Backcountry Review Issue No.5 by Miller Integrated Nature Experience

Backcountry Review Live free and transcend

Issue No. 5

This Isn't Flatland America Emelia Sherman takes on the Steens Wilderness.

Anne Borland In Her Element Chasing Adam Ondra The Power Of Nature

Table of contents

KICKSTART SUMMER

GUIDING LEGACY

FOSTERING DIVERSITY

CHASING ADAM ONDRA

THIS ISNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T FLATLAND AMERICA

HOLDING ON TO HOPE

Cover photo by Ian Kerr

Backcountry Review STAFF

Springfield High School’s Miller Integrated Nature Experience gives students a look at Oregon they may never see otherwise. The program combines nature writing, Oregon geography, leadership, journalism, and exploration, while providing a foundation for environmental consciousness and stewardship.

Rebecca Durbin

Editors-In-Chief KATE BAKKEN LILIANA HERNANDEZ EMELIA SHERMAN Copy Editors GABRIEL COOPER ELIJAH DAPKUS Feature Editors ESSENCE ROY BLAKE GARCIA Staff Writers JADZIA ENGLE CHARLIE GROUSBECK CIARA HERNANDEZ-SIQUEIROS CALEB IRVIN DYMON JACKSON TANNER KLYM MCKENZIE PALMER DANIEL PEREZ-HERNANDEZ KINDRA ROY SARAH WEIDA Creative Directors REBECCA DURBIN DAWN HARRISON Designers GLORIA ALVEREZ SANDERS GAVIN CLINE AUSTIN HILKEY JASON LUCE AUDREY VALDEZ Photographers TIA DIOSZEGHY IAN KERR CAMBRY PARSLEY MELINA VILLEGAS MINE Shack Designer CHEYANNE KESTER Public Relations Director BRYLEIGH O’NEIL Social Media Director JASMINE AGUILAR PR/Grant Writer ZOE KENNEDY Adviser IVAN MILLER

Where I Belong Mckenzie Palmer shares how her experience on a MINE adventure to the Oregon Coast gave her a new sense of community.

By Mckenzie Palmer

Melina Villegas

n March 5, my English teacher, Ivan Miller, invited me to accompany the Miller Integrated Nature Experience (MINE) gang on a trip to the coast. Without hesitation, I agreed. A month later, I found myself on a bus with 12 other students on a journey to Cape Perpetua. We spent the weekend having the time of our lives, speaking with Audubon Society conservationist Paul Engelmeyer, playing at the beach, and creating new friendships. When Miller asked us to write trip reflections, there was plenty to write about, but the depth of the stories left me dumbfounded. I had always thought of MINE editor-in-chief Kate Bakken as a picture-perfect student, a kind and brilliant person, a hard worker. I never could have imagined that she, of all people, had experienced an ounce of self-doubt. Yet, when reading her trip reflection, she admitted that she was constantly doubting herself, wondering if she was good enough, always wanting to do better. This blew me away. I had similar experiences while listening to other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s trip stories. Many false images were shattered that day. I felt as though I was surrounded by people that were real, beautifully flawed. To top it off, these amazing, real people accepted me. Not once did I feel like I had to change who I was to fit in. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. On the contrary, my experience in 11 years of schooling can best be described as degrading. The education system taught me that anything short of perfection was failure, so thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what I perceived myself to be. I eventually stopped finding joy in learning. The only aspect of school that remained

MINE students huddle for the MINE chant on their 2019 coast trip.

important was keeping a 4.0 GPA, and even that goal started to feel empty. I had lost my sense of purpose in school, and in life. I first took an interest in MINE while in Millerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Writing 121 class. The way he operates is unique. Contradictory to the soul-crushing monotony of the rest of my education, Miller encourages students to think freely, find happiness, and connect with the world. He told stories of the fun trips his journalism class takes. Before Miller, I had not heard of any similar trips taking place in a school setting. These trips sounded interesting, so I jumped at the opportunity. With this leap of faith came the realization that I can be an imperfect success. This new understanding came in large part because of my involvement in MINE, which teaches students journalism skills, while fostering a communitydriven environment in which students develop a love of the outdoors, and a respect for one another. My transformation began one month before the coast trip. To go on the trip, everyone had to pass a fitness test. Miller claimed that anyone could jog for half an hour. I silently dismissed this, thinking that he had no idea what he was talking about. There was no way that I could jog for half an hour. He had no comprehension of just how unfit I was. Yet, I was interested in the trip and started to jog in preparation. Through these daily jogs, I found in myself a competence that I did not realize I had. Passing the fitness test showed me that I could be successful if I put in enough effort, and that I was mentally strong enough to put in the effort.

Among other things, MINE has helped me create connections. Previously, I had found difficulties in communicating with other people. I believed that I would never feel like I belonged. I was proven wrong on this trip. On the way to the coast, we stopped and purchased a tub of pure frozen deliciousness. Passing this treasure around, I discovered that we all spoke a common language: KitKat ice cream. As the day came to a close, Miller called us together, asking us to share three words summarizing the day. Thoughts raced through my mind as I wondered what three words would make me stand out the least. I considered the words “fun, nature, beach,” or “tired, happy, fire.” While these words did describe my day, they felt shallow. Yet, all I wanted was to fit in, so I decided to be generic. However, in a split-second decision, I instead said, “I’m finally alive.” These words ran much deeper than anything else I had been thinking. They felt raw, real. To my surprise, everyone accepted my answer. On the third day of the trip, we set out to hike Neahkahnie Mountain. While hiking was the thing I had been most looking forward to, I had discovered that it was not the most important. More important were the spur of the moment situations in which we changed directions, or stayed at the beach a little longer so that Charlie Grousbeck could fulfill his dream of building his first sand castle. Through many small moments that were really much larger than they seemed, this journey became much more than a

MINE students gather for a group picture in front of the forts they fashioned out of driftwood.

simple weekend camping trip. Amazing experiences like this bring students closer to each other and the world around them. I have come to the realization that I am much more than just my test scores and GPA, partly because I feel connected to those around me, able to create lasting friendships where there once were none. A typical school function does not include activities that allow people to explore the outdoors or connect to something larger than themselves. Through MINE, students are given a unique insight into the wonders of the natural world, as well as the complexities of people’s lives. They take their experiences and use them as motivation and inspiration to take responsibility for a piece of the production of MINE publications. Through this collaboration with a family-like community, a sense of home is created. The often unsuccessful search for the feeling of being “home” can lead people to feel empty, disconnected, without purpose. Personally, I have found this to be true, but something amazing happened when I found MINE. In his essay, “Why there’s no place like home—for anyone, any more,” Charles Leadbeater explains that the feeling of home does not have to come from a place of residence. He writes, “feeling at home can come from an activity in which you feel at ease, in flow, in a landscape that’s familiar and uplifting.” MINE encourages kids to explore their passions, find meaning, and form connections with nature and other people, creating their own sense of home.

Rebecca Durbin

Livinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Like A Pioneer Liliana Hernandez tests her skills as a pioneer, and recognizes the importance of outdoor education for young people.

By Liliana Hernandez

n April 24th, I walked up to a two-story, creamcolored Victorian house and was greeted by three volunteers dressed in distinctive pioneer attire. Willamalane offers various educational tours for schools based on important historical events such as the voyage of Lewis and Clark, the lives of the Kalapuya Indians, and the pioneer life after the Oregon Trail. These experiential education tours take place at Dorris Ranch, a 109-acre living history park, and I was about to participate. Since these tours are catered to elementary schoolers, I decided to disguise myself in order to blend in with the volunteers. I walked into the old style home and was handed an oversized dress, an apron, and a floppy bonnet, commencing my morning as a pioneer. Learning about the Oregon Trail from this tour as a fourth grader sparked my curiosity. I remember wearing a bonnet, washing clothes, and shooting an arrow. Of all the field trips I took as a kid, this was the most memorable and interactive.

The Oregon Trail entailed months of danger and tragedy, but for fourth graders that might not mean much, as these historic events are dreaded topics in a classroom setting. From Missouri, 70 pioneers immigrated to Oregon in 1841 in search of farmland and a better

life. Their route to the west followed the Platte River, through the Rocky Mountains, and to the Columbia River. Over the years, about 20,000 pioneers lives were lost during the 2,000-mile journey. Supplies were scarce, creating difficulties for pioneers in their everyday lives. Although life after the trail offered a better quality of life, it demanded laborious, but necessary, chores. I wanted to experience them for myself. My first chore as a pioneer was to tend a fire, a means of survival used for warmth and cooking. With smoke blowing in my eyes, I attempted to impress my fourthgrade audience. I distracted about a dozen elementary schoolers with my ineffective poking at burnt wood. After a few minutes of uncomfortable smiling, I set off for my next task: washing clothes, something I have been doing for many years. In place of a modern day washing machine, there was a tub of water, scrubbing board, and soap. In this moment, I became the washing machine. I kneeled, protecting my large dress from the dirt, and began. I picked up the first piece of cloth and scrubbed away. My instant backache reassured me that I would have made a terrible pioneer and an even worse washing machine. After pumping water and grinding corn, I followed a small path to a log house with a giant fish painted on it. Standing in front were a group of elementary schoolers learning about the traditional hunting method

of the Kalapuya Indians. Each one was offered a deerskin hood, bow, and an arrow. After observing, I placed the deerskin hood on my folded back bonnet. With dwindling confidence, I crouched and shot the arrow into a bush about 12 feet away. Success. My last task was the most difficult and drew the most attention. I was handed an axe and instructed on how to safely chop wood. I set the wood against a small log, planted my feet shoulder width apart, and gripped the axe nervously. I brought the axe up but timidly brought it back down, uncertain of what might happen if I missed. I looked up to see a large group of elementary schoolers, chaperones, and volunteers, all eyes anxiously waiting to see what I would do next. My inherent itch to do well under pressure kicked in and I swung the axe, splitting the wood perfectly. After a few more unsuccessful tries and a

worsening backache, I passed the axe to a more capable individual. Occasionally glancing at the elementary kids, I thought back to when I took the same tour as a fourth grader. The eagerness of these kids was parallel to that of my experience. I noticed as they diligently asked questions and enthusiastically embodied mini pioneers. Students spend the majority of their schooling in the classroom. Field trips provide a unique outdoor educational experience. Active participation is the most valuable method of learning. A classroom setting does not compare to being outdoors, worksheets no match against hands-on activities. My morning as a pioneer brought to life the historic event I had once read about in textbooks. The biggest difference: I was engaged in what I was learning, thankful for washing machines, and constantly smiling.

