Stay Wild // Spring 2017 by Stay Wild Magazine

Adventure Magazine //Spring 2017// Issue #13

$4.20 USA $5.63 CANADA £3.38 UK ¥443.82 JAPAN

Viva Cuba // naked Mountain Men // slab city Watermellon Poke // Jill Bliss // Climate Change Surf Oregon // DIY Motorcycle // and more...

MARK HEALEY Global Waterman / Founder of Healey Water Ops O‘ahu, Hawai‘i

ANYWHEREALOHA

ON AN ISLAND, YOU TREAD LIGHTLY. Born and raised on O‘ahu, Mark Healey is a world-class waterman and a master of the simple balance of life surrounded by water. HOKUA in Kona / Black

He harvests, hunts, fishes, and gathers with grateful respect. Life on an island is a cycle of give and take, a simple harmony that leaves a place better than you found it for generations to come. Waimea, Kaua‘i – Hawai‘i

OLUKAI.COM/ANYWHEREALOHA

Jackets and insulators are the key to good times in the great outdoors, offering everything you need to stay comfortable. Garments engineered with GORE-TEXÂŽ fabric offer superior resistance to rain, water, and wind. AVA I L A B L E AT B U R T O N . C O M , B U R T O N F L A G S H I P L O C AT I O N S A N D P R E M I U M R E TA I L E R S A R O U N D T H E G L O B E

IT's all about Our Contributors

Justin “Scrappers” Morrison, Camper Morrison, Jill Bliss, Christian Coxen, Megan Freshley, Ayla Gilbert, Corina Barnick, Adam Walker, Sera Lindsey, Ale Moreda, Charlotte Austin, Rodrigo De Medeiros, Ginger Boyd, Tracy L Chandler, Greta Rybus, Valentina Riveiro, Alex Moreán, Mary Gonzalez, Maddie Gordon, Trevor Gordon, Patrick Hodgins, Eric Morley, Jeff Bentley, Juan Torres, North, and the bad ass companies who work with us.

COver Photo Jill Bliss // jillbliss.com // @jill_bliss

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STAY WILD MAGAZINE

LOCAL

The rain, the soil, the seeds, the trees, the mill, the paper, the printing machines, and the people who physically made this magazine are all hiking distance from each other in and around Portland, Oregon.

ix o’clock has rolled around, the temp has dropped, and my Bic pen feels like it’s dragging a lead ball as the ink has thickened. I dip it in the fire momentarily and it flows like a river once again. It is no longer 60° and sunny, but probably in the 30s and starry with a horizon haze. I took a nap earlier, observing the tide moving out every time I woke. Still no throbbing lines, tide on the move … still nothing connecting, tide drains further. Eventually, it neared sunset and I decided I’d gather some firewood and wait for the morning low. The surf is always better in the morning—this goes for damn near anywhere. I made a lentil soup for dinner. Or rather, dumped it from its box and plunged it into my stove. It really tasted like shit at first, but between the slices of pepper jack cheese and its aftertaste of a roasted garlic game changer, I decided it wasn’t half bad and scraped my pot clean with the help of a Surrito tortilla that I cooked on a log. It’s pretty peaceful out here. What a different perspective—camping alone. All day I’ve been very much in my own head with no conflict, compromises, distractions, or anything else that comes along with camping, (or traveling for that matter) with another being. The road is smooth, unadulterated, and silent. Time seems to expand and contract, and I notice every minute of it. I drank coconut porters and standard IPAs next to a one-man-sized fire beneath the January full moon. Buzzing with hops and contentedness, it became apparent that I had become damn good at camping and enjoying the little things. The night sky sang as the fire crackled, the sea was building, and I could feel it in the sand as the sets met the bars. In the morning, I swung awake from my hammock and looked down the line into the sandbar as the building swell shook the stack.

There was ice on my board. The night brought me deep chills that carried through the day. Paddling out after a cup of coffee, the hands and toes never gained feeling beyond the all-inclusive winter ache. There was a lot of water moving in all directions, but I managed to find a rip that I rode out toward the nearly-imaginary peak. There were three identifiable swells through the mix-matched madness. The direction needed for my peak to connect, without walling clear to Alaska and closing out all hope, was so few and far between that by the time one came around I had been taken from the zone and relocated elsewhere. I decided to give up on the picky little swatch of sand creating these one-in-every-fifteen-minute behemoths, dredge left and paddle a hundred yards or so down-beach to my old standby. Throughout several hours of getting pitched on double overhead backwash-laced faces and two-turn closeouts, I managed to scrape up a handful of memorable rocketing adrenaline-driven lines along with some ear popping, to depth-driven throttling hold-downs. By the time I said enough is enough, noodle armed and half as buoyant, the water had risen along with the wind and there really wasn’t much of anything to paddle for anyway. The weekend’s mission had all in all been fulfilled—in fact, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I got out of my suit, snacked, and took a nap swaying in the hammock for a few hours—using the last of my time to relax, tune it down to zero for a minute before I’m back to work for the week. A feeling of worldly connectedness and satisfaction accompanied me as I made my way off cloud nine and back to my rig for the drive home. As I sat down I thought to myself … it’s always best to go.

