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WE LOVE Our Contributors Justin “Scrappers” Morrison, Camper Morrison, Sera Lindsey, Ayla Gilbert, Megan Freshley, Taliesin Gilkes-Bower, Randy P. Martin, Brooke Jackson, Johnie Gall, Erin Rose Belair, Alexandre Furcolin Filho, David Wien, Joe Curren, Charlotte Austin, Patrick Mauro, Lauren Kapono, Shadi Faridi, Talace Pai, Brandon Raphael Dupré, Mia Spingola, Rose Thomas, Lauren De Vin, Scott Hathaway, Sharah Yaddaw, Emily Hopcian, North, and the bad ass companies who work with us.
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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.
DESERT ANGELS FINDING CLOSURE AT THE BORDER STORY AND PHOTOS BY TALIESIN GILKES-BOWER // @REALMS.MANIFEST
IT’S EASY TO DIE IN THE SONORAN DESERT. Especially if you are alone, dehydrated, and being hunted by the United States Border Patrol. For migrants attempting to enter America through this vast desert, the journey can take up to 10 days and cost nearly five-thousand dollars for a guide. Eli Ortiz’s brother went missing here nearly a decade ago. When Border Patrol failed to find him, Ortiz went looking on his own. Thousands have died attempting to cross the U.S./Mexico Border, and those who become separated from their guide rarely survive in the Sonoran, where summer temperatures can reach 120° F. When Ortiz finally located the remains of his brother, he began a lifelong mission to help other families locate their lost and deceased loved ones. His nonprofit organization Aguilas del Desierto now runs as a DIY search and rescue service that uses a team of volunteers to scour the most remote corners of the border to help bring peace to families hoping to bury or know the fate of their relatives. About once a month, Ortiz and his crew, mostly working-class Mexicans who live in San Diego, finish work on Friday and drive seven or eight hours east into the desert. They wake up at sunrise and search the brutal and deadly landscape until sunset, utilizing classic wilderness search and rescue tactics and staying in touch on radios. When I joined the Aguilas on a recent mission to Cabeza Prieta National Wilderness Area, I was deeply moved by their dedication to this agonizing work. It was humbling to walk alongside these men and women serving their community with such selflessness.
Members of Aguilas Del Desierto dig in the Sonoran Desert where they suspect the body of a migrant has been buried in a shallow grave. Most migrants who die crossing this treacherous desert have been left behind by their guides and quickly succumb to dehydration.
An Aguilas Del Desierto volunteer photographs GPS coordinates of an unidentified bone. Because human remains can be the scene of a crime, volunteers photograph and document the locations of any remains and report the information to Border Patrol.
PHOTO BY RANDY P. MARTIN // @RANDYPMARTIN
ACTIVIST TINDER LESS TALK & MORE ACTION
I HAVE SEEN SHITSTORMS OF SOCIAL MEDIA OUTRAGE. I have tapped the trending hashtags. I have read the bumper stickers in traffic. I have sat with people on couches talking about the popular problems. I have only seen these things help people express their concern, but I have never seen these things bring solutions to the problems they are so upset and depressed about. Surely outreach and education is a big part of finding solutions, but words without action amount to hot breath lost in the cold wind of reality. We need to get off our screens and asses to do the actual work of caring for the environment. If you’ve done a tree planting or beach clean up you know the satisfaction of getting your hands dirty with a group of people who care about the same issues. It’s a momentary bond between caring people, and sometimes the bond can go deeper than the work and blossom into meaningful relationships. I have seen romance at muddy native plant restoration work parties. To make these meetups easier, Greenpeace, Patagonia, and other organizations have launched activist meetup apps and events. These things connect people to protest things and take action in the name of what they love. GREENPEACE GREENWIRE is a global social media app offering support to anyone who wants to join Greenpeace activities or organize their own activities. Greenwire wants to help people looking to “Search for support, share information and have fun connecting with others who share your goals. It’s specifically dedicated to helping activists like you get involved in your community.” I’m one of those grumpy rebels who hesitates joining groups, but scrolling down the list of things they have going on, I dropped all my hangups
STORY BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON // @SCRAPPERS
and fell in love with all the good action people have been doing. Greenwire.greenpeace.org PATAGONIA ACTION WORKS connects Patagonia customers with grassroots activism. From their website, people can find out about events, sign petitions, share skills, volunteer, and donate money to help with the environmental issues that they care about most. “It’s a digital tool that facilitates human connection.” — Lisa Pike Sheehy, Patagonia’s V.P. of Environmental Activism “It’s kind of a dating site.” — Yvon Chouinard, Patagonia Founder Patagonia has supported grassroots activists working to find solutions to environmental problems for the past 40 years. They’ve given over 90 million dollars to grassroots activists and have helped nurture direct actions and protests. Yvon still asks: “What more can we do?” With the launch of this new site, Yvon leads the charge by saying, “If you’ve been paying attention, you’ve noticed things aren’t going very well for the planet. It’s pretty easy to get depressed about it. I’ve always known that the cure for depression is action.” patagonia.com/actionworks PARKS PROJECT is another brand that’s all about caring for the environment, specifically national parklands. They organize trail work events and volunteer days. They also make
goods that remind people to take pride in the places they love. Parks Project believes that if you love a place, you should work to support it. Here are 10 simple ways they say you can support your parks: 1 // GET EDUCATED // Learn about the history of our parklands to understand the importance of preservation. 2 // TAKE ACTION // Support candidates and vote on issues that protect our parks; write a letter to your local policy makers to keep conservation top of mind. 3 // GET INVOLVED // Join a local park conservation group to stay informed on current issues in your area. 4 // VOLUNTEER // Check out volunteer.gov to participate in cleanups, trail restoration, and invasive species removal. 5 // WATCH YOUR FOOTPRINT // Practice the “Leave No Trace” policy when visiting parks. Use low-impact modes of transportation. 6 // RESPECT HABITAT & WILDLIFE // Leave native plants and artifacts in their natural habitats, and don’t feed the animals. 7 // LIMIT YOUR IMPACT // Be sure to reduce, reuse, and recycle in the parks, and always leave it better than you found it. 8 // BROADCAST // Become an ambassador for responsible outdoor ethics. Use social media to share stories and spread the word. 9 // DONATE // Contribute to nonprofits like the National Park Foundation and the National Park Conservation Association. 10 // WEAR THE PARKS // Celebrate our national parks and their splendor with our goods (of course). parksproject.us
If you love something, you have to work for it. There are a ton of ways we can get involved in the work. So let’s roll up our sleeves and get into action together!