Liliana Hernandez explores the pioneer lifestyle, completing many chores.

KICKSTART YOUR SUMMER Elijah Dapkus highlights the values of summer camp and recounts his own experiences as a camper and counselor. BY ELIJAH DAPKUS

dozed peacefully on a dusty, sock-littered cabin floor on the morning of July 21, 2017. Spiders scuttled past my slobbery pillow while I blissfully blew them away with heavy snores. A wave of kids rustling around woke me from my morning nap. Sunshine from the sunroof above dusted my nose. Suddenly, there came a fateful announcement of a “rancid smell.” I sat right up, my squinty eyes still crusty. The night before had been a long and extremely memorable one. The boys in my cabin had invaded the Camp Harlow gym with my permission. The sugary snacks they wolfed down all night bubbled up in explosions of energy. They made so much noise they were nearly kicked out, but it was an incredible time nonetheless. The only misfortune: a spell of vomiting. After almost everyone else had hit the hay, one kid threw up his dinner in the cabin sink. It was 3:00 in the morning, and thoughtfully electing to wake no one, he went back to bed and allowed the contents to congeal there. It was 9:00 by the time my partner Alex and I got around to cleaning the mess. We avoided it all morning, but it was time to rip off the band-aid, so to speak. We wretched over the intolerably sour stench of four half-digested hamburger patties, painstakingly scooping out chunks of vomit with Dixie cups while our ten campers cackled behind us. We shoveled it into a trash bag, trading shifts to avoid being utterly overwhelmed, but after we took turns throwing up ourselves, we found it just as hilarious. An unappetizing spell of sickness quickly became an inside joke and a campfire

story. Stuff like that makes summer camps awesome. I spent many childhood summers attending camps all over Oregon and some in California. As a child, my parents signed me up to get me outside, but as I gained more independence, I searched for other camp experiences I thought I would enjoy. I’d be lying if I said there were no hard moments, but all my memories now are positive. I remember stretching my mind to solve difficult team challenges, roughhousing with my new friends (some of which I still talk with) in the pool, and joking or discussing life with my counselors. I learned many valuable life lessons and skills. For one, I learned how to work with a team. Building a team is a difficult skill for most people. It normally requires knowledge of psychology, strong leadership, training, and a little bit of luck (some people are dead-set on ruining their group dynamic). However, at camp, teams just form, often without anyone realizing. The kids find something to rally around and get excited for it. One week at Camp Harlow, Cabin Cleanup was all the rage. The most memorable cabin makeover was an heirloom Italian transformation. Inside, a cardboard dinner table with chairs on either side held up plates of cold pasta and pizza. Overseeing the buffet was a stuffed alpaca draped with the flag of Italy. The cabin won the morning’s competition by a landslide. Tasks as mundane as cleaning galvanize campers and fashion leaders. Perhaps the most motivating thing I’ve witnessed at a

camp is the crossing of the infamous Intensity Bridge. The aerial path passes over a filthy, leech-infested canoe pond and ends at a treehouse on the other side of a chasm. As people cross, it sways and creaks underfoot. While crossing sounds like a ludicrous task, the bridge is engineered so it is entirely safe. Everyone who navigates it straps into a harness with a carabiner clipped to a cable above. It takes more effort to fall off than stay on course. The arduous task often frightens young campers, and many resist the invitation at first. Heights are a common fear among them. However, after watching their friends traverse the rugged overpass, they grow more comfortable with the idea. With some encouragement, many overcome one of their biggest fears. By rising to the occasion, they grow stronger and prepare themselves to face heavier challenges in the future. Many Americans have established Summer Camp as a seasonal tradition. Each year, over 14 million children

and adults alike attend some form of camp. Hundreds of thousands more come to work as staff. Its charm lies in the unique programs and activities camp has to offer: recreational swimming, camping skills, rock climbing, go-karts, canoeing, and other adventures in high concentration. A new crop of encouraging friends, the invitation to welcome discomfort, and limited access to digital devices also combine to create a memorable experience. The hope (and the reality, really) is every camper, no matter their age or background, comes away with their own stories and receives a kind of education they may not otherwise. They escape their comfort zones, rise to challenges, and work as teams. Understanding counselors treat them with respect and show them love. Technology gets laid to rest without a fight. Campers create lasting friendships, have their own campfire stories to tell, and enjoy a mini vacation they wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t soon forget.

Two yellow school buses turn a corner in the Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest.

Dylan Furst

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Nick Karr displays his Boy Scout badges on a hike up Mount Pisgah.

Cambry Parsley

from boy to scout Charlie Grousbeck spends a day hiking with Eagle Scout Nick Karr, learning about Karr’s experiences and the importance of the Scouts. By Charlie Grousbeck

s I sit at the base of Mount Pisgah, I hear the roar of an engine and look up to see a blue 1995 Chevy Blazer, Springfield senior Nick Karr at the helm. Karr steps out dressed in a tan button-up shirt, blue jeans, and steel-toed boots, ready to hike. In the distance, I hear a bird sing. “Huh, that must be the call of a Yellow-breasted Chat,” Karr says seconds later. We begin the hike and Karr breaks off a piece of lichen. “You want a bite?” he asks. I respectfully decline. We continue up the mountain and Karr continues to show off his skills—drinking water from the stream, identifying a hawk feather, attempting to start a fire. I ask Nick where he learned all of these skills and he replied, “the Boy Scouts.” Nick Karr began his Boy Scout career at the age of 7 as a Wolf Scout (the lowest rank). Over the next 11 years, he grew from a little wolf to a soaring Eagle Scout (the highest rank). He learned some of the most valuable lessons of his life: how to tie a knot, fish, start a fire in the worst conditions, and maintain his endurance and focus when faced with adversity. Gaining numerous wilderness survival skills, Karr has learned the importance of planning and preparedness. The Boy Scouts of America (BSA) is one of the largest scouting organizations in the United States, with about 2.4 million active youth. The mission of the Boy Scouts of America is to prepare young adults to make ethical and moral choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the values of the Scout Oath and Law. The original goal of the Boy Scouts of America was to improve the lives of young men by instilling reliable wilderness first aid, knowledge of emergency care, and countless other things. The Boy Scouts have since become the Scouts BSA, allowing girls to work toward the Eagle Scout rank and creating a more inclusive environment. On the fourth camping trip with his Boy Scout group, Karr had an experience he’ll never forget. Karr’s group was

on their way to the Waldo Lake Wilderness for a four-day adventure. Karr, the 14-year-old, 4-foot-10, freckle-faced boy with fiery red hair and a scout uniform, was eager for the upcoming adventure. “The first two days were uneventful and I was looking forward to the 25-mile mountain bike trip around the lake the next morning,” recalls Karr. When the sun peeked over the horizon, they awoke and began their journey. Just three miles in, they approached a barren wasteland that was torched by the Charlton Fire in 1996, which destroyed 10,000 acres of forest, killing 95 percent of its trees. They walked with their bikes and backpacks for the next four miles in 80-plus degree heat. Karr’s group ran out of water while carrying their bikes and frantically searched for the nearest path to the lake. Plowing through blackberry bushes and thorns, they finally found the lake and quenched their thirst. “I was skeptical at first, but when my troop leader said, ‘it’s the third cleanest drinking water in the world,’ I started dunking my head in the ice cold water,” says Karr. They spent about 20 minutes relaxing in the chilly water and drinking as much of it as possible without throwing up. Finally, fully refreshed, they continued their journey, walking another mile, when two random mountain bikers zoomed past them in a blur. The group stopped and waited to continue. Everything fell silent, and suddenly, Karr heard a faint buzz inside of his shirt sleeve and felt tiny hornet feet tickling his vulnerable skin. He noticed a hornet settling down on his pale flesh, and soon realized that the two mountain bikers had angered a hornet nest. The vile creatures tore through Karr’s skin and shirt like torpedos penetrating a submarine. Caught in the hornets’ bout for revenge, Karr says, “I felt three different hornets latch on and tear my flesh from various parts of my body.” Struggling to find safety, Karr dropped his bike and sprinted in the opposite direction, covering over a mile in his frantic escape. Concerned for his safety after realizing how far he had gone, the group sent a Scout to retrieve him before he could get lost. The Scout pleaded with Karr to continue. With a defeated look on his face, Karr responded: “I don’t care if I have to swim to get back to camp, call park

