a d v e n t u r e m a g a z i n e // S U M M E R 2 018 // I s s u e #18
Travel will set you free.
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Big Sur Hot springs // 8 great Hawaiian Hotels PDx-NYC-NOLA // Oaxacan Mezcal // Russian Unimoto Surf Fests // Forest Fire Hiking // Fly Fish CLub // and...
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STAY WILD MAGAZINE
The rain, the soil, the seeds, the trees, the mill, the paper, the printing machines, and the people who physically made this magazine are all hiking distance from each other in and around Portland, Oregon.
A R B O R
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THE TRUE STORY BEHIND OUR COVER PHOTO
Sic Vita Est HIGH SIERRA CROSSING
Y FRIEND HAD BEEN MISSING FOR THREE DAYS and we didn’t know if he was alive or dead. I stood alone on the John Muir Trail, looking west toward Crabtree Meadow, back the way we had come. For the first time in three days I allowed myself to think about the possibilities. I pictured his drowned body, broken and battered, trapped against boulders in Big Arroyo. Maybe it washed down to the Kern River, and would be found by hikers weeks from now, trapped under a bridge. If he was alive, but injured, he would be cold and lost. In reality, as I allowed the worst possibilities to flood my mind, he was okay. His body and ego were bruised, he had spent a few miserable nights wet, cold, and alone, and he had lost his phone (and with it his only maps) in Big Arroyo, but he was alive. He would be found, hobbling back towards the trailhead, by hikers that had been alerted to his disappearance. They in turn notified Park Rangers. We would be made aware of his safe discovery that evening, eight hours later. Weeks prior I had imagined standing in this very spot, the massive wall of the Sierra at my back, Mount Whitney and Discovery Pinnacle towering over me. Guitar Lake was as I pictured it, a perfect mirror of the cloudless azure sky. I had thought I would look up at the highest peak in
the lower forty-eight States and feel triumphant: weary and trail-lean, but ready to summit the world. Instead I felt complete and total failure. Three of our group had flown over 5,000 miles from Germany to write a story for their magazine and it looked like that idea had been shot to hell. Another team member had twisted his knee in the Kern River Valley the day before, and had wisely opted to be airlifted out by the response team that had flown in to interview me about our missing friend. We had foregone planned rest days in order to make it to Lone Pine in time to get the Germans to LAX for their international flight, and we still had to make it up and over Trail Crest in the next hour or risk hiking down the icy 99 Switchbacks in
STORY BY TOBIAS HAYDUK // @TOBIAS_INDI // @JUNIPERRIDGE PHOTO BY COLIN MCCARTHY // @COLINNNNN
total darkness. My breath caught, and I felt cool tears on my sunburnt cheeks. I had never felt this utterly defeated in my life. And I had never felt more free. On our last morning together, we gathered at the Alabama Hills Cafe not as a group of dejected, sunburned failures, but in ecstatic, joyous reunion, brimming with love for each other. We had experienced what we would all agree were eight of the most mentally and physically exhausting days of our lives, and we wouldn’t change a moment of it. It was precisely because of those trials, the weariness, the fuckups and poor planning, that I was able to discover the freedom that exists just beneath the surface of our workaday lives. In the midst of that exhaustion, in the center of the most breathtakingly beautiful landscape I have ever seen, having done all we could do with no recourse to further help, the only option left to me was to surrender. Surrender to my own mortality and to the futility of worry. Surrender the false sense of control we fight so hard to maintain in our daily lives.
Surrender the egocentric idea that this world, this planet and universe, this reality, life, is unfair. Because it is decidedly not unfair. But then again neither is it fair. It is not cold, nor cruel, and it doesn’t play favorites. It just is. Sic vita est. Already, seven months since returning to my “normal” life, I find myself slipping into old routines. The chains of social convention aren’t dropped on our shoulders all at once. If that were the case, we would be crushed under the weight, or immediately rebel. Instead we build them ourselves, one link at a time, and fasten them around our own necks. What can you do when you feel the oppressive weight? Travel. Set aside the shackles for a moment and open yourself up to possibility, to being uncomfortable, to being scared, to meeting a stranger on the road and recognizing that you are meeting yourself for the first time. And the more you travel, the less you will want to pick up those chains when you return. For every journey must have an end, but each end is only a new beginning.
Top n a i i a w Ha s l e t Ho
H O W T O AV O I D T H E H O U S I N G C R IS IS STORY BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON // @SCRAPPERS PHOTOS BY SERA LINDSEY // @PORTABLESERA
These berries have been burning a hole in my pocket for the last five hours. I’m flying through volcano smoke, above the deep blue Pacific ocean, to islands that have been invaded countless times. As a visitor to Hawai’i, it’s my responsibility to preserve what I came to experience. I won’t let these invasive seeds grow here, so I zip them up in my pocket till I get back home.
T HERE ARE JUNIP ER B ERRIES IN M Y POCKET. SEEDS CROUCHED D O WN L IKE OLYM PIC SPRINTER S WAITING T O DIG INTO D IRT AND GROW. I PICKED THEM ON A HIK E RECENTLY BECAUS E THEY SM ELLED SO GOOD. T HE AROMA OF BL UE CL AY, SOFT COYOTE PAW, AND THE CITRUS STING OF EV ERGREEN.
Hawai’i is a good friend. Its big, warm hugs of true aloha wrap around my cold winter-bleached body. It never asked, “What did you bring me?” It only asks, “What can I share with you?” Whalers and rich hippies who look like me have colonized and abused Hawaiian kindness for over 100 years, yet bright, innocent smiles still light the runway for my landing. The neon orange flowers outside the baggage claim are descendants of invasive seeds brought by past travelers like me. Plants and critters have been brought here by people who want these islands to be a specific type of paradise. As their paradise grows beyond their nose, it takes over native habitat. Local bugs, plants, birds, and people have been suffering a housing crisis on an island with serious growth boundaries. The housing crisis is the reason I’m writing a hotel story. I’d rather stay in a neighborhood and be part of the local scene, but I’d be taking housing away from locals if I did that. When you visit Hawai’i, and I hope it’s soon, please stay at one of the hotels on this list. Trust me, you’ll love these places.
