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Gabriel Lacktman @foreveroutside

Shane McLean @shane_mclean

Natalie Siddique nataliesiddique @sidd @siddatalie

Morgan Gonzalez @running_bum_

Nate Myton @n8myton Stephen Brooks @stxbrooks Amelia Senville @ameliasenville

Pancho Gomez @climber_monkey Hank Castillo Cauri Hammer @caurihammer Ryan Naval r @ryan.naval

Artist / Shane mclean / Breck

Artist / Amelia senville / mountain

Artist / Gabriel Lacktman / Forever Outside

Poem by Natalie Sidique Photo by Ryan Pace

Like a switch, my eyes flip open, Though for hours already, I've dreamed of roping Up! Up there! That

mountain there!

With glee and awe I cannot help but stare. Yet again, I willingly slip from the warmth, the comfort, the ease. But why or who or what am I trying to please? My thoughts silently shout with anxious vigor, While my body methodically packs today’s quiver; Ingrained, trained, these movements feel automatic, Yet my heart throbs wildly—a relief from the static.

So here we go again, on a route of pain and pleasure, A ballet of burl and beauty beyond measure, Seeking a balance between the hem and the haw— All to capture some clarity: a brilliant aha!

Climber / natalie siddique / Stately Pleasure Dome

Climbing up: so simple, so pure. Until you’ve felt it, you might question the allure.

But we move! We breathe! We learn to trust! In our partners, ourselves, our unwavering wanderlust.

It nourishes, it fuels, it reawakens our insides, Invigorates the confidence we put in our strides, Invites us to chase challenge to both the body and mind, So that spurious struggles become a stress left behind.

So go! Wake up! Unleash your impulse to explore!

Join the ranks of eagles who take to the sky and soar, Smell, touch, breathe in the exquisite evolution of you, And ever-closer you’ll come to the dream of breaking through.

Climber / Natalie Siddique / Matthes Crest Photo / Ryan Pace

La Montagne / Club alpin Francais / mai 1914

Thoughts on


Words / Pancho Gomez Photos / Nate Myton

fter having read My First Summer in the Sierra by Muir, I was re-in A troduced to the beauty of Yosemite through the eyes of a man who saw

god in everything. Everything was more beautiful, more alive, more a part of everything else, yet more distinctly its own individual living character. Little wildflowers the size of a pinhead were as amazing and monumental as the massive granite monoliths, and each seemed to have its own personality. Some trumpeting, shouting their joy to the sun and the trees towering over them, stretching their little pink petals as straight and happy as they could

Others yawned, as if they were just getting around to waking up by the time the sun set over El Cap, perpetually caught in the blissful first few minutes of waking up when everything is clear and simple. There was one, a purple monkey flower, growing out of a hairline crack in a granite wall over 200 feet from the valley floor. I have no idea how it got there and managed to wedge its roots into the merciless granite as a seedling, but there it was, as proud and hardy as any of the weather-beaten Jeffrey pines at the foot of Half Dome. Another “little person”, as Muir would call them, that never ceases to amaze me is the chipmunk. They are freaking ninjas. I mean, if they were our size they’d probably run at like 30 miles an hour, they pull ninety degree turns on a dime, and they do it on smooth, vertical granite. I’d give my left nut to be able to climb like a chipmunk. The birdsong choir at sunrise in Little Yosemite is something I don’t think I can put into words. It is an ancient Native American custom to sing the sun a greeting to welcome its warmth and thank it for the new day. I’ve always loved the idea of doing it, but I’m not much of a poet, and though the emotion is there, I can never come up with a song to do a sunrise justice. That morning, the birds did it for me, and all that was left for me to do was greet the morning with a smile.

Trees are awesome and majestic and beautiful and a bunch of other cool words. "A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease." -John Muir I always felt that El Cap was somewhat overrated. Being more of a boulderer at heart, I don’t necessarily feel that a bigger rock is a better rock. Then I hiked to the base. And I touched it and looked up, and the fire was lit. One day…

On my way back to Camp 4 from El Cap, I noticed some trash on the side of the trail, and I thought “what’s it going to matter if I pick up just one piece of trash”, and began to keep walking. And then I remembered a story Andrew had told me about how he’d gone out of his way to pick up some trash on Tenaya Lake. Feeling guilty, I turned around, grabbed the plastic bag, and bunched it into my pocket. I turned back to the trail and a butterfly, from out of nowhere, almost flew into my face. Yeah, you’re welcome. Karma or not, it felt good. Climbers always complain about the crowds in Yosemite. About how they ruin the valley, taking it to be more of an amusement park than a place of pilgrimage. And I’m often of the mind that they are right, and that many of the tourists in Yosemite don’t belong there. But on the hike down from Half Dome, I noticed something about the people on the trail: They were all happy. Regardless of whether they were there to enjoy the beauty of the forest, or whether the only thing they could think about was putting one foot in front of the other, they were all brimming over with accomplishment. The trail to Half Dome allows people’s sense of self worth and their love of life to flourish. And though nature is precious and fragile, it’s impossible to say that what I saw in those people that day isn’t just as invaluable. There’s a void in everyone that only the mountains can fill. **Pancho and his climbing partner Myles ascended The Nose late September 2016!