Ian Kerr

“I learned a lot of valuable lessons and got a lot of my merit badges done, so the trip wasn’t a complete failure.” -Nick Karr services because I’m not going back and finishing this trip.” After a few minutes of further persuasion, the Scout finally got Karr to head back to the group. Karr, still red-faced from crying, wiped tears from his cheek and eventually returned to his Scout group. When Karr’s Scoutmaster retrieved his bike, he didn’t encounter one single hornet, which pissed Karr off. He was confused as to why no one else received abuse from the blood-thirsty hornets. He finally got back on his bike and proceeded with the trip. They ended up getting news from a couple of bikers that passed them that there was a shorter trail back to camp, and the group quickly agreed to take it. Karr couldn’t be more excited, because he was covered in bites, exhausted, and despite drinking an outrageous amount of water from the creek, suffered from dehydration. While traveling back to camp, Karr’s happiness turned to anger. He was looking for another Clif Bar when he realized that when he ran off, the Scouts ended up throwing all of their trash and food into his bike basket, weighing it down tremendously. When they got back to camp, he balled up a T-shirt and threw it as hard as he could at the head Scoutmaster for allowing people to throw their unwanted belongings in his basket. The Scoutmaster looked at him. “What was that about?” he asked. Karr said nothing as he walked into his tent, livid about the events that just occured. That night, he excommunicated his partner and prohibited his entrance into the tent. Karr had reached a breaking point; his rage bubbled over. The next morning he arose with revenge in mind, wanting to get back at all the other Scouts. Karr’s first thought: “I’ll get a fish and put it outside someone’s tent so a rabid beast will come and scare the piss out of them.” The revenge plot soon disappeared and instead Karr decided to take a dip in the creek. On the last day they had no food left, so they made pancakes consisting of tree bark, lichen, and dirt. It tasted

terrible. Karr recalls, “the pancakes had a consistency of a crunchy thick paste and tasted like sawdust. It was the worst thing I’ve ever consumed.” Morning drifted into mid-day, and after a disappointing breakfast, the Scouts looked forward to returning home. Karr says, “even though the mountain biking trip might have been one of the worst experiences of my life, I learned a lot of valuable lessons and got a lot of my merit badges done, so the trip wasn’t a complete failure.” According to Scott Impecoven, CEO at BSA Oregon Trail Council, “in Society today many families don’t have the opportunity, or don’t take the opportunity, to explore and learn in the outdoors. Instead their information comes from an online search or sitting in a classroom. Scouting gives our youth a great opportunity to enjoy and learn in the outdoors.” Karr learned unexpected lessons that will stick with him for the rest of his life. Karr says, “I learned that insects that sting don’t like it when you’re loud, or big, or fast.” He added, “I also learned that one kid got stung by a bee, so always bring an EpiPen, and always have extra water.” “The most important thought to remember when an experience goes wrong is you can’t change it,” says Impecoven. “No matter how hard you try the experience has happened and it can’t be erased. What you can do is learn from it. In other words, don’t focus on the negatives, focus on the positives that will come from it. Also remember that some of those experiences will be the ones you laugh and reminisce about for years to come.” Outdoor education has the power to elevate a person’s mind by improving outdoor knowledge, enhancing communication skills, and increasing motivation—sometimes to survive the most miserable experiences. With this form of education, students have an alternative way of understanding the world around them, opening their mind to endless possibilities.

Kayaking THE SPIRIT OF

By Ian Kerr

Rafa Ortiz, a Mexican-born kayaker, takes on rapids and waterfalls and launches a river conservation effort.

Rafa Ortiz kayaks Spirit Falls near White Salmon, Washington.

Ian Kerr

he river seems to disappear, yet professional kayaker Rafael Ortiz’s boat still rapidly speeds towards the edge, his body adapting to every little shift in the water beneath him. He reaches the lip, where the water no longer flows. He drops 30 feet in the air, plummeting down Spirit Falls. In the last moments of his horizontal travel, time nearly stops, every drop frozen. Ortiz falls, suspended in air and time. He lands in the bubbling torrent of water beneath and a visible wave of euphoria courses through his body. This is just a normal day for Ortiz, living in the town of White Salmon, Washington, kayaking the Little White Salmon River. Ortiz grew up in the town of Veracruz, Mexico, an area dominated by soccer, where pursuing anything else is a foreign concept. At a young age, he started soccer like everyone else, but Ortiz was never like everyone else. He found himself skipping his soccer practice to go skateboarding in the city. “I have always been into rogue, extreme sports,” says Ortiz. When Ortiz was just 14, he picked up a paddle and crawled into a kayak for the first time, and immediately got hooked. He quickly became known as “that guy who paddles.” Three years later, he picked up his first sponsorship with Jackson Kayak, but kayaking was still a hobby at that point. “Free kayaks are nice, but you can’t make a living off free stuff,” claims Ortiz. At 19, Ortiz went on his first major kayaking expedition, the first descent of the Alseseca River in Mexico in 2006. At 21, halfway through his mechanical engineering degree at Ibero University in Mexico City, he got a call from RedBull offering him a sponsorship. Ortiz earned his degree and had a choice: get a job in engineering or go all in with kayaking. Choosing kayaking, Ortiz has pushed the boundaries of the sport, matching the world record for highest waterfall kayaked, Palouse Falls at 189 feet high. Ortiz also has the world record for highest waterfall done in an inflatable pool toy. Ortiz bombed down all 69 feet of Outlet Falls on an inflatable lobster. And, most recently, Ortiz kayaked a 50foot waterfall that was set on fire as part of a GoPro stunt. Paddling has not just been all fun and games for Ortiz. He had a dream of kayaking Niagara Falls, a waterfall where any mistake would result in death. Ortiz trained for his drop by kayaking an assortment waterfalls with similar properties to get him ready. One of his training runs included the

formidable 73-plus foot high Sahalie falls on the McKenzie River in Oregon. His friends watched nervously Ortiz paddled over the the raging torrent. At the bottom of the falls the force of water pushing down pulled him half way out of his boat, and he couldn’t manage to roll back over. His friends watched helplessly as they thought he was going to die. A bit further down Ortiz was forced all the way out of his boat and desperately tried to make it to shore. “I barely made it to a rock and just dug my nails and everything I had into staying on, and I knew if I let go I was toast,” says Ortiz. After a swim like that it made Ortiz question his goal of Niagara Falls. Yet, something keeps bringing him back to dangerous rivers. In 2012, Ortiz moved to White Salmon, Washington, a town that eats, sleeps, and breathes kayaking. No matter what, Ortiz’s life largely revolves around flowing water. His brand Flow Collective appeals to the whitewater community and river lovers alike. But his company has a bigger message: with every purchase, 10 percent of profits go to river cleanup and conservation. In December 2018, Ortiz organized his first river cleanup on the Alseseca River near his hometown of Veracruz. “It’s not about picking up that one bottle, but the effect that comes from that, all the kids watching, who will probably pick up the next bottle, or teach their friends to not throw the one in the first place,” says Ortiz. Ortiz has a dream of starting a three-month cleanup project, driving through Mexico and getting kids outside—hiking, mountain biking, and kayaking along the way. In the second phase of his plan, he would show videos from the clean up efforts in the town square to create community awareness about the consequences of throwing trash on the roadside. Ortiz wants to show young people, especially in third world countries, that it is possible to conquer adversity. More than ever, he is inspired to pursue his river conservation efforts. That said, he is not slowing down, just shifting efforts from pushing the boundaries of what is possible, to being a leader in river conservation. Ortiz has often been seen hucking his body off 100-plus foot waterfalls for the past decade, but Ortiz is shifting his efforts to growing his business and raising his daughter.

Fostering Diversity Chiara Cipriano seeks representation of all people within the outdoor community and works to ensure everyone has the opportunity to experience nature. By Ciara Hernandez-Siqueiros

Dylan Furst

Chiara Cipriano crouches on a mossy boulder while examining a river rock.

