By Yvon Chouinard



I don’t like to think of myself as a businessman. I’ve made no secret that I hold a fairly skeptical view of the business world. That said, Patagonia, the company my wife and I founded four decades ago, has grown up to be — by global standards — a medium-size business. And that bestows on our family a serious responsibility. The last line of Patagonia’s mission statement is “… use business to inspire and implement solutions to the environmental crisis.” We’ve always taken that seriously.

Three examples: Every year for 30 years, Patagonia has donated one percent of its sales to grassroots environmental organizations. We helped initiate the Sustainable Apparel Coalition, an organization of companies that produces more than a third of the clothing and footwear on the planet. In a very short time, the Coalition has launched an index of social and environmental performance that designers (and eventually consumers) can use to make better decisions when developing products or choosing materials. And last year we became one of California’s first B Corps (benefit corporations), which means that the values that helped make our company successful are now etched into our legal charter.

Now is the time for Patagonia to take the next logical step: to reach out beyond the framework of the apparel and outdoor industries. Today, my family and I are happy to launch $20 Million & Change, an internal fund to help like-minded, responsible start-up companies bring about positive benefit to the environment.

With the launch of this fund, we have reorganized Patagonia and our other businesses within a new holding company called Patagonia Works. While most holding companies are about diversification, Patagonia Works is dedicated to a single cause: using business to help solve the environmental crisis. Rose Marcario, who has been COO and CFO of Patagonia’s apparel company, will now take on a new role as President and CEO of Patagonia Works. Rose has been instrumental in tripling profits for our company. We now want to apply her business acumen and keen sense of social and environmental responsibility to new companies in five critical areas: clothing, yes, but also food, water, energy and waste. Rose has been responsible for the launch of Patagonia Provisions, which will soon expand beyond our Wild Salmon Jerky (wild-caught in natal waters by First Nations tribes) to other foods that, like our jerky, are more thoughtfully sourced. The food business is, as much as the apparel or energy industries, environmentally broken. It takes more from the planet than it gives back. We aim to find ways to get what we want to eat by working with nature rather than against it. 

Casey Sheahan will continue to serve as President and CEO of Patagonia, Inc., the clothing company at the heart of Patagonia Works.

Others might see Patagonia Works and $20 Million & Change as revolutionary business ventures; we think both are just next logical steps to doing business more responsibly. Economic growth for the past two centuries has been tied to an ever-spiraling carbon bonfire. Business – and human – success in the next 100 years will have to come from working with nature rather than using it up. That is a necessity, not a luxury as it’s seen now in most business quarters. We invite and encourage all companies to start to work with us in that direction.

To apply for funding or seek information regarding the $20 Million & Change program, please email: info@patagoniaworks.com or call (805) 667-2300.

Best regards,

Yvon Chouinard
Founder of Patagonia Works

Photo by Tim Davis

 

By Fitz & Becca Cahall

We're back for our third annual Live from 5Point event. The sun was shining, but Steve's Guitars was at capacity. Today we present the first two stories from Kevin Pearce and Chris Davenport. In 2009, Kevin was one of the best snowboarders in the world. On a training run, he had a major accident (his story is chronicled in the film The Crash Reel). Today, he talks about finding happiness after suffering a traumatic brain injury.

Chris' career as a big mountain skier is impressive – numerous first ski descents of peaks, traveled around the world to ski, a two-time world champion. But I've always been impressed by Chris' creativity in the mission he chooses. Today, he talks about the aesthetics of the lines he chooses and what he loves about mountains, especially those close to home.

Listen to "Live from 5Point Vol. 5"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Visit dirtbagdiaries.com to download the music from "Live from 5Point Vol. 5", listen to The Shorts and pledge your support for the show. You can subscribe to the podcast via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

By Ryan Peterson



As with any creative endeavor, the process of building is fraught with self-doubt. But when I showed a draft of my film, sea-swallow’d to my friend Teplin Cahall 5 months ago, I got a boost. You see, Tep can't talk. He was born that way. Because of this and some associated developmental issues, he sees the world a little differently than do the rest of us.

One gauges Tep’s thoughts and feelings on a matter by the glints of ecstasy or tears of rage that accumulate in his eyes, and the alternately soothing or garish noises that his vocal chords are able to emit. His emotions are pure, raw, unfiltered by the complications of the wide world. He’s like an animal - innocent, instinctual, knowing only truth. In this way, if you can decipher his notes and read his analyses, Tep is the best critic a friend could ever have. To date, according to his dad, Fitz, Tep has watched sea-swallow’d several hundred times. I take this as approval.  
I should disclose something here. Tep is no kind of savant. It’s just that he’s 18 months old, and like most 18-month-olds his linguistic skills are sharpening by the day. Before long he’ll be like the rest of us, powdered daily by complex ideas and dollars that shape our convictions about how the world should work. Maybe as he ages he’ll be tempted, like some of us, to overlook unequivocal truths and go with flows dictated more by subjective social waves. Or maybe like others of us, he’ll stay transfixed by pure, simple, healthy images of the miracle of life, such as those I was humbled to swim beside during filming. Whatever we are today, we were all like Tep once.
 
In any event, making something that can make a baby sit stone still and smile for seven minutes straight might be my proudest accomplishment.


 
I hope you enjoy sea-swallow’d as much as Tep does.
 
If you do: TAKE ACTION NOW at SaveBristolBay.org. Let the EPA know that you support their Bristol Bay [Alaska] Watershed Assessment Plan, which finds that large-scale, open-pit mining development—such as that proposed by the Pebble Mine—would likely have unprecedented, disastrous consequences for the region’s salmon-based ecosystem and the vibrant industries that depend on it today for economy, culture, and spirit. Your voice will be heard and will help give the Administration the courage it needs to stop the mine before it gets started. This is the BEST shot we’ve got.

The public comment period ends May 31, 2013. Weigh in. It’s really freaking important.
 
Thanks to so many for so much support on this project, including Patagonia. Unlike the Pebble Mine, Patagonia is, as always, in the right place at the right time.
 
Ryan Peterson
 
P.S. Tep encourages all small children to watch sea-swallow’d. Show it to them and watch what happens.

[With thanks to Travis Rummel, Save Bristol Bay and Trout Unlimited.]

 

By Shari Williamson, Bozeman, Montana



Dear Patagonia,

I don’t actually know the original owner of this little red and purple fleece jacket. I do not know several names scrawled on the tag, but I know some of them… We found this jacket in a large ragged cardboard box of hand-me-downs from a family with three kids. The jacket came to them from a co-worker with two boys. 

Next, with our two girls, this jacket saw hundreds of miles of trail, many nights in tents, from back roads to back yards, and every other day in between.

We passed on the jacket a few years ago, and saw it used by two more kids before they handed it down again, in a ragged old cardboard box.

Kids, as is their job, grow fast. And it seems items made for kids these days reflect a similar characteristic – wear fast. But this little fleece jacket is still going strong after 12 kids (maybe more). Thanks Patagonia, for keeping the hand-me-down tradition going strong.

–Shari




This story first appeared on the Patagonia Worn Wear™ blog. We're always looking for good stories (and a photo) about people and their Patagonia gear. Submit yours today. If it gets published, we'll send you a Worn Wear patch.

June 11, 1938–April 21, 2013

By Cameron M. Burns



One of the greatest American climbers of the late 1950s and ’60s, Layton Herman Kor, died April 21 after a long battle with kidney problems and cancer.

The son of a Dutch mason (Jacob Kor) who came to the U.S. in 1897 from the Oldambt area of Groningen, the Netherlands, and a second-generation German-American (Leona Schutjer) from Iowa, Kor spent his early life in Canby, Minnesota and was particularly fond of swimming and fishing, especially during Minnesota’s hot summers. He loved the outdoors.

Editor's note: We're grateful to author Cam Burns for sharing this tribute with us. Layton Kor was beloved by many in the extended Patagonia climbing family. Says Yvon Chouinard of Layton, “He and I were Mutt and Jeff climbers, my 5'4" to his 6' plus. I’d get freaked out belaying as he would quickly run out a long lead; I didn’t know if I was going to be able to hold him. I never had to find out, even though we climbed all over Yosemite and Chamonix. Back in camp he was just one of the guys.”

[Above: photo courtesy of Glen Denny]

In 1955, The Kors (Layton, brother Waylin—7 years his senior—and their parents), who’d never lived anywhere other than the Plains regions of the Upper Midwest (with the exception of a short stint in California in the 1940s to address young Layton’s “rheumatic fever”) moved to Manitou Springs, Colorado, where the young Kor saw a film that would change his life (High Conquest based on James Ramsey Ullman’s book of the same name—Kor mistakenly called it Man Against the Matterhorn in his book Beyond the Vertical). The next day, Kor borrowed his father’s geology pick and found some rocks behind the trailer park and started chopping steps in the rock.

“I don’t remember,” he told me in 2008. “I think I just did it here and there probably, just something to balance in. It wasn’t very high.”

He quickly gave that up—realizing that chopping steps in the ice in the movie he’d seen was a totally different deal altogether—and began reading about climbing in whatever books he could get his hands on as the Kors moved briefly to Altus, Oklahoma then Wichita Falls, Texas (the “land of the flat,” as Layton called it. Ironically, the library there—in Wichita Falls—had a lot of books about climbing).

“As time went on I kept accumulating knowledge about what the sport was about, the fact that you use a rope and tied in and stuff like that,” he told me in 2008. “[It was] all rudimentary knowledge about the sport, but little by little I learned more.”

In the spring of 1956, the Kor family returned to Colorado—this time Boulder. Game on.

Kor, with no formal climbing training—and as many observers have suggested, because of that lack of formal training—essentially invented climbing for himself. And, fortunately, Kor was in an area with a lot of great crags that were almost wholly undeveloped in terms of their climbing potential: Eldorado Canyon, Boulder Canyon, Lumpy Ridge, and Rocky Mountain National Park, to name the nearest to Kor’s home.

“He just saw things and had that confidence,” noted Dave Dornan, an early climbing partner of Kor’s. “We were taught to be cautious and to test stuff, and three points of contact, and all that old-fashioned stuff, and he never had any rules to follow, so he just did what came naturally.”

As the years followed, Kor would go on to make first ascents of Eldorado’s best-loved and most classic climbs, including the Naked Edge, Ruper, Rosy Crucifixion, the Yellow Spur, and many others (he is credited with first ascents of 55 routes in Eldorado alone, most of them considered classic climbs today). By 1959, with his and Ray Northcutt’s ascent of the Diagonal on the lower section of Longs Peak, Kor was a household name in the Colorado climbing community—although that household was more like a one-roomed cabin at the time. Then, he really got to work.





In the decade from 1957 through ’67, Kor developed a routine in which he would roam between his local crags in the Boulder area as well as venture to other climbing areas, which in his case included Yosemite, Devils Tower, Garden of the Gods, the Shawangunks, and various Canadian and Alaskan areas, establishing new routes, and, as was important during this period, setting new time records for nearly every route he climbed, most notably those in Yosemite, which were the Holy Grail of American climbing, simply because they were the most challenging rock climbs on the planet in the early 1960s.

“He was a dynamo, a one of a kind,” Royal Robbins, Yosemite’s most respected pioneer of the 1960s, told me in 2008. “The emotion was one of wonder and admiration and ‘who’s this guy who comes from out of state and goes on the hardest Yosemite climbs and does them in record time?’ It’d never been done before.”

Like his father and brother, Kor became a mason and worked just enough to cover his expenses and spent the bulk of his free time climbing (he lived with his parents in their trailer until he was nearly 30). “My parent’s supported my climbing,” Layton told me in a 2011 interview. “Definitely. Without a doubt. For a decade there, all I did was climb.”

In 1966, he was so highly regarded in climbing circles he was invited to be part of an international team that included John Harlin II, Dougal Haston, and (by default) Chris Bonington—who was hired by a UK newspaper to cover the event—to establish a new direct route on the Eiger’s north face. The climb dragged out for more than a month, with the team of climbers routinely jugging 7-mil dynamic ropes fixed on the face—not something most climbers would rely on. “Every time the rope jumped or gave an inch or so my heart dropped through my boots,” Bonington told me via email in 2012.

Ultimately, one of the dynamic ropes broke, John Harlin fell, and it was suddenly the end of an era—the Kor era. Standard histories of the end of Kor’s climbing career suggest that after the Harlin accident he found God and quit climbing. He did the former, but not the latter and kept on climbing a lot, here and there, in a much lower-key fashion. As Lloyd Volgamore, a contractor who hired Kor during his early Jehovah’s Witnesses years in Golden, Colorado, told me, he was climbing a lot in Clear Creek Canyon even though he’d supposedly given up climbing. A single formation in that canyon—near the Kor home in the 1970s—reportedly boasts five Kor routes.

After living for periods in Golden and Glenwood Springs, Colorado, the Philippines, Guam, and California, Layton moved to Kingman, Arizona, where he passed his final days, climbing occasionally and cursing the dreaded dialysis treatment he was on.

Layton Kor, friends recall, was a rough and ready youngster on the crags—setting a climbing standard for difficulty across Colorado and much of the nation—but in later life a splendid and virtuous friend, father, and husband.

Every climber who’s ever lived has ultimately come to respect Kor’s climbs. He set standards for difficulty and daring in every area he ventured—the Front Range, the Colorado Plateau, Yosemite, and other areas. Authors Stewart Green and Eric Bjornstad estimated in 2012 that a popular Kor route near Moab, the Kor-Ingalls route on Castleton Tower, has had more than 40,000 ascents.

Kor even had an influence on equipment design, too. As Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard said in a 2012 interview, a 1966 ascent of Les Cortes near Chamonix with Kor led him to rethink ice gear.

“It was a big breakthrough because both of us realized it was a stupid way to climb with these flexible crampons and flexible boots, ice axes that wouldn’t stick in, ice daggers that were worthless,” Chouinard said. “It was a revelation for the two of us for sure.” (Chouinard also credited Kor with being one of the few guys he ever hired at Chouinard Equipment in the early 1960s—where a number of climbers worked just to get their hands on decent pitons—who could forge.)

Chris Jones’s often maligned but generally accurate 1976 book, Climbing in North America, has a chapter titled “Layton, ‘The Great ’Un.’” He was the only climber in a book spanning more than a century’s worth of American climbing history to be honored in such a way—not even The Fred, whom we all know and love, was honored like that.