MESSAGE RECEIVED RUNNING TO SAVE BEARS EARS AND GRAND STAIRCASE-ESCALANTE NATIONAL MONUMENTS STORY BY BROOKE JACKSON // @WANDERING_TRAILS PHOTOS BY JOHNIE GALL // @DIRTBAGDARLING
AS A DESERT SUN BLARES ACROSS THE UNFORGIVING RED-CLAY LANDSCAPE, CAVING TO EXHAUSTION SEEMS A WELCOMED OPTION. Feet pounding against earth with a final destination unseen, the journey is not a simple task. Yet the runner knows: I am a messenger with a story which must be told. The tradition of using runners as conduits for communication has been a cultural practice for the Navajo people for centuries. Also known as Messengers, these individuals would sometimes cover hundreds of miles by foot to communicate with other tribes. Len Necefer of Natives Outdoors explains: “The history of relay runners and messengers extends hundreds of years throughout this landscape. Prior to the introduction of horses by the Spanish, these runners served a critical role in carrying time-sensitive messages between communities and tribes. Today running still serves a critical role in rights-of-passage ceremonies.” To communicate their passion, a ragtag group of individuals from various walks of life came together to run 250 miles in two days across Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments. The reason was not for a race or for glory, but to educate and unite amidst a turbulent political climate. On December 4, 2017, Mr.Trump moved to drastically reduce two protected areas in Utah; Bears Ears will be re-
duced by about 85 percent or roughly 201,876 acres, while Grand Staircase-Escalante will be reduced from 1.9 million acres to only 1,003,863 acres. Mr. Trump passed these alterations without ever stepping foot into the protected monuments.
conifer forests to echoing canyon walls, petroglyphs and crumbling spires, the messengers experienced a glimpse into the 200-million-yearold staircase which connects the history of humans and environments which have previously existed there.
Andy Cochrane, Greg Balkin, and Johnie Gall were not ready to stand idly by as Mr. Trump reduced these lands so drastically. The idea for the Messengers relay originated as the three pondered ways to use their platforms to tell the tales of these threatened public lands. As avid runners and activists, the group quickly formed an adventure. Once the plan was born, the team roster quickly filled. Consisting of everyone from local Navajo tribal members, to data scientists, Olympic athletes, and dirtbags—the crew had their differences. However, they all shared at least one thing in common: a reason to run.
The group learned about Navajo culture and experienced the importance of the land. Clare Gallagher reflects on the experience saying, “Without question, I learned more about the Native history of this land than I could ever have from a book or an article. This land is Native land. We are lucky to be able to share it as outdoor enthusiasts.”
On February 2nd, 2018, the modern Messengers set off to tell a story. Embodying cultural roots, Necefer explained the connection of the eagles as messengers between humans and the Diyin Dine’é (Navajo Holy People). Therefore, the runners carried a sage and eagle-plumed “baton” to be handed off at transition points to truly strengthen the connection they were trying to deliver. The route traversed through varying climates and geological wonders. From
As the group successfully finished their 250-mile journey, the message was delivered in bold. As Johnie Gall eloquently states: “What brought us together for the relay—some of us with a lifelong love for running, others who have a more ‘tumultuous’ relationship with it—was a collective love for public lands. Finding community through the run gave us a stronger voice than any one of us had on our own. You can accomplish a lot more by finding commonalities than you can by pointing out differences. Love means standing up for what you believe in. Even if that means struggling through a six-mile uphill slog in the desert heat.”
FEBRUARY 2ND, 2018 was the first day which Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante was opened for business to the extractive industries. Learn more and support the Native American Rights Fund (NARF) and see the Messengers documentary // MessengersRun.com
On the ROOMS to be MADE I am relieved no one told me when I was young how shaken and shaped I would be by the people I choose to love in this lifetime. Writing that sentence I questioned, just now, the use of the word choose. Is to love a choice? I know to love well is a choice. To see love through, to take care of it, to commit to it are all choices. But can we choose in fact who we love as we choose how to love them? That I wish someone could tell me. For three years I have been learning this: You cannot love someone into loving you. I imagine when I look back on my twenties, when I look back on my life in Idaho, it will be one of the great lessons I learned. I always believed that if you loved someone, if someone loved you, and particularly if they took place at the same time, that nothing else would matter. It seemed to me almost like a science. Sometimes I am standing in a doorway or at the grocery store and we’re talking like nothing ever happened. And I am learning this is where I will leave us. I can love him and not want to be with him. I can love him and leave. I can leave and just leave. And none of it changes any part of what has been and what will be. For a while I was worried it made everything mean less. It does nothing of the sort. I am interested in the way we can build worlds with someone else, how quickly the roads are cleared and paved, the monuments built, the jokes on our tongue. I could have never imagined how quickly I would take to riding in your car, or the shape of your hands in mine, or how I might make room for loving in a new way entirely. I didn’t even know there was room to be made. There is always room to be made. And we do, in spite of all the other madness. We build entire rooms to make peace and love and to rage against each other. We build rooms where we keep our plans and our distant shores, rooms where we whisper what we like in bed. Rooms we lock and leave behind, lives we wanted, lives that were forgone by others, forsaken and left. Rooms for all the room and the different ways we can love in this life. I am taken by how large my heart is, surprised by my resilience, and pleased with the rooms I have built.
PROSE BY ERIN ROSE BELAIR // @ROSEBLACQUE PHOTO BY ALEXANDRE FURCOLIN FILHO // @AFURCOLIN
REDWOOD OYSTERS
WORKING, SURFING, AND FINDING SIMPLICITY. STORY BY JUSTIN “SCRAPPERS” MORRISON // @SCRAPPERS PHOTOS BY SERA LINDSEY // @PORTABLESERA
CRESCENT CITY IS AN OYSTER.