Climber / Nate Myton / Photo / Samuel Andree

photo / Ryan Naval / King Cobra, V8 / Yosemite, Ca Climber / Khiyle Batin

Bipolar Disorder Poem by Hank Castillo Artwork “Telluride” by Shane McLean

Sit Silently Sigh Feel Fury Forget Alone Find Freedom Fresh Know No Bounds Alive

Boundless Coast Poem by Hank Castillo Artwork by Stephen Brooks

Going home where the sleepy summer sky Is enormous And my jaw My teeth are at ease The gentle sea ridges Sing a soft salty breeze Toes and feet grab as they Supple slap the gravel trail My jolly head Hair awry Dance through the open air Enough room for two Or Four or Twelve ! The scrubby sage hills Watch over you, tromping child As you listen to the stories they have to tell

Movement & Stillness Words by Morgan Gonzalez Photo by Sergio Gonzalez To reach for our dreams is not to turn our backs on uncertainty, doubt and difficulty. Rather, when we face them head on they push us to grow beyond our own path

Runner / Morgan Gonzalez / High Sierras, CA

The art of progression requires a wild hair that

will never be satisfied. But there is also an art to enough, contentment. To pause for a moment and just enjoy things as they are. To experience the beauty and goodness around you without being greedy for more. For now we will sit in the sun next to the creek and on top of mountains, smile as we wait for the wild hair to grow back and help us dream up the next adventure.

photo / Morgan Gonzalez / High sierras, Ca

Calculus Poem by Cauri Hammer Artwork “Blue Mountains� by Amelia Senville

Painting the sun around the west, An infinite circle on the map, My own contour line, I carry it with me in my pocket, It lights me up, Like a wave of breath emitted from the yoga class, In the atrium, The trees grow tall and lush, The tropics in the midst of mountains, Fresh fruits and berries beneath snow-capped mountains, A Basalt Bliss mulberry in my belly, Mulch to hold the water, hydrate my bones, Becoming unhinged, unfiltered, pure, We would ride on, Through nowhere, singing the same songs into a Camelbak straw, I freeze, As I remember, You raising me up, Unspoken support, Remind me again, Why I love to do this, Move like this, love like this, taste like this, dream like this, X, Y, Z motion, like calculus, The derivative, Derive in me the cosmos, as they move and they speak, The starry night in my mind, The lights float above me, The earth moves around me, Instead of me around it, The warm hot springs like a hug,

You were there, Weren't you? But who are you? Where did you go? Come move with me, Slow down with me, Be it all with me, Right now, Because there isn’t a moment that could be, Without you right there, That blade of grass angled just so, The slow flow of the river moving us, This moment wouldn’t be if it weren’t for it being, So let it be with me, Fill my passenger seat, Take the place of my cooler, Throw it in the back seat, Because the satiation I need is you, We will move and we will stop, Beneath the sun that lights us up.



Words and photos by Nate Myton




ay one of the big summer climbing trip and we are at Dome Rock in the South Sierras. Fast forward through a fun-filled morning of climbing, and we find ourselves at the base of the It only 5.8, but we’ve climbed 8 supposed classic “Left Crack.” It’s pitches so far this morning, it’s nearing 2pm, the route is in direct sunlight, and we’re starving. But lunch is wating for us on top of the dome so we’re determined to make quick work of the route.

Sam makes quick work of the first pitch and I start to follow. I’m stopped short as I realize the car keys are on the ground and lunch is in the car on top. Sam bakes in the sun while I lower down, grab the keys, and figure out how to jug the line to bypass a long, now-unprotected, traverse. Words are kept to a minimum as I rack up and there’s the unspoken acknowledgement that we need to hurry this up. I proceed to get off route, try to check the topo on my phone, realize I took a picture of the wrong page in the guidebook, and finally give up and build an anchor where I am. Sam is not amused. Eventually we find ourselves back on route and I’m looking up at what is apparently the final pitch. It’s a blank face with a few knobs, and in theory there should be a bolt up there somewhere. I wander my way up, following the knobs. About 40 feet off the belay I look down and see my only protection for the pitch so far, a knob that was just big enough for me to tie off with a sling. Above me the holds run out and it’s not clear where to go. I really don’t want to move out into the unknown. It’s hard to describe the mental space that you reach in times like this. Tired and dehydrated and a little scared. Somehow bordering between hating each other and breaking down in laughter. Wondering why you even do these things, but at the same time you know that these are exactly the moments that keep you coming back. I’m still stalling, afraid to make the next moves with no protection, pissed off because somehow I got stuck leading this stupid pitch. In the distance we hear some gunshots.


Sam yells up, "Hey Nate, you hear that?" and without missing a beat I yell back with all the built up frustration from the struggles on the route so far "Yea I hear it... It's the sound me banging your mom!” It catches us both off guard and the balance of hatred and hilarity tips toward hilarity. We break down in laughter and it’s enough to finally break the tension and let me commit to the tenuous moves to reach the first bolt. A bit more tricky climbing brings me to the final slab to the top. The slab gives me one last mental battle as I realize the last bolt I’ve clipped (an old 1/4"er) is completely out of sight below me, and the anchors are nowhere to be seen above me. Lost on a sea of granite. I have to stop and gather myself and push away the questions about why we put ourselves into these situations. I hear the gunshots again and can’t help but laugh. The climbing is easy, so I try to ignore the 80’ runout and press on to the top. As is always the case, with the route finished and stomaches filled, all the frustrations melt away and all that is left is laughs. The stress that was so pressing at the time takes on a whole new light. We decide to go back down for one more route. Because climbs like this, struggles and all, are what keep us coming back for more.

climber / Samuel Andree

artist / Shane Mclean / Mountain project

Artist / stephen Brooks / Big as a mountain

artist / shane mclean / Satori

MultiMedia / Nate Myton / stephen brooks

Hem & Haw Oct. 2016

Hem & Haw Zine  

Hem & Haw is a collaboration of artists and athletes who share a love for life in the outdoors. Rock climbers, skiers, surfers, and runners...

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