FREE ADVENTURE MAGAZINE / WINTER 2015
EXPO PORTLAND OREGON
A New Adventure Festival FIELD TRIPS / WORKSHOPS / TRADE SHOW / PARTY
COver Photo Stephen Alkire alkirephotos.com
Contributors “TroubleMakers” Nate Zoller, Chris Burkard, Lanakila Macnaughton, Jamie Charles, Michelle Clabby, Jenny “hookersandpopcorn”, Rena Filomina, Annie Andrews, Bwana Spoons, Bohie Palecek, Helena Long, Hannah Bailey, Mat Lloyd, Daniel Cronin, Jason Lytle, Charlotte Austin, Daniel Silverberg, Alexis Vergalla, Chris Shalbot, Joey Mara, Albert Summerfield, Kevin Sansalone, Randy P. Martin, Magdalena Wosinska, Seth Neilson, Mekael Dawson, Mattie Krall, Nani Maloof, Jade Eckardt, Brianna Kovan, Mel Greene, Alex Zielinski, Amy Morrison, Camper Morrison, Justin “Scrappers” Morrison
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JOHNNY COLLINSON / MICA, BC ANDREW MILLER
N E V E R O N E PLA C E
A LW AY S O N E F R O M F O R E I G N LAYO V E R S TO S O A K I N G W ET C H A I R LI FTS , O V E R 3 0 S T Y L E S O F T H E R M O B A L L ™ P R O V I D E U LT R A L I G H T WARMTH I N ANY C ON DITION .
S HAR E YO U R ADVE NTU R E S : #TH E R M O BALL
TH E N O RTH FAC E .C O M/TH E R M O BALL
JAC KET NEVER STOP EXPLORING
“I AM LOSING PRECIOUS DAYS. I AM DEGENERATING INTO A MACHINE FOR MAKING MONEY. I AM LEARNING NOTHING IN THIS TRIVIAL WORLD OF MEN. I MUST BREAK AWAY AND GET OUT INTO THE MOUNTAINS TO LEARN THE NEWS.” —John Muir
Photo by Randy P. Martin // randypmartin.com
on the EDWARD T. KNOBHOVER MECHANICAL ENGINEERING EDUCATIONAL TRADE AIR CONDITIONING SCHOOL
We asked Jason Lytle of the band Grandaddy
for an interview, and he took us trail running on a secret route he named The Edward T. Knobhover Mechanical Engineering Educational Trade Air Conditioning School Trail.
PHOTOS BY DANIEL CRONIN
“There’s almost like this spiritual quest level to it, where you go through all these ups and downs, these journeys from the beginning of the trip to the end of the trip. Running in the woods… it’s pretty wild, literally. It’s as ‘back to caveman’ as you can get. Keeping steady, keeping at it. You get different magical results than you would from the ‘flash-in-the-pan’ sort of thing. I think I’ve adopted this trail running thing because it’s teaching me to slow things down, to not be aware of the clock, and to go into some other realm. It’s really similar to why people are drawn to meditation, why people become really dependent on meditation to survive in the modern world. The only reason I’m making another record is because I’m pretty convinced I’ve got a cool thing to offer in the name of Grandaddy. I’ve got one last project up my sleeve. I love recording as an art form. The recording is like the beautiful painting, and playing live is just like this hasty sketch. Every night you’re just doing this sloppy fucking sketch of the painting you already perfected. I don’t know what’s next. I’m just going to try to spend more time outdoors. My mom is getting old. She lives outside of Carson City, NV, and—I really like the high desert and the Sierras—so I’m thinking of going to help her out for a little while. My home town, Modesto, CA, was kind of world famous there for a while. It had this tire fire that had been burring for months and months and months, and they couldn’t put it out. They just had to let it put itself out. It’s not like the music is going to go anywhere. I’d just like to play the piano and spend time outdoors.”
CITY HIKE A series of explorations into the wild.
Los Angeles + Mekael Dawson
Portland + Mattie Krall
Stay Wild + Ace Hotel available at blog.acehotel.com
London + Hannah Bailey
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Our tough little adventure buddies are laced to our feet, cheering us along down the trail of life. Let’s make sure our adventure buddies are the right fit.
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These boots hiked 25 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail in one day, bare-ass naked, only stopping to skinny-dip and eat berries.
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Wolverine: Tomas Plain Toe Hiker Boot These boots joined the army before it got all video-game and energy-drink themed—the old-school army that John Rambo came from. These boots live in the woods alone with just a knife and their laces lying off to the side, saying, “Come at me bro!”