@CHRISTIANCOXEN // CHRISTIANCOXEN.COM

Best to Go Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

T HE OREGON COAST BY CHRISTIAN COXEN

CORINA BARNICK

Que Bola

Cuba! T HE C UR TAI N I S PU L L ED BACK F O R T HE S IN CERELY I N TERESTED

P H OTOS BY CO R IN A B A R N ICK, ADAM WAL KER, AND SERA L INDSEY STORY BY JU STIN “ SCRAPPERS” MORRISON

SERA LINDSEY

If you are open. If you are willing. If you are sincerely interested. One trip to Cuba will change your life. So consider this story a warning. Don’t go unless you’re willing to come back changed. As someone who grew up in the States during the tail end of the cold war embargo, Cuba has been a concept more than a place. It’s a dark wise woman with tropical flowers in her hair smoking a giant cigar swaying in the breezy musical flow of The Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack while handsome vintage cars honk a friendly “Que bola?” (“What’s Up?”). Turns out Cuba is way more complex than a random café poster or National Geographic cover would ever suggest. The wind-tossed waves hit the dry reef shore with brutal playfulness. On the way to feel the water, we stepped over a baby goat body. A couple steps later, we saw its decapitated head. We came to surf, but something told us to learn more about this place before getting into the water.

SERA LINDSEY

We are not tourists. We are visitors with hungry minds. We try to learn about other people’s homes from over their shoulders when they are kind enough to share what they love. We are traveling from different places to Cuba: Corina Barnick from Costa Mesa, Alejandro Moreda from Puerto Rico, Sera Lindsey from Wyoming, Adam Walker from Huntington Beach, and me from Portland. Before flying direct to Havana from Los Angeles, we reached out to a local surfer Yaliagni Guerrero, or Yaya. I asked Yaya where some good local spots to paddle out were, but she and her amazing group of friends would become our family and share everything awesome about their home with us for this story.

CORINA BARNICK

ADAM WALKER

SCRAPPERS

Yaya suggested we bring surfboards, fins, leashes, wax, swimwear, and pretty much anything sold at a surf shop since Cuba doesn’t have any of that stuff. We brought everything from the list we could carry, including a Tanner longboard, four Portland-shaped Blackfern boards, and three other beater boards as gifts. Yaya’s future husband Reinier La Rosa, or “Reai,” said they often use candle wax when surf wax isn’t around.

SANTA FE BY SERA LINDSEY

The surf scene in Cuba is a refreshing frontier. The Cuban government has historically kept the sport and lifestyle from developing. There are only about 80 surfers on this island nation, and they work way harder than most surfers in the world just to get into the water. One early morning as we prepared to paddle out, we were approached by Cuban police. They spoke directly, stating in Spanish that we were not to get into the water. This isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t uncommon, and thankfully our friends knew how to handle the situation. They told the officers that we were training for the 2020 Olympics. A basic truth (not really) that quickly granted us permission to surf. We were monitored by one armed guard, who was about the same age as us if not younger. Once the truck of officers departed, he took the opportunity to film the surf session a little on his phone, with a secret smile across his face. Viva Cuba!

ALE MOREDA AT EL BAJO BY SERA LINDSEY

HUGO SOLIS BY ADAM WALKER

ANA LARA BY SERA LINDSEY

SERA LINDSEY

Frank Guerra and Yenia Prieto are two of the amazing surfers we met while “training for the Olympics.” They have a baby teething on freshly rolled cigars. No, I really saw it happen and it was really cute, so don’t judge! This baby also plays with dolphins, like living breathing dolphins! Her childhood is enchanting and it’s all due to her sweet parents work at the Cuban National Aquarium as dolphin trainers. Yaya also works there as a seal lion trainer. We all have mixed feelings about the business of keeping wild animals in captivity, but our friends need to work to live, so why not do a job that keeps them connected to the sea.

to visit. For over 23 years, Hugo has been covering his home in seashells in an effort to inspire his neighborhood. The economic situation has been fucked up here for a long time. There is no middle class, but life at the bottom is rich. Hugo’s shell house is a monument to Cuban resourcefulness and grace.

Sea shells are home to hermit crabs. They are also home to a man who looks like Pablo Picasso, but his name is Hugo Solis. Hugo combs the beach in his neighborhood outside of Havana called Santa Fe looking for broken shells, broken coral, broken glass, and any sort of treasure that washes up. He then brings it back to one of the purest holy folk art sites I’ve ever had to honor

Santa Fe is also home to Cuba’s first female tattoo artist. Ana Lara runs a small shop called Zenit Tattoo. She was an architect for six years making $10 a month. Nothing was being built, so she took a risk by investing in herself and her art, creating an independent tattoo business out of it. It worked so well, she’s now teaching other women how to do it. Sera, Adam, Ale, and I all got tattoos from her. She didn’t have a flash book to choose artwork from, so I doodled a bunch of random things inspired by this adventure really quick and we got those tattooed onto our skin. I’ve never had my art tattooed before, so I’m still super high from the excitement.