t was hot, too hot. The blazing blue sky forced me to roll the windows down. I didn’t mind; I enjoyed the trees flashing by on my way to the Willamette National Forest headquarters. Until I got lost. Frankly, this wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t for the cop cars aligned in front of me. It’s common for us people of color to be afraid of the police. So I called Willamette National Forest Public Affairs Specialist Chiara Cipriano for help. Hearing her kind voice immediately put me at ease. She guided me to the entrance. Our steps synced up as we walked towards a conference room. As her smile grew, my worries soon dissipated. Cipriano knows how to make issues like inclusion of minorities, loss of biodiversity, and deforestation relevant to all communities. She strives for inclusion of diverse groups in order to highlight the sense of adventure that public lands bring to anyone willing to enter. As a young girl, Cipriano was courageous and inquisitive. She understood how to find pockets of joy inside the forest close to her home. Being there, in those vast landscapes full of wonder, her problems faded to nothing but a small whisper, putting her life into perspective. The dirt was her stage, the sea of trees her audience. Despite her young age, she discovered that happiness could be found inside every little detail. She always held an itching curiosity; her slim fingers turned stones snug in the mud to study them. Even then, Cipriano knew her life was destined to intertwine with nature. These experiences fueled her thirst for knowledge of the forests and still motivate her today. For Cipriano, no issue is unconquerable, and now she strives to improve representation in national forests, seeking to boost diversity in age, gender, sexual orientation, and race. Increasing diversity can help heal environmental issues such as air pollution, global warming, and waste disposal by bringing different perspectives to solve problems. “One of the missions [of the US Forest Service] is to sustain the productivity and diversity of our nation in forest and grasslands,” says Cipriano. “We recognize that there is a large challenge and it takes a diverse approach and a perspective to reach a solution and that it is aligned with that mission.” By seeking new and unique perspectives, people often find ways to change the world for the better. This approach also brings different kinds of people to the forest. “It is so important to connect diversity and the underrepresented to nature and public land because the land is everyone’s land and we want everyone to feel welcome,” says Cipriano. While in high school, Cipriano found a way to devote her life to nature thanks to the Student Conservation Association (SCA), a nonprofit, hands-on

organization that strives to engage youth in outdoor education and conservation. This program helps build sustainable trails and minimizes environmental impact. Attending these volunteer programs, she was introduced to a variety of ways to build real-life skills by taking on physical challenges to help the environment. “My first leaders in [the] SCA taught me that the biggest pay was in sunsets and sunrises,” says Cipriano. “They were just so happy, always, and I looked forward to every adventure set out for me.” Cipriano now makes a point to create similar opportunities for others. “I come out to the forest and make sure everyone feels welcome, recognizing that because of a lot of the history of our country it is not great now; it’s not representative,” she says. “The people in the forest are not representative of the diversity in the country.” For example, Oregon and Washington are comprised of 28.8 percent local minority populations, but only 9.1 percent of forest visitors represented those minority groups, according to the study “Recreation Equity: Is the Forest Service Serving Its Diverse Publics?” Cipriano’s mission is to help solve the lack of diversity in the forest. Luckily, she knows how to connect others with the outdoor world, specifically encouraging youth to adventure out and use the natural world, helping find places of solace for students who cannot see themselves in the forest. “I really just want to create a positive experience in the forest,” says Cipriano. “Experiences where everyone feels safe and included in nature. That is the main objective… creating a fun, memorable experience in hopes for them to come back with their families.” For Cipriano, the forest offers a different adventure every weekend, and she hopes others can pursue that adventure. “I think the biggest takeaway is to not make assumptions about what people like to do in the forest,” she says. “Not everyone wants to do the same thing. Everyone in their own unique way experiences the forest and we want to create space for that to happen and [let them] discover what that looks like for them.” Cipriano’s sense of detail, love of nature, and search for connection have not diminished from when she was a child. In fact, they have grown with her efforts to bring in new groups of youth, from all communities to the forest. Cipriano has impacted our forests with her dedication, curiosity, and vision by representing minority groups who might feel afraid to enter our public lands. She strives to create a welcoming aura in hopes that increasing diversity will positively impact the natural world. Cipriano understands that if our youth care about our National Parks now, they will still be there when she is not.

Chiara Cipriano gazes thoughtfully up at the tree canopy.

Guiding Legacy Blake Garcia floats the McKenzie River with Ryan Helfrich to learn about the history of the Helfrich family and its connection to the river. BY BLAKE GARCIA

Ryan Helfrich effortlessly rows down the McKenzie River.

Cambry Parsley

s the elevated height and current of the McKenzie River forced his 17-foot Umpqua Marine boat through rapids, Ryan Helfrich remained silent, focused. No words escaped his mouth, but a thrilling narrative developed when his eyes darted around the river, his hands gripping the wooden oars, prepared for turbulent waters. He analyzed the river, taking into account every rock and log protruding from the surface, and mapped the smoothest course to guide the boat over the water. A brisk morning breeze glided by as the warm sun rose over the new day. When the current slowed down and he focused on the surrounding world, Helfrich named different species of birds flying overhead, pointed out the usual habitats of beavers and grazing deer, and described his history on the river. Helfrich is a fourth generation McKenzie River guide, great-grandson to Prince Helfrich, who led the first guided fishing tour down the McKenzie in 1925. Helfrich volunteered to lead me down the McKenzie River to give me a taste of both his family history and his deepest passion. From the second he got behind the oars, he demonstrated mastery of the river as he fought the current perfectly to keep the boat still in the water, allowing me to hop in. Once on the river, he efficiently timed every collision with the rapids flawlessly. He even paddled backward occasionally to allow the photographer to take pictures of birds overhead. Yet, Helfrich remained in his element. This is no surprise, considering he estimates he has drifted down the McKenzie thousands of times, sometimes taking more than one trip in a day during the peak of guiding season in the summer. Starting with Prince Helfrich in the 1920s, the Helfrich family has stayed true to their identity, a family connected to the McKenzie River like no other. For almost a century, the Helfrichs have immersed themselves in the outdoors: hunting, fishing, and rafting. Year after year, generation after generation, they continue on a path together as a family to further the history of what Prince started when he led his first tour of the McKenzie River in the early twentieth century. Prince spent his life outdoors and shared his stories with anyone willing to listen. According to a The Register-Guard article “Roots in the river,” columnist Bob Welch estimates Prince ran more than 50,000 miles worth of rivers. To put that into perspective, the McKenzie only runs 90 miles. It would take roughly 770 trips down the length of the floatable portion of the river to equal Helfrich. Prince also founded the Skyline Boys Camp, teaching outdoor survival skills to adolescent boys, and wrote a column in the Eugene Weekly named “Around the Campfire.” On Mother’s Day, the whole Helfrich family floats the McKenzie, celebrating its long history guiding those waters.

“Everyone has a different type of fishing, and you get to spend time with people doing what they have done their whole life,” says Helfrich. This float symbolizes Prince’s life goal: spread the love of nature. Helfrich embraced his family’s legacy when he was around 4, accompanying his brother and father on floats down the McKenzie. He began leading himself down the river when he was only 11. At 16, he attempted the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, regarded as one of the toughest floats in the whole United States. Going into the trip he was “nervous as hell, [because] it’s big water, and just going through some of the big rapids changed [his] perception of how to treat the river.” Of the 23 outfitters who can run the Middle Fork, only three are licensed for drift boats, all of them Helfrich powered. His time on the Middle Fork also taught him the importance of respecting nature. “Any time you go down the river… and see these beautiful, pristine waterways that not very many people in their life get to see, [you understand] the strict regulations so that everyone can enjoy them, not just ourselves,” he says. Every year before fishing season starts, several McKenzie River guides float down the river collecting trash and clearing out any logs that had fallen during the winter, keeping the river in the best condition possible, sometimes filling several industrial-sized garbage bags that they attach to their boat and pack out of the river. Once we arrived at the Hayden Bridge Boat Landing, I realized how special it is to live close to the McKenzie. Helfrich explained to me that his customer base consists mostly of California residents who crave an opportunity to experience pristine waters surrounded by lush scenery and bustling wildlife. He pointed out several elaborate vacation homes situated next to the river that were only occupied in the summer by tourists choosing to be close to the river. Helfrich mentioned several times that he feels fortunate to be a part of the Helfrich family and its legacy, but the float reminded me of how lucky we all are to live in Springfield. To Helfrich, nature encapsulates more than one experience, activity, or setting just as it did for Prince. Having a passion for fishing and providing an opportunity for people to fish on untouched rivers has driven the Helfrich family for generations. For the Helfrich clan, the McKenzie River embodies much more than just a string of fishing holes. It’s a 90-mile long sanctuary, protecting beautiful trees and wildlife, and portrays the world as it was before industrial man. When Prince led his first trip back in 1925, he nurtured a passion that spread throughout his descendants and lives on in every Helfrich-guided trip down the McKenzie River.

Tia Dioszeghy

This device cures heartache Professional skateboarder Keire Johnson rides through life to find passion, family, and community. By Sarah Weida

Keire Johnson rests after a session of skateborading.

Contributed

Keire Johnson and Bing Liu relive old memories.