PHOTO BY NANI MALOOF
HE THOUGHT of living among five volcanoes on an island in the Pacific may not instill a sense of peace in many people. But for locals on the Big Island of Hawaii, one of those volcanoes holds a range of respected qualities, and that’s Mauna Kea, the world’s tallest mountain. It holds deep cultural and spiritual significance for Native Hawaiians. It’s home to 13 telescopes operated by 11 countries. And high above the beaches and valleys, it can transform into a winter wonderland. When heavy rains bring a thick blanket of snow to Mauna Kea, its summit becomes a gathering place above the clouds. The Mountain (as locals call it) looms as a stark backdrop to the laid-back east side town of Hilo. Mauna Kea reaches nearly 14,000 feet above sea level, but stakes its claim as twice as tall as Mount Everest thanks to being 32,000 feet tall from the ocean’s floor. Though Mauna Kea is considered dormant, geologists expect its neighboring shield volcano Mauna Loa to erupt again one day. Not far away Kilauea has been erupting for three decades, and inches closer to the historical town of Pahoa each day. When locals wake to thick snow on The Mountain, eighty-degree days liven with the promise of an adventure of stark contrast to the usual surf missions and camping trips. Anticipation builds as people wait for word that the road to the summit has been opened. Their four-wheel-drive trucks will ascend with body boards, snowboards, and trashcan tops to serve as sleds, and descend with loads of snow for building snowmen at home. The lucky pull out winter coats and gloves, while many throw together island style snow gear where warmth increases with each layer (think lots of socks and long sleeved T-shirts). Though the summit is reached by a rather smooth 4X4 drive, staying there for long takes some endurance. Altitude sickness can hit, resulting in nausea and dizziness. It’s advised that children under the age of 16 don’t go to the top, but they can spend time at the visitor’s center at 9,000 feet, where everyone should spend a half hour acclimating before climbing higher. Here, telescopes are available for use and nightly stargazing is offered from 6 to 10 p.m., rain or shine. But Mauna Kea isn’t just for winter shenanigans and sight seeing. It’s home to sacred places,
archaeological sites and recently, controversy. After years of planning, construction of the $1.4 billion Thirty Meter Telescope begun in late 2014. The telescope that will have roughly 10 times the resolution of Hubble was not born without a fight, a fight where tradition and science couldn’t find a common ground. Hawaiians and cultural preservationists say that the construction of the telescope would dissolve and disgrace the sacred places and spiritual significance of Mauna Kea. For Hawaiians, Mauna Kea embodies the union of Wakea, the Sky Father, and Papahanaumoku, the mother goddess who gave birth to the Islands. One of those sacred sites is Lake Wai’au at 13,000 feet amidst an arid, rocky, oxygen-poor landscape. The only glacially formed lake in the mid-Pacific, was and still is used for healing and cultural practices. Traditionally families would deposit the umbilical cord of newborns into the lake, as well as spread the ashes of the deceased there. At 12,000 feet elevation on Mauna Kea’s southwest slope is a quarry that contributed to the evolution of Hawaiian culture. Pre-contact Hawaiians made the trek on foot to access the high quality basalt adze quarry. Large boulders were broken down into portable adze “blanks,” which were then carried back down to shoreline homes for manufacturing. But that was then, and this is now, where Mauna Kea will help science move forward and connect Native Hawaiians with tradition. It offers snowboard contests, the best sunrises and sunsets, Zen moments at the top of the world, and a view that reaches Maui. As stated so eloquently in the Mauna Kea Comprehensive Management Plan: “…Mauna Kea is sacred. Mauna Kea is where heaven, earth and stars find union. Not just any heaven, but Wakea, not just any earth, but Papahanaumoku, and not just any constellation of twinkling lights, but Ho‘ohokukalani, whose children descend and return to the stars.” -JADE ECKARDT
LANAKILA MACNAUGHTON // WOMENSMOTOEXHIBIT.COM // @FEVVVVAA
BAB E S RIDE o ut It’s a sisterhood, if you're down for the ride. By Jamie Charles
I learned that riding a mechanical bull after breakfast is a surprisingly effective hangover remedy, and that riding a motorcycle on a windy freeway in a tanktop and no bra is a painfully terrible idea (seriously donâ€™t try it, your nipples will hate you).