ADAM WALKER BY CORINA BARNICK

ALE MOREDA BY SERA LINDSEY

ADAM WALKER

REINIER LA ROSA BY ADAM WALKER

ADAM WALKER

ALE MOREDA BY ADAM WALKER

FRANK GUERRA BY ADAM WALKER

CORINA BARNICK AT SETENTA BY SERA LINDSEY

“The energy emitted by the surfers I had the chance to trade waves with reminded me of how I felt when I first got into surfing: an electric excitement about anything surfrelated. For every wave that rolled through that day, no matter how walled up, approximately six people would paddle for it, all yelling each other’s names to ‘GO!’ and ‘GET IT!’ It was true surf stoke at its best.” -Cori Barnick

One morning we got up early to surf a spot called El Bajo. The waves were shoulder-high at a break that often barrels before slamming into the thick cement wall just barely protecting the neighborhood from the sea. It was sketchy, but Ale jumped in with locals like Reai and Frank. Our Puerto Rican friend Ale is a full-on pro surfer who rides at all the big competitions around the world. Watching him in the water laughing and sharing stoke with the small group of locals really made clear how surfing brings people together. Oh, and yes he totally shreds! While Ale was out there I couldn’t help but notice all the trash in the water. Every wave was full of plastic bags, plastic bottles, and other plastic junk that won’t be biodegrading anytime soon. There was even a plastic lawn chair the surfers had to look out for as the waves would pick it up and launch it occasionally. We heard the trash came from the river that flows through the city. There doesn’t seem to be any recycling options in Cuba, but they sure make up for it in their re-usefulness. Take the vintage cars for example. Mostly all the automobiles on the road have been repaired and re-repaired for generations. If something breaks, you fix it. I noticed that all of the homes in the neighborhood we stayed in used communal garbage dumpsters. it felt very communistic. We were all in the garbage together. The next surf break we visited was Setenta in Miramar. The shore was toothy sharp reef and the waves were breaking in about 5-ft deep water. You could really fuck up your surfboard and body here if you got sloppy. We found that decapitated baby goat here. I noticed some women in billowy gowns shaking rattles at the reef’s edge. They were shredding colorful fabric, chanting, and tossing a dead bird carcass into the water. I don’t know anything about Caribbean religious practices, but they were clearly making an animal sacrifice at this surf spot. I don’t think Cori knew the water was being chummed for alligators when she paddled out with a couple of other locals. The water was crystal clear and the waves were ideal for her graceful style of surfing. I don’t think any of the locals have ever seen a surfer like Cori in the water before. Every wave she caught turned heads and inspired twinkling eyes. Reai’s sister Rosali La Rosa paddled out on one of the Blackfern boards I brought from Portland. Seeing this made me cry. In Cuba there are no surf traditions, only individual pioneers, slowly creating a community through their own fresh culture. Rosi is one of the first female surfers in Cuba. She’s making cultural history. She is free to grow without being influenced by the mainstream surf industry. I’m crying again. She’s beautiful.

SERA LINDSEY

ADAM WALKER

“The long, tropical days spent roaming around Havana were punctuated with naps and quiet hangs at our casa in the Miramar neighborhood. “Casa” probably isn’t the right word to describe the colonial mansion we stayed in. Every room was a different pastel color, with matching crown molding lining its archways, and a unique chandelier set center in every ceiling. This airbnb also came with a spanish-speaking surrogate mother for the week. Marìa, native of Havana with smiling eyes and a daughter in college, treated us as if we were her own for the week. Her daily greetings alone are something I wish I could’ve brought back to the States with me: a sing-song-y ‘¡BUENOS DIIIAAAS!’ that echoed off every marble surface and eventually would make my mouth water for piles of freshly peeled fruit and hot Cuban coffee.” -Cori Barnick

SERA LINDSEY

ALE AND CORI BY ADAM WALKER

REI ABOVE AND CORI & CARS BELOW BY ADAM WALKER

Cuban culture is complex, but I see a basic combination of three things here: colonial Spanish mestizo flavor, practical Communistic togetherness, and vivid Caribbean voodoo. If you’re reading this, I urge you not to visit Cuba like an entitled butthole tourist. Remember to give more than you take. Cuba’s economy needs socio-eco-responsibly-minded visitors who want to preserve this cultural identity, not capitalize on it. Cuba is the new Iceland. All of you are going to visit it soon. Just keep in mind that to truly love this place and its people, you have to let it be what it is. if you’re sincerely curious, the curtain will be pulled back for you. Oh, one more thing. The really cool vintage cars have no brakes.

@AMOREDA // @CORINA_ROSE // @PORTABLESERA // @SCRAPPERS // @ADMWLKR

THIS ADVENTURE WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT SANUK @SANUK // SANUK.COM

Thoughts on Mountains and Love STORY BY CHARLOTTE AUSTIN PHOTOS BY RODRIGO DE MEDEIROS

he first thing I learned to love about the mountains was the sharpness of cold water on my tongue. I loved that cutting burn immediately—a painful gulp that felt like truth—and I knew that I could not live without something that was so honest inside my chest.

When I am guiding, every morning starts the same: I wake up, bundled in layers of down, and wriggle one arm free to reach for my Nalgene. Bracing the bottle between my knees, I crack the ice that has frozen the bottle shut, shake it hard to make the ice-slush drinkable, and put my mouth to the rim. The taste is glacier ice, chopped into chunks the day before with my battered axe and melted just to liquid over a wobbling white gas stove. I am careful to keep it from touching my teeth, instead sliding it straight to the back of my throat and feeling it burn down the inside of my chest and deep into my belly. Then there is a shuffle while I find a headlamp, cram my legs into long underwear, and stuff my feet into boots that have frozen solid overnight.

