O2 Issue 5 by O2 Magazine

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The O2 JOurnal A space for all the f un, bea utif ul, a nd crazy stuf f that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make it into the print publication. If you would like to submit to the O2 Journal, please send your photos, scribblings, videos and stories to info@oregonoutdoormag.com www.oregonoutdoormag.com/journal 5

EDITOR’S NOTE BY KYLE HENTSCHEL Before embarking on a 700-mile kayak expedition, Conor Phelan sat at a desk. I picture him spinning around in his chair, throwing a pencil at the ceiling to see if it sticks, and daydreaming out the window until someone snaps him back to reality. He, like many, was restlessly coping with the transition into an office setting. But his decision to take time off, trade work shoes for wetsuit booties, and pursue an ancestral mountain in the remote islands of Southeast Alaska (pg. 32) serves as inspiration for anyone attempting to balance work and play. The goal of course, is to make these elements one and the same, to find something that allows you to contribute to the world and also participate in it. Many people see this as impossible, as

EDITOR IN CHIEF ASSOCIATE EDITOR PHOTO EDITOR/PUBLISHER PUBLISHER ART DIRECTOR DESIGNER PR MANAGER

a lifestyle reserved for National Geographic photographers or professional athletes. But I see it as more of a challenge than a roadblock. When I catch myself pondering this work-play tension, I think back to a question my friend Jake used to ask, “It’s 10:00 AM on a Tuesday ten years from now; what kind of shoes are you wearing?” My responses were always confused attempts to combine work and play in the same shoe—and I’m still working on the answer. But nonetheless, it’s a prompt I’d like to leave you with as you weave your way through Issue Five. We’ve outlined some of the very best options for “play” to inspire your next adventure, now all you need to figure out is the “work” part of the equation. Easy, right? Good luck.

Kyle Hentschel Chloe Huckins Brian Amdur Jac Thomas Gina Mills Macaihah Broussard Lauren Hillestad

CONTRIBUTORS Brian Amdur Daniel Brittain Michael Graw Cameron Kokes Adam McKibben Marcus Paladino Conor Phelan Max Rhulen Will Saunders Ian Sutherland Kaylee Tornay Ian Tyley

PRINTED ON RECYCLED PAPER BY 6

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CONTENTS 8 16 18 20 22 26 32 40 46

MOMENTS GEAR GUIDE COORDINATES FACES BEWARE OF BEAR SURF NICARAGUA PADDLING THE PAST MORE THAN LYME FIELD NOTES

MOMENTS 8

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Photo by Max Rhulen

A kayaker descends Koosah Falls on Oregonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s McKenzie River.

Jordan Lankford waits between sets on the Oregon Coast.

Photo by Ian Sutherland

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Photo by Brian Amdur

Sunrise over Steens Mountain in Eastern Oregon.

Jordan Brandt post-wipeout in Eugene, Oregon.

Photo by Will Saunders

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GEAR GUIDE 16

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ECLECTIC

P E R S O N A L I T I E S : W H AT ’ S Y O U R S ? BY CAMERON KOKES PHOTO BY BRIAN AMDUR

ocks. A fraction of your outdoor ‘fit that weathers sweat storms and stink without reward or recognition. While it’s easy to forget about these snugglers working miracles and wicking the unwanted down below, the right or wrong pair can make or break your day. Whether you’re earning your turns in the Cascades or just soaking in campsite vibes with a koozie-wrapped beer, make the right choice underfoot so you keep on chuggin’.

BURTON Sage of the Slopes Blower pow and board wax … substances of my enlightenment. Enabler of those who shred at elevation, I’m a frostbite-banishing furnace for feet that know no hesitation.

BALEGA Jitterbug Jogging Essential Miles and miles and miles and me under you. I’m here! Still dry! Still enabling your runner’s high.

SMARTWOOL Renaissance Merino Man I’m the Swiss Army Knife of the sock universe. A multipurpose tool for any trip. Sand, mud, snow, your cold kitchen floor — domains that know my name.

STANCE Kanye West of the Sock Universe I stitch Andy Warhol swag into your veins. Catch me on feet of the coolest camper. Sit back, relax and let me hit you with the tune to match your rap-god mood.

DARN TOUGH Old School Suzzie I’m the hiker’s original necessity. Trail snacks? I eat bowls of blisters. Feet these days. So soft. Too delicate. Back in my day...

