. After a harrowing journey, he led his ragged crew ashore the beach of L’Anse aux Meadows, setting in motion a long chain of events that would result in the Beothuk’s unhappy ending. In the years following Leif’s landing, a group of Viking voyagers made a determined effort to establish a permanent habitation. One hundred and sixty potential settlers landed in plank-hulled ships and set to work building sod houses, workshops, a smith-works, and an iron smelter. To augment their stores, they traded with the island’s original inhabitants, who they called Skraelings, or Wretches. Unfortunately, the cross-cultural relationship eventually deteriorated, and after three hard winters, the Viking colony ended in violence and failure, becoming a little-known footnote of history. Almost 500 years later, the Europeans again breached the shores of Newfoundland and were able to successfully establish a permanent residence. In 1497, the seafarer John Cabot claimed the island for England, giving it the name it bears today, “New Founde Land.” The seas around the island were incomparably rich, and lore tells that the icy ocean was so thick with fish you could lower a basket into the water and retrieve it bearing an outrageously large catch. A lucrative salt cod industry soon developed, with seasonal fishing camps springing up in the island’s many coves and bays. In time, the English residents became year-round fisherman, providing life for their communities in what previously seemed a barren and unforgiving land. For the following centuries, Newfoundland remained a sparsely populated realm of fish ports and outpost towns, its people sturdy, resourceful, and always keeping a weather eye to the sea. The Beothuk, decimated by disease and colonial violence, died out completely. Shanawdithit, the last full-blooded survivor, died of tuberculosis in 1829. There were other industries that sprung up over the years, such as sealing, mining, and most recently, drilling for oil from giant offshore rigs. For the most part, fishing was the hard labor that paid the bills. In the latter half of the twentieth century, the cod fishing industry unfortunately collapsed; with stocks a fraction of what they once were, the Canadian government declared a moratorium on cod fishing in 1992, putting tens of thousands of Newfoundlanders out of work with the stroke of a pen. Like I said, it’s never been easy in this hostile region and probably never will be. Subsequently, the Atlantic that bounds up against Newfoundland’s margins is a restless mistress, as I’m sure Leif and his shipmates would have attested to. It’s been said that a restless sea means waves to be found, so if you’re up for a surf trip that’s off the beaten path, here’s all you need to know: Get your warmest wetsuit and a few sturdy boards, book your passage to St. John’s, walk out of the terminal, get a cab, ask the cabbie to help you find someone who will rent you a used truck with a good set of tires, unfold the map, then… GO. Once you’re out on your own, and chances are you will be, set up camp, wait for the waves to come and the wind to die, and then reconnoiter the glories of the shore. Take your pick of heaving slab, rolling point, or rampy beach break. If there are any locals out, show respect and remember that you’re very much from the Great Away. And, as I’m sure they’ll readily confirm, people from the Great Away have been imposing their ideas on the island and its inhabitants for a thousand years. And then, fucking surf. Surf until you’re so cold that your fingers won’t grab the rails anymore. Come in, put your sweater on, pack up the tent, and drive through the outpost towns, wind-warped shacks, and piles of weather-beaten lobster traps. At sunset, park the truck downtown and buy a couple of locals a round of stiff drinks. Then raise those glasses to everyone—from Skraelings to Vikings to shivering fishermen—all those who discovered Newfoundland and the secrets to taming that beautiful devil’s shores.
Words by Malcolm
Johnson Photos by Scotty Sherin and Rene Gauthier
Photo by Rene Gauthier
Nico Manos out scouting for waves. He’s an incredible surfer who lives in Nova Scotia, and he loves nothing more than exploring the seldom seen corners of the Atlantic coast.
Funny thing about motorcycles, when you get one, you want two. When you get two, you want ten. Then one day you have ten motorcycles. You start to think about how to combine all of them into one bike. Not literally combine the parts into one, but take all the knowledge you have accumulated and build a machine that encompasses your vision of the ideal bike. The ONE motorcycle.