e all want to feel free—free of distractions, sadness, responsibility—even if we can only experience it for a moment. Sometimes that’s all it takes to feel better. Flying down a hill on a board, hair and clothes flying in the wind, skateboarder Keire Johnson relishes the freedom, and the healing, that takes place when he’s doing what he loves. In fact, his skateboard reads “this device cures heartache” for a reason. That’s exactly what it does. Most elementary school kids bust out the door after school. But Johnson envisioned an empty campus as a playground in which to practice his craft. He spent endless hours on a board and found a passion. Johnson himself has not changed considerably through the years, but his location and opportunities have greatly. After the release of his Academy Award nominated documentary Minding the Gap, Johnson traveled all over the country and met some extraordinary people in the film and skating industries. Johnson grew up relying on others’ kindness and generosity, and now he wants to pay that good fortune forward to a new generation of dreamers. Born and raised in Rockford, Illinois, Johnson had a different childhood compared to most. He grew up in a place full of poverty and violence, and in a home where he often felt he didn’t belong. But when he started skating, this all began to change. At 11, he received his first skateboard from a friend, and found himself immediately skating for hours in front of the elementary school. What started as something to do after school quickly became much more. He quit baseball and football to actually do something that mattered to him. “That’s all I wanted to do because it was the first time in my life where I actually felt like I was doing something,” says Johnson. He skipped class in high school to explore the world of skating, even though on occasion this bit him in the ass, like the night he cracked his skull open, had a concussion, bled for seven hours, and denied a hospital visit. Freak injuries like this didn’t phase Johnson. It slowed him down, but he never abandoned his board. Maybe because his skateboard actually does cure a lot of pain. “It’s part of my grieving process,” he says. “If anything too crazy happens I just have to go skateboarding and I will be feeling a little better, if not completely better.” Skateboarding has supplied Johnson with many beautiful opportunities and people throughout the years. Growing up in Rockford wasn’t always the safest place, but Johnson always had a safe place to go. “I felt even though we lived in a

dangerous city, the skatepark was a safe space, nothing really happened there,” he says. This is where he found a sense of community. He met his friend Bing Liu. Johnson and Liu always skated together, and when Johnson was around 15, they began filming Minding the Gap. The film is based around the lives of Johnson and two other friends. The film’s honest and personal look at violence, financial struggles, and getting older shows how truly hard life can be, but that there are ways to forgive, heal, and move on from the past. It is an inspirational and eye-opening story that received a lot of praise in the film community. The film followed Johnson for seven years, ending when he left his hometown for Denver, Colorado at age 22. Johnson’s first few days in Denver were some of his favorite days skateboarding. He explored the city with Liu and a few other hometown friends. “We just filmed and skated around the city,” he says. “So we got to experience it together. It was cool to see all my friends from my hometown in the new place I live. I remember it was just the best time.” While in Denver, Johnson began riding for Emage Skateshop, where he found a family and ways to help other skateboarders. Growing up, Johnson got by with the kindness and generosity of others. Friends would give him skateboards, shoes, trucks, anything necessary to keep him skating. At Emage, he came full circle and helped kids who were like him. “It’s not just good enough to be good at skating, you have to give, especially if you’ve been given stuff your entire life,” says Johnson. All of Johnson’s experiences, struggles, and gifts play a part in who he is today and what he wants to do. As a kid in Rockford, he bussed out to the skatepark after school, only to stay for a few hours, and catch the last bus home at 6 p.m. He wants to build a skatepark in downtown Rockford for all the kids who can’t pay for the bus and for those who just need that extra time at the park. “All I know is if someone would’ve built a skatepark downtown and was just like that dude, always being super nice,” says Johnson, “I feel like that would have inspired me a lot more to maybe even do more with my life than I have.” Life has changed for Johnson. But he is still the guy who skated in front of his elementary school and found a safe haven at a skatepark. Even when life gets rough, he always has a place and purpose on his board. Never forgetting where he came from or who helped along the way, Johnson will continue spreading love, positivity, and kindness everywhere he goes.

IN HER ELEMENT Instructor, mentor, and adventurer Anne Borland has devoted her life to teaching others how to survive and thrive in nature. By Kate Bakken

porting blue jeans, a flowy tank-top, and sandals, Anne Borland stands in front of 26 University of Oregon (UO) students explaining the Yosemite Decimal System. Students quickly raise their hand as Borland prompts them, making eye contact with each person in the room. She is clearly comfortable in her role as instructor. Though this Rock Climbing 1 course is full of newbie climbers in their third week of class, they have already become naturals on the wall thanks to Borland’s skillful guidance. To begin class, Borland has students sign in, grab gear, and quickly get on the wall. Having already confirmed their ability to belay one another, she encourages students to get warmed up with a partner, confident in their ability, but always keeping one eye on the wall, “making sure nobody dies.” One pair of students realizes they accidentally chose the hardest section on the wall, and frantically call to Borland. With her hands in her pockets, she walks over to the wall in a relaxed manner, and immediately finds a route

the students should be able to perform, and within no time, one of the pair is zooming up the wall, all worries forgotten. Borland is in her element, hopping up on the wall with ease while demonstrating one of the most difficult holds for the class, lighting up as she explains the features of the wall, and providing students with examples of places to climb outdoors, encouraging them to become regular climbers. To Borland, “rock climbing is not a sport, it is a way to get outside,” a motto that she clearly tries to pass along to this group of climbers. Not many people can declare they are a professional outdoor educator and guide, freelance photographer, and graphic designer, however, Borland carries each of these titles, along with others such as Wilderness Medic, Outdoor Pursuits Program (OPP) Instructor. Borland has lived in Oregon since 1986, and is committed to the idea of learning about, and teaching others, the beauty of our world. Borland describes nature as “home.”

Anne Borland hikes at the Univeristy of Oregon Campus.

Rebecca Durbin

Anne Borland teaches Rock Climbing 1 at the UO student recreation center.

Ian Kerr

Borland grew up in rural Pennsylvania in a family that didn’t seek outdoor experiences. It was in the forest and creek behind her house that she found her love for nature. She recalls watching the creek rise with the heavy rains, pushing its boundaries, on the edge of flooding, and while everyone else worried about the floods, all she could think was, “wow, it would be fun to build a raft and go on the water.” Borland described herself as a “wanderer,” walking the Pennsylvania forest for hours, allowing her imagination to take control, connecting with the plants, animals, and energy of the woods. She found that being in nature for extended periods of time allowed her to “find [her] place in the world,” and began to understand that humans were only a small part of a much larger puzzle.

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The UO allows students to adventure through the OPP, a program that provides students with college credit, because it is run through the Physical Education department. The OPP also allows community members to enroll in the courses offered, allowing a wide variety of people to both learn survival skills and experience nature. The OPP courses are designed to be flexible, educational, hands-on, and challenging. Each person wishing to travel with the OPP must attend a sevenweek wilderness survival class. The course itself consists of readings, worksheets, lectures, tests, and extensive skills evaluations, ranging from nutrition, to map reading, to backcountry ethics. Borland originally joined the OPP as a UO student. She loved the program so much, that she took an extra year to graduate, “joining as many courses as possible.” Through the program, Borland learned that “humor is the key to conquering misery.” After trips that included miserable conditions, difficult physical challenges, or emotional stress, she realized that those who had the ability to laugh it off, or could completely shove the hardships into the deepest corner of their minds were the ones who kept coming back. She recognizes that “we remember the trips that had something go horribly wrong the most,” and knows many students have the same experiences. She recognizes that without those experiences throughout college, she would not have been able to see her full potential and be pushed out of her comfort zone. Borland teaches courses such as Rock Climbing, Snow Camping, and Swiftwater Safety, and still says that one of the hardest things for students to learn today is trusting manual navigation equipment. In a society so dependant on technology, learning how to read a map

or use a compass can be a real challenge for students both mentally and emotionally. Borland adds, “being outside in difficult scenarios allows students to go out of their comfort zones and see how their lives can be improved.”

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The outdoor adventure world has been a male dominant field for a number of years, however, women have risen in an incredibly powerful way in the past five years at UO. Borland, pleased with the uptick in female OPP membership, would like to continue to expand the program and keep seeing positive change. She envisions a course that allows women who feel out of touch with their self-worth, or in need of motivation and leadership roles, to find what they are looking for in the outdoors. Earlier in her career, Borland worked with at-risk youth, and used climbing to develop trust, and provide them with people who they could rely on, because “a climber and their belayer need to trust each other.” She enjoys helping those who don’t think they can succeed at a task, whether it be skiing for a prolonged time, climbing a route, or just experiencing something for the first time. In a world centered around technology, appointments, and work, making time to unplug and experience the outdoors can be a challenge. With constant reminders, impending due dates, and notifications coming in steadily on our devices, it’s easier than ever to become consumed by work and stress. Too often people make excuses as to why they cannot venture into the unknown; worried they will seem inexperienced or not have the stamina to complete the journey. Too many people are currently missing out. The Rock Climbing courses at the UO are 1 hour and 50 minutes, and according to Borland, “each minute is precious.” From the moment students walk into the rock climbing gym, they are immersed in climbing. Borland describes the gym as “a safe place to learn, for climbers of all sorts.” Climbing can be used as a sport, a way to conquer fear, a way to learn trust, and a way to get out of the house. According to Borland, climbing is addicting. “You can close your eyes, and invison a route you’ve been working on, no matter how hard you try to get it out of your mind, climbing consumes you,” she says. Rock climbing is a gateway to the outside world that not many people dare to enter, especially not in college. To have the ability to connect to a community like the OPP, one Borland has bought into completely, can work wonders on the mind, and open up new pathways for creativity and happiness.

We Would Like To Thank Our Sponsors

SPONSORS

SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND COMMUNICATION ENVIRONMENTAL LEADERSHIP PROGRAM HOLDEN CENTER

Special thanks to John Bakken from Kopper Kettle, Kimberly and Patrick Harrison from Heaven Home and Garden Gifts, Jenna Fribley from Campfire Collaborative, and Keri Garcia for sponsoring the MINE Program. Additional thanks to photographer Dylan Furst for providing photos for this production. Check out his website: dylanfurstphoto.com

CHASING ADAM ONDRA BY IAN KERR

Monkey Face stands tall over Smith Rock State Park.

About 40 feet up a rock face with a camera bag, notepad, and nothing else, I shove my body deep in a crack on the approach climb to the Monkey Face spire and realize I am a moron in way over my head. There is a technical dyno move and the greatest climber in the world above me, but a precarious drop below. One could say Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m truly between a rock and a hard place.