COORDINATES

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY MICHAEL GRAW

Diamond Peak, swathed in a fresh coat of snow, rewards autumn adventurers at the end of the brisk hike to Diamond View Lake. The 5-mile trail winds through the small gorge of Trapper Creek, before gradually climbing 1,000 feet up to the lake. The area is typically free of snow until mid-December and the intrepid explorer can expect to have the lake — and its spectacular views — all to themselves during the winter months when many hikers have already gone into hibernation. Spend the afternoon ice fishing and plan to stay the night to experience unbeatable stargazing — you might even catch Diamond Peak glowing pink in the early morning light.

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coordinates

activity

distance

43° 31’ 41.3508” N 122° 4’ 19.1136” W

Hiking/ Camping/ Ice Fishing

5 miles (one-way)

FACES The Catalina Islands off the coast of Southern California boast crystal clear waters and a vibrant aquatic ecosystem, attracting scuba-happy tourists all year long. These hearty guides make that booming dive scene possible. From left: Chase Smith, Landon Smith, and Jonah Baronian.

Photos by Daniel Brittain

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PNW TRAVEL

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he smell of rotten life jackets greeted us as we warily ducked into the old canoe rental shack. Shelves of moldy gear and paddles that looked like they were made out of fence palings perfectly complimented the burly men collecting our signatures and hustling us along. We stood there on the dock at the southern entrance of Pitt Lake, British Columbia— admittedly over-packed and lacking any experience steering a canoe. The possibility of capsizing was an unspoken, yet real concern, but the promise of Widgeon Falls motivated our first paddle strokes. The midday sun beamed high in the sky over the glassy water and snow-capped mountains in the distance. A little further and we’re navigating the PittAddington Marsh, a stretch of comedic failure as we clunked through the winding turns. Our captain clearly preferred soaking in the landscape rather than planning our next move, and we chartered a zigzagging course . As we made our way through, we crossed paths with numerous day-trippers, a few of whom alluded to the presence of a bear at the campsite, near the Widgeon Falls trailhead and where we planned to spend the night. Our initial reaction should have been fear, but the possibility of meeting a bear face-to-face was too good to pass up. We paddled forward in a whirl of trepidation and increasing ferocity as our mutual excitement grew. An hour later we slowly climbed out of the canoe and up the bank toward our campsite, the boat hoisted over our shoulders. Half an hour

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later, our tents were up, but no sign of the much-anticipated bear, so we began the twomile trek to Widgeon Falls. A short ways into our hike, we thought we heard faint noises coming from the campground, but collectively chose to carry on to the falls. Roaring water rushed over immense granite boulders, and Widgeon Falls measured up to everything we’d hoped it would be. We spent the afternoon cooling off under the icy cascade. We arrived back at our deserted campsite and started to go about making a feast for dinner when we were approached by the local park ranger. He informed us that the commotion we’d heard earlier was a black bear stumbling between our tents in search of a snack. The ranger warned us of the dangers of the animal and told us that we were the only remaining campers in the area—as everyone else had

decided to flee. He expressed the high probability that the inquisitive bear would be back in our company at any point in the evening. We held a vote on whether to stay or return to civilization, which resulted in a resounding ‘yes’ to staying. We began cooking our well-deserved feast, and like clockwork, the hungry black bear emerged from the forest about 50 feet away. Our reactions were surprisingly calm as we beelined for our cameras. Our furry friend remained amicable and unphased by the attention from a few delighted photographers. After 30 minutes of continuous snapping, we stood tall and made as much noise as possible, watching as he finally scampered up the hill behind the campsite. Since the bear had attempted to break into our tents earlier that day, we decided our time in the wilderness may be drawing to a close and used the bear’s absence as an escape window. As the sun began to set, we loaded our canoe and set

back to the mainland. With a new navigator at the helm, the return journey was somewhat smoother. The challenge now was identifying the correct route home as darkness was falling. Determining the right turns was becoming an increasingly tedious and uncertain task. With great relief, the shore lights came into view and we began to search for a new place to set up camp. The canoe’s owner seemed unimpressed by our moonlit return and swiftly dismissed any idea of setting up camp in the now-abandoned parking lot. Driving down a nearby dirt road, we reached a gated entrance that led to an open field: the perfect place to camp under a starfilled sky. As we started setting up once again, we noticed a surprisingly illuminating presence above. Vivid colors began to stream across the sky as the magical northern lights revealed themselves, a truly perfect ending to such an eventful day. I dozed off wondering if the bear was enjoying the show too.