There is the slow unzip of the tent door, the careful setting of the bottle onto the snow, the flustered ejection of a girl onto the cold glacier.  When I uncurl my body to stand, it is into air that is colder than the water in my belly. The first thing I notice is that—no matter what time it is—the snow reflects enough light to read a newspaper. It is painfully beautiful: a cold gray-blue light on a harsh, angled landscape of glacier and starlight. I stand still and breathe, letting the cold sink deep into my skin. Sometimes I listen to the wind rustle the nylon of the tents nearby; sometimes there is silence. I stoop, lift my water bottle from the snow, and take another long sip of cold water.  This is how I first learned to love the mountains.

“He knew every cell, every blood vessel, every hair. At any given time, he could tell me his heart rate and blood oxygen levels just by closing his eyes. His profession was climbing the world’s most dangerous mountains, and he needed to know exactly what he could and what he could not do.”

When I see a man who works in the mountains look at his body in the mirror, it reminds me of the way a driver would look at a race car. I loved one once—a man—who would run his hands over every inch of his own body: his battered feet, his sinewed thighs, his flat abdomen, the coiled muscles of his ass. He squinted at the wrinkles in the skin, the scabs on the tips of his pinky toes, the tendons around his knees that were visible in his thighs. It was part of his morning routine: He’d lay on the floor of the shower, letting water scald his body, then walk, still dripping, to the mirror to assess his naked reflection. He knew every cell, every blood vessel, every hair. At any given time, he could tell me his heart rate and blood oxygen levels just by closing his eyes. His profession was climbing the world’s most dangerous mountains, and he needed to know exactly what he could and what he could not do. His self care was precise. Inputs and outputs were carefully assessed: grams of protein, hours of sleep, the color of his urine. He stretched every night, opening his hips and breathing deeply. When he touched his own body, it was with reverence. But when we were out in town—which was rare—he never looked at his reflection in a window. He was undeniably a striking physical specimen, which he knew in an absent-minded, objective way. But he didn’t need to admire his appearance—only to know intimately the machine that was his body. When I started guiding, I did not treat my own body with that kind of care. I’ve been climbing mountains for years now, but I still don’t know if it’s possible for a woman to love her own body in that matter-of-fact way.

Word on the street is that he tried to make a male version, but nobody bought it. Apparently men’s bodies are different. The photographer and I talked about that for a long time as we sat in the sun that day. “You have to be willing to love a body to shoot it well,” he said. “Your lens needs to fall across the skin like light.”  I knew exactly what he was talking about. ////\\\\ At the end of a guiding season, there is a process. First I sleep: My body is wrecked, broken down. I am calorie-deficient muscle with a sunglasses tan, and I want nothing more than to watch Modern Family and eat fruit that has never been dehydrated. That stage lasts for a week, more or less, depending how long I was in the field. The next stage varies. Sometimes I want to spend time with my family, hear my father’s stories of adventure and feel my mother’s delicate skin against my sandpaper hands. Sometimes I want to create, and I’ll spend weeks writing and then deleting words as I try to describe the smell of cold air. Other times I want to travel, responsible only for myself.  The final stage is an inevitability: rage. I rage against my home, my partner, my family, my art. I rage against the city lights, and the way they encroach on the perimeter of the sky at dawn. I toss and turn until I rip off my blankets, stumble blindly out of my home, and gulp the cold night air in desperation. I know, then, that it’s time to go back to the mountains. I miss the brutal truth, the purity of my love for those places. I stand on a street corner, out of breath, and look for snow-capped glimpses of freedom on the skyline between the city lights.

////\\\\

People who don’t climb ask what it’s like to find yourself on a mountain. They imagine a spiritual place, some ethereal journey bookmarked with prayer flags and picturesque Sherpa children and lean, wind-hardened people gazing into the distance wearing name-brand parkas. You don’t find yourself on a mountain, I tell them. Mountains are beautiful and harsh and wild, yes, but mountains are also both more and less than most people imagine them to be. When you reach a summit, you only find the things that you have carried with you. To get to the top of a mountain, you will bleed and sweat and cry, maybe mark each switchback with a small puddle of vomit in the snow. You’ll lose things along the way, dropping them down a slope or choosing to leave them behind. But when you get to the top, you’ll reach into your backpack and you will know that there are things that you have carried with you through the night. And you will love deeply the things that have survived that journey.

For a long time, I loved the men of the mountains. They are simple and elegant, clean in the lines of their bodies and in their motivations in life. The way they know how to love is hard and rough and unthinking, and they keep their lives simple so that they can bend, unobstructed, at the altar of their chosen truth. They sleep in their rusty hatchback cars, eating rice and beans that they call Mexican food, and cut their own hair.  Those men are hard to live with, I eventually realized. They love hard and simply, but they expect their women to be waiting when they come home.  It took me most of my twenties to realize that the thing that attracted me most to those men—their single-minded pursuit of what made them feel whole—was something I wanted to find in myself, not in a partner. Loving that in someone else, I learned, got me close enough to reach out and touch it. But the feel of self-worth deep and cold in my belly was something I needed to earn. I had to carry it with me, no matter the cost.  ////\\\\

////\\\\ Once, at the ripe end of a September, I took a friend to a town at the base of a mountain. He was a city man, visiting to take photos of strong young men. After a day of shooting, we sat on picnic benches with pizza and cheap beer and talked about a calendar that is produced every year. The calendar features twelve glossy panoramas, each month a different photo in high-contrast black and white. The man who produces the calendar every year goes to some of the world’s best climbing destinations: Yosemite, Joshua Tree, Red Rocks. He shoots young women climbing, nude skin against rock. The juxtaposition of strong bodies against hard stone is beautiful, and every year the calendar sells out.