MICHELLE CLABBY // MICHELLECLABBY.COM // @IMACLABBY
y CoWorkers ThoughT I Was Crazy when I disclosed my weekend plans: take a motorcycle camping with 500 other women for this year’s Babes Ride Out in Joshua Tree. A friend and I decided to take our chances on a standby flight from Portland to Palm Springs. When we landed, we’d rent some bikes and make the hour trek out to a secret desert location. Once we got to the airport, any strangers toting helmets became fast friends, as it was obvious we were all headed to the same place. The first hiccup in our trip occurred when the rental company sold out of the bikes we had reserved. Our only options were a couple of Harley Fat Boys: 300-pounds heavier and 1000-cubic centimeters more powerful than the bikes in our preconceived comfort zones. It only took one lap around the parking lot with our hearts set on cruising the desert on two wheels before we decided to go for it and sign our lives away. Along the freeway, our caravan began to grow as we merged lanes with a bevy of bikes as beautiful as their riders. We made a pit stop for gas and water before making the final push to camp. One left turn off the highway, a couple miles down a sleepy desert road, and we had reached the location that had been emailed to
us the night before. When the pavement turned to dirt, the energy of the campground turned undeniably electric. Photographers capturing our entrance and groups of fellow lady riders cheering us on brought out a perma-grin that remained in place for the next 48 hours. Although the vast majority of the women attending this year’s event were strangers to me, I felt completely at home. Maybe it’s because of the 500 souls meeting up with the shared common passion for adventures and motorcycles; a group of girls that isn’t phased by oil-stained fingernails or gasoline-scented perfume; ramblers who confidently crossed state lines with only a backpack and a sleeping bag strapped to their hardtails; mavericks who rocked sparkle panties with their riding chaps or stunted bikes in leather and lace; gypsies who comfortably slept under nothing but a blanket tied to their vintage Hondas. The weekend was designated to meet new best friends from all walks of life and riding experiences. If you got stuck in the camp sand, needed help unloading a trailer or just a pep talk before merging onto your first highway, someone was instantly there for you. If your bike broke down or started getting finicky in the heat, you doubled up. No matter what obstacle crossed your path, someone had your back.
MICHELLE CLABBY @IMACLABBY & JENNY @HOOKERSANDPOPCORN SCRAMBLING UP A PARTY ROCK. PHOTO BY RENA FILOMINA
MICHELLE CLABBY // MICHELLECLABBY.COM // @IMACLABBY
oMen froM aLL aCross norTh aMerICa, rode, flew and drove in to spend a weekend with other badass and inspirational women. A safe place was created to confidently be yourself. The only rules were no boys allowed and respect your fellow rider. Whether you’d been on a bike since birth or had been meaning to get your motorcycle license for a while now, you were welcome there. The annual event was originally dreamt up through a string of text messages between Anya Violet and Ashmore Bodiford a little over two years ago. The pair of friends from LA were planning a camping trip when they noted the growing number of female
riders on Instagram and how they wished they could meet them all. In the spirit of “the more the merrier,” they extended an open invitation and Babes Ride Out was born. About 75 ladies gathered for the first official meet up in Anza-Borrego in 2013. It wasn’t long before the awe-inspiring photos of #babesinborrega began to go viral. Smoking shots of lady riders nonchalantly throwing up a middle finger to stereotypes and social norms while cruising dried-up lake beds spread like wildfire. Their free-spirited independence was infectious. With the help of social media, this year’s event grew to over 500 participants, all sharing Anya and Ashmore’s original goal: meet more women who love to ride.
ins my Coll by Jere rk o w Art
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MICHELLE CLABBY // MICHELLECLABBY.COM // @IMACLABBY
hen I boughT My TICkeT to Babes in Joshua Tree, I had no idea what to expect, but I knew I was in for one hell of a ride. So I left my comfort zone, weaved through six lanes of California traffic and rode a couple hundred miles a day in 110 degrees. I spent hours in heat so thick it was hard to swallow, where the only tolerable way to be outside was with the wind on your face at 50 mph. I drank moonshine out of a mason jar, danced to all-girl rock bands and took a Harley up to 100 mph on a barren desert road (sorry, Mom). I learned that riding a mechanical bull after breakfast is a surprisingly effective hangover remedy, and that riding a motorcycle on a windy freeway in a tank top and no bra is a painfully terrible idea (seriously don’t try it, your nipples will hate you). Most importantly, I learned that Babes Ride Out is more than an annual camp trip. It’s a sisterhood, and if you’re down for the ride, we can’t wait for you to join the club.
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A P L E E I C H E O K B TRAVELING
ohIe PaLeCek makes traditional handcrafted signs, murals, graphic design projects, and all-around inspiring art. Bohie painted the back cover of this issue you’re holding. Feel free to rip it out of the magazine and hang it up on the walls of your brain’s heart.