Not the easygoing kind that lays around on a bed of crushed ice cracked wide open and ready to consume. No, this city is a working-class oyster wearing dirty boots and a shy smile. This oyster wants to stay protected by its cold grey shell and thick curtain of redwood trees. If you can respect its privacy, you’re more likely to see this oyster open its shy smile and share its tender truths. Crescent City loves the sea, even though the sea tried to destroy it with a tsunami in 1964. A 20-foot wave rolled up the streets crashing cars into gingerbread victorian homes, slamming fishing vessels into downtown shops, and casting a dark shadow of death that would last for generations. This is one of the wettest and most depressed places in California. It’s always got a tear in its beer. The day Joe Curren and David Wien met in Crescent City, the sun was out and there wasn’t a teary-eyed cloud in the bright blue sky. The oyster was smiling. Joe moved here from the blond-haired and blue-eyed shores of Santa Barbara. His dad Pat is a big wave-riding legend and surfboard shaper. His older brother Tom is a freaking genius surfer credited with elevating surf to a higher, more enlightened art form. If you’re wondering if I’m talking about the famous Tom Curren who’s won the world championship multiple times — yes I am. I’m sure Joe felt pressure to follow in his father’s and brother’s footsteps, but he found his own path. He traveled the world on surf trips where he cultivated his eye as a photographer, capturing the life of what happened before and after paddling out. He’s shot for surf magazines and has had art shows. He could have stayed in Southern California and coasted by on the legacy of his family fame, but his path was lit by love, so he moved to Crescent City to live a quieter life with his wife. David doesn’t live in Crescent City, but this is one of his favorite surf spots. He calls it “Workinmans Waikiki,” and he asked me not to quote him on that. (Sorry.) David lives on the southern end of the redwoods in Petrolia. It’s
a small town in the Lost Coast region of Humboldt county where people still rely on landlines and P.O. box mailing addresses. David is an amazing artist. The paintings and wood carvings he’s creating while living in the Redwoods are unlike anything I’ve ever seen grow in a city. A painting titled “Problems” was in his van shuffling around with his surf and skate boards. The painting is about the conflict between rigid geometric lines and squiggly colorful lines. I think David is the squiggly line making art for the fun of it in a world that wants to categorize every move we make. His approach to making art is pretty carefree, just like his surf style. Joe and David pull their black rubber hoods over their hairy heads and walk to the cold water. It’s high tide. The swell is consistent. The waves rise up to 4-6 feet. As they crest, the sun lights the mist erupting from the tip in the off-shore breeze. Nobody is out in the water. The oyster is smiling so big it’s about to crack open. Joe’s riding a fish he shaped with glassed-on Redwood fins. He rides with respect for the wave and seems to honor what it wants. He rides down the wavy wall of water expressing the shape within the wave the way David would carve a sculpture out of a block of wood. A short drive from this surf break is a small wooden house Joe is restoring. It’s fully under construction, but he’s finished the outdoor shower so he can rinse the salt water off his back before going into construction mode. Some of the wood he’s salvaged from restoring this house can be used in shaping new surfboards and building frames for his artwork. When the 1964 tsunami came through town, ocean water filled the building that Joe’s frame shop is in now. You can’t see the damage anymore, but there is a commemorative mural across the parking lot reminding people of the chaos. Joe restored this mid-century building to be full of natural light and beautiful woodwork. An 11-foot longboard shaped by Joe leans against a wall and reminds me that his solid wood frames are made with the same care and craftsmanship he put into that board. David has brought a painting to be framed, so the two guys spend time discussing the best pairings of wood to work with. Maybe they’ll frame it with redwood?
While we took a short hike through an old growth grove, I realized that David and Joe have a lot in common: surfing, making art, woodworking. But even greater is the sincere lifestyles they’ve found here. In this neck of the woods, people can get pulled down by the gloomy weather, but others seem to rise up and stand against the cold tide while all their bullshit washes away leaving their intentions strong, clear, and simple. These guys are happy oysters smiling in the redwoods. JOECURREN.COM // @JOECURREN DAVIDWIEN.COM // @DAVIDJWIEN
THIS ADVENTURE WAS MADE WITH HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS AT DANNER BOOTS @DANNERBOOTS // DANNER.COM
SIDEby SIDE HIS
I FIRST WROTE HER FROM EVEREST BASE CAMP. I was busy climbing, getting ready to make a go at the mountain. Curled in a sleeping bag, my ungloved fingers darted through the cold air to peck out the words that would entice her. I wrote of things that had impressed other women: my bravado, my athleticism, my sensitivity. None of that worked, but I was persistent. Four months later and under the guise of asking her for business advice, we went on our first date. She asked me if we were flirting. I said yes. Maybe some of those things did work. ONE MONTH LATER, WE DROVE TO HOOD RIVER while forest fires smoldered on the banks of the Columbia. As sheets of rain draped across the river, we wrapped ourselves around each other in the back of her bean-shaped travel trailer. We discussed the color of love. The plush sensation of an excited heart wasn’t new to either of us, but we both had concerns. There was hesitation in our kisses. We were already naked, and as we pressed our emotions and dreams against each other, we began a more intimate process of stripping bare. The gray noise of droplets hitting the fiberglass roof filled the silence when we rebounded from each other’s revelations. The smoke cleared from the gorge. My love was orange. Hers was blue.
I INTENDED TO SPEND THE FALL AND WINTER exploring the Rockies from the front seat of my SUV, but Seattle now had a gravity I didn’t want to escape. I changed my plans and lingered. She started to introduce me to her friends. They were climbers and writers and corporate types. I think they all liked me, but I felt isolated as I struggled to translate my decade in New York for a western audience. My adventures amid the cacophony of brick and steel in the Bowery didn’t seem to have value when the snow-felted slopes of the Cascades are your playground. But they did matter because they shaped me, and so I found connections. I was excited and encouraged because the more I knew the fixtures in her universe, the more I understood her. WE HAD OUR FIRST REAL ARGUMENT ON THE EVE of my departure for a month-long trip to Wyoming. After that, I cried some nights, cuddling myself under a scratchy wool blanket I had stolen from our closet in Seattle. I’d watch my tears sink into the waves of fabric as my fingers traced the edges of a polaroid she gave me before I left Washington. The blanket wasn’t comfortable, but it provided comfort. It was a physical connection to her. Though we talked every night, the distance was caustic. Skype messages and missed calls were misinterpreted in the worst possible ways. That was digital ersatz love. That was hell. Still, it mattered that each of us saw that the other was trying. We invested in the relationship in ways that we could, even if they weren’t what the other person needed. And we never stopped believing in us. In past relationships, I’ve rooted myself in my self-sufficiency during moments of tension: If the relationship blows up, I’ll drink a lot of bourbon, but I’ll be fine. We are different. During our moments of discord, I never imagine a universe where we aren’t “we.”