S UR FJAC K HOTEL & S WIM CL UB
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HAVE YOU EV ER LIV ED IN A N APA R TMENT WITH A S HARE D SWIMMING P O O L? It’s actually way cooler than it sounds. You end up making connections with people on a more personal level when you feel at home nearly naked. The tile work in the Surfjack pool spells out: “Wish You Were Here.” You can see those words best from the cozy rooms above. They beckon you downstairs to the mid-century-inspired open living room scene. Neighborhood kids splash in the pool, beautiful strangers kiss new ideas together over fresh cocktails, I savor the crunch of fresh, locally-grown food, and visitors who came looking for aloha bask in its light shining from the faces who work here.
1 2 -6 8 6 0 K A LA PA N A -K A P O H O R D , PA H O A 1 -8 0 0 -8 0 0 -6 8 8 6 K A LA N I . C O M
LO V E T H E C H A O S . CHANGE IS HERE. Right now, up the highway from the Kalani, volcanic fissures are opening up and bleeding red-hot lava all over the neighborhood — destroying homes, streets, and parked cars. The Hawaiian goddess Pele is working on a redevelopment project. Staying in the Kalani’s treehouse, bungalows, or cottages will inspire you to live nicer with nature. Full walls are made of screen, so the wild ocean air engulfs you and lifts your spirits to the higher happiness known by manatees. People walk around fully blissed out and forgetting where they were even headed. I was headed to the communal dining patio, but got distracted by a wild boar family eating fallen fruit. I almost missed out on my own feast of local fish, organic grains, and fresh fruits and veggies. The food here will reset your guts like a good massage does to your muscles. The Kalani is a true community. Since 1975 outsiders have come seeking lifestyles beyond the limitations of mainstream society. All sorts of openness are exercised and honored here. People practice yoga, meditation, lucid dreaming, sustainable farming, shamanic rituals, and gender bending. I exercise my freedom at the clothing optional pool. If you’re open and willing to experience a renewed outlook on yourself and others, we’ll bump into each other at the Kalani.
K A ’ A N A PA LI B E A C H HOTEL
2525 K A A NAPA LI PKWY, L A H A I N A ( 808) 6 6 1 -0011 KBHMA UI.COM
K A’A N A PA LI I S T H E M O S T T O U R I S T-FR I E N D LY SIDE OF MAUI. I used to avoid going there since I’m a cool teenager who would never be caught dancing in a cheesy luau dinnertainment show with his drunk auntie, but that all changed when I stayed at this classic beachside hotel. I experienced the authentic good intentions of old-school Hawaiian tourism. Truly rooted respect for Hawaiian culture is infused in all the touristy offerings. The taro ponds growing in the courtyard are part of the Cultural Garden, teaching guests about native and introduced flora and fauna. Locals teach classes about Hawaiian language, crafts, and how to cut a pineapple. The whale-shaped swimming pool will always remind me of the time I heard whales singing in front of the hotel. I held my breath as long as I could in the ocean. The sound went right past my ears and I could feel the whales voices in my bones. Staying here was not the superficial experience I thought it would be.
K U LA L ODG E
PHOTOS ON THESE PAGES BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON
1 5 2 0 0 HA LE A K A LA H WY, K U LA (808) 878- 1 5 3 5 K UL A LODGE . C O M
N U Z Z LE D O N T H E S I D E O F A LO N G -D O R M A N T V O LCA N O , right outside the entrance to Haleakala National Park, Kula Lodge floats in Maui’s mountain air. The upcountry lodge vibes are unlike anything you’ll experience beachside. Kiawe wood burns in the fireplace and tropical flowers of impossible shapes bloom. Horned chameleons hunt bees in avocado trees outside your room’s wooden walls. If Teddy Roosevelt had a dropout hippy phase he would have spent it here. Old Teddy would have tripped out on the podhuts that cascade down the hill below the wood-fired pizza oven. This place is special and will give you a view unlike any other.
HAWAIIA N IS LA ND R ETREAT 2 5 0 LO K A H I R D , K A PA A U (8 0 8 ) 8 8 9 -6 3 3 6 H AWA I I I S LA N D R E T R E AT. C O M
M Y FIRST NIG HT IN THE Y URT, THE SOLAR P O WER RAN OUT AND THE R O O M WENT DARK. The sounds of nature perked up outside, the breeze felt more alive, and I realized I found the getaway I hoped for. This retreat center offers outdoor spa treatments designed by lead therapist and inn-keeper Jeanne Sunderland. Her healing energy skills are rooted in la‘au lapa‘au, the traditional Hawaiian art of healing with plants, and lomilomi, traditional Hawaiian massage. The main building is designed to use sunlight and ocean breeze cooling, saving the solar electricity to use for reading in bed. Every detail from the organic shampoo to the refillable water bottles is a sustainable effort to stay self-sufficient within nature’s limits.
THE MODER N HONO LU L U
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M Y LITTLE BOY C A LL S WAIK IKI “ HOTEL CITY.” This city looks like Los Angeles but is right on the edge of a beach that was once private to Hawaiian royalty. Luxury hotels like The Modern have been built in a place full of natural luxury. The view and the extremely surfable waves are a taste of luxury that I will never get used to.
PHOTOS ON THESE PAGES BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON
The avocado toast made by local chefs, the artwork made by local muralists, and music piped into the underwater speakers within the pool are a luxury I can live with. While lounging poolside, I began to understand the yachtsmen. I smoothly sailed the imaginary ship “platinum poodle” and raised a champagne glass of local honey-infused kombucha to Hotel City.
THE LAY L OW
2 2 9 9 KUHIO AVE, HONO LULU (8 0 8 ) 922- 6600 L AY L O W WAIKIKI.CO M
I’M SWINGING IN A HANGING WICKER WOVEN CHAIR, SURROUNDED BY MODERN DESIGN SENSIBILITIES AND THE DREAMY EXOTICISM THAT WWII BROUGHT BACK TO THE SUBURBS. This is the Hawaiian vacation experience most folks come to Honolulu hoping for. The Laylow rooms are spacious and minimally curated with lovely things. The Hideout is their open air chill zone. Classic tiki torches burn in the breeze, Stumptown coffee pours at the bar, amazing food is served fireside, and happy guests laugh about how dumb their stress back home is. The street below buzzes and thumps with the excitement of visitors running around an exotic city looking for what we’ve already found, a simple place to lay low.