Ian Kerr

ock climbing is a newfound passion of mine, and I’m addicted. On November 9, I planned a weekend trip to Smith Rock State Park with a couple buddies. Our adventure began at an outdoor retail store, where the guys behind the counter muttered something about Adam Ondra climbing in Oregon. Ondra is a freak, miles ahead of the rest of the sport climbing community. He is the only climber to ever climb a route as hard as a 5.15d grade. Climbing will make its first ever appearance at the 2020 olympics in Tokyo, Japan, and Ondra hopes to be the first to take gold. Hearing of Ondra’s visit, I had to put my life at risk to get an interview. That night, we arrived at the Bivouac, a very crowded camp packed with climbers from around the world. Smith Rock has something for everyone, and that means everyone wants to be there. The next morning after a polar breakfast of instant oatmeal, we made our way to the wall. Many

Visitors hike along the Crooked River at Smith Rock State Park.

climbers had already done the same, and it made the 28 million square feet of the park feel crowded. There is some controversy over what should be done about the crowded park. According to a 2017 interview with park manager Scott Brown in the Statesman Journal, the park’s daily visitors and campers have more than doubled in the past five years. In 2016 alone, there were more than 750,000 visitors and 22,000 campers. The usage spiked after the start of the Seven Wonders of Oregon campaign that highlighted some of Oregon’s incredible features, including Smith Rock. Brown explained that “the biggest piece of the puzzle” is whether to develop the park in ways to support additional visitation or to limit usage. While overcrowding and parking create constant battles for visitors, there are always other ways to enjoy the park and plenty of routes that are off the beaten path. One positive of the area being so crowded is that there are lots of opportunities to meet new people. Parents were

putting their kids who cannot yet walk in a harness on the wall, and more established climbers ventured up some of the most difficult routes in the country. People climbed the entire day, only stopping when the park closes at dusk. Late in the night, my friends and I decided we hadn’t met our adventure quota. So we decided to run up Misery Ridge, a trail that follows the scenic Crooked River, before taking an “uphill vengeance” as described on the trail guide. At the top, the splatter of terrestrial wonder painting the night sky above us made all the stumbles and scrapes worth it. Motionless and silent, we sat on the rock, basking in the glory of the universe. Everywhere I looked was something absolutely incredible, whether it be the silhouette of the everlasting rock below or some fierce little plant making its way up a crack. We could have been there for hours. After another chilly breakfast, I received a call from one of my climbing buddies, claiming they found Ondra. As I rounded the final bend to see Monkey Face, where Ondra was climbing, I saw his team of photographers in place

snapping shots of his ascent. I zipped down to the base of where he was climbing and realized no flat path existed to reach him. There was a 50-foot vertical wall between me and him, but I was determined to meet and interview the best climber in the world, so I climbed. Three-quarters of the way up to the base with no rope, no safety gear, and a very heavy bag, I found myself stuck with a move above me too risky to do with death being the consequence of failure. A very embarrassing moment indeed, but luckily a nice climber saw my predicament and came to my aid. I made it down safe and sound with his help just moments before Ondra walked up. A brief introduction later, I began the interview with no plan whatsoever. At 25, Ondra has over 20 years of climbing experience. “I was born into a climbing family… My parents brought me to the crag[…] since then it’s been a constant process from just swinging on the rope to more and more serious climbing,” said Ondra. When Ondra was only 13, he climbed his first 5.14d caliber route. By 20, he “more or less repeated

every hard route in the world,” according to Rock and Ice Magazine. Smith Rock has been a lifelong dream of Ondra’s since he was 7 years old after seeing the magnificent rock in photos. “Now that I’m here, the place definitely didn’t disappoint,” he gushed. One of the main objectives of coming to Smith Rock for Ondra was climbing the route Just Do It. It was the first 5.14c bolted in America. “It’s a very historic route and it was very important [for] me to climb it onsight,” meaning he must figure out how to get up himself on the spot, with no help or plan to make it up beforehand. “I have done many harder routes, but to climb this route in this style, onsight, is maybe one of my proudest achievements,” said Ondra. Ondra’s reason for coming to Smith was not to only fulfill his

Adam Ondra conquers Just Do It, an incredibly difficult climb at Smith Rock.

childhood dream, but also to scout some established routes that were bolted back in the 80’s by legendary climber and routesetter Alan Watts that have not seen a first ascent yet, the walls not yet bolted. Ondra said, “they could be a next level route, it was nice to see this place… I will be back in a few years, for sure, to work on future projects.” In addition to the atmosphere, route diversity, and community, Ondra acknowledged that Smith Rock has something for everyone, whether you’re one of the best or just getting started. Smith Rock is truly special. The greatest feature of the park is that it brings people together from all over the world. I met a group of Canadian climbers who made me hot chocolate and gave me an open invitation to come visit, and that same day I hung out with Adam Ondra. There’s very few places in the world where that is possible.

Jadzia Engle pauses on the banks of the McKenzie River.

On healing waters

Jadzia Engle explores natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s role in her journey towards recovering from loss. By Jadzia Engle

Rebecca Durbin

Jadzia Engle glances up at the horizon on the banks of the McKenzie River.

stood over the stiffened and peaceful body of my mom. I placed my hand on her elegantly posed arm, and my eyes flickered to her hands resting on her abdomen. She was much more gaunt since I had last seen her, so many years ago. Her sealed eyelids concealed the light hazel mixture speckled with green flakes that would emanate such joy and melancholy whenever we would visit and then leave, again. Her skin was loose with age. Her face, full of faux life, made me think she might sit up to give me a hug, but the cold snapped me back to reality. I leaned down to embrace her narrow, unmoving shoulders, and she felt like a block of ice. Frozen in time, stopped in her tracks before anyone could get out a word of goodbye. I cannot forgive her, tell her that I still love her, or thank her for the love and lessons she granted me. Fragments of time spent with my mother occasionally rush back to me, transporting me back to early childhood. They paint a picture of the largest pine tree I had ever touched, right outside of a tucked away, one-story house where my mom lived. It was perfect for climbing. My brother and I grabbed the bristly branches, swinging our small bodies up the tree with ease. I gazed down at the ground where my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beaming face examined the two tree explorers, framed by her coarse blonde hair breaking away from the dark brown of her roots. I grinned and squealed with exhilaration and joy. At that moment, in the beauty of a late summer afternoon, it didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter that we would have to leave mere hours later

without knowing when we would see each other again. The powerful and unspoken presence of nature fosters a clean slate in which memories of my mother flourish, and provide an environment for unification and healing.

Images of my mother sometimes haunt me, leaving only regret and heartache. I acknowledge the pain and often let it overcome me, but it does not define me. I have been graced with unconditional love from my father. However tight of a grasp addiction and human flaw have periodically affected my family, he perseveres for me and my brother. Overcoming personal hardship, my dad emits hope even when sadness threatens to engulf us completely. For instance, his paternal instincts led us to an impromptu camping trip in the summer of 2014. My head poked out from the back seat as a taut safety belt strapped me in. I leaned my whole body forward in between the driver and passenger seats to get a better view of the blurred, towering trees consuming the landscape. Navigating Highway 126, winding alongside the McKenzie River, we spontaneously scoured signs for a place to camp. We finally settled on a beautiful, wooded patch of earth at Blue River Reservoir. I felt the images pulse through my brain, my 11-year-old fingers clutching my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s labor torn hands as we locked teary eyes. The words of that night

The McKenzie River flows under Jadzia Engle as she relaxes in her kayak.

still echo in my thoughts. They painfully reminded me of the fact that she was gone. As we ventured to a patch of earth to pitch our tent, the memories began to fade to the depths of my mind. She had been in and out of my life since I was 2. As she gradually slipped away, I was too young to understand the gravity of the loss. Somehow, escaping to the outdoors led to perspective. Rafting trips specifically allotted more time to temporarily relieve the anguish of losing my mother. My father purchased kayaks so we could “get back to nature” and carefree times. Whether or not he knew it, the newfound hobby helped pave the path to healing.

The magnitude of strain that bereavement puts on the body over-stimulates the production of cortisone, a stress hormone, and can wreak physiological and psychological havoc on the body through cognitive or behavioral changes. For several years I could almost feel the chemicals pooling in my brain, disrupting my ability to think clearly. In the grogginess of the stale and silent morning air, my mind began to buzz the second I woke up. The trance-like and chaotic state I found myself trapped in intensified my anxiety and set the tone for the rest of my day. The stages of grief were first normalized in the late 20th century by Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, and provide the bereaved a map of their emotions. However, even for a type-A personality who likes to know all of the right answers, no adequate guidelines exist. Nothing can prepare a person for the loss of a parent. According to Stanford University psychologist Susan Nolen-Hoeksema, the path to recovery for many is adaptive therapy, which includes partaking in activities or hobbies that elevate mood and create a place in which you feel in control, so you can begin to redefine who you are without the burden that weighs on your heart and brain. For my family, it was enjoying the outdoors of the Willamette Valley, especially on the water. Slews of studies support theories of the positive impact of nature on the brain. Simply sending individuals for walks and exposing them to either natural or urban environments alters the quantity of introspective rumination, which is contemplation often linked with depression. In one study, those on the nature walk

reported less toxic self-reflection. The responsibility I felt for my mother’s death and family’s pain squashed me like a bug under its astronomical weight. The isolated rumination infected my heart and suffocated me from the inside out. It wasn’t until I stepped into the company of the outdoors that the weight began to lift. Nature provides an untaxing stimulation of our involuntary attention and thus provides relief from the continuous strain of everyday life, which amplifies inevitably when accompanied by adversity. As discussed by scientists at the University of California, Berkeley in 2015, ecotherapy in the form of slow moving water imagery induces awe and has restorative properties that can lead to “reductions in levels of cortisol.” After evaluating the same essential emotion of awe, psychologists at Stanford and the University of Minnesota concluded that it also increases the perception of how much time subjects thought they had available to them, reducing stress and improving their overall wellbeing.