PHOTO BY PATRICK MAURO
TWO LOVE STORIES BY TWO MOUNTAIN CLIMBERS BY CHARLOTTE AUSTIN AND PATRICK MAURO @CHARLOTTEAUSTIN // @PATRICK.MAURO
HER’S OUR FIRST DATE WAS STUPIDLY ROMANTIC — a luscious sunset, crisp cocktails, freshly cracked saltwater crab — right up until the moment I gave him explosive liquid diarrhea. We’d been in touch months before, and there’d been loose correspondence while I traveled for my work as a mountain guide. We traded emails while I was on Alaskan mountains, Russia’s highest peak, and a Mongolian expedition. It was late August when my plane landed in Seattle, and less than 24 hours later, I looked at him through sunglasses still covered in dust from the steppe. He leaned toward me. I put my hand on his chest, my flat warm palm firm against the open v-shaped slice of skin at the top of his button-up shirt. “Maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” I said. “I’m shitting my brains out. We visited a yurt. A Mongolian family offered me fermented camel milk. Now I’m peeing out my ass. I’ve been on a diet of Gatorade and Imodium.” He shrugged. “That stuff isn’t transmittable by mouth,” he said. “I like you. Kiss me.” I did. He tasted like sunshine and saltwater and honesty. I remember how it started. I don’t remember stopping. TWO DAYS LATER I GOT A TEXT FROM CHICAGO, where he’d flown for a business meeting. “I’m at a walk-in clinic,” he wrote. “Just tell me which antibiotics I need.” I texted him the details: ask for the strongest Z-pack imaginable. Then I immediately texted all of my friends, too. “You’re not going to believe this,” I wrote. “Remember that dude I went on a date with? He’s got the shits, too.” My best friend wrote back immediately. “If he’s still calling you after this fiasco, you should marry him.” I started to write her a sassy response, then stopped typing to pick up his call. We talked for three hours that night, each sipping electrolytes and chewing dry crackers. HE MOVED IN THREE WEEKS LATER, slowly unloading his belongings from the Rubbermaid tubs he kept in the back of his car. It was rash, a little impractical. I cleaned out a drawer in my bathroom. He left a pair of shoes. The sex was fun, but what I remember most is that we couldn’t stop talking. Late at night, while we were running errands and buying milk and sliced turkey and too much nice cheese, we told each other the truth — the kind of truth that’s hard to even admit to yourself, where it just spills out of you before you’ve even realized what you’re going to say. The kind of truth that makes you realize you’ve just admitted your deepest soul, the things that matter, the points on the scatter plot of life that connect to tell your most real stories. I told him about my dreams. He told me about his ideas. We laughed. I cried, sobbing into his chest until I dry-heaved on the bathroom floor. Every time I work up the courage to admit my weakness, he teaches me that every quirk is a strength too. WE FIGHT. SWEET CHRIST, WE FIGHT. But there has never — not for one single instant — been a moment where I’ve doubted that he’s the one. In past relationships, I’ve been ready to torch the fuckers and leave in a cloud of righteousness, but in this one — well, it’s the first time that I’ve truly felt like part of a team. SIX MONTHS AFTER OUR FIRST DATE, we drove together from Salt Lake City to Seattle. We stayed in a cheap casino, ate greasy take-out, followed signs to the annual cowboy poetry convention. It was a romantic road trip, but I remember feeling grumpy because I was scared of that nebulous in-between state that happens after you’ve cleared space for somebody you love but before they’ve fully moved in. I didn’t tell him that, but he knew. He found a hot springs in the mountains, and we drove too far out of our way to soak at sunset under the big desert sky. I stripped off my clothes, feeling the bathtub-warmth move up my thighs as I stepped into the pool. Then the sandy bottom fell away, and I slid, off-kilter, into the depth. I choked, sputtering a mouthful of water before finding my balance as I swam. But then I kept swimming, lap after lap of that tiny green pond, and I thought: Maybe I do know how to do this after all.
DE
EEP ROOTS THE PAST AND PRESENT COME TOGETHER TO FORGE THE FUTURE
STORY AND PHOTOS BY SERA LINDSEY // @PORTABLESERA
ON THE BIG ISLAND OF HAWAI’I AT THE PEAK OF MAUNA KEA, A WOMAN LIVES.
She tends to her home peacefully, unless disturbed. Sleeping with one eye open, she sees the blessings and injustices alike that are rendered to her land. A goddess of the fire, the wind, of lightning, and of dance, she is a daughter of the earth, and an eternal witness. She will defend it as she always has. Her name is Pele, Ka wahine `ai honua, “Woman who Devours the Land.”
Legend says that when Pele arrived to Hawai’i on her canoe, she became entangled in the many strong roots of the Hala tree. In anger and frustration, she tore them from the ground and tossed them far and wide. Each piece rooted itself throughout the islands. Hala has been honored as one of the most important parts of Hawaiian ecology, gifting the people with fruit to eat, branches to build with, and draping lau. The lauhala (leaves of the hala tree) are long enough to weave canoe sails and malleable enough to wear. Women have worked with Hala for countless generations. In the practice of lauhala weaving, they touch down to the first place Pele encountered when meeting her new home. In honoring this tradition, the weavers root themselves with ancestors, and with the spirit of the land itself. These are craftspeople working within a lineage that has existed for thousands of years. Yet today, fewer than 10 percent of Hawaiian families now practice lauhala weaving, and many of the techniques and designs have been forever lost to time. Master weavers crafted their own braiding and knots, distinguishing themselves and their families—simultaneously honoring one another while also standing independent in their craft. The women of Hilo-based shop Hana Hou have been doing their part in holding the heartbeat
of this tradition, practicing and preserving it by offering lauhala workshops, woven lauhala hats, bangles, bags and earrings. For over 25 years, Michele Zane-Faridi and her daughter Shadi Faridi have worked together to keep their business thriving, as well as the culture that serves as its foundation.
vorite Hawaiian clothing, home goods, and crafts. The design and quality were so good that we needed to give it another run, another life. Often heard at the end of concerts, or events, the crowd can be heard screaming HANAHOU! HANAHOU! confirming that the music, the art, the mana, is so good, that it must be called out, once again.”