IA O VALLE Y I N N
80 IAO VA L LEY RD, WAILUK U ( 808) 633-6 0 2 8 IAOVALLEYINN.C O M
T H E R E I S A P LA C E O N M A U I WH E R E S A C R E D D R O P S O F WAT E R G AT H E R T O G E T H E R A N D R U N D O WN A VA LLE Y A S A R I V E R . I have touched this water and it is the purest thing I have ever felt. Dipping into it cleaned my soul and brought me to tears. A crying baby man with his toes in the water, an innocence was rekindled. The Iao Valley Inn was originally built at the river’s edge as a family house, but as the kids grew up and moved away, the parents opened the doors to visitors. It’s a very intimate bed and breakfast type setting. I almost didn’t put this place in the story because I want to keep it a secret, but if you’re reading these words out of all the words in the Universe, it must be destiny that you’ll love this secret spot as much as I do.
THIS STORY WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT THE HAWAII TOURISM AUTHORITY GOHAWAII.COM // #GOHAWAII
Spirit MEET THE MAESTROS OF MEZCAL STORY & PHOTOS BY LIZ DEVINE // @LIZ_DEVINE
I was just a girl wandering through life thinking mezcal was some smoky liquor — the jury was still out on if I even liked mezcal. Two trips to Oaxaca and nine palenques (distilleries) later, I can tell you that mezcal production is something so unique and special to Mexico that all I want to do is spread the good word. Mezcal is made from agave, the same plant tequila is made from. Tequila can only be made from one type of agave — the blue agave — but mezcal can be made from any species of agave that has fermentable sugars. So when you taste mezcal, be sure to ask what agave plant you are tasting. It’s like when you taste wine, you are essentially sampling the grape variety. Tasting mezcal is very similar, and each agave has its own distinct flavor.
drive back to the city. What can I say — it’s rude to refuse the maestros (distillers) if they offer you mezcal. Even though my Spanish is horrible, the pride and love these maestros have for their spirit easily translates, as well as the joy they take in sharing it. When you walk away from a mezcal palenque, you feel like you’ve met family who have welcomed you into their home and shared something with you that is truly dear to them. If you go to Oaxaca, do yourself a favor and don’t just go to a bar and taste mezcal. Go experience it.
Agave is an amazing plant. Depending on the species, it can take anywhere from seven to 25 years to mature. Yes, I said 25 years (that would be the tepeztate species). The tradition of making mezcal started with farmers. Even though the demand has increased since then, most producers have not industrialized their process. This means it still requires a lot of man and animal power to produce. The center of the agave is called the “piña.” This is the part of the plant that is cooked and then later distilled. I saw agave piñas so big it took four full grown men to carry one. The agave are cooked in the ground in a giant earth oven. First they heat rocks over a fire until they are glowing red and then start loading the oven. It’s then covered with dirt and the piñas continue to bake for nearly a week. After they’re cooked, it’s time to mill the piñas. The most common way is with a giant stone wheel called a “tahona,” which is powered by a horse, cow, or donkey. The other method is to pound the piñas into the ground by hand with what looks like a Flintstones club. After the piñas are milled, everything is moved to a tank where water is added and the fermentation occurs over three or so days. Next, you distill (this is a story for another day) and then enjoy — “a besos!” This is short for “Mezcal se toma a besos,” which translates to “You kiss the mezcal, savor it slowly.” Sometimes the pour is very generous and sometimes there are 15 different types of mezcal to try. In four days of touring multiple palenques, two of those days had questionable endings. Like scream-singing “Africa” by Toto in the back of a van or hanging my head out the window like a dog for an hour
LEARN MORE // EXPERIENCEMEZCAL.COM
N E W S T AY W IL D STORY S E R I E S
Modern Exploration Society CREATIVE EXPLORERS SEEKING ADVENTURE NEW YORK // PORTLAND // NEW ORLEANS
PHOTO BY BROOKE WEEBER
P O R TLA N D EX PLO R AT ION SO CI ETY EVAN SCHELL // @THESLIPPERYWATERCHRONICALS BROOKE WEEBER // @BROOKE_WEEBER ADAM VICAREL // @ADAMVICAREL CHEERAZ GORMAN // @ATURAH
ARTWORK BY ADAM VICAREL
PHOTOS ON THESE PAGES BY EVAN SCHELL, BROOKE WEEBER, AND ADAM VICAREL
PHOTO BY SAM GEHRKE
S T O R Y BY C H E E R A Z G O R M A N
A N I N V I TAT I O N T O R E T U R N , T O E X P E R I E N C E S O M E T H I N G D I FFE R E N T
I flew into Portland, Oregon on a night where the full moon was in Scorpio. As I was out walking, stalking the sky to get a glimpse of the moon, following meeting my fellow explorers for dinner, I felt like a person who had no history here. This feeling came over me when my flight landed. But to be on a street I’d taken on my way home many an evening and to feel my eyes new and the lack of memory-strapped weight failing to resonate in my body, what I was feeling was now not only true for me — it was real. There was no pull to visit spaces that once held great meaning to me. As I walked a couple blocks down SW Stark Street toward 13th, not one ounce of nostalgia washed over me. While I was not attempting to conjure the feeling, I did find it surprising, like in a, “Wow … I am healed,” kind of way. Many moons ago, I use to call this city home. It all feels like another lifetime ago. And, in truth, it is. Now, it’s time for new adventures. A fast-forward to create new memories and to feel what new Earth will be underneath my feet as an explorer.