Sometimes, as we push up a route in the dark in the mountains, a struggling client will ask me a simple question: Why does anyone choose this pain? It’s all imaginary, he will say; summits are arbitrary, and the suffering is too much. I could live my life without this experience. They turn to look in my eyes, blinding me with their headlamp, searching for an answer to their question: Why?  I hand them some water, tell them to drink. “I don’t know your truth,” I say, forcing them to breathe. “You may not find yourself here.”  Most clients leave it at that, slumping down to put their hands on their knees and pant in the thin alpine air. But some press me, asking why it’s worth it, how I handle the pain and the cold and the ever-raw confrontation with the part of myself that is dark and unblinking and true. And sometimes, every once in a long while, I tell them the truth: I could not live without this fight.

@CHARLOTTEAUSTIN // CHARLOTTEAUSTIN.COM // RODRIGOD.COM

Super Bloom WORDS BY GINGER BOYD PHOTOGRAPHY BY TRACY L CHANDLER

he desert. You can probably imagine it pretty clearly—if not a specific desert, then just the idea of one. Dry, sandy, harsh, hot. Big sky. Tumbleweed. You can access the abstract idea immediately. A lone cactus, arms akimbo. That was my thought, anyway. Even though I’d never been to Death Valley, CA, I figured I knew what I’d find. The hottest and lowest point in North America, I get it. So when Tracy called me up inviting me on an impromptu road trip to Death Valley with Jenn and Hankey, I shrugged, “Why not?” They had heard about this thing called Super Bloom, where once a decade or so Death Valley becomes covered with wildflowers. My interest was piqued, but I wasn’t convinced. Covered with wildflowers? There would probably be a couple of daisies by the side of the road. Flowers or not, I’m always game for a road trip. So I freed up my weekend and we hit the road. As we drove, thick clouds began to roll in, and eventually, fat droplets pattered the windshield.

Driving to Death Valley has a bit of an unsettling feeling. Highway 14 cuts across the southernmost tip of the Sierra Nevada mountains and curves its way up to 4,000 feet without you ever really noticing. Then, without warning, the ground begins to drop beneath you and you seem to hurdle towards the valley, to 182 feet below sea level, in a matter of just a few miles. By the time we reached this unexpected roller coaster drop in the road, it was completely dark and the wind was howling. A few raindrops had turned into a proper storm, and even in our rugged adventure van, Tracy had to use all her might to keep the steering wheel straight. As we plunged into the valley, we passed smaller cars parked on the side of the road, unable to make it through the gushing water and huge rocks covering the roadway. The chatter had slowly died away, and the four of us just stared, eyes wide, trying to find the ground past where the road cut away. We seemed to dip lower and lower into blackness and, nearly blown away by the wind, we seriously considered turning back. What kept us going was the seriousness of this damn van. I mean, if we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make it through this storm why did we take it in the first place? We would be fine, we assured each other, and figured now more than ever weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have to see what the fuss was about with all these flowers.

TRACYLCHANDLER.COM // @TRACYLCHANDLER // @SLEEPYATFUNERALS // @MACHINESFORFREEDOM

We made it to our spot, went to bed early, and headed out before dawn the next morning. The rain had stopped, but the wind was so strong it was difficult to get out of the van. The heavy doors would slam shut right into you if you weren’t careful. When the sky began to gradually lighten, what we witnessed was unreal. The remnants of clouds from the previous night’s storm obscured the sunrise, leaving only streaks of purple, grey and blue to announce its arrival. The salt flats glowed blue and otherworldly. The sky, too big to really take in, was cut with two rainbows. We ran outward from the road into it—into this desert, out into this immense space—and allowed ourselves to be pelted by freezing, blow-you-over wind, hair whipping our faces. In that moment we realized we had no idea what this place was. This desert, this place so mythicized and so deeply ingrained our minds, was in fact further than anything we thought we knew about the world around us. Before we were even hungry for breakfast, the wind pushed the clouds across the sky and the sun was already quite high. It burned bright and golden on the flowers that erupted out of every corner and crevice of dry dust in that valley. The road glowed gold and everything was irrefutably alive. According to the locals, the wildflowers in Death Valley bloom every year. But in order for these tiny, delicate beings to fight their way through the harshest landscape on Earth and not just survive, but take over the entire valley, something special has to happen. The rainfall in October and November has to be heavy and prolonged. More importantly, though, it’s the seeds. They’re out there, every year. Just waiting. Lying dormant until the conditions are just right. Then, they take their chance and they bloom … slowly at first, until the entire park has been painted with new colors. You might think you know the desert. Predictable, dry, barren, extreme. For all of Google. For all the books written about it. You have no fucking idea.