In 2008, a pensive Kor summed it up quite well for me during a marathon interview. “We all carry a little bit of madness,” he said. “You have to be mad to climb. It’s a pretty bizarre sport—a way out there sort of thing. It’s amazing it’s gotten so popular.”

Layton “the great one” Kor is survived and missed by his children—Arlan, Julia, and Jaime Kor—and his widow, Karen, and by his first wife Joy Kor (née Herron). And by thousands of climbers around the globe.



Contributions to Layton’s family can be made at a website set up by Chris Archer and Steph Davis: http://www.youcaring.com/memorial-fundraiser/support-for-layton-kor/55319 or, by contacting the writer directly at camburns@rof.net.

Cam Burns is currently working on a biography of Layton Kor.

[With thanks to Glen Denny and the Warner Literary Group.]

 

By Hayden Kennedy



“Some declared it the climb of the century. But did anyone repeat GIV to confirm our illusion of it? Besides, does it make sense to declare a poem the poem of the century? Can you choose a woman of the century?” – Voytek Kurtyka writing about the Shining Wall on Gasherbrum IV

There are no winners or losers in climbing. How can there be? Isn’t the point of climbing to escape these themes of ego and competition? To surrender ourselves to the experience at hand whether that entails failure or success; to push beyond the surface of our own expectations and those others have of us into a deeper well of motivation, curiosity and mystery? In my life, some of the greatest moments have come from failure. And what does success truly mean? Reaching the summit is an obvious and logical yardstick, yet too much focus on that singular measure can blind us to more profound possibilities like surrendering ourselves to the experience at hand, regardless of whether it entails failure or success. As the prolific Mugs Stump once said, “We were stuck on a portaledge on the Eye Tooth for eight days… We don’t need the summit. Just being here, in the present, that’s enough.”

These were the thoughts going through my head when Kyle Dempster and I were lucky enough to get invited to the 21st Piolets d’Or ceremony in Chamonix. The annual event – held over four days with plenty of red wine and good French food – typically chooses a “best” alpine climb of the year and rewards that team with a golden ice axe. Kyle and I were nominated for our new route up the south face of Ogre I in Pakistan’s Karakoram Range.

[Above: Hayden descends Ogre I after making the third ascent of the mountain with Kyle Dempster. Karakorum Range, Pakistan. Photo: Kyle Dempster]

We were among some of the strongest and most legendary alpinists in the world. At lunch one day, Stephen Venables told us how he broke his legs in India when his anchor ripped out of the wall, sending him hundreds of feet down the mountain. One table over, the renowned Kurt Diemberger, responsible for the first ascents of both Broad Peak (1957) and Dhaulagiri (1960), was telling his stories. Over espresso, the infamous Brit Mick Fowler told me wild tales of his first years exploring the Himalayas. To be surrounded by so many amazing climbers was truly an honor.
   
The five other nominated climbs were all outstanding and unique, ranging from a three-week ridge traverse on an 8000-meter peak to navigating new ground on unexplored peaks. I felt my sense of the possibilities in the mountains open up. Yet during the event there was also a lot of hype about “who” was going to “win.” It’s a big deal for some people. Me? I was so blown away by the company I could have cared less about the award.   
   
To my surprise, the Piolets d’Or jury made a great statement towards alpinism by celebrating all of this year’s climbs instead of awarding a “prize” to a single climb. This is a fantastic step in the right direction and I thank them for their choice. The fact that we all shared a similar passion for wild climbing adventures was enough. I was so inspired by the stories I heard at the event that all I could think about was getting back into the mountains.

The ultimate alpine climb would be a spectacular line up a virgin face, no one nearby, with a good partner – and there wouldn’t ever be a word uttered about it. Stripping away all desires except the pure experience of the climb, escaping all expectations and our own egos, these are the real achievements. We should all dream of this… maybe one day it will become a reality.

“Potentialities increase
Pleasure eats senses
Power seems unlimited
Suddenly I discover
The only escape from madness
Is the old path through
Blood, sweat and tears.”
       – Voytek Kurtyka

 

All of us at Patagonia have been shaken by the recent tragic events in Bangladesh. We offer our deepest condolences to all of the victims and their families. We are monitoring the press, the actions of governments around the world in response and the courageous efforts by the charities on the ground. Our stakeholders may ask what Patagonia is doing to monitor its supply chain and help prevent in our partner factories another occurrence of this kind of tragedy.

Two decades ago we began seriously examining social and environmental issues in our supply chain. The more we learned, the more worried we became. So back in the mid-1990s Patagonia helped create the Fair Labor Association (FLA), a multi-stakeholder initiative whose sole purpose is to promote fair, safe and healthy conditions in factories worldwide. The FLA has been auditing our factories since the early 2000s and our own Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) program since 2008. Regular supplier auditing, training and education by committed brands has, in part, eradicated child labor and some forms of forced labor as well as led to minor improvements in health and safety.

We fully recognize that some factories over the past 10 years have stepped up to the plate to do everything responsible brands do in their CSR efforts, including CSR reporting. Unfortunately, these exemplary factories are few and far between. We are constantly searching the globe to find them. When we do, we put them through our rigorous screening process before we place the first order. You can find sketches of many of these factories on Patagonia’s Footprint Chronicles.

[Above: Shane Prukop, president of Trupart Manufacturing in Ventura, California, shows Patagonia’s Social and Environmental Responsibility team the River Crampon he makes for our company. Photo: Jim Little]

We know that auditing alone doesn’t resolve persistent human rights and environmental issues in the supply chain. In the past three years we’ve added several new steps to our monitoring program, including root cause analysis, more frequent supplier trainings, responsible purchasing practices, and increased multi-brand and NGO collaborations to name a few. As of 2011, we are now assessing our top 40 raw materials suppliers for social responsibility. In 2013, we will add a version of the FLA’s new assessment tool that dives deep into human resource functions to ensure that human rights are respected every day. We’ve added seven new positions in the past three years to our CSR team, including highly experienced field managers in Asia. To keep our FLA accreditation, we are required to track and sustainably correct all problems we find so that they do not crop up again in the next audit. It’s a lot of extra work, but well worth every minute we put into it so workers are protected. This includes workers in Bangladesh, where we place production with a factory in Chittagong owned and operated by the Korean-based Youngone Co., Ltd., a long-term, highly regarded supplier of ours that has a highly competent, sophisticated and proactive CSR staff.





In 2010 we helped organize the Sustainable Apparel Coalition (SAC) of brands, NGOs, trade associations, universities and government bodies. The goal was to develop a key performance indicator tool to help brands and suppliers design, develop, make and retire products with social and environmental responsibility at the top of their minds. Version 1 of this tool, now called the Higg Index 1.0, was launched last year and may be researched on the SAC website. The Higg 1.0 includes product, brand and supplier modules that enable companies to make smart, environmentally focused choices among fabrics, processes and finishes. The social/labor module of the Higg index, to be launched later this year, will focus on worker protection. The ultimate goal is to make the Higg consumer facing, so a customer waving a cell phone over the bar code on a hang tag can read the social and environmental equivalent of the nutritional label found on food packaging.
 
Because SAC members produce more than a third of the clothing and shoes made on the planet, the Higg Index could make a positive impact on a truly industrial scale, and result in major improvements in the lives of factory workers.





Patagonia deals with the same pressures faced by any business, but we are diligently working to ensure that we use all of the best available tools, resources and services to monitor and improve conditions in the factories that make our products. All of us at Patagonia urgently feel the need to achieve full visibility of worker and environmental protections at every stage of the production process and to constantly improve, scale and evolve our supply-chain monitoring program. We feel this is not just our responsibility as an apparel company, but a moral obligation. We will continue to update our Footprint Chronicles and Corporate Responsibility pages and encourage all of you to visit often.

Let's do this! From April 25 - 28, 2013 the 5Point Film Festival will take over your senses, transport you to another place and leave you inspired for adventure. Join us. Visit 5pointfilm.org for more information and tickets.

[Video: 2013 5Point Film Festival Trailer from 5Point Film Festival.]

By Katie Klingsporn



Folk-singer, desert goddess, rabble-rouser and all-out spitfire Katie Lee has been raging against Glen Canyon Dam and its reservoir, Lake Powell, for more than 50 years.

And she’s not slowing down.

Lee, who is featured in DamNation, a documentary film produced by Patagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with Felt Soul Media, has penned protest songs and authored books about Glen Canyon, the dam and the Southwest over the years. Just now wrapping up her latest project, “Dandy Crossing,” she tells the story of the handful of people who once lived at Hite, a river crossing that was drowned by Lake Powell, and what happened to them after they were forced from their homes.

Lee, who is in her 90s, also serves on the advisory board of the Glen Canyon Institute, an environmental group that advocates the draining of Lake Powell and the restoration of the Colorado River. She still performs and speaks for educational and non-profit organizations, as well.

[Above: The one and only Katie Lee, outside her home in Jerome, Arizona after her interview for DamNation this fall. Photo: Ben Knight]

“I haven’t quit, I’m still moaning and groaning about it,” she said recently from her home in Jerome, Arizona. “What else am I going to do? I know who I am, I know what I’m supposed to do and I do it. And until I drop, that’s what I’ll do.”

It was nearly 60 years ago when Lee first floated into the red-rock labyrinth of Glen Canyon, but her memory of that place hasn’t faded a bit. She recalls a desert Eden of soaring Wingate walls, ancient ruins, maidenhair fern, canyon wrens and little arches everywhere.

“It took me by the throat and it’s had me ever since,” Lee said. “There’s no way to describe it, it was just absolutely heaven. I mean, it was another world.”

Lee, then a petite starlet and luminous folk-singer, who entertained raft trips with songs, fell headlong for Glen Canyon. Over the next couple years, she rafted and floated the Colorado and San Juan rivers dozens of times, exploring and naming the mazelike system of side-canyons, swimming in the canyon’s pools, running the rapids and becoming one of the most enduring characters of Colorado River lore.





She and her friends mostly ignored early rumblings that a dam was coming, she said, because it seemed too implausible, too stupid to happen. And despite their fervent, forceful protests later on, construction commenced in 1956. The 710-foot-high concrete arch dam was completed in 1963, 15 miles upstream of Lee’s Ferry. In what has become a well-told narrative, the dam, which was built to create hydroelectricity, store water and provide flow regulation, then inundated one of the most breathtaking canyon systems in the country, leaving Lee both deeply broken-hearted and spitting mad.

In the six decades since, Lee has emerged as one of the most colorful, vocal and sharp-tongued advocates for preservation of wild places in the Southwest. She is outrageous, mischievous, feisty, graceful, fearless and determined. Not afraid to call a shithead a shithead, sing an incendiary protest song or ride her bicycle naked through town, she calls Lake Powell “Rez Foul,” and has openly insulted U.S. Bureau of Reclamation (USBR) officials. And she’s not shy about her dreams for the future of Glen Canyon Dam.

“I would like the dam to blow up completely all in one fell swoop, clean out the grand canyon, get rid of all that crap that’s in there now and be a river again,” said Lee.

The dam has drastically changed the Colorado River watershed by decreasing sediment loads, threatening native fish, taming a wild river and drowning a world of grottoes, spires, canyons and cliffs under the second largest manmade reservoir in the United States. Lake Powell, which sits beneath breathtaking red-rock walls, has a storage capacity of 27 million acre-feet and stretches 186 miles when it is full.

The Glen Canyon Institute, which was founded in 1996, has for years worked to restore Glen Canyon. Its scientific studies of the dam’s impacts helped win a lawsuit forcing the Bureau of Reclamation to re-evaluate how dam operations affect endangered species.

But right now, there are no plans to decommission the dam and drain the reservoir. And that’s good news to many people. The hugely popular recreation area draws roughly 3 million boaters, water-skiers, campers and fishermen to its shores each year, according to the USBR.

To Lee, the dam is an ugly reminder of one of America’s biggest mistakes. And though it may not happen in her lifetime, she is confident that if people don’t get rid of it, Mother Nature will, with time.

With recent large-scale dam-removal projects unfolding in places like the Northwest, Lee says the awareness is starting to grow about the harm that can be caused by dams. But her advice for people goes beyond dams: Protect what you love, or you may lose it.

“You better get off your butts and get out and protect what you love, because if you don’t make a noise, people won’t know what’s there, and if you make too much noise you’ll ruin it too,” she said. “I was so lucky to see [Glen Canyon], just so fortunate. That’s a gift that I will never be able to repay.”


Katie Klingsporn is a writer and editor for the Telluride Daily Planet in southwestern Colorado. Look for more of her posts highlighting issues featured in DamNation a documentary film being produced byPatagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with the Colorado-based filmmaking team Felt Soul Media.

By Dr. Tony Butt

You are out surfing on your own. Someone else paddles out, comes up to you and says, “How long have you been out here?”

You think as hard as you can. In the end you take a stab at it and tell him about an hour. But the truth is you really don’t know – on one hand it seems like a couple of minutes, but on the other hand it feels like you’ve been out there forever.

If you really have been deep in concentration, your world will have been reduced right down to what you see and feel in your immediate surroundings. Nothing exists apart from you and the waves and maybe the wind or the odd seagull. All that stuff you were doing earlier this morning seems like something in the distant past, almost from another life. Your mother-in-law, the traffic, the bank manager and the shopping have simply ceased to be.

Your surfing is effortless, almost as if the surfing itself is doing it for you. You feel like a passenger just along to enjoy the ride. You’ll be paddling back to the line-up after each wave without the slightest effort, feeling like you could go on catching waves forever. You are living in the moment, enjoying surfing for its own sake.

[Tony, definitely not thinking about his mother-in-law or the bank manager. Photo: Jakue Andikoetxea]

Psychologists call it Flow or Optimum Experience. Flow is an elusive state of mind which gives us great satisfaction and which is normally very healthy for us. Probably, the people who are in a state of Flow more than anybody else are children. As we get older and grow up in a superficial modern society our minds become cluttered and chaotic, and we become less able to get into that Flow state. In fact, most people probably don’t even know that Flow is possible. But if you surf, climb or do any other activity that puts us a little closer to Nature (see my article "Dancing with Nature") and, especially if you like big waves or slightly more radical situations, you will be familiar with Flow.