INTL TRAVEL 26

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“Dale! Dale!” scream the local surfers as the set rolls in, encouraging you to take the next wave. A few paddle strokes later and you’re up, slicing through the saltwater under the tropical sun. Nicaragua isn’t a destination for professionals seeking world class surf conditions. But let’s be honest, most of us don’t care! For those looking to drop the wetsuit, ditch the crowds, and catch wave after wave, the Pacific coast of Nicaragua offers a casual paradise, or at least that’s what photographer Will Saunders found when he ventured to the surfing hot spots of Popoyo and Playa Santana. Here, cheap hostels offer board rentals, lessons, and a welcoming environment where you’re expected to revel in the surf, sunburns, and soreness of a day in the water. Add a Cerveza Toña, or three, and vacation has officially begun.

PHOTO ESSAY BY WILL SAUNDERS

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Marvin Oviedo is a surfer from Chinandega, a town four hours north of Popoyo where Will began his trip. The two traveled south and surfed together for a week straight, letting a shared passion for the sport blur the language barrier.

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FEATURE

D D A P

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E TH

G N I L

T E S A P 100 Years in 700 Miles Words and Photos by Conor Phelan

he wind ripping over the ridge parted the clouds just long enough for a glimpse of the summit. It didn’t appear to be much further, but if I hesitated any longer the swirling mist would eliminate any chance of a view. I unbuckled my pack, dropped it to the ground, and went for it. Twenty minutes later I was out of breath, clambering on my hands and feet, my mind in a state of suspended disbelief. Sweat stung my eyes and my heart was pounding so furiously its rhythm reverberated through my skull. I took the final strides to the peak, and collapsed on a moss covered rock, wearied more by emotion than from the climb. As my heaving lungs settled, I buried my face in my hands and gathered myself for a moment. When I finally looked up, I could scarcely believe the magnitude of what lay in front of me. There I was on a pinnacle of rock, flanked on all sides by plummeting, 500-foot cliffs. I had made it to the top of Freeburn Mountain. Measuring 50 miles wide and 75 miles long, Chichagof Island is among the largest in Southeast Alaska’s Alexander Archipelago. In the early 20th century, my great-great-grandfather, William Freeburn, spent much of his adult life on Chichagof’s remote and windswept outer coast, where he was the superintendant of the Hirst-Chichagof gold mine and a community leader. Only a few hundred hardy souls lived and worked in the mine, which was among the most successful in American history, extracting almost $1 billion in gold, at today’s rate. Decades after William Freeburn and his family left Chichagof, the mine was abandoned and the vast wilderness reclaimed the workshops, docks, and homes that made up this tiny out-

Conor began his journey in Ketchikan, weaving around to Chichagof Island where he climbed Freeburn Mountain before continuing on to his final destination of Juneau. Top right: Klag Bay, Alaska, in 1916, taken by Conor’s great-grandfather, Henry Baumann, who married Freeburn’s daughter. Far right: Conor’s replication in 2016.

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post on the edge of existence. But before this fate befell the town, the locals honored my great-great-grandfather by bestowing his name upon the three-peaked mountain that towers across the bay, a gesture of gratitude for the role he had played in developing the community. I was a young teenager when my mother first told me about our ancestral mountain. At the time, I struggled to understand its reality, picture its slopes, or align its existence with my own. Periodically I would bring it back up in conversation with my mother, but when it came to details, not much was known about the summit. As I grew older and found a renewed interest in the story, I reopened the investigation. Starting simple, I entered “Freeburn Mountain Alaska” into Google Maps. The screen revealed a heavily pixelated, brown and green swath of land. I zoomed out further—no roads, no trails, no towns, no nothing for miles. Just getting to the bottom of the mountain was going to be a colossal endeavor. A few quick logistical calculations regarding flights, mileage, and weather reports made it clear that to do this right, I needed to go big or stay home. So, I spent more than a month’s salary on a complex, 16-foot folding expedition kayak. The purchase kept me motivated in times of doubt for the two years that separated the day I bought my kayak from the moment it touched Alaskan waters. Not once did I let myself believe the trip wouldn’t happen. I collected all the necessary gear, recruited my friend and coworker Kyle Smith as a partner in crime, and spent hours poring over maps, blogs, trip reports, and articles slowly piecing together the 700-mile network of waterways that would make up my route. As the journey took shape, we grew increasingly excited to trade our desk chairs for collapsable sea kayaks. Standing on the dock in Ketchikan, our starting point, I had that palpable feeling of time simultane-

ously compressing and stretching. A trip that had been no more than a distant idea 10 years before was now my reality for the next 60 days. The path I chose was not an ordinary one—far from it. Instead of following the protected waters of the famed Inside Passage, we had to veer to the far western edge of the archipelago to reach the West Chichagof-Yakobi Wilderness Area, where Freeburn Mountain stands sentinel. Almost all of our trip would take place in the Tongass National Forest, the largest national forest in the system. To put its size in perspective, at 17 million acres it’s considerably larger than Yosemite, Yellowstone, Denali, Redwood, Olympic, Death Valley, and Grand Canyon National Park combined. Every 10-14 days of kayaking led us to a town where we could resupply on food, fuel, and social interaction. Sitka, the biggest stop along the way, only has about 8,000 residents, and some of the smaller towns counted below 100 locals in number. Between these rural garrisons, humanity seemed almost to have never existed. Just a few days outside of Ketchikan we had already become attuned