REM EMBERING L IGHT
It turns waterfalls and rushing creeks into a scene of cascading diamonds. It gently overcomes shadows, then welcomes them back when it has served its purpose, or when clouds shift. It reveals the spectrum of color waiting to be unveiled in the darkest of green things. It invites finger to rub against moss and tree bark to explore their textures. The imagination dances when we see it cut through mist: What’s being beamed down or taken up, or is there somewhere in between, dancing — putting a spell on us? There’s a certain magic the light of the sun turns on. Forest, already full of wonder in its own right, becomes even more alive. For the most part, the day was the kind of typical Portland day I’d remembered. Rainy. The sky — a fitted sheet of gray, not so securely tucked, so occasionally the sun would slip through the clouds. Its warmth landing on my face just long enough for me to think, “You will leave and return like all faithful lovers do when they know they are needed, wanted, and desired.” Atop Beacon Rock, a squirrel that seemed to know its way around humans met me. Raised up on its hind legs and motioned as if it were fresh out of some well-crafted children’s cartoon, one with a moral or parable to keep in the subconscious. I thought I was ready, but every bit of the city dweller in me jolted my body off the rock I popped a squat on. I laughed loudly and shook my head at the fact that I let something so small shake me. I turned my head to see the sun in the distance, turning the horizon line of the sky into various shades of rainbow sherbet. I inhaled deeply, laughed once more, and nodded my head in silent reverence for what illumination can do for the spirit.
REMEMBRANCES — AND, IS THIS THE POINT
The air is different here than where I’m from So, I’m taking as many deep breaths For my lungs to remember That concert is not a living thing That mountain fresh Is indeed that and not simply A manufactured fragrance for dryer sheets My eyes drinking in the scene Because wonder is being returned back to me tenfold And, is this the point: To reconnect To feel mouth-gaped open As feet step in an improvisational rhythm With the terrain And deep breaths are taken To remind us that we are living things And that there’s something clearly unnatural About our automated lives and its many technologies Distracting us from the beauty found in Simply being with what is In all its grandeur
NEW O R LE A N S EX P LO R ATION SO CI ETY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON // @SCRAPPERS SERA LINDSEY // @P ORTABLESERA GABRIELLE STEIB // @HONEYSIGHS ALEX SMITH // @BLVXMTH
ARTWORK BY SCRAPPERS
PHOTO BY GIL JUNGER
S T O R Y BY S C R A P P E R S
O LD M A R D I G R A S B E A D S H A N G H E AV Y FR O M T R E E B R A N C H E S LI K E FA D E D FR U I T. There was a moment when jazz was born. At the bottom of the food chain. Some folks hit bottom and they bounce. The bounce turned heads and heads are still spinning. There was a moment when jazz was discovered. The scene is in a George Schmidt oil painting hanging a couple blocks from the Ace Hotel. Past the parking lot paved with broken clam shells, brick dust, and secrets. MC Brown died on the sidewalk in front of that painting. Drank himself to death in a cardboard box. He was the last to go before this skid row neighborhood was gently gentrified. The painter wants to mix MC’s ashes in with the cement of the new sidewalk and install a plaque: “MC Brown slept it off here.” The kind old lady sitting in the tiny market next door inherited the ashes. MC is in a purple velvet bag on the table. We went and paid our respects. She said he was a good egg and gave us boiled eggs for free. Long live southern hospitality.
PHOTOS ON THESE PAGES BY SERA LINDSEY
I T ’S P U N K T O B E N I C E . Sera and I met Gabby and Alex poolside on the Ace roof. Gabby plays maracas, but not as well as her grandmother. She played a video to prove it. Alex works at a scrap yard and knows the value of the metal parts of his camera. Sera’s hair gulps up the humidity like a thirsty dog. Her shin blossoms into a tan. I peel an orange that drove from California to Oregon and flew all the way to Louisiana in my backpack. We are the adventure we seek. I hear New Orleans is the only American city that saved its original town. If you’re really silent and sincere, you can see it between the jubilee of neon signs: Jello Shots, Po Boys, Barely Legal, Voodoux, and other desires. The sidewalk is cracked and ugly in ways only a skater could love. We walk in the road lit by car tail lights bouncing to a curbside brass band. Bourbon Street smells like someone barfed in a full baby diaper. It’s a weird dream; I don’t want to tell you about it. It’s a turtle without a shell. It creeps me out, but I have to see it. I have to feel myself in this place to know it better.
PHOTOS ON THESE PAGES BY SERA LINDSEY, ALEX SMITH, AND GABRIELLE STEIB
W HO DAT? A CHALLENG E. I hear the future of New Orleans is Houston. Nah, it’s Alex, Gabby, and other locals who roll with the creative culture of this town. Drunken Texan tourists come to consume. They speak loud but have nothing to say. Chinua the DJ mixing juguetón beats in the Ace lobby has something to say. Freda, Defend New Orleans, Seaworthy, and the other shops next door have something to say. Slow Down. Loosen Up. Be Nice or Leave. Gabby took us to Norma’s for South American sweets and Williams Plum St. icy snowballs instead of gumbo, crawfish, and oysters. Alex took us to see the neutral ground. We stood on the track. Right in the middle. Snowballs melting down our throats. Waiting for the streetcar. We aren’t here to ride it. It’s too wild to ride. We just want to admire its jingle-jangle swagger. A dove flies by with a broken eggshell in its beak. A baby gator sunbathes in the city park pond. A strand of old Mardi Gras beads falls from a tree and bounces in the gutter. I am a non-local standing on my tippy toes, looking over the shoulders of locals, howling for the brass band to never stop playing.
N E W Y O RK E XP LO R ATION S O CIETY AUNDRE LARROW // @AUNDRE BROOKE SOUTHCOMBE // @BROOKESOUTH MANNY PANGILINAN // @MANNYALOHA MOLLY BEAUCHEMIN // @MOLLYBEAUCHEMIN
S T O R Y BY M O L L Y
ARTWORK BY MANNY ALOHA
B E A U C H E M I N
PHOTOS BY AUNDRE LARROW
I T WA S A LM O S T S U N S E T WH E N T H E Q T R A I N P U LLE D U P T O T H E B E A C H . The technicolor amusement park that is Coney Island revealed itself, gliding past the window in slow motion. It was like a scene from a Wes Anderson movie: The neon signage, the giant Ferris wheel, the streets lined with nautical graffiti in shades of pastel pink, orange, and yellow — all of it was a perfect backdrop to the iconic Nathan’s Hot Dog sign that soon came into view. The train yielded to a stop and we jumped out of our car and onto the sunstreaked platform. Dodging the crowds on skateboard and on foot, we headed out to the beach in pursuit of cotton candy and adrenaline. This is what I love about New York City: You can ride a train just a few stops East, and suddenly it feels like you’re exploring another planet. You can surf with a view of the Manhattan skyline. You can ride a rollercoaster in Brooklyn.