Five years after seeing my mother for the last time, in the company of a warm summer afternoon, my inflatable blue and yellow raft aimlessly disrupted the water’s trajectory along the McKenzie River. Gentle rapids created the constant reflection and movement of the water’s surface as it shifted in every direction, catching the warm glare of the sun. The rocking cradled me back to the present, as my body bobbed with the boat in the delicate dance among the white noise of nature. I am merely a kayaker on the river of life. The river stops for no one, just as the internal ticking clocks of our lives often cease without warning. We build dams attempting to control it, and create whole social constructs in which to organize and explain the astonishment of existence. Yet, we still cannot experience anything more rejuvenating and healing than the natural world in which we are all connected. Floating amidst my element, I glanced up at my brother sunbathing in a kayak identical to the one I was situated in, and to my dad happily casting a rod that seldom baited fish. My heart suddenly shed all of its brooding weight and nearly floated out of my chest. I squinted my eyes up to the baby blue sky and said the words I believe even my mother could hear: “I love you.”

This Isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Flatland A merica STEEN

Emelia Sherman describes her experience at Steens Mountain High Altitude Running Camp and how it affected her life perspective. BY EMELIA SHERMAN

Contributed

A group of runners endure one of many training challenges at Steens Mountain High Altitude Running Camp.

“J

ust one step, just one more step,” I say in my head as I slog up the side of Little Blitzen Gorge. I repeat this mantra over and over because I cannot think of anything else. I cannot do anything else. I am more tired than I have ever been, more tired than I have ever even imagine. I remind myself that I’m just walking, not even jogging, but it doesn’t help. I have run thousands of miles, hundreds of speed workouts and races, and I have never felt like this. Right now, walking seems like the most impossible thing in the world. Large beads of sweat drip from my forehead to my chest, mixing with the dust that coats my skin and leaving long brown trails down my neck. My legs are covered in dirt, plus a little blood from a fall I had a few miles back. My eyelids droop, and I’m having a hard time focusing on the ground in front of me. I lean my arm against a large boulder that sits on the side of the trail, dreaming of just a moment of relief. The rough rock somehow seems like a feathery pillow, and I want nothing more than to sit down and rest my head on it. I am immediately pushed forward by the person behind me. They say, “you can do this, you have to keep going.” I reluctantly stand back up and trudge forward like a zombie, fighting the urge to simply fall to the ground and stay there. I take a sip from my hydration vest, hoping a drink of water would revive me in some way, but the water is warm, and the sweet taste of the electrolyte powder in it makes me want to vomit. I want to give up. With every shaky step I feel more hopeless. I have to muster energy from deep inside just to look up, and every time I do, my heart falls, because I still can’t see the top of the gorge. I try to remember my mantra, but even a single step is agonizing, and it offers no comfort. I’m not a quitter, I never have been, but I don’t know if I can make it out. Only two days before the most exhausting day of my life, on July 15, I got on a bus to Steens Mountain High Altitude Running Camp, or, as those who have suffered through it call it, “Steens.” Every year, Steens hosts two five-daylong sessions for about 200 high school distance runners. Although technically a summer camp, Steens will be one of the most mentally and physically demanding experiences these runners have ever had, or will ever have. Harland Yriarte, a seasoned athlete and cross country and track coach, founded the camp in 1975 as a way to give high school athletes a true wilderness running and camping experience. The camp, located in the Steens Mountain Wilderness in southeastern Oregon, is incredibly secluded, and fully immerses campers in nature. It sits at an altitude of 7,000 feet, and provides a rare opportunity for young runners to experience high-altitude training. I have always known that I would go to Steens. My dad, who attended the camp in 1987, has been telling me stories about his experience since I was little. In fact, I know more about the single week he spent at Steens than I do about his entire high school experience. His time at the camp meant

so much to him that he had always planned for me to attend as well. During the few days before camp, I felt jittery and nervous. The thing that I had been thinking about for so long was finally about to happen, it just felt unreal. I had a good idea about what the camp would consist of, and grilled friends who had attended in recent years about what to expect, and yet, I felt unprepared. Steens is more than just a running camp. Many alumni regard their time at Steens as a paramount time in their lives, and attending the camp seems to change young runners in ways that not much else can. When I arrived at camp, I was introduced to my tentmates and (more importantly) my teammates for the coming week of camp. For the next five days, a giant, canvas-walled tent shared with about 20 other girls served as my home. The camp has no electricity, which alone could terrify many high school students, but that’s not all, camp is also completely technology-free. Aside from GPS watches, electronics were forbidden. I heard plenty of horror stories about Yriarte smashing devices. The only water came from a few hoses located in the center of camp, and a small stream that snakes around it. This only posed an issue when it came to showering. The term “showering” should be used loosely here, as Steens showering included having a tent-mate spray my hair with freezing cold water from a hose as I held my head

Emelia Sherman bounds through sagebrush as she races downhill.

over a bucket. Of course, this was done in front of the whole camp, 200 other sweaty, irritated teenagers waiting for one of the few spots at the hose stations. Campers are also required to do KP, which can be anything from dishwashing to porta potty stirring (yes, it’s as gross as it sounds). Luckily, my tent was on water cooler duty for the duration of the camp, which meant we didn’t have to put our hands anywhere near the contents of the porta potties. However, it also meant that we spent a large chunk of our free time lugging giant coolers that were half our weight to the stream and back. These conditions set Steens apart from what Yriarte, in many of his famous speeches, calls “flatland America.” The term flatland America refers to the flat cities and suburbs of the U.S., and the comforts and luxuries that people enjoy there. At Steens, commodities such as running water, television, and internet are a distant memory. Not only do we survive without these “necessities” of modern life, we begin to forget that we ever needed them. I did not miss my phone, rather I enjoyed the company of others who shared my passion. I did not wish I was at my dinner table when a lighting storm forced us to eat our first night’s meal on the buses, giggling and listening to the rain pattering against the roof. Everytime we experienced an “inconvenience,” we discovered a new joy, new laughter. We did not expect

reliability from the mountain, because she is untamed and free, and because of that, we relished her wildness. We depend on stability in flatland America, assuming everything will go as planned. On the mountain, we know that plans are a farce, and so, we appreciate every unexpected event, every wrong turn. This lesson is one I try to remember in my life in flatland America, especially in running. Every second I spent at Steens offered a different lesson—epiphanies about the world, racing, teamwork, and grit, but one experience taught me more than anything else. Big Day taught me about myself, changing me forever. “Big Day” is the name of the second day of camp, where campers hike and run a total of 28 miles down into, through, and up several gorges in the Steens Mountain Wilderness. For many, it is the crowning challenge of their time at Steens, and is remembered long after other details of the camp fade away. On Big Day, we woke up well before the sun to the song “Sugar, Sugar” by The Archies blaring across the camp, and were greeted by the frigid mountain air as we left the comfort of our sleeping bags. Bleary-eyed, we pulled on stocking caps and fleece and marched to the breakfast line, where we loaded our plates with fresh, hot pancakes.

Breakfast was quiet, everyone nervous for the trek to come. After eating, we packed lunches and stuffed them into our hydration packs, changed into lighter clothes, and loaded buses. We reached the beginning of the hike at about 8 a.m., the sun already strong enough to heat our shoulders. We began with a steep scramble down into Big Indian Gorge, single file, and silent. We were only allowed to talk if we needed to yell “ROCK!” at the campers below us, in the situation that we had knocked one loose and it was making its way towards someones head. We soon found ourselves immersed in a world of quaking aspen and wildflowers, the intense light of the sun softened by green leaves overhead. About nine miles in, sufficiently tired and hot, we stopped for lunch at the end of the gorge in a shady area near a cool stream. After lounging for a little while, we continued to Little Blitzen Gorge. After another four or so miles, we arrived there, fatigued even further by the sun and thin mountain air, and began doing 60-60’s (alternating one minute running and one minute walking). The pace was difficult to maintain, and coaches would shout “close the gap!” if we got to far behind the person in front of us. I felt like my feet were falling behind my brain as I leapt through tall grass, avoiding rocks and holes in the dirt, trying to keep up with the girl in front of me. Every time we stopped to walk, I felt slight relief, only to be met with more running in what seemed like only a few

seconds. I felt defeated and wanted to give up, but I knew how much farther I had to go. No stopping. No turning back. I set my jaw and fought on, trying to focus on picking up my feet as I ran. After eight miles, we reached a waterfall. I refilled my hydration vest with the cool water and rinsed my filthy legs. I felt refreshed, though still more worn out than I ever had felt before, and I believed that the worst was behind me, because what followed was just a short hike to the top of the ridge, where we would be met with a lemon drop and a wristband from Yriarte, and then an easy seven mile run along the road back to camp. That short, maybe a mile, hike proved the most grueling and painful experience of my life. The ascent was steeper than I imagined, and the top of the ridge seemed forever out of view. We could not stop for breaks, we could not rest on the large boulders that lined the path, we could only walk. When we finally made it to the top of the ridge, the ground flattened out.