Psychologists have been fascinated by Flow for many years. They have tried to work out what goes on inside our minds when we enter that mysterious state, and under what circumstances it is most likely to occur. The undisputed master of Flow is Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi from Claremont Graduate University, who has done thousands of surveys and interviews over the last 40 years or so, and has published several books and hundreds of articles on Flow.

Csikszentmihalyi started off by realizing that people found it easier to enter a Flow state from a particular activity if their motivation was the intrinsic quality of the experience itself rather than the prospect of money or fame afterwards. He then started finding out that people generally got into Flow more often from activities that were challenging or risky rather than passive and easy. He also noticed that certain people – those with so-called autotelic personalities – were able to get into Flow more easily than others.

 

Recognizing Flow

It is useful to recognise a Flow experience when it comes along. Of course, you won’t actually be able to recognise it as it is happening, because, if you do, you’ll immediately cease to be in Flow. But there is nothing stopping you thinking back and remembering the times when you were in Flow, which should help if you want to have more of those experiences.

Time distortion: You completely fail to record the length of time you have been doing something. Your own perception of time varies according to what you are doing and doesn’t seem to bear any resemblance to ‘clock-time’. Usually, time goes quicker than it should – hours pass by as if they were minutes. But the opposite can occur as well. Time can seem to expand, with things that lasted less than a second sticking in your memory as if they lasted for several minutes, every subtle detail carefully remembered. I remember the other day having an entire discussion with myself whether I should take either one or two more paddle-strokes down the face just to make sure I wouldn’t get air under my board and end up going over the falls. All debated in a fraction of a second.

Total concentration: Your entire mind is so focused on what you are doing that you can’t fit anything else into it. As you become more focused, the task at hand takes up a progressively larger proportion of your brain power, which means that other things start to fall by the wayside. Registering the passage of time is probably one of the first things to go, but then as you become more focused you start to forget about that itch on your leg, or being hungry, thirsty or tired. Eventually you won’t even have enough room for conscious thought. You’ll be truly running on autopilot.

“When you abandon yourself to the rhythm of the wave and become part of that rhythm you get that arrested time…The ecstatic moment is increased in intensity with an increase in size and the critical nature of the wave… If you have a conscious thought you eat it.” – Wayne Lynch as interviewed by Mark Stranger for an article in the International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 1999.

Hyper-alertness: If all your conscious effort is focused on the task at hand, your senses will be working overtime to suck in as much stimulus as possible from your local surroundings.

Loss of self-consciousness: If you are lucky enough to really get into a total Flow situation, the whole thing will become a strange out-of-the-body experience. Your mind and body will merge into one and you will feel like the whole activity is running itself and you are just a spectator. Paradoxically, you will still feel like you are in total control of the situation.

 

How to reach Flow

It is good to be able to recognize Flow situation from the past, but if you want to repeat the experience you’ll need to know the circumstances most likely to lead you into Flow.

Challenge-skill balance: You will have more chance of reaching Flow if the difficulty of the situation is matching your level of skill. The best situation is if you are just on that upper edge, where you are pushing your own limits. The trick is not too set the challenge too high, otherwise the stress will interfere with your Flow. But not to make things too easy either, otherwise you’ll start to get bored and distracted. It doesn’t matter what level you are at; what matters is the level of challenge relative to your own level of skill. That’s why a ten-year-old who has just learnt to stand up in one-foot surf might be immersed in Flow whereas some ex-world champion at Pipeline having a bad day might not be.

In radical situations the dimension of fear also comes into play. You are more likely to get into Flow if you are operating on or just a touch beyond your own fear threshold. But if things are a bit beyond you, your worries about failing will make you nervous and interfere with your concentration, stopping you reaching Flow.

“It doesn’t so much matter what we fear of where our edge is, but rather where we operate in relation to it. We truly feel the Stoke when we operate at or just beyond our fear threshold” – Paddy Upton, South African cricket coach and psychologist (from an article in The Bomb Surf, 2010).

Well-defined goals: One thing that helps you reach Flow is being really clear about what you want to achieve. For example, have your mind set on perfecting a particular manoeuvre that you didn’t quite pull off last time, or maybe trying some strategy for making that late take-off. Again, it all depends on setting those goals at just the right level relative to your own skill. Having well-defined goals and setting the bar just right enables you to get immediate and clear feedback, which then enables you to re-set the bar for the next wave, and so on.

An end in itself: This is probably the most important one. As you get into Flow, you will get more and more absorbed in the activity and everything external will begin to disappear from your mind. But sometimes you have to help the process along. If your motivation for, say, surfing big waves is merely to enjoy the surfing itself, you’ll probably achieve Flow; but if your motivation is some external goal such as winning a prize or getting your photo in a magazine, you probably won’t. As soon as you start thinking about those things, you immediately make it impossible to concentrate 100 per cent. If your motivation is some extrinsic goal you’ll be sabotaging your potential Flow experience before you even begin.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy: if you believe that surfing should be enjoyed for its own sake, you won’t start thinking about whether someone is looking at you or whether your wave is big enough to win the XXL. Therefore you’ll be more focused on the surfing itself, which will take you into that Flow state and you’ll enjoy the experience much more.

“When experience is intrinsically rewarding, life is justified in the present, instead of being held hostage to a hypothetical future gain” – Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

Arguably, once you start getting too competitive in the water, chances are you won’t be able to get into Flow:

“The enlightened state or Stoke subsides the moment we get competitive about surfing, with ourselves or others in the water. Present-moment awareness gives way to wanting to look good through future success, or not to look bad by future failure. It might take the form of wanting to prove you’re better than someone else, striving to pull off some move or to dominate the space because you’re a local.” – Paddy Upton

However, if you are a good competitive surfer and really enjoy contests then you might still experience Flow in the middle of a heat. The important thing is that you are totally focused on surfing the best you can, and not thinking about that prize or what people think about you.

“I surf big waves because I love it. Simple as that. Winning contests or XXL awards have never been and will never be the focus or motivation for my career” – Greg Long, from an interview in theinertia.com, 2011.

In the end, Flow can be very elusive and doesn’t always happen when you think. You have to try your best to put yourself in a situation where you think it might happen, and then hope it does. It’s like knowing where the bus stop is but not knowing when the bus is going to come: you make every effort to be there, ready, just in case it comes.

 

Why is Flow fun?

But where does Flow actually come from? Why should getting into that state of mind be so enjoyable? And why on Earth should such an apparently useless activity like surfing be so much fun?

Well, the answer might be something to do with evolution. Evolution has given us the ability to enjoy doing things that help our species to survive. The best and most obvious example of this is sex – if we didn’t enjoy it we wouldn’t bother to do it, and the human species would quickly come to a dead end. Another example is bringing up children. Imagine if looking after your kids was such an effort that you couldn’t be bothered to do it. Obviously they wouldn’t survive, and neither would our species.

But in the past we needed to do all sorts of other things in order to survive, things that relied on some sort of hardwired motivation to encourage us to do them. Nowadays, to survive as a species, we go to work and take medicines, but in the past, we hunted and gathered. Those activities weren’t just a chore; they were things that we instinctively enjoyed and looked forward to; activities that probably sent us into a deep state of Flow.

Don’t forget that activities such as painting and music can also put us into an intense state of Flow. Nobody knows when or why we started doing these things. Perhaps it was something to do with a deep-rooted need to communicate, to express ourselves, way before we could do so through writing. This, in some way, may have also helped us to survive.

Nowadays, of course, food and clothes are hunted and gathered in the shopping mall rather than on the Savannah, and the missing Flow is obtained through artificial surrogates such as sport. Why do you think fishing is so popular, and why do we enjoy collecting berries? And why do you think soccer, which is really just a proxy for tribal warfare and territorialism, is the world’s most popular game?

So, could surfing also be a substitute for some sort of activity we did in the ancient past, something that gave us Flow because it was important for our survival? Could big-wave surfing be likened to big-game hunting, where you have to be totally concentrated, become one with the prey, follow its every movements? One tiny mistake and your prey has either avoided being caught or, worse, has become the predator and you have become the prey. One tiny mistake in big-waves and the wave doesn’t let you catch it or, worse, you wipe out and the wave tries to drown you.

 

The dark side of Flow

If you surf, climb or do one of a small number of other activities, you will experience Flow on a regular basis, whereas most other members of today’s society don’t. In fact, once we start experiencing Flow we can’t get enough of it. We strive to go back and experience it again, often making extreme sacrifices in other parts of our lives.

“Flow is a state of optimal experience, a state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it” – Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

This is especially true if you have really become immersed in Flow, for example, if you surf big waves where the experience is that much more intense:

“Everything I do in my life is to try to get into that place [surfing big waves] and when I’m there then everything makes sense. When I’m not there and I hear that there were big waves and I missed them, then I feel depressed and upset” – James Taylor, South African big-wave surfer

The addiction to Flow, especially in big waves, can sometimes lead you to quite strange behaviour. A few years ago I lost my board in big surf. I spent about six hours running back and forth along the coastline in the pouring rain in the middle of winter desperately looking for my board, because I knew there would be big waves the next day. I don’t remember having anything to eat or drink all day. In the end I couldn’t find my board, so I drove into town and bought the first gun I saw, just before the surf shop closed. The thing I remember most was the sheer exasperation, the feeling that the entire world would collapse around me if I couldn’t surf the next day. It reminded me of the feeling I had when I was a small child and I’d lost my favourite toy or I couldn’t play my favourite game.

In addition to the experience itself, where you are actually in that state of Flow, there is the phenomenon of afterglow – that warm feeling you get afterwards, that intense satisfaction of having achieved something that you worked hard for. In big-wave surfing this happens all the time. Having caught a big wave, made the take-off, made it to the bottom and into the channel without wiping out can feel like (or can actually be) a lifelong achievement. At the very least it can leave you glowing for days afterwards. And just like Flow itself, afterglow can also become addictive. You’re never quite satisfied unless you’ve been there and achieved what you know you can achieve.

A fascinating study on Flow dependence in big waves was published in 2009 by Sarah and Elizabeth Partington from Northumbria University with Steve Olivier from the University of Abertay Dundee. They got 15 big-wave surfers (they weren’t allowed to name them) to talk about their surfing experience.

The investigators carefully analysed what the surfers said, first to see if they showed signs of Flow whilst surfing, and then to see if they showed symptoms of dependence. In the paper the investigators discuss the possible negative consequences of this dependence, and go on to suggest that people with dysfunctional personalities might succumb more easily to those negative consequences. This could be especially true if their initial decision to take up a high-risk activity such as big-wave surfing was influenced by some instability in their lives.

The results showed that most of the surfers regularly got into a state of Flow while surfing big waves. Without previously knowing what Flow was, they clearly described all the classic symptoms such as time distortion, forgetting everything else apart from one’s immediate surroundings, and that sense of hyper-consciousness where you are acutely aware of every ripple on the surface of the wave. Even though they happened to be competition surfers, most of them claimed that they were doing it because of the intrinsic rewards of the surfing itself, not because of some prize at the end.

Some of them also described surfing big waves as being highly addictive. A few of them described it like a drug, where you have to keep increasing the dosage to maintain the same high. Many of them said they felt depressed when there was no surf or if they couldn’t get to the big waves; and several of them said they would carry on surfing even with injuries such as broken ribs. All this was seen by the surfers as just about tolerable although it could be potentially problematical.

However, one or two of the participants saw things in a particularly negative way. The constant search for bigger and bigger waves seemed to be futile: no matter how big or radical they went they would never be totally satisfied. One of them actually talked about this negativity stemming from an unstable family background leading him to go to extremes with many things he did, as a way of compensating for a lack of self-esteem. External factors related to the fame associated with big-wave riding, such as television interviews, were also hinted upon as being related to the negative side.

But perhaps the surfers in the study who admitted suffering negative consequences of addiction were not actually addicted to the Flow itself. Perhaps they were addicted to some external goal such as money or fame, and perhaps this was what was pushing them into bigger and bigger waves without ever becoming fully satisfied.

Being addicted to something extrinsic rather than the Flow itself, could also apply to the afterglow feeling I was talking about earlier. The sense of satisfaction of having caught the biggest wave of your life or having ‘cheated death for the day’ gets less the more you get used to it, and the only way to get satisfaction is to up the stakes, look for a bigger wave or a more radical situation. In the end you are left with an empty feeling of seeing that ‘original high’ get further and further out of reach.

Being addicted to an extrinsic goal is very different from being addicted to the Flow itself. The satisfaction of knowing that you took off on the biggest wave or pushed the limits a bit further, especially if it is backed up by adulations from friends or money and fame, is easily measurable. Therefore, the concept of tolerance – needing more and more to get the same satisfaction – is totally meaningful. Flow, on the other hand, is elusive and doesn’t lend itself to being measured. The ‘amount’ of Flow is not always proportional to how big or gnarly the waves are; it depends on much more subtle balances related to your mindset on that particular day. Even if everything is right, Flow might come to you or it might not. Therefore, even though Flow is addictive in that you keep wanting to go back and set yourself up for a Flow experience, building up a tolerance to Flow is practically meaningless. Because of this, being addicted to Flow itself is probably not as potentially problematical as being addicted to some extrinsic goal such as money, fame, a pat on the back, or even your own ‘afterglow’ feeling.

 

Life plays hell with your surfing

Partington and colleagues suggested that some of the participants in their study had a ‘negative dependence on surfing’ and that several of the surfers ‘confessed to being unable to function normally in society’. In other words, big-wave surfing can be incompatible with modern society.

Or could modern society be incompatible with big-wave surfing? Modern society tries to make us do things that don’t come naturally, things that we weren’t genetically programmed to do. It tries to make us value things that don’t make us happy, things that don’t give us Flow. We shouldn’t worry about surfing being incompatible with society, because whatever is inside us to motivate us to surf has probably been inside us for thousands of years.

So, next time someone tries to make you feel guilty about spending too much time surfing, which is apparently a useless activity because it doesn’t bring us money, status or a new car, remember that surfing keeps us fit, young at heart and close to Nature. But more than that, surfing gives us Flow, a state of mind enjoyed by children and hunter-gatherers, but sadly lacking in today’s superficial, materialistic world. If someone asks you why you keep going back and doing such a useless activity as surfing, don’t drive yourself crazy trying to find a reason. Just tell them that you surf to surf, and that’s that.

For those interested in the original article by Partington et al, it can be found here (PDF).