I N A C I T Y LI K E N E W Y O R K , N E I G H B O R H O O D S A R E LI K E ECOSYSTEMS. People are the elemental force that is constantly shifting. When you’re surfing, the ocean is the biggest element you face. When you’re hiking, you are immersed in the forest, looking to the trees for communion and a sense of belonging. Here, in the Big Apple, the “concrete jungle where dreams are made,” people are the most powerful force of nature — a collective of souls constantly creating and exploring new ways of being in a city that can barely contain them. It’s perfect for people who love adventure, because it’s impossible to get bored: There’s always another neighborhood to explore, a new person to talk to, and something unusual going on in the streets. We saw a bride and groom being photographed in the middle of a traffic stop. A man walked by with five identical huskies on a single leash. There are art galleries full of funhouse mirrors. There’s a dessert shop that sells nothing but cookie dough. This is New York, and yet it might as well be Mars. We rode the Staten Island Ferry at sunset and remembered almost instantly that Manhattan is also an island — from the boat you can’t even see land, just a mass of buildings towering up above the surf. Eight million people live in skyscrapers all crammed onto this tiny island in the middle of the sea, and all it takes is a short boat ride to be humbled by that realization. Flying in a plane over New York City results in the same effect: You suddenly realize that humans built all of this, and that’s an incredible feat. Back at the Ace Hotel, guests from all over the world get free psychic readings in the lobby. In this way, even the foyer of a popular hotel can become a playground for exploration — a place to try new things that one might not have ever done before. Adventure, like happiness, is a state of being. Real adventure lives in your heart; it’s about how you spend your time, whether that’s getting a psychic reading or befriending dogs in your neighborhood park. Adventure is about stepping out and trying something new, big or small, whether you’re in the desert or exploring Midtown West.
PHOTOS BY AUNDRE LARROW
We spent our time in Coney Island riding the Wonder Wheel to the top of the world and laughing through mouthfuls of pink and blue cotton candy. We stuck our feet in the water and drank coffee in the rain, exploring the city as it revealed itself to us. Later, we played tag on the Staten Island Ferry. We made art in the park and discovered an oldfashioned diner that sold Animal House-themed tater tots. Periodically, we remembered to look up at the canopy of buildings towering above us. There are so many adventures to be had in this place. New York City is a concrete jungle, and wild is a state of mind.
THIS ADVENTURE WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT NAU CLOTHING AND ACE HOTEL NAU.COM // ACEHOTEL.COM
“CELLPHONES ARE LEFT BEHIND. OUT OF CHARGE AND OUT OF RANGE.”
FishWe’veYet to Catch LIVINGSTON MANOR FLY FISHING CLUB STORY BY MADELINE WEINFIELD // @MADOLIONW PHOTOS BY PETER CROSBY // @PBCROSBY
S RAINING QUITE HARD among the wild lilac bushes and incessantly growing Japanese Knotweed of Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, but a dozen or so of us are trekking along the Willowemoc River clad in the club’s set of Stutterheim raincoats, looking for medicinal herbs and other wonders of the property. This is a sort of summer camp for adults—a self-selecting group of mostly city residents who are seeking adventure, escape, and fly fishing in the Catskill Mountains. At breakfast—an exuberant spread of Swedish-style essentials—most of the weekend’s 17 guests have already conquered a good part of what they came here to do. More active before 9 am than most adults are in an entire weekend, some have gone running or fly fishing, stopped at the farmers’ market, or baked in the wood-fired sauna on the river. All this despite the previous night’s meal—fire roasted mountain trout and root vegetables with copious amounts of Catskill Brewery beer, wine, and the summer’s first rosé, served on the riverfront under the stars. Even in the morning, everything is still coated in a magic that seems to have sprung from this air. But behind the facade of this perfectly curated adventure in the woods, is the ardent effort of the owners, Tom Roberts and Anna Åberg, a couple transplanted from Brooklyn by way of Britain and Sweden, who’ve poured their wilderness and aesthetic passion and know-how into Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, which is in its first full season this summer. The intoxication of their dream hangs over the five acre wooded and river-front property. Based on the old-school fly fishing clubs historically ubiquitous in this part of the Catskills, LMFFC is their realization of that tradition but with a modern edge. Despite being far from the old guard of a predominantly male fishing club, LMFFC retains an air of exclusivity in that their weekend spots disappear within days of opening. The skill level varies with some weekenders already adept in the art and physics of fly fishing, while oth-
ers are tying their first fly. The majority of guests are couples, but a pair of brothers, a set of friends, and a life-wise solo traveling woman round it off. Together we have the feeling that we’ve all met before—a feeling that intensifies with the hours, and in the evening with drinks around the campfire. We’re encouraged to unplug, to wander, sleep, relax, and connect. For the most part cellphones are left behind, out of charge and out of range. Most of what one could want is here—homecooked meals by incredibly talented friend and trained-chef up for the weekend, Georgina Morante-Galicia, campfires, a hammock, a canoe, and even a tipi with a disco ball. The weekend is peppered with friends and Catskill veterans—a yoga instructor who teaches us in a meadow, a fly fishing instructor with the patience of a saint, a conservationist who has been living off the grid since the ‘80s, and a naturalist who picks leaves of trees and implores us to taste. Tom and Anna have an almost child-like beauty and they float around the property visibly radiant in their creation. This is a dream fulfilled. After years in the city with the novelty of urban weekends wearing away, they came to the Catskills seeking a greater connection to the outdoors. What they’ve created—originally intended for their own weekend use—has blossomed organically and rustically to near perfection. A self-taught fly fisherman, Tom is now as involved in the sport as any fishing veteran. “To be a good fly fisherman,” he tells me, “you have to understand the dynamics of the river.” He fixes the line of someone knee-deep in the river. Lights hang in the trees. In the distance logs are added to the fire that fuels the sauna. How lucky they are to live and breathe this. How lucky they are to stay. The rest of us pack our bags, say our goodbyes, and start the drive back to the city. At night we’ll dream of all the fish we’ve yet to catch.