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to what we referred to as our wilderness rhythm: the ritualistic breakdown of camp each morning, 15-20 miles of paddling, and subsequent establishment of camp in the evening. By the time our kayaks pried the waters of Wrangell’s harbor—our first stop—we were already more at ease in the forest than the hustle bustle of human civilization. In my journal each night, I scribbled a daily total of the wildlife we encountered. I gave up trying to count bald eagles, and by the time I reached Juneau, I had tallied several hundred otters, seals, and sea lions, dozens of humpback whales and porpoises, a large number of brown and black bears, and many other species. Our interactions with the wildlife and our physical environment molded each day into its own micro-adventure. No two days were alike. Categorizing our days into “good” versus “bad” trivializes the range of emotions we were bombarded with. The hair on the back of my neck has never stood as straight as the evening we were hissed at by a large brown bear after accidentally invading the animal’s small island home. My mind has never experienced

Left: Conor and Kyle settle into camp on a rainy evening. Top: Conor removes the line from the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s catch. Above: Two curious seals swim up close to the kayaks.

Left: Conor’s great-grandparents, Henry & Louise Baumann, look Northwest from the top of Doolth Mountain, inside which the Hearst-Chicagof Mine was built. Pictured in 1916. Below: Conor’s replication 100 years later.

an adrenaline rush as powerful as the day I found myself riding steep 14-foot ocean swells alongside 30-ton humpbacks in a channel called Icy Strait. I have never been as astounded as the morning I broke out onto the beach to find myself standing a mere 10 feet from a majestic lone wolf. Perhaps the most difficult moment of the trip came in the small town of Pelican. Having just kayaked the epic coast of Chichagof Island, and climbed Freeburn Mountain, our spirits were high. Unfortunately, Kyle was experiencing bouts of intense pain due to a torn abdominal muscle. He was able to gut it out until we reached Pelican, but by then it was clear that he would paddle no further. The serious waters ahead would have no mercy for someone suffering from an injury. It was a somber moment watching Kyle’s float plane bank to the right, and disappear over the mountains as he headed towards a warm bed, a hot shower, and medical attention in Juneau. I, on other hand, was facing ten days on my own. While it was disappointing to lose my partner, I still had a mission to accomplish. I was healthy, paddling strong, and eager to see what the final leg of the trip held in store for me. It felt strange setting off alone that first evening.

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For almost a week I didn’t see, much less speak with, anyone else. Suddenly thrust into utter solitude, my mind seemed to enter a primal state. My vision and hearing became hypersensitive to the point where the wind and rain at night was deafening. One evening in particular still gives me goosebumps; I was camped on the edge of the Dundas River in a secluded corner of Glacier Bay National Park when four large brown bears emerged to chase after fish the entire night. I could almost feel the ground shaking as the bears charged back and forth through the water and along the bank. The next morning I found the beach near my kayak covered with prints almost a foot across. Standing next to those massive pawprints, the reality of my isolation hit me like a brick. Yet never before, or since, have I felt so liberated. On the final morning of my journey, I awoke to a thunderous crashing as several humpback whales leapt out of the depths. Sitting there on that rocky beach, just a day’s paddle away from completing my mission, I began to realize how deeply I had bonded with Southeast Alaska. Having had to face fears and challenges so far outside the realm of normal everyday life forced me to reinvent what I thought I was capable of. As I loaded my kayak for the final push to civilization, the humpbacks made their way south, and disappeared into the mist with beautiful, slow waves of their tails, a fitting farewell.

Q&A

MORE THAN

LYME

For the past 15 years, Chloe Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill has fought the tick-born illness known as Lyme disease. She decided to ditch the status quo and craft a lifestyle that made her feel good, every day. She also founded More Than Lyme, an online community dedicated to enriching the lives of people with Lyme living all around the globe, through outdoor adventure and storytelling. Words by Kaylee Tornay Photos by Adam McKibben

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DIAGNOSIS

It took about three years to figure out what was going on with me, and no one wanted to test me for Lyme. My mom was the main instigator, and when she finally got a Lyme test done, it came back positive. By that time, it had already been in my system for quite a while, so one or two rounds of antibiotics didn’t get rid of it. We finally stabilized it and I could go back to school--I was in middle school at the time and behind in everything. I pushed it aside for the most part and thought, “Whatever, it’s not a big deal.” I thought I could live with it.