 

Dr. Tony Butt holds a BSc in Ocean Science and a PhD in Physical Oceanography. He  lives most of the year in a forgotten corner of Northwest Spain, where  he has pioneered a couple new big-wave spots and works with NGOs like Surfers Against Sewage and Save the Waves. He makes a meager living writing articles about waves and the coastal environment for Surfer’s Path and other publications. For more from Tony, check out his books Surf Science: an Introduction to Waves for Surfing (2004), The Surfers Guide to Waves, Coasts and Climates (2009), and A Surfer's Guide to Sustainability (2011).

By Christine Byl

Back in 2007, author Christine Byl sent a juicy little story entitled “Innard Mongolia” to our fledgling blog. Today, we welcome Christine back to The Cleanest Line with congratulations on the publishing of her first book, Dirt Work: An Education in the Woods by Beacon Press.

The first half of Dirt Work is set in Montana's Glacier National Park. This excerpt, from the second chapter, finds the novice traildog out with a new crew in the Middle Fork district on Glacier's west side.

One of my first days in the Middle Fork resembles my firsts nearly everywhere in Glacier: out of my element, eager to get in, following along quietly until the former state gives way to the latter. This particular day found my own crew leader sick and me shipped off for the day with Brook and his Middle Fork guys to get a jump-start on the heavy clearing in the Coal Creek burn. I knew Brook by reputation only. Thirty-something, wiry, hyper, and flat-out hilarious, Brook was at the center of some of the most outlandish pranks and stories in the trails canon. He was drawn to drama, calamity, and excess. Brook loved attention. If he was on a search and rescue, he’d end up on the local news, and you could see why. He told a monologue worthy of a one-man show, complete with pantomime and imitations. He teased until the butt of the joke was ready to throttle him, stopped just before he was resented. His crews worked hard, hiked hard, drank hard, laughed hard. I was eager to see him in action.

[Above: Fording Riley Creek. Photo: Gabe Travis]

On the south side of the river we sat on the rocks, unlacing our shin-high boots. I’d never forded the Middle Fork before, or any river of its size. The guys were loosening their belt buckles and dropping their pants, and though I’d brought sandals for the ford, I hadn’t thought to bring shorts. Four of them stood in clownish boxers at the edge of the river, kicking water at each other, swinging their arms in the cool air. Clearly, I’d have to strip, too. I briefly considered fording in my pants. Stupid. The river was midthigh. The heavy cotton canvas would take all day to dry.

“We always ford in our underwear,” Brook reassured me. “Don’t think twice about it.” I dropped my pants slowly, pulling my T-shirt down as far as I could. I tucked my rolled-up Carhartts under the top of my backpack. We tied our bootlaces together and slung them over our shoulders. Brook and Mike carried the saws, the rest of the guys the other tools, the unwieldy Dolmars of saw mix knocking against their knees. I had only a shovel in hand, the very least you could carry and still hold your head up. Mike waded in. I hung back as if finishing something, fussed with the straps on my Tevas.

“Have you done this before?” Brook asked, noting me sidelong, and I shook my head. Posturing was pointless. They’d guess as soon as they saw me stumble through the current. Maybe I’d fall in, drown, even. Brook gave me a quick overview, kindly, with no teasing, and then gestured me to go ahead of him. The icy water at my ankles kept just at bay an awareness that I was walking in my underwear in the middle of a line of strange men. At twenty-three, I was not particularly self-conscious about my body, didn’t “hate my butt,” as was the common refrain. Even so, it was disconcerting. A vulnerable promenade.

Soon I was in above the knees, and current pushed water waist-high, obscuring clear view of anyone’s rump. I concentrated on facing upstream, one foot placed solid before moving the other, shovel handle triangulated in front of me like the third leg of a tripod. In the thickest part of the current, the water coursed between my toes and I sensed what it would be like to lose my footing and be swept quietly downstream. When the water shallowed, I ran for the bank, where the guys shook water off their legs. We stomped and howled as feeling reentered numb flesh. Brook laced up his boots without putting his pants back on, doing a funny little jig in his logging boots and undies. I glanced around. All of them, the same, no pants. There was a shallower ford of Ole Creek a ways up the trail, and anyway, their boxers were soaked, Brook said, and would dry while they hiked. They nearly convinced me to do it too, those varmints, but I was wise to them, what was necessary, how far they’d push, and I held my own.

I hid in the brush and shucked my undies, pulled on Carhartts over bare ass, and hung the wet bikinis over the handle of the pulaski strapped to my pack. (Could the proverbial mother ever have guessed, when urging clean underwear, that this scenario, not an unexpected trip to the hospital, might be reason to heed her advice?) I took my place in the middle of the line. I had to laugh at the sight of the sawyer hiking ahead, underwear stuck to his skinny white thighs. I was glad to be covered up, despite the chafe of cotton duck against damp cheeks. No matter how much I liked these guys, no matter how much I longed to be part of the gang, damned if I’d be the story they’d crow out later over beers: We got her to walk in her underwear for hours!

Christine Byl lives in Healy, Alaska, where she and her husband live off the grid with two old sled dogs, in a yurt, on a few acres of tundra just north of Denali National Park.

Dirt Work: An Education in the Woods tells the story of Byl’s years working as a traildog in the National Parks of Montana and Alaska. In the book, Byl recalls long days of clearing brush, digging ditches, building bridges, cleaning up after forest fires, and blasting snow; offering the reader an intimate look at life on the trails. She explores the language, tools, skills, and fraternity of traildog work, writing candidly about the harsh living conditions, injuries, and insecurities that come with the job.



For more from Christine, visit her Facebook page and catch the next stop of the Dirt Work blog tour, tomorrow on The Campsite.

By Ray Friedlander



Put on the same level as Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, genetically engineered salmon, or “Frankenfish,” are creations designed by the biotechnology industry. The fish are devised to grow year round, which makes their appetites voracious and their dependency on feed fish unsustainably high. They are also designed to be ready for market in one and a half years, instead of the normal three years. If approved by the FDA, Frankenfish will be the first ever genetically engineered animal on the market, paving the way for other future genetically engineered animals in the United States.

Why the opposition? For us who live in the nation’s largest National Forest, the Tongass rainforest, our economies and our identities are sustained through wild-as-can-be salmon. Wild Alaskan salmon generate over $986 million dollars and 11% of regional jobs in Southeast Alaska, making the accidental introduction of GMO salmon into our oceans a huge threat to these economies. This threat is not only limited to fishing economies, it continues to our health since the risks of eating genetically engineered salmon by humans, and marine animals dependent on salmon, are unknown.

[Above: Over 150 residents of the small coastal Alaskan town of Sitka display their disagreement with the FDA’s ruling that genetically modified salmon “pose no risk to human health or the environment” at a community rally. Photo: Sitka Conservation Society]

Initially, the FDA opened up the period to comment on its environmental assessment for GMO Salmon on December 26th, giving the public only 30 days to voice their opinions on Frankenfish.

For Paul Rioux, organizing a rally in Sitka to protest genetically engineered salmon was one way he could stand up and make his voice heard. “I saw that there were rallies going on in other parts of the country, and I decided that it would be nice to do one here,” Paul said.

Through Paul’s actions, over 130 people came to the rally, which was then publicized by Alaskan US Senator Murkowski, Senator Begich, and Alaskan State Representative Jonathan Kreiss-Tomkins. Four days after the event, the Food and Drug Administration announced they were going to extend the period to comment on genetically engineered salmon by 60 days, making the new deadline April 26th, 2013, and I’m certain that Sitka’s activism helped to spur this extension.

To make this happen, we started small. We gained support from fishing organizations like the Alaska Longline Fishermen’s Association (ALFA) and the Alaska Troller’s Association (ATA), who passed the message on to their members; we held sign-making parties at local businesses and schools; flyers were created, posted, and handed out, featuring both information on the rally and how to submit a comment to the FDA opposing genetically engineered salmon; our local radio station KCAW had us on their Morning Interview, where myself, Paul, and David Wilcox, a local middle school student running across the country in protest of GMOs, discussed the negative impacts of genetically engineered salmon; both the Mudflats blog and Fish Radio hosted information on the rally to raise awareness to their subscribers that the FDA was considering approving genetically engineered salmon.

Technology more than ever can be used to organize our social networks, tell our stories to folks that live in communities all over the country, and encourage decision makers to listen to their constituents. This can happen with any issue that we find ourselves passionate about, and for Paul that issue was the health of our wild salmon from the Tongass National Forest.


“Ain't no power like the power of the people ‘cause the power of the people don’t stop!”

It is right here in our community that we can create the world we want to see through our actions, but this can only happen through an engaged, active citizenry. Far too often I encounter folks who are somewhat cynical about the democratic process, folks that have lost faith in the power of their voice. But in the end, if no one takes action nothing gets done. Sitkans like Paul Rioux remind us that our voice is a catalyst for change, and by speaking and standing up for what you believe in, we can continuously create the world we want to live in.





Paul’s proactive approach against GMO salmon in a small, rural Alaskan town is just one example of the significance of grassroots organizing. Rather than wait for outside governmental forces to make decisions for us, let us stand up together, generate the renewable energy of people power, and work towards a future created and supported through community action. To do this, all of us around the country and world need to be supporting each other’s grassroots organizing while reminding each other that our individual passion, blended with support from those around us, can make situations that seem unmovable become dynamic.


TAKE ACTION - Deadline to comment against GE salmon is April 26th, 2013

If you haven’t submitted your comment to the FDA, please do so now – it takes minutes! For the required field Organization Name, put “Citizen” if the comment’s coming from you, or your organization’s name if you’re representing a group. You can learn more about wild salmon in the Tongass rainforest at www.sitkawild.org.


Ray Friedlander is the Tongass Forest Community Organizer at the Sitka Conservation Society.

Patagonia covered the issue of genetic engineering during our 2001-2002 environmental campaign; in 2003-2004 we focused on the importance of protecting wild salmon stock. You can read the essays from both of these campaigns in our online archive.

By Amy Souers Kober



We are all connected by fresh water. Rivers run like arteries, crossing state and international borders, and sustaining our communities. In the west, one river links seven western states and Mexico. It’s a river that goes by different names – Red, Grand River Red, Rio Colorado, the Mighty Colorado.

The Colorado River is truly a lifeline in the desert. Its waters provide habitat for a host of wildlife including four federally-listed endangered fish species. The river and tributaries support a $26 billion recreation economy, and a quarter million sustainable jobs. Millions flock to the river for fishing, boating, and hiking, or just to stand in awe atop the Grand Canyon to witness the breathtaking formations carved by water and time.

[Above: Colorado River - America's Most Endangered River 2013. Video: American Rivers]

We ask a lot of this river. Thirty six million people from Denver to Los Angeles drink Colorado River water. The river irrigates nearly four million acres of land, which grows 15 percent of the nation’s crops.  Today, the river is so dammed, drained, and diverted it dries up to a trickle before reaching the sea.

That is why today, American Rivers is naming the Colorado River the #1 Most Endangered River in the country, as part of its annual America’s Most Endangered Rivers report.

[After paddling the Colorado for five months, Jon Waterman begins to run out of river. From Pete McBride's stunning film, Chasing Water. Photo: Pete McBride]

The Bureau of Reclamation’s own report released in December stresses that there is not enough water to meet current demands across the Colorado River Basin, let alone support future demand increases. Scientists predict climate change will reduce the Colorado River’s flow by 10 to 30 percent by 2050 – posing serious challenges for river health, wildlife, and water supplies.

With another summer of drought beating down on the Southwest, now is the time for action.

Patagonia is teaming up with American Rivers and its partners to call on Congress to help build a future that includes healthy rivers, improved water conservation for cities and agriculture, and water sharing solutions that allow communities to adapt to warmer temperatures and more erratic precipitation.

Please take action to save the #1 Most Endangered Colorado River

Rivers are remarkably resilient. When we give them a chance – when we let rivers be rivers – they can restore themselves, and continue to sustain us for generations to come.

[Photo courtesy of American Rivers]

Amy Souers Kober is the Director of Communications for American Rivers. Her favorite river is the one she's on with her husband, their dogs and their driftboat.

Head over to American Rivers to see the complete top 10 list of America's Most Endangered Rivers 2013. Two of the others to make the list – Rough and Ready Creek (#8) and Boundary Waters (#6) – were recently covered here on The Cleanest Line. 

 

Today, we received an incredible email.

To: CUSTOMER_SERVICE
Subject: Patagonia saved my life..

I was leaving Fenway Park yesterday and walking to the finish line of the Boston Marathon. We went down Newbury street to go to the Patagonia store first since I had never been there. We shopped around for bit and then walked out to head to the finish. At that time the bombs went off. Had I not stopped at your store we would have been standing right there. Right in the middle of it all.

Your brand has been inspirational with its policies around charity and conservation. This is why I made a point to stop in for a visit. This is why Patagonia saved my life.


Our hearts are with everyone in Boston who was affected by the marathon bombing. We're incredibly thankful that the Patagonia Boston staff are okay, including the two employees who participated in the race. The store is planning a memorial run next week during their regular run club night. Stay tuned to the Patagonia Boston Facebook page for details.

By Patagonia Surf Europe

The Usual magazine teamed up with Patagonia’s NYC surf crew to put together this unique edition. Check it out.

“On the following pages, we start on the Bowery, where our favorite company Patagonia will take over the old CBGB gallery to open their first East Coast surf store in early 2013. Just like CBGB’s nurtured New York’s alternative music culture, Patagonia’s shop will be a hub for surfers — the misfits of the global brand.”

Hit the jump to read the full digital edition of the magazine.



Patagonia Surf Bowery will be opening soon. Keep up with their progress on Facebook and Instagram.

[Magazine: The Usual X Patagonia by theusualmontauk on Issuu.]

By Nate Ptacek



Brushing past lily pads, my canoe cuts through the serene calm of a September evening. I glide silently under massive pines in the fading light, careful to avoid the weathered snags of black spruce jutting out from shore. The water is still warm, but there is a slight chill in the air – a reminder that the brief northern summer is waning. 

Suddenly, the silence is broken by a loud buzz. With a few draw strokes, I reach the source – a large dragonfly is trapped on the water’s surface, blown into the lake during a passing storm just an hour before. Ripples echo out in a delicate pattern as she struggles to take flight. Instinctively, I reach into the water, taking care not to crush her wings as she trembles wildly in my grasp.