Beyond lauhala, they also provide formal pieces made from momi and kahelelani shells, some of the most valuable shells in the world, sizing somewhere between a grain of rice to a watermelon seed. These are harvested from Ni’ihau (known as The Forbidden Island, as it is not open to visitors), and are protected by law, keeping the ecology and authenticity intact. These lei pūpū ‘o Ni’ihau (traditional shell-crafted lei from Ni’ihau) are painstakingly made. From harvesting to threading, they must be handled with the most precise touch, as one mistake could cost a shell, or an entire lei. Traditionally made for royalty, these are now reserved for wear during weddings or other special occasions. The cost of each piece reflects the great effort made in their creation, often selling for over $5000.
From the selection of vintage they carry—ultra-rare Hawaiian shirts, elegantly draping kimono, or the magnificent woven Hala pieces — all are recognizable cross sections of various cultures that now make Hawai’i what it is today. Echoes of times past, and times to come.
I asked Shadi of Hana Hou why they decided on this particular phrase as the name of their shop, she said, “It means ‘one more time,’ or ‘so good you want to do it again.’ Starting out as a vintage Hawaiian collectibles shop, we focused on our fa-
The Big Island of Hawai’i is dormant and active all at once. It expresses a fierce energy that cannot be contained, but rather beckons for respectful collaboration. It teaches us that what we give is what we get. Aloha ʻĀina “love of the land,” is a central part of the way of life in Hawai’i. There is an understanding that what you give to the land, you give to yourself, your home, and all that live upon it as well. Just as the roots of the Hala tree reach from island to island, the old teachings trace the same path. In working with the land, you honor the land. You honor ancestors. To teach those today breathes life into the future of this craft, and ensures a new generation of understanding and stewardship. With one eye open, Pele smiles.
MODELS LAUREN KAPONO, SHADI FARIDI, TALACE PAI // CLOTHING, BAGS, AND ACCESSORIES HANA HOU // HILO, HI // HANAHOUHILO.COM // KIMONOS KD’S GIFTS & CRAFT // HILO, HI
MAÑA
ANA AMAZONIAN LOVE BOAT FULL OF HAMMOCKS AND CHICKEN EGGS STORY BY BRANDON RAPHAEL DUPRÉ PHOTOS BY MIA SPINGOLA // @MAMBO.MIA
IT WAS JUST AFTER DAWN when the final truckloads arrived. The workers, mostly barefoot, swarmed the open truck beds, stacking cartons of eggs onto one shoulder while balancing sacks of oranges on the other, operating on some unspoken, collective organization like how bees or ants do. They ran up muddied planks to the cargo ship, weaving past other workers on their way down, not minding a couple of broken eggs or fallen oranges, the casualties of doing business on the Amazon River. “Mañana,” we were assured by Oscar. The ship was going to for sure, without fail, no doubt, definitely leave tomorrow. Oscar was about 5’6’’ and wore a discolored red tank top and oversized jeans with sandals and had the remarkable ability of materializing whenever you needed something. Oscar was the hype man and fast talker of Eduardo VIII. The type of guy you wouldn’t want to sit down at a card table with. He waited at the port’s entrance for confused-looking gringos, ushered them towards the ships, selling them a hammock or maybe a private room on a cargo ship headed to Iquitos, tells them it’s leaving tomorrow,
and then plugs his personal product: weed. “Tengo la buena,” mumbled Oscar after he showed us the ship’s lodging, wiping some sweat from his brow. “Es gewd me frynd, la buena,” he added. It was now our third day on-board Eduardo VIII, a cargo ship docked in the port town of Yurimaguas in the Peruvian Amazon, when the ship’s engines showed the first signs of life. My girlfriend Mia and I had spent three days watching cows forcefully penned somewhere below deck and chickens flapping in vain against metal bars. We saw cases of beer, small boats, moto taxis, all kinds of fruits and vegetables and every conceivable and inconceivable item someone could want in the remote jungle loaded onto the ship until finally it was ready. The engine chugged, rumbling the boat to life. Oscar, muddied and wet from the light rain that had fallen that morning during the final cargo load, waved goodbye from the shore, his sandals completely submerged in mud. He took a sip from a flask and readjusted his Chicago Bulls hat against the midday sun. His day was done, but ours, finally out on the river, had just begun — three days and around 20 mosquito bites later.
Yurimaguas has become an unlikely destination for travelers, who now head to the town looking for cheap rides to Iquitos, the ayahuasca capital of the Peruvian Amazon, and a threeday adventure along the Amazon. To local Peruvians, who made up about 50 of the 60 passengers, it is part of their weekly commute. Yurimaguas marks the end of wheels and cement and gives way to murky waters and boats.
of laughing and shouting and strange ramblings from a deckhand who mistook me for someone else in the night.
We spent the night strung up in hammocks with the rest of the 60 or so passengers on the second deck. Aside from the kitchen that served our meals and the little store that sold gum and mostly beer, a hammock occupied every inch of space on the second deck. In some places, hammocks were stacked three high and even dangled over railings. There were so many hammocks that walking became difficult. To get to the tienda for a beer you’d have to step over a hammock onto a bench, then duck under another two, side step a third, avoid stepping on the three kids asleep on a piece of cardboard, and then duck under another. Just getting out of my hammock required a certain amount of concentration and dexterity so as not to swing my hammock too much and knock into my neighbors, causing a chain reaction of swinging hammocks and annoyed Peruvians.
The line moved fast. The cooks quickly plopped down brown, mysterious breakfast mush from an industrial-sized pot. Quickly, I thought, looking at others pull out their Tupperware — what to use? I took out a notebook from my backpack, the sight of which drew an odd glance or two. The cook plopped down the mystery mush on my notebook with a grin, probably thinking, crazy ass dumb gringo. I later found out that you could in fact rent plates for a small fee, a detail everyone failed to mention.