URBAN DECAY

I was able to graduate high school, but as soon as I went to college I started having seizures. My vision was really bad, I couldn’t write, and I had a lot of anxiety and panic attacks. I ended up in the emergency room more than five times. I think it was the stress of going from high school to the real world. Lyme can go dormant for awhile if your immune system is doing well. With school and everything, it must have crashed. After two years of living in the city, I decided that I really didn’t want to live there anymore. So in the span of two weeks, I broke up with my boyfriend, quit my job, bought a car, and moved to Bend.

BEND, OREGON

I had visited a few times and loved it. I wanted to pick a place far enough from Seattle that it felt new and exciting. It’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I always end up feeling better mentally, and then I can handle what’s happening physically.

LIGHT BULB

About a year after moving to Bend, I came up with the idea for More Than Lyme. I hadn’t told very many people there that I had Lyme, because most people either didn’t know what it was or thought I was crazy. I think I got to a bursting point because of that, so one night I was babysitting and the kid was asleep and I came up with this idea of More Than Lyme.

SOLIDARITY THROUGH STORIES I got the domain name, started the Instagram, and began writing blog posts. It started off as kind of an online diary for me, I wanted to share what was going on in my world and help people like me feel less crazy. I quickly realized that this process, which was helping me cope, was also benefitting other people. So I started sharing their stories and adventures as well. Most of the More Than Lyme community is based in the U.S., but we have hubs in the Netherlands, Australia, Switzerland, even Iraq and South Africa. There are some from Russia, Thailand, and tons of places I would never think people would be reading it. I’ve had orders for our shirts from places that I have to double-check on the map.

VIRTUAL EMPOWERMENT I want people to feel comforted by what’s there. They may not have community where they are but they have one on there. More Than Lyme presents the faces of Lyme and their stories as a resource—so if someone who contributes also has a blog and raises awareness, that also becomes accessible and the network expands. I want to encourage the Lyme community to get out and explore, even if it’s just a little bit. Because that’s something that really helped me. It’s easy to be scared of the outdoors because it’s a tick-borne disease. But it’s essential to get back out there, even in baby steps. For more stories and adventures, head to morethanlyme.org.

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“

I ALWAYS FEEL REALLY SMALL WHEN I’M OUTSIDE, AND THAT’S HUMBLING BECAUSE IT PUTS MY PROBLEMS INTO PERSPECTIVE.

“

NATURE NURTURES

I always feel really small when I’m outside, and that’s humbling because it puts my problems into perspective. When I can, I’ll go for a hike, either a full day or camping. I always come back feeling like I’ve been reset. I love hiking by rivers, things with a lot of power and movement. I love anywhere that makes you feel small, especially when you’re in huge mountains. I realized that was an essential part of my healing process. Just as medicine was important, I needed time to get outside to reset. So every single day, even if it’s just a walk around the neighborhood, I do it.

FIELD NOTES 46

WHEN PHOTOGRAPHING COLD-WATER SURFERS REALLY SUCKS. Words and Photo by Marcus Paladino Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ve spent three hours in the 44° waters near Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Most of that time was spent sitting on the reef waiting for the swell to pick up, and the few waves that did come in sent me tumbling into rocks. My feet are numb, my wetsuit is chaffing the back of my knees, and I’ve had no luck behind the lens. Time to head to shore. Just as I begin swimming in, I see local surf legend Pete Devries paddling out. I sum up all of the adrenaline I have and swim over to him. As he’s giving me advice on how the waves are breaking and how best to capture them, I can hardly hear through my chattering teeth and the, now incessant, rain. Waiting again for the perfect set, the light diminishes, my legs are dead weight from treading, and my arms are too tired to hold the camera. Now four hours in the water

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and I’m toast. When I finally wash up on shore, my aching feet cramp and fail to hold me up. I crumple to the ground yelling every curse imaginable. I rip off my fins, tear off my gloves, put them in my mouth and bite down, trying to make the pain subside. I hear whistling from the lineup and turn to watch as Devries drops into the wave of the day. As the spit comes flying out, so does he. I throw my hands over my head and watch him carve three times before kicking out. I am in awe, thinking of the photos that could have been. Completely drained, I begin the long hike back. It’s times like this that elicit yearning for the surf in Southern California, or even Hawaii. Nevertheless, the frigid and unforgiving waters of the Pacific Northwest always challenge me to keep coming back.

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