THOR DRAKE, FOUNDER OF THE1MOTO SHOW
I got into The One Motorcycle Show early and was poking around taking photos. Thor hopped on one of those motorized scissor lifts and said something to me as he drove off. I followed and when he stopped said, "Hey man, what?" He repeated, "Want to go up and take some pics?" Shit. I hate heights, but had to seize the opportunity. Also didn't want to sound like a pussy. I got up, total white-knuckle grip, turned around and quickly snapped a couple pics. Thor was like, "Hey, these are real hard to tip over. And we're only like 10 feet off the ground." Bullshit, Thor.
JP (JON PATRICK), SELVEDGEYARD.COM
HANDCRAFTED IN PORTLAND, ORE.
ORIGINAL MOUNTAIN LIGHT
MOUNTAIN LIGHT CASCADE
AVAILABLE AT DANNER UNION WAY | 1022 W. BURNSIDE ST. | PORTLAND, OR 97209 | 503.262.0331 DANNER.COM/STUMPTOWN
So, this build by Busch and Busch was my choice for an award at The One Motorcycle Show. They just do whatever the fuck they want, real fucking well. Some were like, "Looks like Shinya." Somehow I don't think the Busch brothers were like, "Let's ripoff Shinya, dude!" It's definitely that over-designed, over-built, OCD-overloaded baked potato, but insanely just right, style that I've come to love from the Busch brothers. Take this H-D Racer to Bonneville? Fuck that, you could part the Goddamn Dead Sea with this bitch. JP, SELVEDGEYARD.COM
Chicks dig Honda CBs. The smaller, the better. They are cheap, tight, fun to ride, easy to customize, unintimidating. This one by Twinline Motorcycles is a real looker. Every detail was deadon perfect. It got my attention right away, my wife's too. I got that hard "I'm not going to ask you to buy it for me, but if you're smart you would..." look. I'm pretending that never happened, and hoping that she was too buzzed to remember. JP, SELVEDGEYARD.COM
To go with the theme of 'race-inspired' for this year's show, Thor and his brother Bjorn decided to concoct a mini-bike track made of plywood and pallet wood. The opportunity to race on pride alone was enough to keep the race grid full every night, with guys putting it all out there in front of the crowd. The course, as stable as a waterbed, was worth every nail in the board. SCOTT G TOEPFER, SGTOEPFER.COM
When I'm not logging, or singing about logging, I'm tripping the fuck out at the bikes Thor and the gang build over at See See motorcycles. This one caught my eye since it looked exactly like the McCulloch chainsaw I carrid when I was a high climber. BUZZ MARIN, THE SINGING LOGGER
Women always talk about the importance of owning the perfect “little black dress“ in a mystical, lady-speak, life-changing way. Well, now I get it. Here’s the 2-wheeled equivalent for guys, and it’s a whole lot more practical than a dress, you can ride this shit. Seriously though, this is about as perfect as you’re going to find when it comes to a clean, sexy, raked-out shovelhead chopper. And I’m pretty sure you’ll have no troubling gettin’ lots of dresses on this righteous ride built by @forgash_unofficial - don't know your name dude. You did good. JP, SELVEDGEYARD.COM
Each year, the show also hosts the 21 Helmets show, where a mix of creative folks are invited to decorate the helmets and share them with the crowd.Â This year, Bell Helmets donated their Bullitt model to be the blank canvases. SCOTT G TOEPFER, SGTOEPFER.COM
At the last second we invited everyone to ride with us out to Sauvie Island nude beach for a hot tub party. Hot. Tub. Party. Those are three words that always wanted to be together. The Original Nomad set up their tubs, and New Belgium Brewing & Brew Dr. Kombucha gave us some cases to keep hydrated with. We totally got naked under the stars and chilled out after a long weekend of motorcycle gazing. It was awesome. SCRAPPERS, STAYWILDMAGAZINE.COM PHOTO BY ANTHONY GEORGIS, ANTHONYGEORGIS.COM
ANGÉLINE MOIZARD ANGELINEMOIZARD.FR @ANGELINEMOIZARD
Tenter, essayer, tomber, se relever et recommencer, encore et encore. Cette persévérance m’a toujours attiré, ce petit goût du risque, de l’incertitude, du déséquilibre. Osciller entre la chute ou la poursuite de sa route. J’ai beaucoup d’amis qui skatent, je les vois tomber, tenter, sauter, rouler par terre, rire, s’écorcher un genoux, déchirer un jean mais ils remontent toujours sur leur planche pour expérimenter. Finalement ce n’est ni plus ni moins ce que l’on peut vivre au quotidien dans la vie, des échecs, petits ou grands, qui nous désarçonnent, qui nous aident à nous remettre en question, et à progresser, à avancer sans avoir peur de vaciller, sans avoir peur de la chute.