Where is home? Wherever I hang my dream catcher, which is currently Adelaide, Australia, in a shared house with chickens out back and an art studio out front. how did you get into sign painting? My mum was a sign painter, so I grew up with it. She had a sign painting shed out back and worked from home. I studied printmaking at art school and then graphic design, always hand drawing as many design elements as I could within a project. I worked in a design office in Canberra, Australia, straight out of school but found out pretty quickly that commercial graphic design wasn’t for me, sitting on a computer all day and laying out websites and annual reports… I quit and spent 7 months traveling around America and Canada hanging out in screen-printing studios and assisting illustrators on mural jobs and stuff, just pick-
ing their brains and getting my eyes opened to an amazing collection of people who had made their careers out of their passions and skills. I approached a sign painter (Joe Swec) in Austin, Texas, who took me under his wing and let me shadow him on his jobs and literally just hang around like a bad smell for a few months, ha! He opened my eyes to the future of sign painting and showed me how much it had changed since my mum’s generation—who were “tradesmen” as apposed to “artists.” Life changed. What are some of your favorite letters? I’m not biased, man. All letters are beautiful. What are some good words to live by? Get knowledge. Get skills. Get gnarly. …then we’ll meet around the campfire and share stories.
What would be your dream adventure? Adventure is a big word. It could describe a long solo trek across the Yukon, or a road trip down to the south beach of Adelaide with a car full of mates. It could be an inward adventure looking deep within the confines of your soul, or an outward one exploring the colors of a leaf you found while walking through the park. It could be on any number of engines or it could be pedal powered or on skateboards or surf or snow or a rocket ship or on the back of an eagle! It could even be used to describe conceptualizing an art series or exploring a new medium, like music. So I reckon my dream adventure would be to find an “adventure,” whether solo or shared, every day for the rest of my life.
BOHIE PALECEK // NEWFRONTIERSIGNWRITING.COM
Rocketship TO Reykjavik STORY AND PHOTOS BY NATE ZOLLER
A ROARK REVIVAL ADVENTURE IN ICELAND
SA N DIEGO - ORANGE COUNT Y - VANCOUVER
SURFING IS SO MUCH MORE THAN RIDING WAVES. IT ’S AN ADVENTURE. IT ’S A LIFETIME OF L E A R N I N G A N D E X P E R I E N C E S. I T S TA RT S I N T H E S H A P I N G B AY. W H E R E A C R A F T S M A N I S B O R N . WHERE SURFING IS MADE.
W W W.S H A P E R S T U D I O S.C O M
“WE LIKE DRINKING COCONUT MILK OUT OF COCONUTS”
SURFERS OFTEN AVOID WINTER. Photo of Nate Zoller by Chris Burkard
We like our trunks. We like drinking coconut milk out of coconuts, shirtless, using the sun as our clothing. It’s been that way since the beginning, since beach-blanket bingo and the Endless Summer. But in the last few years, wetsuit technology has gotten to a point where it can feel like summer in almost any water temp. You can surf anywhere in the world, in relative comfort. Relative is used because at some point that wetsuit has to come off and at that point the winds can change. Cold can set in with the deepest of intentions.
HYPOTHERMIA IS REAL, BUT WE TAKE THE RISK. We head to Iceland in December, where the Nordic winter is just starting to gain traction. We pack our six mil hooded fullsuits and our seven mil booties and gloves and get on the plane. We do this because the North Atlantic is black and angry with swells spinning in every direction.
WE ACT NOT SCARED. Most of the Icelandic winter is spent in darkness, the light peaking over the horizon for maybe five hours a day. It’s not easy to live this way, but a good story never started on Easy Street. So we leave the airport in our Land Rover Defender 110 through the sleet of ice and snow toward slabs that detonate over volcanic rock. Who cares, we have enough rubber to bounce off any reef. No worries.
“NEVER PUT ON A WETSUIT IN ICELAND WITH ICY VEINS”
WE ARRIVE AND THE BEACH IS WHITE WITH SNOW. With heaters blasted, we stick our limbs into the vents. The key to avoiding hypothermia is starting warm, never put on a wetsuit in Iceland with icy veins. The task of getting on all that rubber usually gets the blood moving, and that means go time. A quick jaunt through a barbed-wire fence, past a few puffins and across a bed of slippery rocks, and there’s the wave, blasting. The only people around are Raph Bruhwiler, Chris Burkard and myself. Immersed in cold, facing the elements straight on. Because if you want to feel something new, you have to put yourself in front of situations like this.