LEARN MORE // LIVINGSTONMANORFLYFISHINGCLUB.COM
“ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT YOURSELF FROM BEING THE DICK THAT STARTS A FOREST FIRE.” -SMOKEY THE BEAR (UNOFFICIAL)
VOLUNTEER AND HELP THE RECOVERY TRAILKEEPERS OF OREGON TRAILKEEPERSOFOREGON.ORG PACIFIC CREST TRAIL ASSOCIATION PCTA.ORG FRIENDS OF THE COLUMBIA GORGE GORGEFRIENDS.ORG WASHINGTON TRAILS ASSOCIATION WTA.ORG
If Not You,
48,861 ACRES OF FOREST FIRE RECOVERY STORY BY BROOKE JACKSON // @WANDERINGTRAILSMEDIA PHOTOS BY ALIN DRAGULIN // @ALINDRAGULINDOTCOM
RACEFUL TREES shade the dirt trail leading to a tranquil local swimming hole. An ideal outing for hot days, hikers are rewarded with waterfall views and chilly creek swims. Many consider the hike more of a stroll and therefore choose to endure the journey with minimal necessities such as flip-flops and sunscreen, unaware that today is going to be unlike any other. In a flash, an ignorant flick of the wrist, the burst of a childish firecracker, thirsty brush ignites the Eagle Creek Fire. The Eagle Creek Fire, which began September 2nd, 2017, is still causing heated discussion (pardon the pun). Ignited by a 15-year-old boy and his friends, the fire eventually conjoined with the Indian Creek Fire to ultimately affect 48,861 acres of the Columbia River Gorge area. Flames engulfed the area for roughly three months before the fire was declared contained. Yet as
any hard-to-learn lesson in life, a silver lining does exist. Do not begin singing a eulogy for the Gorge, for it is alive and growing. The carcasses of fallen trees play tribute in an inevitable life cycle, providing necessary nutrients to the surrounding community. Mushroom hunters are gleeful in the spread of morel shrooms booming unlike before. Bird watchers may rejoice, as new neighborhood friends are attracted to the area because of the burn. Woodpeckers drill out new homes while olive-sided flycatchers feast amongst the growing bug population. In his article “Rebirth of a Forest,” Cory Eldridge writes, “This is why scientists call large snags and logs legacy trees. They are an inheritance for the young forest from the old. The fire in the Columbia River Gorge didn’t take away that inheritance. The fire gave it.”
However, the work to rebuild does not lie solely on the shoulders of the Gorge inhabitant species. Many volunteer organizations have come together in an effort to continue the Gorge recovery process as the Gorge Trails Recovery Team. The team consists of the Trailkeepers of Oregon, Washington Trails Association, Friends of the Columbia Gorge, and the Pacific Crest Trail Association. They welcome volunteers to assist with the vital restoration process. While some may read about the fire and quickly jump aboard the “not my Gorge, not my problem” mentality, there is a most important lesson to be learned here: Leave No Trace matters. The rules and regulations put into effect within natural, protected areas are there for a reason. Believe it or not, park rangers and land management bureaus do want you to enjoy the natural spaces they protect. They also want those areas to be around for future visitors to enjoy.
THIS STORY WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT DANNER BOOTS @DANNERBOOTS // DANNER.COM
PHOTO BY AMANDA MARSALIS
ESALEN INSTITUTE, BIG SIR CALIFORNIA STORY BY MEGAN FRESHLEY // @SUMMERTIMEWITCHES I’D HAD RECURRING DREAMS BEFORE, but none like this. Every night the same. Like James Earl Jones telling me to build a baseball field. But instead, the dream urged me to get nude at the edge of the continent and soak myself in some sulfuric water that rained down 300 years ago and hasn’t seen light since. That is until you remove a slippery wooden cork — and the water comes from somewhere closer to the dark, hot star at the center of the earth than humans are meant to go. Ablution: a ceremonial act of washing parts of the body or sacred containers. In the dream, I need a good abluting. And in the dream, I never make it to the hot springs. Some circumstance pulls me away from Big Sur before I get the chance, and I drive over the jade-green hills of the Central Coast with a pang that carries into my waking mind. What would you make of a dream like that? And what is its promise, if not some wham-bam epiphany ready to redraw the course of my life. As a witch, water signifies west. Emotional healing. Dreams and psychic information. Tears, spit, and Selkies. Someone said California is so spiritual because it’s as far west as you can go, and then if you want to keep going you have to go in. Esalen, a retreat known for its history of psychological visionaries and literary outlaws, sits perched on the very edge of everything, it seems, when you’re there. It’s a monument to introspection.