(The above says skating is like living, because you will always try to do better, and maybe you’re gonna fail, but you’re gonna keep trying again and again.)
Hoodoos and Things An Interview with artist & plant friend Laura Berger
Describe your vibes? A mix of marginally chaotic excited-ness and longing, with a stable undercurrent of slow, loving peacefulness. The universe is pretty cool. What are the coolest parts of it? The parts that are mysterious: the death and the life parts (what are we doing?), and the way I can get on a plane and arrive in a completely different world from my own. That’s pretty cool. The big parts help us keep our perspective. For instance, the mountains, the oceans, and the stars are all super nice. I wish I could see stars more often, but I live in Chicago. Chicago doesn’t have many stars? What does it have many of? It doesn’t, no. It’s sad but true. I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re still up there, but there are too many lights, so we don’t get to look at them. It does have a lot of different kinds of people doing all sorts of things, which is nice. And it has a lot of neighborhoods and a lot of really good foods to try. There are also, quite literally, a lot of angry city squirrels. They’re very intimidating and badass. One time I saw one all nonchalantly eating a piece of pizza on the sidewalk out of a discarded takeout box. It just looked at me like, “What? You’ve never seen a squirrel eating pizza?”
What is the most wild you’ve ever felt? I think probably when I did a very magical road trip that was focused around southern Utah—hands down, one of my favorite places on this earth, all the hoodoos and things. Magic. We did some sleeping outside on big rocks with no tent, which was wonderful and new for me. I woke up to a wild dog (dog-like thing? semi-coyote? lost dingo?) sniffing at my head one morning just before dawn. That was pretty wild. Also spent some time on a trip in the Bisti Wilderness in New Mexico, which was so quiet and otherworldly. It was a very spiritual place to be. As an artist, how do you feel about plants? I feel like they are friends. Being an artist can be quite solitary sometimes, so I’m glad they’re around. We have a lot of them in our apartment, and they all have names. My first plant ever was an aloe plant named Harold. He’s really big and awesome now, and it’s good to have things to grow older with. What’s with all the natural love and wild nakedness in your work? It seems like our ideal and true nature—the way we all want to be, fully ourselves, with no ego, inhibition, or fear. It is when we are completely kind and open, allowing us to fully accept one another. It makes me feel good to paint people in that state.
See more of Laura’s work at lauraberger.com @_lauraberger_ and on the back cover of this issue.
A commentary on how men view women as objects, which is something I have been wired and taught to do as a masculine figure. It is an unfortunate mindset that is usually learned through external forces, such as the culture, time, and social construct people find themselves in. Nonetheless, it is something I wish to rid myself of. I took something sexual and photographed it from a voyeuristic perspective. In doing so, I attempted to desexualize the girls by turning them into shape and form. I wanted to get men to think about more than just their dick in their hand.
by Alex Guiry alexguiryphoto.com @alexguiy
photo by mark welsh
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