I had expected Yriarte to appear, right at the top, with an opportunity for rest, but when I looked up, he was what seemed like miles away. I felt like crying, like dying, I was so tired. I could not fathom the rest of the walk, or the seven miles that would follow it. I slowly shuffled in Yriarteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s direction, working hard to simply stay upright. As I walked, a high school teammate seemed concerned with my condition. I looked bad, felt bad, but I thought that everyone was just as exhausted. I felt embarrassed at my weakness, and this feeling only grew when legendary ultra runner Max King stopped me and made me eat some incredibly gross running goo. After receiving my wristband and my lemon drop (the best lemon drop ever), we kept walking till we reached the road. Despite what I had just accomplished, I could only see my own weakness at first. Consumed with momentary disappointment, I felt crushed. Then I looked back at the gorge, and I thought of the many miles I conquered.

I thought of all the times I wanted to quit, and how I didn’t. That is when I realized what I had done, seeing the brevity of the achievement. I had just done something unfathomable, pushing my body to its absolute limits, and then pushed some more. Seven miles lay between me and victory. They would not be easy miles, but I did not need them to be easy. I started running. Later, I learned that I had experienced what is called “bonking” or “hitting the wall” in endurance sports. A complete bonk results from complete glycogen (an endurance athlete’s fuel) depletion from the muscles and liver. It is caused by sustained exercise (in my case, 13 hours of hiking and running) and is accompanied by a sudden feeling of complete exhaustion. In an article in Runner’s World, Paul Scott calls the bonk “a collapse of the entire

system: body and form, brains and soul.” For me, the wall was quite literal: I was out of energy, but in many cases in distance running, and in life, the wall is something else. Fear of pain, fear of failure, self doubt, these mental walls hold back every runner from the race they want to have, and every person from the life they want to live. I got past my wall—pain, utter and complete exhaustion—and it helped me see how easy I could break through other walls. I began to see them not as walls, but mountains. Tall, sure, but climbable, the summit always achievable. We all have mountains to conquer, literal and metaphorical. We must not limit ourselves to the comfortable, to what we think we can do, or we won’t ever achieve our highest potential. Steens taught me many things, but most importantly, it taught me how strong I really am, and how far I can go. If we live our whole lives in flatland America, we’ll never learn how high we can climb.

A group of exhausted runners soak up the view at Kiger Gorge.

Kindra Roy inspects some wildflowers at Spencer Butte.

Rebecca Durbin

Holding on to Hope Kinda Roy reflects on her childhood roots and how she endured the hardships of her youth.

ome might call the 50-acre plot of trees and dirt I grew up on the setting of my childhood, but the land was never just a backdrop to my youth. In fact, the land formed the very roots of my childhood, the core of my adventures, development, and spirit. The property was not a simple host for the wonder of a man-made life, a scenic landscape on which to rest a materialistic home to awe onlookers and symbolize prosperity. The property instead was untamed, littered with fallen logs and moss, explored but not controlled, on which a humble home sat attempting to disappear behind the wonder around it. The land was my childhood, and it nurtured not only the memories, but the curiosity, experience, and learning, the true substance of my youth. Growing up on 50 acres, there’s either quite a lot to do or almost nothing at all, depending on how you look at it. Fortunately, I was raised to see the possibilities. Neither of my parents felt the need to have a cell phone, which left the presence of electronics in the house very predictable: almost none. Our satellite T.V. paired with the kind of reception found on a faraway mountain was the last resort for entertainment for obvious reasons: we didn’t enjoy watching static. Not only was there a lack of new technology to entertain us from morning to night, but there weren’t many people around either. Besides the Childers family that lived in a mobile home at the bottom of the hill, there weren’t other kids in the area. Occasionally, we rode our bikes down, dumped them in the Childers’ yard, and found some beat up ball to kick around, but most of the time my siblings and I were happy to explore the surrounding forest. Nature and family were at the core of everything. My childhood was dense with adventures like building

By Kindra Roy

rock forts by the creek and picking sweet, fresh fruit. We went on hikes, searching for bear and deer tracks in the mud and picnicking in the blossom-filled meadow. Our five pairs of black rubber boots, filthy with fresh mud, lined the sliding glass door. My family was alive, involved with nature and each other, bolstered by a spirit of freedom and serenity that came from respect for nature and interest in the world around us. When my dad was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, life abruptly changed. My father, whose personality once lit up a room, faded into a shadow of the man he once was. Suddenly, he was distant, stone-faced and aggressive. We found ourselves leaving the land I grew up on, and eventually the man who raised me. My childhood of vivid memories blurred into monotonous months, the passing of time seemed marked solely by the start and end of school years. Two school years passed before I embraced him next. His voice was distinct, but the body it came from was cold and foreign. Every movement and word was agitated. Despite the signs that the torment of his mind was present, we were overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility spurred by devotion to the man who so deeply inspired our life. Before we knew it, we found ourselves tangled in the emotions of balancing our own lives with the unpredictable condition of my father’s daily fight. My family felt the burden of constant uncertainty of his health and our own safety. Some visits were silent, his attention captivated by the non-existent. Other days were driven by his forceful paranoia, full of chilling statements that sparked fear and59

tested our forgiveness. I fake slept to escape time with him, hiding from the reality that the man I adored had disappeared before my eyes, replaced by a silhouette of confusion and violence. Devastation, anger, stress, and grief all fought for control of my emotions. I dreaded seeing him, but my heart broke at the thought of the darkness he faced every day. My conscience grew heavy as I blamed myself for abandoning him. I was torn, pulled back and forth between fear and guilt. My father still fights schizophrenia, and his extremely low functioning lifestyle means his presence in my life is close to none. When I share our story, people often seem surprised at my optimism regarding my childhood, my focus being on the life and spirit of my family. To me, it makes perfect sense. When you grow up with the roots I had,

with the land nurturing you and relationships founded in adventure and sense of self, nothing can overshadow that. When reflecting on my childhood, I immediately envision stomping around in the mud and rain or crowding on the couch while my dad played the harmonica. I think of family trips to the rocky water shoot, of biking down the steep hill surrounded by blackberry, of planting new trees to give back to the land that gave us so much. I think of the love and memories my family shared first, and the heartache second. The pain is an afterthought, overshadowed by the power of the euphoric memories rooted far deeper. Because life is far from simple, but the simplest parts of life, the dancing, fresh apples, muddy rubber boots, those are the moments that get me through anything. The foundation we built on the authenticity of nature and family acted as our only strength during devastation. The sense of self that emerges from true

Tia Dioszeghy

experiences—adventure, comfort of family, conquering new tasks—forms the substance of human experience. Nature presents the truth humans need. The human experience is made up of mental, spiritual, emotional, and physical characteristics of life. It encapsulates the idea that every human will go through certain things: life, growth, and death. During each human’s life, they will at some point experience stress and pain. From the search for identity to the regret of past mistakes, each life is full of unique challenges that strain a person’s mental and emotional state. Every person faces hardship. In this period of my life, I face the obstacle of my family’s displacement from home. Suddenly, life became a balancing act of responsibilities, leaving no time or space for personal care. My energy

is entirely devoted to remaining positive in the face of struggle. I needed an escape, time for self-reflection. I talked myself into a coast trip with the Miller Integrated Nature Experience. Feeling insecure, I questioned my decision, guilted by responsibility, taunted by anxiety. Even as I left, a haze of worry and confusion followed. But as we wound down the coastal roads in our little adventure rig, I found myself laughing uncontrollably, bonding with others, excited about life. I began to feel comfort in the company of those searching for peace alongside me. We were just a group of kids stomping around, kids who at home would have been labeled and divided. The energetic football player, the avid runners, the quiet bookworms, the social butterflies. At home we were separated by how we were different, but out there we were pulled together by what we had in common: the struggles of our past and

Rebecca Durbin

worries for the future, the elements of the human experience that became so blaring when we took the time to look. As we explored, we learned more about the land, ourselves, and the people around us. We trudged through the Siuslaw National Forest and Ten Mile Creek Sanctuary and looked out from Cape Perpetua, captivated by the natural world. We stood around the fire sharing hot cocoa and personal stories, feeling not pressure to be perfect, but encouragement to be real. Some of us went seeking a break, others an adventure. We learned that we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to choose. We found restoration playing on the beach, filled with childlike energy. We found perspective at the top of Neahkahnie Mountain, calmed by the vastness around us. We may not have solved our problems out there, but we found freedom in adventure and support in each

other. When it poured on us, soaking our shoes and chilling our hands, something was different. There was energy in the rawness of it, and community in going through it together. And we found joy in it. Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s power, vast and efficacious, is not an instantaneous solution, a miracle worker that resolves the tribulations of human life. Instead, nature is a nurturer of peace, a giver of perspective, an approach to coping with the strenuous elements of living. To immerse myself in nature is to return to the spirit of my childhood and the comfort that held me up as I faced darkness. The same beautiful havens reside there, those whose power has never been tainted by the pain. When I return to the land, I never know what is in store, except that it is the same place that fostered strength in my youth, and that the healing nature of the land remains.

This is a MINE publication, produced at Springfield High School in Springfield, Oregon. Ian Kerr