SIX TO EIGHT FOOT SLABBING RIGHTS, NO ONE AROUND, COLD EVER-PRESENT. Many surfers have been traveling to Indo in the summer and Hawaii in the winter, and that’s awesome. But sometimes you have to take the other road. The one that has no street lights, with only the slightest glimpse of success. It’s down that road that you will find the moments that make a life lived outside of the ordinary. So go ahead, book a ticket somewhere out of your comfort zone. Become the nomad you were meant to be. Face life on the road head on and then give it a firm handshake.
YOU WILL BE GREETED WARMLY, EVEN IN ICELAND.
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KEVIN SANSALONE DANIELSILVERBERG.COM // @DANSILVERBERG
SANDBOX LEGEND HELMET, BOSS GOGGLES, AND A WHITEGOLD NORTH SNOWBOARD
THE THINGS WE CARRY Meditations on Gear
Words by Charlotte austin Photos by daniel silverberg
he besT gear TeLLs a sTory. Here’s one: three years ago, I ripped my softshell pants from the hip pocket to the seam down the center of my crotch. I was not wearing underwear, and six men saw the white skin of my upper thigh, maybe more. The pants are made by Patagonia, a company that has built a bombproof marketing campaign around the ways that their products are used and abused. Customers submit anecdotes about their grandfather’s fishing shirt or fuzzy pastel jackets passed between toddlers. The tagline: “Every patch is a memory, every tear has a tale. These are the stories we wear.” I have not submitted the story of my ripped pants to Patagonia’s Worn Wear campaign. I know one way to describe giving six men a full-frontal flash at 14,000 feet in the pre-dawn alpine glow: it’s a funny, self-deprecating anecdote that I sometimes tell at parties. But I don’t know how to write the story in a way that explains that it didn’t matter. We had flown across the country, and hiked into base camp just in time to meet a bitter snowstorm head-on. By the time we had a weather window long enough to make a summit bid, we had eaten everything except coffee beans and peanut butter and olive oil. When we left base camp we were already weak. The weather held, and we climbed quickly. But as we stepped onto the summit ridge, a climber on my rope team stumbled. I caught the fall with the rope tied between us, and the four-inch blade of his axe missed my femoral artery by less than a centimeter. I saved his life; the blade of his axe could easily have ended mine. We didn’t speak, but he held my eyes for one long beat. Then the moment had passed and we were on our feet, each finding our balance. I taped my pants. We summited the mountain. Ten days later a seamstress from the Patagonia store stitched the pants. There was no charge. I still wear them commando, but it doesn’t feel right for that story to be featured in an ad campaign. I’m not quite sure why.
rusT. As athletes and adventurers and friends, we learn to place our lives in each other’s hands. We tie knots, replace the batteries on our avalanche beacons, lend each other gear. Trust is a confusing thing: it seems so simple, but it’s hard to pin down. Every time I rappel on an unfamiliar rope, my muscles are tightly braced for the unknown. There is no moment when I am not aware of the threat of an unmitigated fall. It’s like that with people, too. It’s only with time and familiarity and shared miles that I relax and start to lean in: a climber into a belay, a lover into a body, a skier into the slope. A human being into a friendship. Maybe that’s one of the reasons we crave shared adventure: for that one week or day or moment, we forget to be wary. We forget to calculate each other because we’re working together to build a campfire or evaluate avalanche risk or ford the stream. Adrenaline and a shared mission force us to rely on each other’s strength, and we forget to be in any place but that single moment. The right gear can be one of the tools that creates a day that lets us forget. We talk about trust as something you build, as though it’s a structure or a thing. But in that building there seems to be something about letting go: of expectations, of self-doubt, of that calculated presentation of self. When I wake up in the mountains, there is no wondering what to wear. I already know who I am that day. I am something more than 160 characters; I am a three-dimensional human being. I’m my best self, the one I wish I could always be.