It’s also home to these hot springs I can’t stop dreaming about not quite getting into. So I buy plane tickets to San Jose to rent a car and drive three hours south past Gilroy, the garlic capital of the known universe, Monterey (pronounced “town” if you live in Big Sur), and Carmel-by-the-Sea: the last chichi outpost before cell reception dies, radio stations stop working, billboards vanish, and the sea starts loosening the knots in you with its aggressive beauty. Perilous curves pull you south through what feels like a veil between worlds. Perhaps you’ll see a glass mansion tucked into a cliff, a fox family darting across Highway One, a whale’s spout glittering on the Pacific far below. Big Sur draws hordes of tourists pouring in year-round to take selfies at McWay Falls and Bixby Bridge — and who can blame them? Celebrities evade the paparazzi long enough to squeeze in a day or two of undocumented fun. There are SNAGs-a-plenty (sensitive new age guys), all manner of Instagram influencers, and even the occasional New Yorker. Then there’s the tight-knit enclave of healers and homesteaders that makes up its local community. It only takes about a year of slow living in Big Sur to know not only everyone’s faces and what ridge they live on, but also their authentic longings, their fresh and healing wounds, their actual feelings on any given day. It’s a culture where dudebros can cry openly — so rare and beautiful. That’s thanks in part to those still carrying the torch of Big Sur’s psychology-imbued past, cultivated by eccentrics like Fritz Perls, Ida Rolf, Alan Watts, Joseph Campbell,
Timothy Leary, Aldous Huxley, and Abraham Maslow. In true bohemian fashion, it also seems like everyone’s either a millionaire or lives in their car here, a distinction that doesn’t factor in the least into who breaks bread with whom. I park on a Highway One turnout, inhaling air so clean it wipes the slate of my mind clean. In the blackness of the night, I can feel the old growth redwoods standing there, noticing me. My phone is only a rinky-dink flashlight now, guiding me on foot up the dirt road to my friend Coco Odyssey’s place. Her house ornaments the hill it’s on like the maiden on a ship, aptly named the Moonboat. My bed tonight is in Coco’s apothecary, home to Wildcrafted Love — her and Shankari Linda Barrera’s outfit alchemizing the magic of Big Sur’s plant allies into tinctures, teas, and oils. The room is lined with glass jars and herb bundles, and a cauldron wouldn’t look out of place at all. From my bed, I see so many stars the sky seems overcrowded. As if that many stars must be too heavy for one universe to bear. What looks at first like empty space is dense with galaxies upon looking longer. In the morning I finally reach Esalen and bee line it to the baths, eating a nasturtium and a bachelor’s button as a Eucharist along the way. Steller’s jays swoop overhead, and fried egg poppies float clumsily on their thin, hairy stems. I hang my outfit on its hook and sink naked as a nymph into one of the newly-filled tubs overlooking the mirror of the sea. I let the hot water cover me, staying till my fingers prune, waiting for some revelation to come strike me like a bell.
PHOTOS ON THIS PAGE BY ALI KAUKAS
LEARN MORE // ESALEN.ORG
ATale of Two Surf SPAIN’S DUCT TAPE INVITATIONAL VS. SAN DIEGO’S SHAPER FESTIVAL
SAN D IEGO CALI FO R NIA STORY AND PHOTOS BY EVAN SCHELL @ THE S L IPPERYSALT WAT ERC H R O N IC L E S
N RECENT YEARS, surfing’s popularity throughout the world has drastically increased. Professional surfing events have become overly commercialized and are now targeted to mainstream audiences using the traditional sportscast format, complete with cringe-worthy banter à la retired pro surfers. The surf industry’s headstrong pursuit of legitimizing surfing as a “sport” has created an obvious division within the surf community at large. To put it simply, some surfers thrive within the parameters of competitions, while others choose to avoid them because their surfing doesn’t fit the “criteria”
or structured nature of contests. All that to say, original contest formats that meet both of these groups in the middle do exist. Shaper Studios’ Shaper Festival of Surfing requires surfers to ride boards that they have hand-shaped and puts an emphasis on everyone having fun. Five years ago, the Shaper Studios team put together the first Shaper Festival, and over the years it has blossomed into a community beach day that draws in surfers of all ages and skill levels. Contestants have the opportunity to surf in heats with legends and some of the world’s best surfers at Seaside Reef in Encinitas, CA. This year, Vans team riders Dylan Graves and Leila Hurst competed in the Invitational Division alongside Josh Kerr, Kahana Kalama, Nate Strom, Donald Brink, and Chase Wilson. A steady pulse of waves as high as your chest or head graced the contest area and provided a
full day of action in and out of the water. A mobile shaping bay was a stone’s throw from the beach, and a group of shapers, including Matt Calvani of Bing Surfboards, spent the day hand-shaping boards for a charity auction. Live music by local bands Bird Concerns, Aunt Cynthia’s Cabin, Well Well Well, The Alive, and Jason Lee & The Riptides buzzed up and down the beach until sunset. The camaraderie amongst the surfers in the Shaper Festival is palpable throughout the contest site and doesn’t stop at the water’s edge. Contestants were seen checking out one another’s hand-shaped boards in the lineup during their heats, and these friendly moments are what sets this contest apart from run-of-the-mill events. What Shaper Studios has created through their festival is rooted in surfing’s historic community spirit and reminds everyone involved that when all is said and done, surfing is supposed to be enjoyed.
and elegance of a timeless style of surfing in summer-like conditions.
Z A RAU TZ S PAI N STORY AND PHOTOS BY ELISA ROUTA @ ELIS A ROUTA
URFING LEGEND JOEL TUDOR knows how to choose his guests. For the 2018 edition of the Vans Joel Tudor Duct Tape Invitational, an inspiring community of surfers hailing from around the world found their way to Zarautz, Basque Country, Spain.
The 41-year-old king needs no introduction. As a figure in the surf world known for his incomparable style and powerful surfing, Joel Tudor handpicked 16 of the world’s top longboarders to celebrate the beauty
Among the talented guests, the enthusiastic Spanish crowd could cheer for their favorites, including visionary Alex Knost, seven-time Duct Tape winner Floridian Justin Quintal, and local rising star Nico ‘Niki’ Dora Garcia. Mixing up fresh faces — a group that included Frenchmen Nathan Sadoun (19) and Jules Lepêcheux (15), Californian Zack Flores (17), Floridian Saxon Wilson (17) — with Duct Tape veterans, the 14th Vans Joel Tudor Duct Tape Invitational celebrated creativity, craftsmanship, and the evolution of a surf legacy.
at Zarautz. Showing off a frenetic creativity and effortless style, Andy Nieblas raised the bar of modern-day longboarding. The 23year old from San Clemente, California paid tribute to progressive logging. In pumping three to four-foot waves, the alternative aficionado also rocked the festival’s official final by defeating three of today’s greatest advocates of alternative surfing like Alex Knost, Ryan Burch, and Tyler Warren. During three days, the 2018 edition brought together surfers, skateboarders, artists, and shapers in the picturesque Basque town.