[Video: Watershed from Nate Ptacek]

Now in the safety of my canoe, she crawls over my hand, shaking off beads of water and slowly flexing her wings in the evening air. One wing is broken, and I wonder if she will be able to fly again. Minutes pass as I gaze in awe, my canoe drifting ever closer to shore.  Then, without notice, she takes flight, haphazardly landing on a cedar bough at first, and then off again into the forest night. Beaming with joy, I land my canoe at our campsite, where my companions gather water and build a fire – the nightly rituals of life in canoe country.



[Out for a solo paddle on Otto Lake. BWCA Wilderness, Minnesota. All photos by Nate Ptacek]



[The dragonfly just moments before taking flight. Otto Lake, BWCA Wilderness, Minnesota.]



[Nick Brady and Ben Goforth relax in camp after a long day on the water. Long Island Lake, BWCA Wilderness, Minnesota.]


Moments like this are the reason I make an annual pilgrimage to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA), a vast million-acre wilderness of lakes and boreal forest along the Minnesota-Canadian border. It is a landscape seemingly frozen in time, where I go seeking solitude and solace. But my cherished canoe trips here would not be possible were it not for the hard work of a small group of people nearly forty years ago.

In the face of increasing motorized vehicle use, logging and development, The Friends of the Boundary Waters was formed in 1976 to advocate for full wilderness protection of the BWCA. After much debate, the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness Act was signed into law in 1978, designating 1,098,057 acres as federally protected wilderness. Today, with more than 200,000 annual visitors, the BWCA is the most visited wilderness area in the nation.

The Friends have diligently continued their work, leading the way on acid rain issues in the 1970s and 1980s and working to restore the natural fire cycles of the boreal forest ecosystem. They remain vigilant in their work to preserve the character of the region for future generations.



[It’s Nick Brady’s turn to carry on a swampy, seldom used portage into the east branch of Otto Lake. BWCA Wilderness, Minnesota.]


Today, an even greater challenge looms on the horizon: two major sulfide mines have recently been proposed in northern Minnesota. A Canadian firm is furthest along, actively exploring an open-pit site located in a 1,600-acre wetland within the St. Louis (Lake Superior) watershed that would pave the way for future mines. Another firm seeks to operate an underground mine extracting 80,000 tons of ore daily just three miles from the BWCA and along one of the major entry points to the wilderness area.

Seeking copper and nickel from sulfide-bearing ores, these mines would produce a tremendous amount of waste rock that, when exposed to air and rain, creates sulfuric acid and toxic metal discharge. Processed mine waste, called tailings, can also leach harmful polluted drainage. At mines of this type across the country, runoff from waste rock and tailings have led to significant water contamination and subsequent damage to fish, wildlife, and even human health. Even more unsettling, the track record for mines of this type is not positive when it comes to polluting nearby waters.

This is truly a watershed moment for the BWCA, where the decisions we make today will determine the future of our wilderness heritage forever. I know firsthand what is at stake – not just the wilderness itself, but also the countless moments experienced there. So as The Friends of the Boundary Waters stand up to protect the wilderness once again, I will be standing with them.





If you're concerned about sulfide mining in northern Minnesota, educate yourself on the issue, speak up to your friends and relatives and reach out to your representatives to let them know how you feel.


An avid wilderness paddler and former canoe outfitter in the BWCA, Nate Ptacek volunteered to create the short film embedded here for The Friends of the Boundary Waters. He began working for Patagonia at our retail store in St. Paul, and now works on the video team here in Ventura, California.

Since December of 2001, Patagonia has supported the Friends of the Boundary Waters and the important work they do with $38,050 of grant funding – the extra $50 was from a Patagonia employee-match on Minnesota’s Give to the Max day (thanks, Mary!). Help protect the wilderness for future generations by making an online donation today.

By Fitz & Becca Cahall

Great stories often have these five words, “and then it got dark.” But how can carefully executed alpine starts and planned summits turn into watching stars dot the sky? Well, getting benighted can happen for a few reasons. One: unforeseen circumstances. Two: complete denial of reality. Or three: getting too comfortable in the dark. Kelly Cordes, Ryan Peterson, and Jay Puckhaber share their tales of being out, long after the sun has set.

Listen to "Benighted"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Editor's note: On March 15, 2013, The Dirtbag Diaries logged their two millionth download. It's an amazing milestone. If you've enjoyed this podcast as much as we have, if it has "spurred your courage to try something new, to quit a bunk job, or say yes to a deep seeded belief while others told you to play it safe," then please pledge your support for the show.

Together we can help Fitz and Becca evolve the show and reach the next two million downloads. Thanks for listening.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

By Hillary Fleming and the crew of the James Robert Hanssen



When Patrick first called to tell me he’d been asked by his good friend Jordan to join the Africa-Americas rowing voyage I knew there was no way he would turn it down. Though he spent a few weeks mulling it over, he wasn’t fooling me. His biggest concern was missing out on his 5th season of Ski Patrol and the guarantee of fresh powder and the chance to throw dynamite across mountain tops.

Patrick is not a waterman. Even though he spent years’ worth of mornings on the Long Island and Puget sounds as a competitive rower he always remained more tied to the mountains. During prep for the trip he would call me and talk about his crash courses in ocean weather, marine charts and nautical tools. I don’t think he ever spent a night at sea before this trip! I knew he’d be a pro in no time, he guided whitewater rafting trips with no previous experience, guided backpacking trips, was on ski patrol at Crystal Mountain for four seasons.

I don’t know whether this trip will turn him into a salty dog looking for a live-aboard sailboat or make him run back to the mountains as fast as he can, but I know either way he’ll be glad he had the chance to be on the Oar Northwest team. And, as his protective older sister, I couldn’t ask for a better group of guys for him to be out there with. Sometimes I look at their location on the map, think, “they are literally a tiny dot in the middle of the ocean,” and then remember the great crew. Then, I’m just stoked to live vicariously through their adventure.

The four-man crew, including Pat, Jordan Hanssen, Adam Kreek and Marcus Pukonen, is attempting a Guinness Book of World Records passage, rowing in a human-powered row boat from Senegal, Africa to Miami, Florida, USA. Both Jordan and Adam are original members of the crew who crossed the North Atlantic in the same boat for a race in 2006. They row two at a time, keeping the oars going 24/7 unless weather conditions require them to be on sea anchor. This means they row about 12 hours a day, every day.

Right now they are on about day 71. They do not have an engine, they do not have a safety boat with them and their toilet is a bucket. They have solar panels and a wind generator to draw power for their nautical tools and other instruments aboard the boat. They had two spare oars but are now using both because large waves cracked the other two, leaving them with no more spares (yikes!).

These are a few of my favorite stories from their blog.



Day 6 – Face to Face with Oar-Breaking Waves

By Jordan Hanssen

A wave? What does a wave look like? On a blue bird day they are crystal blue and a six-foot wave from the seat of an ocean rowboat seems huge. There is the swell that rolls by mainly from one direction. On top of this are small wind waves making the water lumpy and hard to read. They rise and swell with a sound like fabric ripping towards us. Sometimes it jets under our boat and we roll over it without notice, other times they slam our boat with a slap and a crash of water. Each one seems to have its own agenda and will pick rowers at random to soak. Sometimes bow, sometimes stern, and often both. Occasionally a random swell will roll in from another direction, combining with the prevailing waves and making peaks. Our oars will flap and slam the top of the water trying to regain rhythm.

A nine-foot wave is huge… from the stern it rolls like a freight train. It rises the stern and slides through the boat, spilling into the sides of the boat… gently though, before sucking the boat forward on the back side.

Last night they were black lumps, the crashing the splashing of each wave bringing a smell of marine warmth. Adam and I rowed at midnight, two hours into a four-hour shift. We ride into the beam (side) of the waves, by far the most uncomfortable. We rest. Adam rows gently with the waves, I stand in the stern. I hear the roar… out of the corner of our eyes see a steep black face off to port. We lean into it. A crash. We roll hard and the gunnels touch the water. White bubbles under moonlight. An oar, carbon wrapped over a wood core, snapped. Small sundry on deck float away. We grab all of them but some toothpaste, conditioner… and one of our PDA that keeps our schedule. Luckily this was one of three.

Pat and Markus pulled all our vents shut. They thought we were going to flip.

The boat, fully loaded, rose up and spilled the water back into the sea. As soon as we could gain control we began to run with the waves. A more gentle course, but not favorable for going to Miami.

Shaken, we clean the deck while Adam holds course. I pull out our first of two spare oars and put it together. We run the night with the waves. In the morning we get an email saying we have gone too far south so we put out sea anchor and we ride the bow to the waves on a blue bird day… till the weather changes.





Day 14 – Hygiene
By Adam Kreek

Clean. Exactly what does “clean” mean on the James Robert Hanssen? Well, our clean is not quite what you land lubbers might usually think of “clean.” Rather, I would describe our cleanliness as, well, an “Ocean Clean.” We do not have the grime, germs and bugs of the land, but we have the challenge of seawater with its bacteria-laden, salty wetness.

Don’t get me wrong. Out here – mostly for our moms’ sake – we would love to be “Land Clean.” But the JRH is a boat of compromises and our hygiene schedule is no different.

In civilization, we often think of the instant gratification we gain from cleaning: warm water feels nice, we don’t smell, we look good. People want to hang out with us when we are clean, and our moms say we look handsome. However, we sometimes forget the serious longer-term health issues that we prevent through a regular hygiene schedule.

Without regular washing (and drying) your body starts to develop sores. Ingrown hairs, pimples and open sores show up more regularly. …AHEM… How do I put this? Your undercarriage is the most important part. It’s a bit gross, but please think about it: You are spending 12+ hours a day sitting on a rowing seat. You are on a boat where standing is difficult, so you sit during your off-shift. You sleep with your bottom laying against the cabin cushions. (Yes Mom, we clean these surfaces regularly).

Every day we have alarms that go off to remind us to brush our teeth, put on sunscreen and wash. Washing is the most important. We wash in the kitchen/science/living room area in front of the two rowing stations. Its a bit of a show for the those who are rowing… Our first rinse is with salt water and minty fresh Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap. After the saltwater bath, we take 1/2 to 1 liter of fresh water to rinse off our body. Now that’s fresh water conservation! (Try that at home…) Thankfully, after bathing we then clean the kitchen area. We usually clean up with our pants off. Awkward, but being dry dry dry is important!

In our first week rowing, after an outbreak of derriere sores, we instituted a policy: Operation Dry Bum. The first couple days we were wearing surf shorts that stayed wet. This was bad. Very bad. We now religiously use our Kokatat GORE-TEX pants in messy water. They block seawater splashes from ruining our seat time while wicking sweat away. Thanks Kokatat!

When sores get painful, itchy swollen and sticky, the first step is regular cleaning and drying. We clean as above or use baby wipes to supplement cleaning throughout the day. After some air drying we apply Bag Balm (a Vermont remedy for chapped cow udders) or diaper rash cream. Moms, please be assured, after our first week mishap, we are now caring prudently and regularly for that beautiful bottom you protected while we were young and diapered.

Future adventurers beware! Dry, clean bodies are key to an enjoyable time in the great outdoors. With enough forethought, the right equipment (like Kokatat), and proper discipline, you too can avoid the pitfalls of itchy, swollen body sores.





Day 28 – And Then There Were Four
By Jordan Hanssen

I had just put in my ear plugs. These and a bandanna wrapped about my eyes have been the best way I can find sleep out here and I was feeling like this was going to be a good one. I sighed and settled into the constant roll of the boat that, although no longer makes me sick, still makes it hard to rest as it feels like my guts shift from one side of my body to the other, causing me to constantly engage some muscle in my body.

Then Pat flew across the cabin crashing into me. In the pit of my stomach I knew what happened. That was the sound of a wave that was going to break an oar. Pat rolled off me and we both stared out at the deck and surveyed the damage.

“Is everyone alright!?”
“Adam, Markus are you injured?”

Their were nods and yeses as they surveyed the scene. Nothing had left the deck but Adam was staring blankly at half an oar still gripped in his hand.

“The riggers are too strong.” I kept swearing and mumbling to myself. On the first trip across the ocean – in even bigger weather – we had never broke an oar; however, parts of our rigger had broken. Of course I did not put it together if I had stronger riggers built it would mean that our just-as-strong oars had met their match and would be on the losing side of “Oar, Rigger, Ocean.” (its like rock, papers scissors, but ocean always wins)

I went out and deployed our sea anchor. Markus was fine but Adam still appeared a bit shaken. I told him to go inside and get dry. Once on sea anchor we cooked and sent the food into Pat and Adam. Markus and I also decided to try and stay out on deck the whole night. Pat had been feeling a bit ill that day anyway. We bundled up into our dry suits, at least five layers on the top and bottom, and spent a night under the stars. I dreamt for the first time in a while.


Jordan & Adam rowing in messy seas out of the north

The following morning we had a meeting. We were down to four oars. Still at full power but with no room unless we came in one rower at a time… Not a proposition i looked forward to. Thankfully everyone was optimistic and I was glad everyone had a full night’s sleep and the sun was finally out. Our goal is still Miami, and we have a long way to go before we are even within striking distance of any land. Anything could happen in the future but for now the practical conclusions were that we have to row more conservatively than we would like, especially through the night when we can’t see the waves. Forecasts of waves of three meters with 20kt winds will likely mean time on sea anchor. And I hate sea anchor. That being said I would hate rowing with three oars even more. We also needed to see if there was anything we could do to our equipment. Our only option was spreading open the bronze oarlock to allow the oars to pop out easier. It would make rowing more of a pain but it might also mean preserving oars.



We spent the morning, cooking, rigging fishing line out of the broken oar handle, shrinking video (that we will send when we can string together a few sunny days), and put together the last spare oar. I spent four hours with my tool box figuring out how to gain enough leverage on a rocking rowboat to spread the heads of the thick bronze oar locks. I finally figured out I could thread two nuts to a 3/8 screw cut to size to fit between the bolts and then use some vice grips and pliers to unscrew the nuts off the screw and slowly bend the oarlock open. This would have taken maybe an hour on land. Two hours into it I was not sure if it would even work. Then one got done, two a bit faster, three, and like so many projects that last one seemed to take forever. About an hour later we were rowing. Just praying for some favorable weather, any weather that will let us keep moving to Miami.