osT adventure requires at least some gear. Some of it is utilitarian: tents, sleeping bags, lanterns, ropes, harnesses, Vibram-soled shoes, wool socks, knit gloves. Until very recently, we wanted the most techni-
cal gear we could find; every product was lighter, stronger, waterproof, breathable. By streamlining our gear, we seemed to think that we could push farther into the unknown. In that thinking, it was the gear making the adventure, and not what we found in ourselves. But now our collective subconscious seems wary of gear from the future. We trust the past more than the present; we are learning to trust ourselves. And in so doing, we are free from needing the gear to define the adventure. We’re still buying gear for function, but now we’re also buying adventure gear for fashion: $300 flannel shirts, artisanal Sequoia-scented beard oil, titanium travel chopsticks. We are lumbersexuals who post hundreds of photos of tiny cabins on Pinterest. How many of us know how to chop wood? The lines between gear and fashion are increasingly blurred. Big outdoor brands are launching heritage lines. Stylish twenty-somethings dress like Swedish men from the forties. Companies in Portland, Oregon and Maine are specifically designing products to be heavier, more durable, less modern. Waxed canvas is big. In autumn 2013, Marie Claire dressed models in L.L. Bean. We’re sentimental for a more-authentic time that—in truth—we have never known.
have sorTed gear left by friends lost to adventure. Co-workers have been buried by avalanches. Mentors have run rivers and not come back. The gear they leave behind is divided, cherished, used. Last summer, after six climbers died on a mountain, I sat in a ranger’s hut on a glacier and drank gin out of a tin cup until I forgot how my legs worked. Then set my alarm for the next morning to climb the same peak. As we passed the cup, we talked about climber Kelly
Cordes, who later wrote that “...transcendence forever [comes] from long days in the mountains. You’re sharing the deepest corners of your brain, your strongest feelings. You are completely vulnerable and completely authentic.” One of the men I drank with that night had a sticker on his skis, which commemorated a different fallen friend—a skier who died in an avalanche in South America. The man was wearing his dead friend’s gloves, and for a reason that neither of us understood he let me try them on, flexing the leather across my palm. We toasted to authenticity, then we held shiva in the only way we know: by living.
f We’re buyIng gear that we don’t need, then that gear is fashion. Fashion is: a form of self-expression, an art, a tool, a status symbol. It’s a religion, an escape, a disguise. Your clothing and shoes and self-presentation tell people why you came, who you are, what you want. Consider: a business suit in a boardroom, a lace bunny costume at a college party, a black dress at a funeral. So what does it mean when executives wear tin cloth in the corner office? Maybe we wear heritage brand outdoor gear as a symbol: I have been there. I have done those things. Wherever I stand, I have chosen those things. I chose that life.
hen I Wear my softshell jacket to Costco to buy dog food, I am sometimes scared of living up to the idea of a life that I have built for myself. I own waxed canvas and tin cloth and Gore-Tex and wool, and in my search for authenticity I am blurring the lines between gear and fact and fashion. But even if I gave only the straight facts of my life, I would only be telling one version of my story. It would probably be less beautiful, and, strangely enough, it might even be less truthful. Maybe that’s what we’re doing with all this gear, technical or sentimental: sharing facts and, somehow, sharing more than the facts. We are sharing our best selves, the selves we want to be. Maybe our gear is the best way we know to say: I am more than you think. I am not the label you see. Am I cultivating a lie? Are we? I don’t know. What I know is this: that softshell jacket is full function, regardless of form. It has been to the summit, and I will wear it there again. I will also wear it to Costco, the dog park, and with flannel pajama pants and house slippers when I walk across the street to buy a bottle of wine. And when I get home, I will hang it on a hook so that it is ready for the next late night campfire, the next 4 am drive, the next predawn excursion. It will remind me that ice and dirt and snow and rain and blood and dust and wind are my currency; they are the language I speak. I will wear that jacket to remind me what I choose.
CHARLOTTEAUSTIN.COM // @CHARLOTTEAUSTIN
ALEXIS VERGALLA A GREAT PACIFIC IRON WORKS CARABINER THAT BELONGED TO MY DAD IN THE 70S.