On Saturday’s expression session, surfing legends Joel Tudor and Dane Reynolds shared a few peaks in the playful conditions
THIS STORY WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT VANS @VANSSURF // VANS.COM
Unimoto ONE SPIKED TIRE AND RUSSIAN IMAGINATION PHOTOS AND STORY BY ALESSANDRO D’ANGELO // ALESSANDRODANGELO.IT
NIMOTORCYCLE is the unholy combination of a motorcycle and a sled. It has one wheel, a few runners, and an absurdly powerful engine that propels the entire contraption across a frozen lake at breakneck speeds. Brakes? Pfft. They’re an afterthought at best. All of which is to say, you have to be crazy to ride one. Unimotorcyle racing started in the 1980s in Florida, a fact few will find surprising. The “sport” quickly spread to Europe and beyond. A Russian unimotocyclist named Dmitry Gorbunov attended the Elefantentreffen biker rally in Germany in 2002, and
thought it wasn’t nutty enough. So two years later, he decided to go racing on ice. Location: the snow-blanketed town of Togliatti, Russia, where the temperature never climbed above -10 degrees Fahrenheit. The event drew about 1,000 spectators and 35 unimoto riders, many of whom came from hundreds of miles away. Races began each day around 11AM and continued through the afternoon. Riders astride homemade machines seemingly inspired by Mad Max vied to post the fastest times. Many of them rode contraptions adapted
“LIKE A LION THAT ROARS WHEN YOU CUT ITS BALLS...” from Honda and Yamaha motorcycles, with runners crafted from shovels and other stuff you’d find in the garage. The more eclectic machines ran on electricity and even steam, while at least one featured four propellers. One guy even cobbled together something that looked a lot like a pulse jet. No matter what made them go, it was loud. “Like a lion that roars when you cut its balls.” A few
unimotos scuttle out of control across the ice or catch fire after their motors overheated, but no one seemed too bothered. The fastest racer got a trophy and an enormous hunting knife, the words “Snow Dogs” engraved into a handle shaped like a dog’s head. When the day’s racing was done, the real party began. People ate, drank, and sang karaoke until the wee hours.
HYDROFLASK // HYDROFLASK.COM
GOOD PRODUCTS MADE FOR GOOD REASONS
While you were beachcombing, a cooler and a backpack snuck into the bushes and made sweet nookie. This cooler pack is a lovechild for picnics at the trail’s edge. Unbound Soft Cooler Pack // $275
W O R D S B Y JU S T IN “ S CRA PPE RS ” MORRIS ON L I N E W O R K B Y KE L LY T HOMPS ON // K T OM. US
ZEAL // ZEALOPTICS.COM
OLUKAI // OLUKAI.COM
These TSA-friendly drop-heel shoes make traveling through the airport a cool breeze. Whoosh… I’m flying. Oh shoot, hope I didn’t forget my laptop in a TSA bin. Who cares, I’m flying. Pehuea Pa’i // $90
Plant-based, polarized sunglasses whispering words from the occultist magic-man mountaineer Aleister Crowley, “Modern morality and manners suppress all natural instincts, keep people ignorant of the facts of nature, and make them fighting drunk on bogey tales.” Crowley // $149
RED CLOUDS COLLECTIVE // REDCLOUDSCOLLECTIVE.COM
Let’s go deep. Deeper than the pockets of this tote. Deeper than a nighttime skinny dip. Deeper than the sunken canoe on the bottom of the lake. Deeper than crawdaddy dreams. Deeper than moonlight reflecting off fish fins all the way back to the moon. Over the Shoulder Tote Bag // $150
OLD BEAT UP SURFBOARD // LOCAL SURF SHOP
Save a surfboard! Your capable hands can end the consumption cycle by repairing a beat up old surfboard. The time you put into this will be worth more than money. Used // $100 or less?
ROLL SKATEBOARD //
Always bring a skateboard! No matter where you’re traveling, your experience will be richer if you take a little time to roll around. Meet the smiling sidewalk cracks of a new city, high five the low-hanging branches of local flora, and make eye contact with the world. contact with the world. Super Cruiser // $240
MOKUYOBI // MOKUYOBI.COM
Bubbly Mexican soda pop dribbling down the arm. Human body juice oozing out of personal holes. It all yearns for a towel. Towels // $58
BANKS // BANKSJOURNAL.COM
My good buddy hands me the lighter before I even ask for it. My good buddy is already in the water while I’m still trying to kick my shoes off. My good buddy said yes to the trip before clearing it with work. My good buddy wears this shirt like Cornholio to cheer me up. Buddy Tee Shirt // $40
NAU // NAU.COM
Today is an adventure. Today is a bowl of tropical fruit. Today is a jungle safari. Today is the sound of monkeys slamming computers in the street. Today is a revolution. Today is yesterday’s tomorrow, so get outside and live it up! Flexible Sleeveless Dress // $150
OREGON // OREGONPRODUCTS.COM
VANS // VANS.COM
“Mwah!” — Marshmallow-soft kisses from your happy feet to the dirty trail. Sunset Fade Ultrarange Mesh // $80
Backyard lumberjacks and lumberjills rejoice! We outlived the gas-powered bastards. Wrap your gritty hands around this nearly-silent battery-powered chainsaw. Fallen trees blocking the trail are an opportunity, not an obstacle. You astonish other hikers and mountain bikers. CS300 Chainsaw // $249
SHIP JOHN // SHIPJOHN.US
Remember when we could buy a sandwich with a good song in this town? Before the white-walled consumption temples popped up to suck this lovely wild place bone dry of personality. I swear music was valued as much as money is now. This guitar pick holder is a wallet for those who remember the value of real music. Haggard Guitar Pick Holder // $25
I N T R O D U C I N G T H E E L KO B L A C K + S TA I N L E S S
@THEJA ME SBRAND
“The more places I see and experience, the bigger I realize the world to be. The more I become aware of, the more I realize how relatively little I know of it, how many places I have still to go, how much more there is to learn. Maybe that’s enlightenment enough - to know that there is no final resting place of the mind, no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom, at least for me, means realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.”
ANTHONY BOURDAIN // NO RESERVATIONS // MACCHU PICCHU