Day 31 – Dark Times
By Pat Fleming



It was the beginning of another day on the JRH. By that, I mean it was the middle of a four-hour row shift and I felt on the verge of collapse in my seat while waiting to cry, fall off my seat, or slam my shin with the oar. It’s hard to tell when one day starts or another ends, but we’ll start there.

Slowly, the odd energy boost I get around first-light started to kick in and I was belting out a mash up of Sublime, Venga Boys, Beach Boys, and Cyndi Lauper. I say mash-up not because I’m gaining adept DJ lyricism out here but because I don’t really remember more than a handful of lyrics from any of the songs and my sleepless mind wanders fairly quickly. As the sun came up, I was hopeful for another day, and two hours or so of hard sleep. Little did I know what was to come that morning.

Shifts came and went that morning relatively calmly. Naked men (Jordan & Markus) cleaned 10-20 pounds of sea beasts off the hull of our boat with a paint scraper and cutting board as I steered the boat and Adam attempted to fix our Airmar weather station.



“Hey – done with the Airmar. Want me to start working on the wind turbine?”
“Do you know what you need to do to it?”
“Not at all!”
“Well, just let me deal with it on my off shift then.”

Great. I finally had a good opportunity to have a useful impact on boat life and shore up our power supply. It had been relatively low compared to what we had expected since the start of the trip. We had one working battery out of three, so any boost in power generation would be good. You know, more iPod charges and email time.

Adam turn off the power.
Got it.
Okay, disconnect one wire, reattach firmly to other.
Done.
Reconnect power.
Done.
Blade is turning in a power generating fashion. Looking good…
Sparks in the breaker box! Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off!
Done.
Okay, fiddle with wires. Better connection, no fuses blown on the first go round.
Reconnect power.
Now Adam’s got sparks in the battery compartment!
Off, turn it off!
All is black. No power. No battery sensor readout. It just got dark.

Not because it was the middle of the night. In fact, it was quite sunny and blazingly hot in the cabin. It’s dark because all the little blinking lights went out. We’re 1,000 nautical miles from our start point and in an attempt to make more power I’m pretty sure we’ve fried it all.

At this point you’d expect some panic, maybe some crying (we seem to cry over less out here), but luckily it was lunch time and all thoughts were preoccupied with refueling the rowing engine. A delicious mix of broccoli beef stir fry, southwest chicken, and shepherds pie later…

Refueled.

Quick disparaging remarks about how long the four-hour row shift will be without the iPod – the sound of oars in the water is only Zen for so long, especially when drown out by snoring from the cabin, plus, the four-hour row shift always gets disparaging remarks.

Call Dan Heyl. Get the info on replacing fuses on the battery terminals.
Set up a splash guard – a sleep sheet made of hi-tech ”cotton” material – over the battery compartment and go to town.
Batt 1 back online.
Batt 2 back online.
Both at full charge too.

Now, not only are we back at power but the double strength battery bank that had been dead weight up until now is showing full charge giving us 200 more amps of power – only 1.2 something gigawatts more til we can travel back in time!

Moral of the story: luckily I broke the heck out of something so that with Dan Heyl’s tutelage we could not only fix the problem but come out with more power and a flying fish wind sock that looks suspiciously like a wind turbine.

Oh yeah, we’re making three knots right now too, gents. Just another day, and still eight hours 'til the four-hour row shift.



Day 38 – What We Eat
By Adam Kreek



The first two questions people ask us are:

1) “Are you crazy?”
2) “Where do you go to the bathroom?”

The third? “So what the heck do you guys eat out there?!”

Our menu took us two months of planning to allocate proper nutrition and caloric intake for this Atlantic journey. Here’s what’s cookin’ …

The majority of our food sundries were generously provided by Lifestyle Markets in Victoria, BC. This company specializes in local, organic and healthy foods.

Breakfast: Consists of quick oats or flaked quinoa mixed with sulphur-free dried pineapple, cranberries, apples, raisins and mangoes. We mix in some cacao nibs and organic coconut flakes. To add caloric density we will also add coconut oil to the oatmeal.

Lunch: Consists of an array of Backpackers Pantry freeze-dried meals. My favorite flavors are the Pad Thai, Macaroni and Beef, Southwest Chicken, and astronaut ice cream.

Dinner: We have been eating a lot of de la Estancia polenta, mixed with freeze dried vegetables and cheese. We will also have instant rice and bean flakes mixed with freeze dried vegetables, and canned wild salmon. Both meals are generously spiced with chili flakes, pepper, and/or garlic powder. We also mix in a healthy portion of olive oil for flavor and caloric density.




Snacks: Consist of various e.frutti gummies, Primal Pacs beef jerkey, and The Edge Food Energy Bars.

Drink: We are also drinking a lot of tea on this vessel. Our favorites are the JagaSilk powdered Maccha, and the powdered London Fog. We are also eating/drinking ground hemp and maccha powder. We mix it as a warm drink, add it to our oatmeal or dinner dishes for texture, substance and health effects. It has a high protein content and good fats which make it a great superfood.

Vitamins/Supplements: Our diet is supplemented with Vitamins from Natural Factors. We have Omega-3 fish oils, vitamin ester C, ultimate antioxidant, acidipholous and bifidus, and a multi-vitamin.

Wanna know what’s exactly on board? Here is our complete list of food supplies in spreadsheet form (.pdf).



Day 62 – Whales!!!
By Jordan Hanssen



The shape had hardly time to register in my mind.

When it did it was halfway into the water, and the MASSIVE splash seemed huge even from a half-mile away. It was a humpback, by our best guess… bubble net feeding, circling around the plankton that makes this massive mammal’s food, and making a net of bubbles before diving down and shooting up into the center of the undisturbed water and eating tens of thousands of the tiny animals that sustain the world’s largest animal.

A moment later we felt that thump of the literal tons of whales landing. We were in the middle of nowhere and we were the only humans to see this.

A pair of pilot whales also showed up for a visit. Can you hear them?



Humpbacks!



Over the next few days whales continued to surface around us, too quickly and too infrequently to take pictures and not with the same kind of drama. Then one appeared just fifty feet away. It was close enough to stop rowing and pull out the camera. Pat asked me if I saw it. I replied, “no, just two dorados swimming… wait… that’s a whale and those are its flippers!” It was just under the boat. By this time Markus was up and I put on the leash and goggles and dove in. There was lots of phytoplankton on the surface, and looking up it created a strange ceiling. I saw it, swimming away, huge and just at the surface. It swam away!

I held myself under the bottom of the boat, hoping for more. Left…. right… bow…. stern…. below! One hundred fifty feet – the whole whale filled my vision. It moved so slow, and yet its locomotion so powerful and quick. Beneath its massive body was the abyss, and all of it made me feel small.




Visit O.A.R. Northwest for more on the trip and to check the boat’s current location. If all goes well, they’ll make landfall in Miami on April 20th.

Hillary Fleming is a Visual Merchandiser for Patagonia Retail Stores.

Crewmember Pat Fleming is a former retail employee of Patagonia Reno and Patagonia Seattle.

By Colin Haley

Here is a quick blog post that doesn't include any cool climbing stories or photos, and will only appeal to gear nerds, like myself. I want to take a minute to rave about two new Patagonia products, the updated M10 Jacket and the new Knifeblade Pants. No one at Patagonia has asked me to make this blog post, and in fact, as I type this out, I'm not sure if they'll even put it up on the Patagonia blog. [Editor's note: The Knifeblade Pants will be available in late summer when our fall 2013 line launches.]

My motivation is simple and selfish. Often the very best Patagonia alpine products are discontinued after only one year on the market because they don't sell well enough. This is why some pieces which are now a cherished staple, such as the R1 Hoody, were once discontinued. I used the new M10 Jacket and the Knifeblade Pants on almost every climb I made this past season in Patagonia and they are the best alpine shell jacket and pants I've ever used – which leads me to worry that they won't sell well and will therefore be discontinued. Ironic, yes! So, I simply want to explain why I like these two products so much, in the hope that I'll be able to keep ordering them for years!

I know that people often view product testimonials with skepticism, and obviously for good reason. I can assure you that my endorsement of these two products is 100% honest, and that I wouldn't take part in a product testimonial of a product I didn't like, even if I were asked to do so. Even for a product that I do really like, like the new Encapsil Parka, I wouldn't yet write a product testimonial for it, simply because I haven't yet used it enough to be 100% sure of what I am writing.

So, here goes...


The new M10 Jacket

The M10 Jacket is an ultralight hard-shell jacket that originally came out a few years ago. The first version was nearly ideal: very minimal weight, windproof, waterproof, simple, and a good cut for climbing. However, the features on the original version were slightly flawed. It had pit zips, which never belong on a high-end alpine shell, and the pockets were difficult to use.

Why no pit zips? Pit-zips add bulk and weight to a jacket, with no advantage. The only scenario in which I can imagine pit zips being useful is hiking through the forest, at a slow pace, in a cool rain, with no wind. They don't belong on a climbing jacket, however. First of all, for ventilation purposes, opening the front of the jacket is much more effective for losing heat than zippers under your arm pits. Next, in an alpine scenario, when it is often windy, when there is often spindrift, and when your arms are often raised above your head, you wouldn't ever be able to have the pit zips open while it is precipitating. Lastly, unlike hiking, there are no types of climbing that are good to do in the rain (snow is a different story), so if it is actually raining on you, you are rappelling down or hiking out, and in that scenario who cares if you sweat a little bit because your jacket is zipped all the way up? Most designers know that pit zips are useless on an alpine shell jacket, and the pit zips end up on the jackets only because sales statistics show that the jacket won't sell otherwise.

So, not only did the original M10 have unnecessary weight and bulk because of the pit zips, but the pit zips were combined with the pockets in the interest of saving weight. The result, however, was that the pockets were in a poor location, difficult to access, and required two hands to open or close them.

The new M10 Jacket carries on the original dream – an ultra-lightweight, full-conditions hard shell – but with the flaws fixed. The pit zips have been removed, making the new M10 even lighter than the original. The new M10 has just a single Napoleon-style chest pocket, which is all that is needed. A pocket high on the chest is far superior to "handwarmer" pockets for two reasons: 1) Handwamer pockets interfere with a climbing harness; 2) Having weight in a handwarmer pocket causes it to swing around when you are exercising, but the same amount of weight in a chest pocket is much more stable.

Considering how lightweight the new M10 is, it is surprisingly durable. This past season in Patagonia, one in which there were many good weather windows, I used the new M10 Jacket on every climb and attempt in a four-and-a-half month period – except for three climbs when I took a Houdini Jacket as my only shell. That is a lot of abrasion on super-rough granite. However, I AM NOT claiming that the new M10 is a durable jacket. There is no doubt that the new M10 is less durable than an average hardshell jacket... and that is good! If it were durable I wouldn't like it at all!

There is a simple trade-off between lightweight and durability, and I will always choose lightweight, the higher-performance option. The best clothing for alpine climbing is always the lighterweight option, never the more durable option. I'm sure that people will smirk that it is an easy choice when the jacket is free, but this has been my choice since long, long before I ever got any free climbing clothing or equipment. Alpine climbing is the overriding passion in my life, and I am a serious gear nerd, so using the highest performance equipment has always been worth it to me.

It surely sounds cheesy, but the new M10 Jacket is perfect, in my opinion, and definitely the best hard-shell jacket I've ever used.


The Knifeblade Pants

For most of my alpine career, I have used hard-shell pants, which were the standard when I started. Then, for several years, I switched to using soft-shell pants, which had some advantages. Last year, during the 2011-2012 Patagonia climbing season, I switched back to using hard-shell pants. Both systems, however, always had some flaws. Soft-shell pants are heavy, not waterproof, and strong wind cuts through them. Hard-shell pants don't breathe as well, don't allow for ease of movement unless the cut is perfect, and are easily sliced open by your crampons.

In the fall of 2010, I was at a Patagonia design meeting and saw the first samples of the Knifeblade Pullover. It is a nice jacket, but what I was really excited about is what I told the designers: "We should make pants out of this stuff!" (which, by the way, is the Polartec Power Shield Pro fabric). Two years later and the Knifeblade Pants have arrived. I got a sample pair and used them on every single climb and attempt this past season in Patagonia. Sorry to use cheesy superlatives twice in the same blog post, but these are definitely the best shell pants I've ever used for alpine climbing.

The Knifeblade Pants essentially combine all the advantages of hard-shell pants and soft-shell pants into one. Unlike soft-shell pants, they block the wind completely, and while they probably can't be advertised as "waterproof," I never had any wetness come through them, even when butt-sliding down slopes completely saturated with slushy snow. Unlike hard-shell pants, they are supple and "move" well, and stand up quite well to sloppy crampon use. While not as light as the ultralight M10 Pants (which existed for one year), the Knifeblade Pants are significantly lighter than a pair of (soft shell) Guide Pants.

Fortunately, the Knifeblade Pants come without full side zips, and instead just a short zipper on each side to allow for going poo (even with your harness on). Just like pit zips, side zips add weight and bulk with no advantage. In a climbing scenario, your harness prevents taking your pants on or off during the day, even if you have zippers on the sides of them. I would be curious to use a version of the Knifeblade Pants without suspenders, because suspenders can be slightly annoying, but overall I think the designers made the right call. Making them a low-cut bib with suspenders means less bulk under your harness waistbelt, and also a better seal for full-on windy conditions.

Some people might wonder: "If the Knifeblade Pants combine the advantages of soft shell and hard shell so well, why wouldn't you use them in combination with the Knifeblade Pullover jacket?" Well, the main reason is that the M10 Jacket is much lighter than the Knifeblade Pullover. On the bottom, Knifeblade Pants are important because your pants always receive more abrasion than your jacket (the M10 Pants wore out too quickly, for example). Also, because of your climbing harness, your shell pants need to remain on your body all day long, and for that reason the added breathability of the Polartec Power Shield Pro fabric is a boon. Up top, on the other hand, you can easily take your shell jacket on or off depending on the conditions, so a sightly less breathable but much lighter fabric, such as the M10, makes much more sense.


How Much Abuse, and the Whole Clothing System





The two pictures here are the M10 Jacket and Knifeblade Pants that I used all of this past season in Patagonia, taken in my El Chalten apartment the day before departing. Yes, they have a few bits of repair tape on them, but still work just fine. To give you an idea of how much they were used, they came on all these climbs.