Below the second deck was where the cargo and livestock was stored and where the flies were the busiest. Above us, the top deck was completely open except for about six private quarters, which are really just metal closets with two bunk beds welded in, and are reserved for the captain, his crew and a few high paying passengers. The private rooms cost around $70, around three times the cost of renting a hammock. Sleeping a night in a hammock takes either practice or the right amount of alcohol and sleep deprivation, neither of which I had enough of the first night on the river. I woke up countless times in the night and my dreams and my sleepless bits seemed to blur together. Fighting chickens grappled in the corner, menacing bats swooping in, shrills from a baby squirming on a piece of cardboard, large buzzing insects, outburst
It was all made stranger by the line that had begun to form at 7 a.m., winding through the maze of hammocks towards the front of the ship. Each passenger had a container for a bowl and a utensil in had, something Oscar had failed to mention that I needed.
Just as quickly as the breakfast was served, a line formed for the bathrooms, next to the kitchen. It didn’t move fast, just brief, half-asleep shuffles forward. Four people were at the four faucets that spat out river water, using it to wash their bowls and utensils. One man, only in soggy underwear and a rosary, washed his clothes. There were four stalls, each with a toilet and an overhead shower head, so that you could conceivably take a shower while sitting on the toilet at the same time. It was soon my turn for a stall. The shower water was sucked up straight from the river and never entirely drained out of the stall, leaving little puddles at the base of the toilet your feet would sink into every time you sat down. The mornings were like this each day and the afternoons were all about staying cool, a difficult task when trapped on a metal boat in the middle of the Amazon. The savvy Peruvians who made the trip regularly were quick to buy cold beers as soon as it got midday. I followed their lead. Outside of trying to drink your body temperature down, there was nothing else to do to escape the cloth-like heat of the jungle.
“SLEEPING A NIGHT IN A HAMMOCK TAKES EITHER PRACTICE OR THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL AND SLEEP DEPRIVATION.”
Between Yurimaguas and Iquitos, everything pretty much looked the same; only the names of places changed. The water, though, was unlike any water I’d seen before. It wasn’t blue like the ocean or even the dark opaque and ominous blue of the deep ocean that seems lifeless and cruel. It was a dark, frothy brown with zero visibility, the sort of water you imagine hiding hundreds of bloodthirsty crocodiles. The greatest change was felt when the rains came, which was always quick and violent. You could see the rains approaching from the top deck, a black blob on the horizon. The deckhand could feel the storm coming on before anyone else, and without even looking, would begin storm preparation in earnest. He removed precariously hung hammocks, unfurled plastic sidings to prevent sideways rain and closed the latch on the third story. The rain sounded like nails falling against a metal surface. They would pound for an hour or two, during which time you’d be stuck in your hammock until it passed, chickens roaming the floor and just about every smell trapped on the deck by the plastic siding. During the evenings, the sunset became the event, as every-
one gathered on the top deck, some with beers in hands, as the sun sank. It was like this every night. The sun sat above the jungle, bringing out intense shades of greens and yellows. The moment hung on the water like a bug, briefly, before it too disappeared into the night. Little wooden boats began to appear alongside ours as the commotion of Iquitos came into focus. Ships twice the size of ours bobbed up and down in the port of Iquitos, some abandoned, marooned on shores until the waters rise in the rainy season. Bananas, grapes, watermelons, oranges — colors popping against the milkshake brown of the Amazon rode by on boats. Luxury cruises with glass walls and seven course meals paraded past with wooden taxis in their wake. The wild and chaotic commerce of Iquitos, a city flirting with anarchy, was on full display, the large appetite that devoured all the goods on our ship and every cargo ship that sailed into the port. The rapacious desire was the heartbeat of the murky waters and surrounding forests, giving life and abundance just as quickly as it could take it. It is the mañana waiting in the heart of the Peruvian Amazon.
PHOTOS BY ALEXANDRE FURCOLIN // ALEXANDREFURCOLINF.COM
HOUSEof the DEVIL THE RED GLOW OF A STRIPPER’S STAGE
STORY BY ROSE THOMAS
I LOVE WOMEN. MORE SPECIFICALLY I LOVE THEIR BODIES. It all began one innocent Sunday afternoon on the way home from a summer day lounging at Sauvie Island in the sun. On my way home, I hit up Matt to see what he was up to. “Ever been to Casa Diablo?” he asked. I hadn’t. I was still newly getting accustomed to strip clubs, as one inevitably does living in Portland, Oregon. “No,” I replied. “Wanna go?” “Sure, why not.”