It’s

Already

Happening STORY AND PHO TOGRA P HY BY GRETA RYBUS

he fishermen in the bustling fishing community Guet Ndar once dragged their boats for an hour across the sand before reaching the sea. Now the ocean laps at their front door and eats their homes in giant, crumbling gulps. Inland, in a little village called Takhembeut, the herders and farmers once relied on the rainy season’s punctuality, the timely arrival of just enough water to sustain crop and cattle.

The UN recognized Saint Louis, called Ndar by locals, as being the city most threatened by climate change in Africa. At the northernmost point of Senegal, Ndar hugs the Sahara and hovers on the edge of the Arabic and African worlds. The locals are knowledgeable about climate—being from the desert means paying close attention to the rains and to the seas. Even the younger workers have been in the fields or on the seas for many years, doing the work of their fathers or grandmothers who taught them to pay attention, notice change, and anticipate what comes next. The last few years have brought variables greater than anyone anticipated. Winds and waters have

changed, causing coastal erosion along Senegal’s coast, made worse in Ndar by a botched canal project intended to slow the rising water. The rainy season is shorter and more erratic. The herders can no longer grow crops for their animals, and now shake seed pods from the trees to sustain their shrinking herds. The farmers grow just enough food for their families, and many have become the first in their lineage to supplement their work with odd jobs in the city. The Senegalese government is paying attention. They are building housing for the fishermen who are losing their homes to the sea. They are providing municipal water, enough to drink and bathe in, for the families who live inland. But this is not a problem caused by the Senegalese. It’s a problem larger than a people or a country. It is a problem caused by an anemic global response to climate change. It is caused by larger countries making policy and industrial decisions that impact global health. For those who rely directly on natural resources for survival, like the majority of Senegalese people, climate change will be a calamitous test and a catalyst for poverty worldwide.

“The waves of the sea were very strong, strong enough to cross over the protective wall and reach up to my house. My house was flooded. I changed the gate to the other side of the home, and put sand bags on the sea facing side.” — Baye Sarr, fishing boat captain

“Coastal erosion is undoubtedly related to rising sea level. As a consequence of the relative rise in the temperature worldwide, the icecaps are melting, bringing about a rise in the ocean level. In low altitude areas, like Saint Louis, these phenomena cause an overflowing called marine flooding.” — Abou Sy, climate change scientist and geographer

“Climate change is upsetting the balance of the seasons. However, even though some fishermen may feel reluctant to go out fishing when they notice that weather conditions are not suitable to catch a lot of fish, others go out anyway, since they don’t have another source of income. The seasons are no longer regular; the fishermen are experiencing this upside down weather day-in and day-out. Nowadays, they happen to go out under good weather conditions, but once they are in the middle of the ocean, strong winds and waves suddenly surround them, jeopardize their activities, and even put their lives in danger. In my opinion, climate change is to be blamed for this imbalance.” — Boly Sarr, retired fishing captain

“Of course, I have seen homes falling into the ocean. We can cope with the climate conditions in this area because we were born and brought up here. We experienced all the changes that have happened over time. We cannot live outside the coastal area. If we relocate inland we won’t be able to adapt. We are just like fish in the water.” — Ndiawar, community leader and retired fisherman

us.hi-tec.com @hitec_usa

11%

45%

450

500

95%

orphanages across the country

86%

71 sites in major cities

They have currently reached 403,365 kids.

splash.org

“Developed countries are the major greenhouse gases issuers and the main cause of climate change. In developing countries, people discuss climate change more and more because they are directly affected by its impact. The population is mainly made up of farmers, herders and fishermen, and they are most vulnerable to climate change. Climate change is increasing poverty. It is not the only cause of the poverty, but it is accelerating it. Unfortunately, we don’t have the choice but to adapt to a phenomenon we didn’t cause.” — Abdou Sy, climate change scientist and geographer

GRETARYBUS.COM // @GRETARYBUS

Notion of Companionship ARTWORK BY J IL L BL ISS

ach of us has a unique perspective and a responsibility to share our experience with others. These are some of my daily offerings via social media. Visual expressions of multiple lives I experience in the islands of the Salish Sea. This is the love and beauty I see in my home region, on our shared planet, in myself, in all of us—human and other. Wild joy of living and decay. Other people confuse my solitude in these remote places for loneliness, but I am never alone. Places like these de-

mand you expand your notion of companionship. Most of my daily companions are not human. Yet we are all here—interwoven, integrated, living together. The unnatural human systems of extreme individualism and separateness cannot take root here. They cannot be sustained. Out here I experience our world’s self-regulating system of which I am a (very small) part. I am a participant, but mostly I am here to learn by observation. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible, but I blunder often. I have so much to learn, still.

PROOF EYEWEAR iwantproof.com

JILLBLISS.COM // @JILL_BLISS

The

Last

FreeCity

STORY AND PHOTOS BY VA LE N T I N A R I V E IRO AND ALEX MO R EÁN

HEN I WAS LITTLE, I used to like those drawings where you’d connect the dots, following a certain order. While you kept going, you would find out what you were drawing. When you were done, you had the result you expected: the same drawing that any other kid playing with the same coloring book as you would see. I was on my way to Salvation Mountain, thinking of the past few weeks. The trip reminded me of a photo album, a map full of tiny red dots as if they had nothing between them. I was worried this trip might turn out to be a predictable travel guide where the end result wouldn’t surprise me at all. In this sky of dots, lines, and shapes, I arrived at Salvation Mountain. Just another dot. What I didn’t know is that Salvation Mountain is the gate to the last free city. So I turned towards Slab City to find out what it was about. I tried to understand the city by myself, but the only way to find out was to ask. Who are you?

landyachtz.com @landyachtzlongboards R - Stephen Vaughn and Troy Grenier P - Kevin Carlton

All-Terrain Anytime.