-Cerro Solo, "Insomnia" Route
-Cerro Torre, Ragni Route
-Aguja Guillaumet, Comesaña-Fonrouge Route
-Aguja Guillaumet, Guillot-Conqueugniot Route
-Col dei Sogni, Tobogan Route
-Cerro Torre, Ragni Route
-Torre Egger, attempt on "Venas Azules" within 2 pitches of the summit
-Cerro Standhardt, "Festerville" Route
-Fitz Roy, North Pillar
-Cerro Torre, Corkscrew Route
-Fitz Roy, California Route
-Aguja Mermoz, Red Pillar
-Cerro Mojon Rojo, West Face
-El Mocho, East Buttress
-Aguja Bifida, attempt on NE Face to 2/3 height
-Cerro Adela, South Ridge
-Cerro El Nato, North Ridge
-Cerro El Doblado, North Ridge
-Cerro Grande, North Ridge

Lastly, I know that people are often interested in the total clothing system, and in this case I figured I would share it, because I felt that this season my clothing system was perfect.

On bottom:
-Capilene 2 boxer briefs
-Capilene 4 bottoms
-Knifeblade pants [Coming fall 2013]

On top:
-Capilene 2 Lightweight Crew
-Capinene 4 Balaclava (the best balaclava I've ever used) [Coming fall 2013]
-Piton Hybrid Hoody (lighter than the R1 Hoody, and blocks more wind)
-Nano Puff Vest (adds a lot of warmth for very little weight, and doesn't obstruct your arms for hard climbing)
-M10 Jacket
-Nano Puff Pullover / Down Sweater Full-Zip Hoody / Fitz Roy Down Parka / Encapsil Down Belay Parka, depending on objective, temperatures and conditions.


Patagonia ambassador Colin Haley grew up hiking, skiing and climbing in the rugged Cascade Mountains where he developed a love of mountain adventure and an indifference to foul weather. His climbing is focused on the mountains of Alaska and Patagonia, where he’s drawn to the steepest alpine faces. You can keep up with Colin on his excellent blog, Skagit Alpinism.

By Dominico Zapata, introduction by Chris Malloy



It’s my first six hours in Raglan and I’m already on my third round trip at Manu Bay – jump off the rocky point, stroke into an impossibly long left, surf until your quads are on fire, prone out, then scramble up the cobblestone point for another. At the edge of the rocks I see a familiar face and slow down. It’s one of my biggest heroes, Peggy Oki!

Peggy stands around 5'4'' but exudes the strength and energy of a giant. She’s an all-time classic: original Dogtown Zephyr team rider, great surfer, amazing artist, bad-ass climber, and environmental activist. I stopped, gave her a big hug and asked, “Hey Peggy, what are you up to?” With a glint in her eye she casually replied, "Ah, just savin’ dolphins."

We shot the breeze for a minute or two but I could tell she had something bigger to share with me, and like any good grassroots activist does, she quickly dove deep into the topic of proposed seabed mining in the region and how it could affect New Zealand. I was blown away to hear about the hubris of corporations thinking they could dredge hundreds of millions of tons of sand from the ocean floor and not have a major effect on the ocean. I wanted to know more. We exchanged numbers and I went for another few rounds at Manu Bay before the sun set.

[Above: Raglan has been a Mecca for the world's surf community, since Bruce Brown's epic film The Endless Summer. Tourists come from all over the world in pursuit of perfect, long peeling lefts but these waves are dependent to some extent on the movement of sand. Photo courtesy of Kiwis Against Seabed Mining]

The next evening we decided to put together a small gathering of surfers, activists, and wanderers at the house of Phil McCabe. He’s a surfer and the president of Kiwis Against Seabed Mining (KASM). We had an open discussion about seabed mining and I showed our new film Groundswell to help illuminate the fact that small groups of like-minded people can make a difference. I learned so much during my time with Peggy and Phil in Raglan. Please read the essay below so you can too. Us surfers are the only “marine mammals” that can speak up so let’s get the word out there.

–Chris Malloy

[Chris Malloy at Manu Bay, New Zealand. Photo: Justin Bastien]



[Keith and Chris Malloy give an impromptu screening of Groundswell to the friends, family and activists of Kiwis Against Seabed Mining. Photo: Justin Bastien]

The Final Countdown

There’s a sharp crack as another four-foot wave hits the shallow boulder/sand reef and rifles off down the line, little explosions of whitewater glistening in the morning sun every few meters as some lucky local tears the smooth wall to pieces. Standing over the action, its deep valleys and high ridges cloaked in a thick dark green forest, lies Mount Karioi.

This is the area known as Raglan, on the North Island of New Zealand’s west coast. The skies are clear and blue, the air so fresh it lifts me up with each breath. The sun, the waves, the bush-clad mountain behind me, the scent of the forest gently drifting down on the offshore breeze, at this moment I feel like there is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

Looking out to sea, waiting for the next set, a deep sense of calm settles over the lineup. As we watch the horizon, we notice some dark figures heading around the point in a lazy manner, appearing and disappearing, in rhythm with the long ocean swells marching towards the coast in perfect unison.

These are the popoto, or Maui’s dolphin, that call this area home. Known for their inquisitive nature and playful disposition, they bring a smile to all who see them glide by. I feel a touch of jealousy as I imagine what it would be like to ride a swell with even half the grace or fluid motion that these beautiful creatures of the sea possess.

[Watercolor painting of Maui's dolphins by Peggy Oki.]

Yet, this is a special sight, not the common occurrence it should be. There are only 55 of these dolphins left – not only the world’s smallest, but also the world’s most rare. Their numbers have been steadily reduced over the years, mainly due to unsustainable practices in the fishing industry like trawling and setting gill nets in the dolphin’s natural range. Lack of action from the government has let their numbers drop perilously close to the point where they can’t come back, and they have been classified as critically endangered.

There’s also another threat looming over the horizon, one that could be the nail in the coffin for the Maui’s dolphin. A threat that could have negative consequences on a magnitude so big, that the entire ecosystem of the North Island’s west coast hangs in the balance.

A seabed sand-mining company plans to start extracting iron ore from the black sands of this economically and ecologically important area. They want to extract 30-50 million metric tons a year of this valuable material, but to do this they need to remove and then redeposit 300-500 million metric tons of sand per year, a recovery rate of 1:10. The permits they apply for often last for 35 or 40 years.

The effects of this operation could be catastrophic. The seabed is home to organisms that form the cornerstone of our marine ecosystem. Killing them could have a follow-through effect running right up to the top of the food chain. Not only that but sediment plumes can deoxygenate the ocean causing massive dead zones, and kick up large deposits of toxic waste that have settled in the sediment over the years.

Seabed mining could also affect sand migration. As sand travels up the coast it replenishes beaches and estuaries. These pathways could be disrupted causing, among other things, the loss of the iconic Raglan point breaks and other nearby surf spots due to the unnatural acceleration of coastal erosion.

[The west coast snapper fishery is a fantastic recreational and commercial resource. Seabed mining directly threatens its viability. Photo courtesy of KASM]



[Marokopa settlement from the hills overlooking town. You can see the dune system which forms a spit, protecting the harbour and village. This spit is extremely fragile, and already has faced erosionary pressures due to man's influence. It doesn't need more stress. Photo courtesy of KASM]



[The wave at Kiriti is extremely sensitive to sand movements. Photo courtesy of KASM]



[This reef break north of Aotea Harbour requires proper sand formation for optimum wave shape. Photo courtesy of KASM]



[Take action: Recent silent protest at Raglan. Photo courtesy of KASM]

The locals in this area are fed up, frustrated, angry and taking action to make sure this doesn’t happen. Phil McCabe, surfer, father, owner of Solscape Eco Retreat and spokesperson for Kiwis Against Seabed Mining (KASM) knows what’s at stake. He knows what will happen to the small communities dotted along the West Coast who rely on the ocean, not just for economic purposes but also for deeper reasons. He knows that if this planned mining goes ahead, the minimal royalties and few jobs that are being offered will never outweigh the consequences. 

That’s why KASM exists. KASM is a small community-based group that was born out of a desire to not let the mining company’s plans go unopposed. Like many small towns throughout Australasia and around the world, Raglan is facing an onslaught from outside interests eyeing the wealth buried in their lands and waters.

The company promises many things, but I’ve never seen any of their employees down at the Harbor View Hotel and Pub having a beer with the locals, never seen any of them sitting out in the lineup or catching fish off the rocks, haven’t seen any at the regular community meetings or market days.

As Phil sits across from me in the lineup, looking out over the majestic oceanscape that is our home, you can see the twinkle in his eye that tells you he will do everything in his power to help steer the local community away from irreversible disaster, to protect his family and friends’ livelihoods from foreign-owned multinationals. This is not just a local issue. This is the start of an international push, a Pandora’s Box of seabed mining that will suffocate the ocean and the small communities that rely on it.

The battle here in New Zealand is just heating up. It will be an indicator of the power of small communities uniting together around a common cause and what they can achieve. The world can learn from this.

[Save our Sands, love our oceans. Video: Marc Mateo]



[Take action: Recent silent protest at Raglan. Photo courtesy of KASM]



[“Us surfers are the only 'marine mammals' that can speak up so let’s get the word out there.” Chris Malloy, Kiwi shaka on the New Zealand coast. Photo: Justin Bastien]

For more information and to follow this campaign, go to kasm.org.nz. If you want to get involved, here's how you can help:

1. Support KASM and Like them on Facebook
2. If you live in New Zealand, KASM has a list of local actions you can take
3. International readers are encouraged voice your opposition directly to New Zealand’s Prime Minister, John Key, via email, Facebook and Twitter.
4. Spread the word: share this information with your social networks so more people learn about the dangers of seabed mining

Dominico Zapata is a surfer and environmental activist from Mount Maunganui, New Zealand. After starting out with Greenpeace he then moved on to work with numerous other grassroots organizations including Board Riders Against Drilling (B-RAD) and Kiwi's Against Seabed Mining (KASM). Last year he set the New Zealand stand-up paddleboard distance record in an attempt to highlight the need to protect lakes, rivers and oceans for future generations by paddling New Zealand's longest navigable river. He currently resides in Raglan on New Zealand's west coast and spends his time in the water surfing or taking photos and working as a chef in Solscape's organic vegetarian cafe, The Concious Kitchen.

Chris Malloy is a Patagonia surf ambassador and the director of Groundswell, a small film about making a big stand.

Worn Wear is the brainchild of Keith and Lauren Malloy. Inspired by the years of use Keith was getting from his surf gear, they decided to start a Tumblr blog where folks like you can share stories about your favorite piece of Patagonia clothing. Yvon Chouinard helped get things started when he wrote about making the grandfather of all fleeces.

Today we're happy to share a recent entry from Worn Wear and invite you to submit one of your own. It's easy to do and everyone who gets their story published will receive a Worn Wear patch from the Malloys.



My First Pile
John Wasson, Wilson, Wyoming

Dear Patagonia,

I’m pretty sure I bought this sweater from Bob Wade at the Ute Mountaineer in Aspen. Probably 1978. It was utilitarian to say the least. Light, tough, quick dry and ‘tech’. I started wearing it under a paddling jacket instead of the old wool sweaters that were the standard then.

In 1979 I landed an invitation from Roger Brown to paddle in Nepal on an American Sportsman film extravaganza. The plan was that a film crew would document the second ascent of Ama Dablam and then film three kayakers making the first descent of the Arun River. It was an all-star cast of mountain, river and film people. The kayakers received an invitation to trek to base camp and help out on the mountain. On the day I left Kathmandu I had the dragon embroidered onto my sweater. I spent a month on the mountain and when it came down to the second summit party it was just me and Doug Robinson. We made it. Thanks again Doug. The Arun was amazing too.

The photo by Rob Lesser was taken on the 1981 first descent of the Stikine River in British Columbia. It was also an American Sportsman episode. We paddled, scouted and portaged. There is still a hole there named after me. I do not reccommend going into huge holes to get your name into the guidebook.

The pile sweater survived many more years of loving abuse.

-John

Have a story of your own? Visit Worn Wear and click the submit link today.




 

By Shannon McPhail



It's not often that a small, rural region of communities declares victory against one of the largest corporations on the planet, so when it happens - WE NEED TO CELEBRATE!

Editor's note: I remember hearing Shannon speak back in 2010 when she, Ali Howard and a group of kayaking filmmakers visited Patagonia HQ to screen Awakening the Skeena. Shannon was passionate, funny and full of fight. We've published a number of posts on this issue – from protests to photos to film – so it's with great joy that we share this wonderful news today.

The problem? Royal Dutch Shell wanted to drill 1,500-10,000 coal bed methane gas wells in the Sacred Headwaters, where three of Canada's greatest wild salmon and steelhead rivers, the Skeena, Stikine and Nass are born.

These rivers are among the last surviving intact, kick-ass, grizzly bear chasing 30-pound salmon over waterfalls kind of rivers. Native and white families harvesting enough food for the winter kind of rivers. Dip your head in and drink the water without tablets or filters because it’s so clean kind of rivers. Not a single dam anywhere kind of rivers.

[Photo: Brian Huntington]


[Photo: Paul Colangelo]


[Photo: Brian Huntington]

On December 18, 2012, after local communities and normal everyday joe-blow residents stood united for nearly a decade in defense of the birthplace of these great rivers, the BC government, Royal Dutch Shell and the Tahltan Central Council announced there will be no coalbed methane drilling in the Sacred Headwaters… EVER!

Not only was coal bed methane outlawed, all petroleum or natural gas activities have been permanently banned in an area of over one million acres of pristine wilderness.

Just how did a grassroots collection of communities in northern BC do it? Well, the first thing you need to know is that the Skeena Watershed Conservation Coalition was just one of many players in the final victory. A big shout out to the TAHLTAN LEADERSHIP who fought for this decision and THE ELDERS who stood on the road and blocked the trucks from getting into the headwaters. They started all of this and we honour them as the warriors and guardians of our Sacred Headwaters.


[Elders = Warriors.]


[Shell blockade.]


[The family that started it all.]


[Jenny Quock and Shannon McPhail.]

A giant thanks to the DOWNSTREAM COMMUNITIES and other CONSERVATION GROUPS who stood in solidarity. All the mayors and councils, band councils and regional districts who might have believed this was never possible but still stood and were counted among those who challenged the logic of this proposed development. Patagonia Co. certainly had a role and helped this campaign immensely along the way and even printed our recipe for “effective grassroots organizing in northwest British Columbia” back in 2008. As wild and crazy as it our recipe seemed, it's still how we operate.