Now, Casa on a Sunday, as I would come to find out, is quite different to Casa on a Friday or Saturday night. When Matt and I walked in, it was fairly sleepy, but there were men sitting at the rack, naked ladies showing off their parts on stage, the DJ keeping things lively, and that red glow I would come to know so well. Casa also has a certain smell—stripper perfume and men. It’s hard to describe. I should say, I used to hate the idea of strip clubs. Despised them, even. But that was before I came to know them, to understand the dynamic, the allure. Now, going to a strip club—and specifically Casa Diablo—is my Disneyland. I walk in and the rest of the world disappears, and you can’t wipe the smile off my face. So Matt and I are at Casa on Sunday afternoon. We order some beers, pick our spot at the third stage—which is the best stage because by the third stage, (pro tip here), the girls are completely naked by then. The first stage is crap. It’s all about the third stage. We watched a few girls. I marveled at the way they commanded the stage, the confidence, the sex appeal. I was enraptured. Then a blonde, somewhat tattooed, rather statuesque girl took the stage. She danced for a little bit, worked the pole, then came
to talk to me. “Have you ever been here before?” she asked. “No, this is my first time,” I replied. “Well, we like to take girls on stage here, would you like to come up with me?” she asked, holding out her hand. I looked at Matt and then back at the blonde dancer. I thought, what the fuck. Why not. She took my hand, warned me not to step (pro tip) on the piece of wood where you put your drinks, and just like that, I was on stage. She proceeded to take off my top. Then my shorts. Then my bra (pro tip: don’t keep your money in your bra. When the stripper takes it off, all your money will go flying), and then—gasp—my panties. She writhed her body on mine, pushed me up against the pole, breathed along my neck, feeling me up and down. I was careful not to touch her, but our bodies touched. And fuck. It was hot. Then the song ended, I gathered my clothes and Matt held out his hand to help me off stage, butt naked. Over the course of the next three years, I’ve been brought on stage dozens of times. Sometimes two or three times in one night. Sometimes I’ve hardly dressed myself, and another girl wants to take me up. I don’t ask to be taken up. I just seem to have an invisible sign on my head that says “I’m fucking down.” Sometimes these encounters are fairly tame, but they increasingly grew more explicit. One dancer who likes to take me up sometimes spanks me so hard repeatedly until my ass is black and blue in the morning, or she chokes me, or shows me off, naked and sprawled to the audience. Just last night she saw me sitting at the rack and came over to tell me she was going on stage just to take me up. A strange swell of pride rushed through me. These girls are my friends in a way—some of us are friends on social media, but I’m also somewhat starstruck by them. But I haven’t even mentioned the twins yet. Oh the motherfucking twins. If you know, then you know. If you don’t, let me help. There’s Z and her sister. They are twins. They are both strippers. And they
do stage shows together—licking each other’s pussies, swallowing dildos, kissing, sixty-nining—the works. (Pro tip: get yourself a time machine and go back to when these girls both worked at Casa, because…well, holy fuck). The thing about the twins is that they are hot. Really hot. Tattooed, Eastern European bone structure, killer bodies, slender but with big, beautiful breasts. So on a few occasions, I’ve spent hundreds of dollars sitting at the rack, watching girl after girl, just waiting for the twins to come up. But when they do, and when they’ve taken me on stage, it’s all worth it. When the twins take me up it’s an adrenaline rush I can’t get from anything else. Being in a room full of easily 50-100? men, completely naked, elevated to the level of the stage, bent over on hands and knees, with one twin going down on me from behind, and the other kissing me, with me between them. And the weird thing about the twins is that I kind of look like them. So we’re like this sex show of triplets. It’s wild. I miss the twins. Casa’s a little different these days. There are still a few girls who are really excited to see me when I come in, but there are a lot of new girls I don’t know. I only get brought up once in a night. But I’ve learned to work my angles. Learned to look around while I’m up there to see the looks on men’s faces, take it all in. I’m no longer a newbie. I still let the dancer have her way with me, but I’m more aware of what’s going on, more aware of what’s going to look good. I’m grateful for my adventures on stage in the nude. I know it’s risk—anyone could see me up there at any time. I could be judged, ridiculed. But honestly, I don’t give a fuck. Because those three minutes being worshipped by another woman, naked for the whole world to see, sharing a moment with her, us choreographing an impromptu performance on stage with two-dollar bills flying—it’s sheer fucking bliss.
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A LIFE SETTLED IN MOTION
STORY BY LAUREN DE VINE // @LAURENDEVINEBEV PHOTOS BY RANDY P. MARTIN // @RANDYPMARTIN
I HAVE CROSSED THIRTY STATE LINES FROM JULY TO OCTOBER THIS YEAR. In perfect conditions, I like to open a beer and watch the sun bend a thousand shades of violet before it is just me and the darkened sky and whatever critters take the stage to sing it down in my temporary corner of the universe. With any luck, the people I meet in my last day-drenched hour will be kind and humble, like the Vietnam vet named Larry who sold me firewood tonight from his small silver Nissan truck. His last words to me, the last human words I heard this day on earth were, “I am just here to help.” He meant in life. I keep an atlas shoved heavy with hand drawn maps and notes, a short library of books gifted to me along the way, fireworks, and a small amount of mushrooms in a matchbox.
I am settled in motion. I need the phenomenon that road people know where the air moves past you in intermittent warm and cold pockets, expanding and contracting with changes in the topography around you — a respiratory system all its own. I take two lane highways and dirt roads and chase rivers that I haven’t passed in years — making good on promises made from a bridge above, out the window of a van while on tour long ago. This isn’t a vacation. This is simply my life, happening across multiple locations. Much of my work is done remotely, and because I have been at it for some time, I complete projects in large batches, freeing up greater concentrations of time to pursue the explorations of my choosing: time in the wilderness, my relationship with fear, and other mental real estate. I don’t identify as someone who is “seeking,” I am just “being.”
I am a woman. Being a woman on the road alone is big enough in the minds of many to even perceive my choices as “extreme.” My gender asks that I explain my freedoms differently and certainly requires a lot of additional conversation. I answer the following questions:
AREN’T YOU SCARED? HOW DID YOU GET SO BRAVE? DO YOU HAVE CHILDREN? IT MUST BE HARD TO MAINTAIN A RELATIONSHIP. I WISH I COULD DO THAT. SO YOU CARRY A GUN? I don’t get mad at the people asking me these questions in the way that I don’t get upset by people telling me they are praying for me because they are the same thing. The conversation always rolls back and forth between congratulatory and all-out panic. Also I am always the calmest one in the room. Statistically, as a woman I am safer on the road and mostly outdoors than if I were living in a city full time. Animals don’t kill people: People kill people. I stay safe and responsible with my choices. I drive well and understand my vehicle. I watch for others on the road as well as animals and always motorcycles. I am in constant conversation with my instinct, and avoiding it is a non-option.
I keep practices that lessen the probability for trouble. For example, I don’t go to bars alone on nights where I will be camped in my van. I also stay at established campsites the majority of the time rather than renegading, but I have my spots and know when the time is right. I have been flagged off the road thinking I had a headlight out and asked to dinner twice in the last month, and sometimes men suggest some local camping information and invite themselves to roll out for a beer later. For the record, none of those things are cool and I am always going to go the opposite way.
This summer I was followed in eastern Wyoming by a man I had met at a gas station. After the third time he approached me as I filled up, my instinct went off and I gave him a ten-minute lead before climbing on the highway. Fifteen minutes down the road I saw him waiting for me on top of an overpass. I confirmed my suspicion by slowing to half my speed when he pulled next to me. I allowed a few cars to get between us so I could maneuver out of the situation. I was thirty miles from Sturgis and a whole lot of loved ones that put up with zero shit moved in my direction. I have had a neon life full of travel, creative and professional success, confusion, waking dreams, fuck ups, and an endless train of friendships. I am grateful for all of the forms that luck has taken and continues to take as I make my way through this turn as a human, doing my thing as I was meant to. Ultimately, being a woman on the road in my thirties is beautiful because I am fully aware of who I am, and no longer bear the weight of living “in spite of” anything. I am totally happy and exactly where I am supposed to be. In motion. Just being.