CHRIS SHALBOT A WATER BOTTLE. #WEDRINKWATER #JUSTTHETAP
JOEY MARA DOUBLE-PLY TOILET PAPER
ALBERT SUMMERFIELD CILOGEAR 45L WORKSACK
Without Walls, the fitness and adventure destination from Urban Outfitters Find us in select Urban Outfitters locations and WithoutWalls.com Los Angeles / New York / Santa Monica / Seattle / San Francisco / Cambridge #GetMovingHaveFun @GoWithoutWalls
Within Walls Within the walls of Urban Outfitters, something cool is happening for small independent businesses. BY ANNIE ANDREWS
ithout Walls is a small shop. The shop carries colorful outdoorsy apparel from some of the most fun brands on the market today. Although they operate like a start-up company, they are actually a tiny branch of the gigantic Urban Outfitters Inc. The Without Walls crew is scrappy, and they’re pulling some Robin Hood shit to help small independent brands tell their own stories. However, Without Walls’ awesomeness gets shrouded by the controversies and haters of URBN INC. Without Walls is all about supporting the new adventure movement, flash fitness fans, and just looking cool while you do your cool thing. Without Walls carries exclusives from smaller brands that stand for the same values. These brands get a lot of $upport, expo$ure and $ocial media love out of the relationship. But it’s not just about money. It’s about cultivating relationships that support good people doing good things. Maybe you noticed the Without Walls ad to the left? Well, that’s a perfect example of the kind of support they give this community of creative, outdoorsy folks. Here are a couple brands that Without Walls carries exclusives from that you should rush out and support: MOKUYOBI THREADS (BAGS, HATS, AND PATCHES) CHUMS (SWEET MOUNTAIN GEAR FROM JAPAN) NEWLINE (SUPER-FAST RUNNING STUFF) STRGHT (WOODEN SKATEBOARDS) ICNY (REFLECTIVE RUNNING GEAR) YOKISHOP (CHILL CLOTHES TO SWEAT IN) MOWGLI (CLOTHING WITH HEAVY BEACH VIBES)
AN INTERVIEW WITH A PARALYMPIC MONOSKIER Story by Brianna Kovan Artwork by Bwana Spoons
HEN TYLER WALKER WAS SIX YEARS OLD, h his dad took him skiing for the first time. For the national and international sit-ski champion, it’s been uphill (downhill, technically) since. “My dad got a plastic sled and bolted cross-country skis to the bottom,” says Tyler. “For a few years I used the sled, as well as a snowboard with a plastic seat on it.” Born and raised in New Hampshire, Tyler now lives and trains in Aspen, Colorado—primarily monoskiing. “Monoskis are way more maneuverable,” says the U.S. Paralympian. “You can be completely independent.” From the New Hampshire mountains of his childhood to the Rockies, from Sochi to Austria, Tyler has traveled the world collecting both fans and awards. We talk to him about alpine skiing, his pre-race rituals, and his love of apple strudel.
So, why alpine skiing? The control over energy. When you’re at the top of a mountain you have, due to gravity, an immense amount of potential energy. You can then decide where and how to unleash it as you go down. For those of us who prefer zero-altitude flatness, can you tell me what it feels like to shoot down the slopes? When you go down a slope, you can let yourself go super fast, or not. You can turn left, right, whatever you want. After you’ve trained enough, all of the movements required to shift energy in different directions become instinctual. You can then just think yourself down a mountain. Also, adrenaline is a lot of fun. Going fast and doing dangerous things gets my adrenaline pumping. Is the adrenaline what gets you out of bed and to the slopes in the morning? I’m also at a point in my training when I can discover new ways to harness energy that no one has been able to do yet. The prospect of figuring that out is really exciting. Also, skiing is really fun. What’s your pre-race ritual?
the course back to myself as I slip down it, imagining myself running it. By the time I get to the bottom, I have played through the course about 20 times or so. Can you give me a play-by-play? About 15-20 minutes before I’m scheduled to run the course, I go to the top and sit by myself, going over the course in my head, imagining myself running at full speed. I do this probably four to five times. Five minutes before I run, I take off my jacket and make sure all my equipment is secure. Three minutes before I run, I start jumping up and down in my monoski or pushing around, whatever I can to get my heart rate up a bit. As I get closer to running, I do more small exercises with more intensity to gradually ramp up my heart rate. When I am about 30 seconds out, I jump around with great intensity, ramping up my heart rate to a similar rate that I’ll have when actually racing. I then focus on the start referee’s commands and, when I am 3 seconds out, I take a few rapid, deep breaths and push through the gate.
“A RACE RUN NECESSITATES ACHIEVING 100 PERCENT INTENSITY”
It involves slowly increasing my heart rate and overall intensity from when I wake up to when I go out of the starting gate. A race run necessitates achieving 100-percent intensity from the starting gate to the finish, which takes about 90–120 seconds. This also requires a huge amount of concentration to only focus on the run. In order to do that I go through stages hours before a run where I gradually shut off external thoughts and increase my intensity. When I’m in the starting gate, about to go, my intensity reaches 100 percent, and I achieve something like tunnel vision in my brain, where I only think about the task at hand. Not winning, not what I might eat for dinner, but only the need to dominate the run in front of me. What are some tangible ways that you do this? About an hour before the race starts, I inspect the course, committing every turn and terrain change to memory. Inspection is very mentally intense for me. I recreate the course in my head exactly as I see it. I do this by playing
At what point do you break out of this intensity? When I cross the finish line. I’m usually completely spent at that point. On days when I need to do two runs, such as giant slalom or slalom races, I repeat the process in the afternoon.