“Slab City is a place for true freedom, where you can actually do what you want, when you want without anyone saying no to you. Anyone can move to Slab City. You would drive to Slab City and you would look for a spot that no one’s got, you look around for old wine bottles, old cans, old tires, and you put a border up. And once you’ve put that border up, Slab City tells you ‘That’s your spot, that’s all yours’” - Jack “Two Horses” Martin

@AURALMOTION // @PUENTESENELAIRE

Tiny Mess The

BY MARY GONZALEZ, MADDIE GORDON, PHOTOS BY TREVOR GORDON

fter chatting about trying to navigate complex culinary projects in our tiny kitchens, we wondered how other people were doing this! Mary is a baker, farmer, and an excellent vegan chef and lives in a small trailer on her folks’ avocado ranch in Carpinteria. Trevor and I inhabit a 36-ft sailboat in Santa Barbara. Mary and I live for cooking and eating, but have a lot of restraints due to the nature of our living situations. Between filling water tanks, switching propane, charging batteries for power, filling ice chests, and struggling for storage, we’ve just been so eager to meet like-minded dwellers of equally-quirky homes. We’ve been visiting people all over the West Coast, photographing their kitchens and having meals with them. Many people have submitted their favorite recipes, so we’ve made a book that feels deeply personal. Our cookbook, The Tiny Mess, has plenty of wild and foraged recipes including mallow dolma, rabbit and nopal cactus tacos, sourdough mackerel empanadas, salmon with douglas fir rub and an elderberry-Oregon grape sauce, nettle and lemon balm pesto over maple-roasted parsnips and kelp and cucumber salad to name a few. People are becoming so disconnected from their food, it feels even more important to spread the word of a simple, honest lifestyle where food comes from a place that is close to home.

Watermelon Poke (Serves 6 as a side) 1 medium watermelon 8 tbsp. of rice vinegar 6 tbsp. of toasted sesame oil 3 tbsp. of Shoyu (or soy sauce) 1 tbsp. of ume plum vinegar 2 tbsp. of tahini 1 tbsp. of agave nectar 2 tbsp. lime juice 1 cup of finely chopped green onion 1 cup of finely chopped cilantro In a medium sized bowl or blender, combine the vinegars, sesame oil, Shoyu, tahini, agave, and lime juice. Set aside. Cut melon into one-inch cubes. Lay melon in a shallow pan with marinade, and allow to sit overnight or at least four hours refrigerated. Heat a large pan, remove melon from marinade, and cook for six minutes on medium heat. While the melon cooks, heat the drained marinade in a separate pan, reducing until thickened. Remove melon and marinade from heat and cool. Dress the melon with thickened marinade before serving. Serve cold.

@ THE_TINY_MESS // @SWEETMOUNTAINTOP // @MADDIEGORDONART // @TEAREVOR

Tennessee The

Waltz

STORY BY PATRICK HODGINS // ERIC MORLEY PHOTO BY JEFF BENTLEY // JUAN TORRES // BLUE C UNITED

noticeable rumbling has been emanating out of a small town in eastern Tennessee. The ruckus isn’t from the low drone of barges chugging up and down the nearby Tennessee River, but rather from the pounding of metal and the buzzing of welding generators where a group of craftsmen are building works of rolling, reverberating art. Matt Harris and his collective hooligans at 40 Cal Customs have attained a well-deserved reputation for creating some of the most stylish and soulful motorcycle builds today, and Matt’s newest creation may just be their crown jewel. The Tennessee Waltz dances between new and old, connecting bygone years of mass-produced American manufactured goods with the modern hand made parts. One of Matt’s dreams has always been to experience the famous salt-crusted speedway on the Bonneville dry lakebed in Utah. Since 1912, gear heads and speed junkies have flocked to the vast open space where numerous world records have been set. It’s here where Matts creation would not only be enjoyed but tested. Matt and crew went to work hand building the frame, where they drew inspiration from 1920s era Harley-Davidson dirt track racers. Since weight is the enemy to speed, most of the body and paneling was made from lightweight aluminum. Seams were chosen to be riveted, aircraft style, rather than welded. Why? Not sure but it certainly looks cool! Contrasting the new, hand crafted frame is the engine, which is the original power plant from the 1923 unit. Adding to the cool factor is the use of a carburetor off Matt’s 1955 Harley-Davidson police motorcycle, which was paired with a custom intake. Everything on this bike was designed with the single goal of going as fast as possible in a straight line at Bonneville. From the hand pounded gas tank notches purpose-made to hug the riders knees close to the frame, to the low and narrow bars forcing the pilot into the tucked position. Coker Tires made special tires shod in white rubber, giving the bike a truly unique aesthetic that balances extremely well with the bare aluminum and metal. Although it’s a race machine at heart, the 40 Cal Customs guys certainly don’t lack any sense of style and their good friend Mike Miller was commissioned to hand paint