UNA BUENA VIDA UNA VIDA MEJOR A GOOD LIFE. A BETTER LIFE. STORY & PHOTO BY EMILY HOPCIAN // @EMILYHOPCIAN
“ME PARECE QUE ES UNA VIDA MEJOR,” I say to Mati as we rest against a pile of rocks, breathing in the clear-day views of Las Torres, the famous towers of Parque Nacional Torres del Paine in southern Chile. “Si, una buena vida,” he says, a knowingness in his voice. A Chilean mountain guide, rock climber, and ski instructor, Mati knows what it means to go against the grain. He knows what it’s like to push back on societal expectations, a conventional lifestyle. Time spent immersed in nature can make for an intense, meaningful experience with ourselves, the people around us, and the natural environments we’re exploring. Out in nature, with everything stripped back, I tend to go deep. Through hours on the trail and hours of internal dialogue, I’ve found myself falling in love with this world-renowned national park and more deeply in love with myself and
the ways in which I’m intentionally living my dreams. No major surprises there. No, what catches me off-guard is my love for the Chilean mountain guide who sits beside me and the moments and conversations we’ve shared. I take a sip of tea. Mati hands me a cracker, cuts a slice of cheese with his pocket knife, and hands it to me. We snack on crackers, cheese, olives, and slightly-frozen Nutella. Every few minutes, the wind barrels through — coarsely coating my face and hair with sand. A few grains garnish my tea. I stabilize myself and let the wind have its fun. If finding sand in my ears for the next few days is the small price I pay for this moment in nature — a moment of peace, gratitude, a full heart — that’s all right by me. In Spanish and English, Mati and I talk about future dreams, freelance work, and freedom. We talk about the magic of nature and the importance of pursuing a life that matters to you. Una buena vida. Una vida mejor. A good life. A better life. These are the sentiments of our conversation, the sentiments of a life less ordinary, a life extraordinary.
Throughout five days of hiking in every type of weather imaginable — hello, Patagonia — I’ve tangled with a whole mess of thoughts and emotions. I’ve traversed some hefty mountains, and today, our final day, I’m working to make sense of those mountains, to bring things full circle with and for myself. At the viewpoint of Las Torres, Mati and I share a moment of connection, a moment of understanding. We’re two kindred, adventurous spirits, fellow members of the wilderness. For me, this moment and conversation carry weight. At the very least, it’s a moment of recognizing, despite all our differences — language, nationality, culture, and more —the ways in which we’re the same, the ways in which our lives are guided by similar principals, matters of the heart and soul. As I sit on a rock atop the viewpoint, I dance in a sandstorm of thoughts and emotions as I find myself falling for Torres del Paine, the man sitting beside me and, most importantly, myself — the person I’m choosing to be, the life I’m choosing to live.
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PETROLEUM DECAY MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE AND MOMENTS OF LOVE
STORY AND PHOTOS BY SCOTT HATHAWAY AND SHARAH YADDAW // @RED_WHISKERS // @SHARAHJOYENNE
ON THE ALASKAN HIGHWAY,
by some act of fate or chance, our paths crossed. One path on a bicycle and the other on a motorcycle. We made a fire and drank coffee in a rainstorm watching the morning mist rise over the Wrangell-St. Elias mountains. Two years later with one refurbished XT 600 and one tried and true, we left our garden and home behind, stacked our motos to the sky with gear, kicked over our shiny re-built engines, and hit the road together.
Motorcycle adventures are a love-hate experience. Riding these old single cylinder bikes destroys your body. At the end of a day of riding, we have become lumps of jelly. Our heads are buzzing, our hands are numb from vibrations, and we are exhausted. All we do is eat, sleep, and ride. These days add up to what we like to call a state of “petroleum decay.” The bikes require constant attention but they tractor along like immortal machines carrying us down dirt roads, across streams, over winding mountain passes, and through forests of cactus and coffee alike. We care for them, and they save us when we pop a wheelie on a sketchy cobblestone hill or hit a pothole that descends to China. It is a symbiotic relationship and our motos are as much a part of our journey as we are, like good friends along for the ride and up for the challenge. In a state of decay and motorcycle maintenance, we have ridden the wild roads of Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and back. We have spent weeks living with local families and immersing ourselves in the cultures of different places. Simple places with rooster serenades and pigs wandering the streets. With wonderful people who have a healthy closeness to the land and the earth and strong families who embrace you and shower you with kindness, acceptance, and love. In Guatemala, we slept on the slopes overlooking Guatemala City and awoke to visions of the apocalypse. Volcán de Fuego was cracking and grumbling, sending up huge plumes of ash, READ MORE AT YAMAHAMMER.COM
and the night sky was illuminated red with the glow of lava. We rode down to the base of the volcano to witness our first eruption and stopped to talk to anybody standing around. One bicyclist who grew up in the city remembered the eruption in 1974 when pyroclastic and lava flow took out most of the agricultural land around the base. He reminisced, “When I was a boy, my father took me to see the lava flowing through the ‘Barranca Honda.’ It’s the volcanoes that make this land so fertile.” As he started to bike away, he kicked at some cans in the ditch and said, “I love my country, it’s so beautiful here. Now if we could only do something about all this damn trash!” A true adventure is not really romantic or easy or always fun. A true adventure will test you. You will sometimes want to quit. You will wonder why you are doing this. It is painful, it is hard, and it can bring you to tears that are born from the very depths of your heart in a multitude of emotions. But it is worth it. You will never be the same. A real adventure teaches you about yourself in a true way. There is no room to construct false ideas of who you are. We take this on, we embrace it, we change, and we see the world in a new way.
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“I’ve spent my whole life running ‘round. Chasing songs from town to town. Thinking I’d be free, so long as I never let love slow me down. So lonely and so wild until you turned and smiled.”
JACKSON BROWNE // I THOUGHT I WAS A CHILD // 1973