Does this focus take away from the fun of racing, or are you able to maintain concentration and still have a good time? The focus will take away the fun eventually, especially after a really long season. It helps to release at night by getting a beer with some friends, chilling, or watching a movie. Every opportunity to go free skiing is also taken. Free skiing is probably the best remedy to reduce stress and reset your focusing abilities. When I’m doing back-to-back races, I really try to find time to do fun, non-racing things like eating weird food, having a good beer, going on adventures in the countryside, going free skiing and questing for the world’s best apfelstrudel. There you have it, all my secrets.
A GUIDE TO
Cracks skating by Helena Long Photos by Hannah Bailey neonstash.com Words by mat Lloyd matlloyd.com See the video at staywildmagazine.com
THIS, IS OUR CITY. YOUR CITY HAS A PALETTE OF GREY, BUT THAT’S NOT THE WAY WE SEE IT. WE OBSERVE THE CRACKS IN THE CURBS THE ABSURDITY THAT OUR CITY HAS AN UNADMIRED BEAUTY. MAYBE IT’S THE DAILY COMMUTE FROM A TO B THAT BLINDS THE SIGHT? OUR COMMUTE IS FROM A TO EVERYWHERE, HERE TO THERE, IT IS YOUR NOTHING AND OUR, EVERYTHING.
THE ICY STREETS, OFTEN AVOIDED, ARE A CHALLENGE AS WE DANCE THE PERIPHERY OF YESTERDAY’S PUDDLES. WE DON’T SHY AWAY FROM THE DAILY GRIND WE EMBRACE IT! CHOOSE THE OPPORTUNITIES SOMETIMES SO FOCUSED WE DON’T SEE THE PEOPLE OR FEEL THE CHILL IN THE AIR. WE ARE AT ONE WITH OUR CITY, WHOSE NOISE ONCE CALMED US AND NOW CHARMS US WITH A WELL-SUNG CHORUS OF FAMILIAR SOUND. WE MOVE TOGETHER AND ADMIRE WHAT ONLY WE CAN SEE.
REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU FELT SO FUCKING FREE YOU RIPPED YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND WENT RUNNING INTO THE WILDERNESS, UNCONTROLLABLY LAUGHING AND HOWLING WITH A SMALL GROUP OF YOUR BEST FRIENDS? Well, that time may have been your peak. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have a photo of it? Magdalena Wosinska would have been the right photographer to have on hand for that moment, because she’d be running right along with you—laughing, shrieking and closing the shutter when you were at your finest. Magdalena is a professional photographer, an adventure seeker, and a wild animal. And we love everything about her experience.
Magdalena is your name, but what the hell is the “Experience” in your nickname, “The Magdalena Experience”? Well, the Magdalena Experience came about because of the Jimmy Hendrix Experience obviously, but I wanted to show it through a lifestyle in photos instead of music. I try to inspire people to travel and live life to the fullest. You used to shoot skateboarding early on in your career. Do you see many other female photographers covering that stuff, or is it more of a bros-on-bros scene?
Back then it was only a bros scene, and even now—as it’s even more mainstream then when I started 15 years ago—it’s more of a boys’ club, but more and more women are for sure involved and accepted by the male-dominated skate community. I think the internet has helped a lot with that equality, because people can see all the great work that women have done in this scene!
There is power in being naked, and we think it goes way beyond the idea that “sex sells.” What kind of power does nakedness bring to your work?
There’s a sense of fearlessness and contented joy in all your photos. How do you get that sense to come out of the people you photograph?
Do feminists ever come at you for objectifying women? Does anyone ever complain about you shooting half-naked dudes?
Well, we are always having fun together so it’s not too hard!
Ha, never. Thank God.
It has nothing to do with sex. My friends and I are just hippies and feel restricted by clothes if it’s hot outside. Like snakes, we sit on hot stones and soak up the summer sun.
We're making a pie graph about the stuff you love. What should be in it? 30% TRAVEL
30% RIDING MOTORCYCLES 10% DOMESTIC LIFESTYLE
What’s your most “liked” photo? Instagram. It’s one of me leaning over a cliff from a telephone pole, called “Balance,” and the real-deal photo is one of two bare butts on a beach with an American flag over our shoulders. You sure have a lot of photos of beautiful ladies flashing the wilderness. Is there a message you want people to get from those shots? Be free without tan lines and soak it all in.
SETH NEILSON // MYOUTDOORALPHABET.COM
photo by embry rucker
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