all of the lettering, numbers, and pin striping. When all is said and done, this bike just oozes cool. So how did it perform you ask? With Matt at the helm with his classic styled Gringo helmet. The bike successfully completed seven runs across the salt, with the modified steed consistently running 8586mph. Not bad considering the stock engine pumped out just under 9hp and topped out at only 50mph! Its best to let Matt sum up the experience: “My favorite run there was also my fastest. It was right at daybreak. Cool air. Purple and orange sky. The silence of the early morning broken by the crack of that old engine. She ran so good that pass. 87.545 mph. Such a surreal experience that few people have had the pleasure of enjoying.” Not only did this bike accomplish its goals with a successful Bonneville showing, but Matt and crew then took it to Portland, Oregon for the The One Moto Show where all things motorcycles come together. Entering its 8th year, the 2017 gathering was located in an old industrial manufacturing warehouse. With such a raw and gritty backdrop, The One Moto Show was the perfect place to showcase the Tennessee Waltz. A big impression was obviously made as the bike took home the coveted “One Down – Four Up” trophy as Best of Show. This was quite the accomplishment, as The One Moto Show has quickly become THE show for the ever-evolving and influential DIY motorcycle sub-culture.

@40CALCUSTOMS

GOOD PRODUCTS MADE BY GOOD PEOPLE WORDS BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON LINEWORK BY KELLY THOMPSON // KTOM.US

S N O W PEAK // SNOWPEAK.COM

HE I M PL ANE T / / H E IMP L A N ET. C O M

This double bubble comfortably fits 4 people and 4 dogs inside the main tent. The indoor patio portion of the tent is big enough to hang out in or just store your dusty dancing boots while you sleep under the finest umbrella of Japanese camping technology. Amenity Dome // $449.95

“The Cave” tent is like a balloon animal from space. This future tent’s poles are balloon tubes full of air. Could you imagine how much grief this saves on a long backpacking trip? The Cave is a 2–3 person tent. If we camped on the moon, we’d use this tent! The Cave // $700

R E I // REI.COM

BECKEL // BECKELCANVAS.COM

Sometimes you need a party tent. A tent you can destroy. A tent for critters to chew through. A tent little kids can play in and doodle on with markers. A tent you can barf in. I really don’t see a better option for a party tent than this one. Camp Dome 2 // $99.95

This canvas tent by Portland-based Beckel Canvas floats above the ground like a ghost. It’s ideal for nature-lovers who actually like to sleep on the earth. We love the heck out of sleeping on the dirt, but feel free to lay down a tarp or fancy carpet! These puppies are made to order and very customizable. Eena Wall Tent // Price depends on how you want it made.

GI NE W / / G IN E WU S A .C O M I’ve been bike commuting in this American-made Selvedge Denim Rider jacket for about a month now, and it has fully formed to my body. It’s starting to steer the bike. It aims the handlebars toward forest trails, waterfalls, and berry patches. Selvedge Denim Rider // $345

NA U // NA U.COM Happy Spring! It’s time to frolic in the flower-infested fields. Frolicking feels better with a 55% hemp, 45% organic cotton blend dress. Kanab t-shirt dress // $68

MOKUYOBI // MOKUYOBI.COM The art of making backpacks has reached new levels today. Since we are lucky enough to be alive during this golden era of backpacks, let’s rejoice and fill all the pockets in our packs with pizza, kombucha, golden raccoon teeth, 12-sided dice, sunflower sprouts, and other cultural treasures. Brown Bear // $152

ARBOR SKATEBOARDS // ARBORCOLLECTIVE.COM The sidewalks in Southern California are mixed with sand. Fat skateboard wheels squish all gooey into this type of sidewalk. It’s a sort of lovemaking that should never be talked about or explained in detail. Shhhhhh … just feel it. Sizzler Premium // $169.95

L AST CHANCE / / LASTCHANCETEXTILES.COM Bandanas are a multitool. A bandana keeps your neck warm and from getting sunburned. A bandana keeps the blood in your body when you cut it open doing rad stuff. So get a good bandana. This one is made in California out of raw silk noil and dyed with natural indigo. Dot-Danna // $45

PROOF // IWANTPROOF.COM

L E VI’S VI N TAG E // LEVI.COM Once the mushrooms started to kick in, Billy walked away from the campfire and roller coaster laughter of his friends. Beyond the warm firelight, he found a Joshua Tree ablaze in the blue starlight of the Universe. A single tear rolled down his cheek and into his beard. He was barefoot. He ripped his trippy shirt off and howled like a coyote. He was free. He was wild. He took his pants off. He stepped right onto a sharp cactus thorn. He howled again, but in pain. He was high as fuck and never saw that shirt again. 1960’s Shorthorn Shirt // Priceless

“See the line where the sky meets the sea? It calls me And no one knows, how far it goes If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me One day I’ll know, how far I’ll go” — Moana Grove // $130

POL E R / / POLERSTUFF.COM Fuck it, let’s party in satin hats! Chances with Wolves // $29.95

The County

Yes, love is free; it can dwell in no other atmosphere.

EMMA GOLDMAN // “MARRIAGE AND LOVE” ANARCHISM AND OTHER ESSAYS (1911)