RECIPE

Start with three of Canada’s most celebrated wild salmon and steelhead rivers – the Skeena, Nass and Stikine. Add free-ranging populations of woodland caribou, grizzly bear, wolves, moose, mountain goat and stone sheep. Propose a coalbed methane gas field directly on top of the pristine valleys where these rivers begin. Put in the oven and set to slow roast for five years.

In a watershed-sized bowl add:

•    Generous helping of red-neck bravado (rodeo stock works best)
•    1 cup of well-aged, proud and freshly stirred First Nations culture
•    Dash of hippie passion
•    1/2 cup of educated, inspired and engaged youth
•    Splash of guide-outfitter sensibilities
•    2 lumps of a logger’s work ethic
•    Infuse with outrageous wilderness expeditions
•    Add a layer of live music, campfire smoke, storytelling and photography
•    Top with sprinkling of authentic ceremony and prayer.

For best results: Mix ingredients repeatedly until a uniform liquid begins to coalesce. Generously share the results with residents at every level of regional society. Serve with wild Skeena salmon, garden veggies and homebrew.

And last, but definitely not least, we are grateful to the BC Government and to Shell. While we will always hold government and industry accountable, we also believe in giving credit when credit is due. These guys made a good decision and they deserve recognition for it!

Now, while Shell is out – we’ve still got a few loose ends to tie up – Fortune Minerals Ltd wants to build a coal mine right smack dab in the middle of the Sacred Headwaters. CN Rail wants to build a railway up the pristine upper Skeena River right into the Sacred Headwaters. Spectra Pipelines is proposing BC’s biggest pipeline through a myriad of our greatest wild salmon rivers and tributaries including the Babine River, home to many of the Skeena’s wild sockeye salmon. Our work is still cut our for us but we know you’ve got to celebrate the victories along the way and if there’s one thing we know how to do extremely well it’s throw a party.

We party the same way we campaign – TOGETHER! On February 2nd, to commerate Shell’s withdrawal from the Sacred Headwaters, we celebrated northern style and I can't even begin to tell you how epic it was. A day-long ceremony was held in the giant Kitsumkalum Feast Hall located at the confluence of the Kalum and Skeena rivers in Terrace, BC. First Nations from all three watersheds brought their traditional dance groups, drums, regalia and water from each of their tributaries to be mixed in a cedar bent box as a pledge of solidarity. For the first time in history, non-First Nations (yes... that means white folks) were invited to mix their water as well. This mixing of the waters truly symbolized the unity of northwestern British Columbia. A few favourite quotes included, "When you mess with one of us, you mess with ALL of us!" or "When we play cowboys and indians, we play on the same side!"


[Getting pumped!]


[Giving thanks.]


[Culture.]


[Mixing the waters.]


[The future.]


[Member of Parliament Fin Donnelly, Awakening the Skeena swimmer Ali Howard, Opposition House Leader Nathan Cullen.]

The crowning moment happened right before the feast of wild Skeena salmon and local beef when Canada's House Leader of the Official Opposition and the Skeena's Member of Parliament, Nathan Cullen, stood up and said the Sacred Headwaters victory is a model for Canada and took some of the mixed water back to the House of Commons to tell the Prime Minister there is a better way to govern and it's exemplified here. “The fight to defend our rivers is a model for the entire country on how to find common ground,” he told the roaring crowd. “We’ll never give up our headwaters.”

Northwest BC is blessed with musicians who are connected to the landscape and use their music to express the love they feel. The music they play comes from and is dedicated to the land and water we depend on. The night ended with a crazy live music dance party featuring an all-star line up of our best musicians that went into the wee hours of the morning, set off the fire alarm, burst a water main and flooded the venue… but no one stopped dancing.



Shannon McPhail lives in Hazelton, BC right smack dab in the middle of the Skeena Watershed with her husband and two children – her family has five generations in the region. She has made her living as a hunting guide, welder and backcountry recreation guide. She and her family, friends and neighbours started the Skeena Watershed Conservation Coalition 10 years ago, a non-profit that has twice been recognized as one Canada's Top 10 leading and most innovative organizations.

It takes a village... Here’s a list of the groups that gathered to fight Shell:

Klabona Keepers
Tahltan Central Council
Tahltan Band Council
Iskut Band Council
Friends of Stikine Salmon
ForestEthics - check out their "Path to Victory" timeline
Headwaters Initiative
Dogwood Initiative
Friends of Wild Salmon
Driftwood Foundation
Pembina Institute
SkeenaWild Conservation Trust
NorthWest Watch
Citizens Concerned about Coalbed Methane
Northwest Institute
Suskwa Research
Storyteller's Foundation
West Coast Environmental Law
Cassiar Watch
Clean Energy Canada

Learn more about the Sacred Headwaters and the people who fought, and will continue to fight, for its protection in this video that was produced just before the victory announcement.


[Video: Cedar & Birch]

 

By Kelly Cordes



Do you ever wonder how the greats became great? Of course there’s no easy answer, no definitive answer, never a formula – they’re human, and human factors interact in infinite ways. Opportunity, natural talent, innate drive, developed drive, mental toughness, perspective, thought processes, influences, dedication, work ethic and who-knows-what-else, in various, mysterious combinations along the space-time continuum of life, probably covers most of it. OK, got it? Yeah, me too.

It’s a fascinating topic, and the superb filmmaker Chris Alstrin’s short piece on Patagonia Ambassador Tommy Caldwell gives us a few glimpses into one of the greatest rock climbers of all time. Tommy’s also my neighbor – part of a great crew of friends in Estes Park, Colorado – and one of my heroes (by way of disclosure, I helped with writing and story development for the video).

[Above: Frame grab from Making Tommy. Hit the jump to watch the video.]

How we come to be, and how we develop our potential surely works differently for different people. It’s part of what makes us unique, human. Observationally, in all the years that I’ve been around climbers, and before that, through college, other competitive athletes, I have never, in any realm of my life, known anybody who tries harder than Tommy Caldwell.

Furthermore, for Tommy, some interesting things helped shape him – from accidentally chopping off his index finger with a table saw (what? A rock climber loses a finger... he’s done... nope, he only got better), to a harrowing kidnapping at the hands of Islamic militants in Kyrgyzstan, to more “normal” things like his father being a devoted climber.

Anyway, who knows what makes Tommy, Tommy. But I’m glad he’s him. My SLF (Special Lady Friend, of course) and I were talking recently, and she’d sensed that he’s one of those guys who, the more you know him, the more impressed you become. “Yup,” I said, “my respect for Tommy only grows the better I get to know him.” It’s a refreshing change from a world where we’re frequently warned of the danger of meeting our heroes, because we build them up so much that they can’t possibly equal our expectations. With Tommy, it’s been the opposite.

Well, enough of my fanboy praise. Here’s a brief glimpse into the world of Tommy Caldwell.

For more on Tommy's Dawn Wall project, read his field report from the spring 2013 catalog, "Endless."

By Ethan Stewart



Editor's note: The creation of our new Encapsil™ Down Belay Parka is a big deal for all of us at Patagonia. In the midst of getting everything ready for launch, we asked our friend Ethan Stewart to tell the story of how Encapsil down and the parka came to be. Though he handled the writing like the professional news reporter that he is, it should be said that we requested this piece.

At first blush, the big “wow” factor of the Encapsil Down Belay Parka is, of course, the insulation, Patagonia’s proprietary take on water-resistant down. There has been an industry wide race in the past year to get water-resistant down products available for mass consumption. The idea of making down clusters impervious to their historic Kryptonite of moisture has been a Holy Grail of sorts for outdoor garment manufacturers for quite some time. And, while other companies have managed to plant their water-resistant-down flags first, none have been able to do what Encapsil down has achieved.

“This is an absolute game changer. It’s not just a small tech evolution,” Patagonia’s Alpine Line Manager Jenna Johnson said with a smile on her face, “I mean, when GORE-TEX® fabrics first came out is probably the last time something did this for the marketplace.”

Above: Patagonia ambassadors Dylan Johnson (foreground) and Josh Wharton (wearing headlamp and Encapsil Down Belay Parka) take a chilly breather halfway up the north face of Mount Temple. Canada. Photo: Mikey Schaefer

Encapsil down achieves its water-resistant qualities via a relatively benign silicon-based plasma-bonding process as opposed to the fluorocarbon-based wash-in techniques being used by competitors. And thanks to the ways that feather electrons partner up with certain electrons from the plasma blend, the treated down feathers actually becomes loftier. A wonderful side effect of the chemistry and plasma process, this unique benefit not only solves the challenge of how to make down more functional in wet weather it ends up boosting the fill power of the feathers well beyond their original levels – 800-fill-power down becomes 1000-fill-power down after the Encapsil treatment. The result: fewer feathers are needed to achieve equal warmth ratings and warmer garments are able to be built with less overall weight. “It’s the fill power and the water repellency together that make this such a dream come true,” says Johnson. “These are keys that open the door to so many new possibilities we were never able to consider before.”

 

All of this, of course, begs the question of how? And, while the development of the parka was certainly a long stewing team effort, there is perhaps no person with more time invested than Randy Harward. Technically speaking, Harward is a botanist and plant physiologist by trade but for the better part of three decades he has served as Patagonia’s Quality Director and, more recently, has become the company’s Head of Advanced Research and Development. Located on the Ventura campus, this outfit of big thinkers is housed in a space known informally as “the Forge” – a namesake that is a nod to the now storied blacksmith shop in which Yvon Chouinard tirelessly worked to produce functional, durable, and streamlined climbing gear. As Harward puts it, they “pursue pure function and try to get as close to perfection as we can.”

And while the Encapsil Down Belay Parka is one of the first products to be born out of the Forge, its origin story predates the group by several years. “It was at least eight years ago when we were talking about how we could make a down that you would want to bring on an expedition type of trip. Something that would be water resistant but still have the warmth-to-weight ratio and compressibility that makes down so superior,” reminisced Harward before adding with a laugh. “Turns out it is really difficult... I think this is probably the highest level R&D this company has ever done before.”

 

The idea remained just that for a number of years as preliminary efforts to bond any sort of “water-proofing” agent to down always collapsed under the weight of too much glue and thus loss of loft. A first breakthrough came about five years ago when Harward and company had the idea to ditch traditional bonding agents altogether and try and attach the water repelling element directly to the feathers.

Plasma, which is essentially an agitated or heated gas but is also considered the fourth state of matter that often proves quite adept at bonding, or “deposition” as scientists call it, was the obvious candidate for this new approach. How exactly they would get there was still very much in question. It was, as Harward says, “an entirely new idea.” The sheer number of variables involved was reason enough to give up before even trying – from what type plasma would you use and what would that specific chemistry look like to what level would you agitate it to achieve optimum and durable bonding to what density of down would work best, were just a few of the things that had to be considered.

Then there was the issue of finding a university or company with the experience and equipment (think semi-conductor) necessary to take on such a cutting edge project. It wasn’t easy but, after finally partnering with Aeonclad, a surface coating and plasma expert out of Austin, Texas, literally thousands of trial and error tests got under way, the bulk of which have come in the past three years alone.

Long story short, the end result is Encapsil down, a water-resistant and truly lightweight insulation that is achieved via a process that, according to Harward, uses less energy than is needed to fire up a hair dryer and is made possible by a simple plasma chemistry that has not much more than silicon in it. To treat 1,000 pounds of down, less than one half gallon of plasma is needed. “It is remarkable really,” explains Harward. “It is truly a very sparse amount of gas. And, environmentally speaking, it is pretty cool too – it is quite innocuous.” 

Perhaps the only downside to the new and improved feathers is the fact that annual cleaning by a professional CO2 cleaning service is required to maintain their performance levels – a less than ideal scenario which Patagonia fully acknowledges and, in turn, pledges to help ameliorate as part of your purchase. All you need to do is send your jacket back during the off season and Patagonia will handle – and pick up the tab – on the cleaning.

 

 

As for the big-picture plans for Encapsil down, according to Johnson and Harward, it will not be forever limited to belay parkas. In fact, plans are already in the works to roll it out to other parts of the Alpine line in the seasons ahead. “We fully acknowledge that this [first product] is a very specific garment with a very specific customer in mind,” answered Johnson when asked about the future of the new down. “That being said, I can’t wait to get it into the rest of the line. It is going to be fun to see what we can do with it.”

Harward added, “We will use it wherever it makes sense and wherever it solves a problem.” To that end, the process by which Encapsil down is produced remains a work in progress, specifically the batch sizes of down to be treated and the amount of time it takes to properly bond the plasma and the feathers. However, those challenges, which were part of the reason why only 1,000 Encapsil Down Belay Parkas were made for launch, have by and large been remedied in recent months. For example, two years ago it took a month to produce enough Encapsil down for just one jacket. This was improved upon last year to a month or two for a 1,000 pound batch of feathers, essentially paving the way for proper production of the parka. In the time since, the cost and production time for Encapsil down is “getting real close” to normal down says Harward. “There is still a lot of R&D left to do but we are definitely on our way. It’s all about getting every aspect of the production cycle and the product as close to perfect as possible.”

Interestingly enough, as impressive as Encapsil down is, spend even a few minutes talking with Harward and Johnson, or anyone involved with the new Down Belay Parka’s development, and you realize that the special feathers on the inside are only half of the story.

Eschewing what many would consider good business sense, Johnson made the decision to not rush their pioneering product to market and potentially short circuit their years of hard work with last-minute, profit-driven haste. Instead, they circled the wagons and, as Johnson describes, “tried to figure out where this technology would be most meaningful and who would get the most benefits out of it.” After some internal back and forth, the decision was made to deploy the down into an alpine belay parka, a no brainer really when you consider who truly needs unparalleled light weight and water-resistant warmth. That go-slow call was made nearly 18 months ago and kicked off a Forge-led garment design and development process.

 

“The mission from the very beginning was to build the very best product we could, bar none. No real constraints and no real timelines,” explains Casey Shaw, one of the Product Engineers that works in the Forge. “We had this amazing piece of art (the Encapsil down) and now we had to build the right museum to showcase it in.” And so, following a self-imposed motto of “no cheats,” a ground-up design process began, from basic construction and sewing techniques all the way to the one-of-a-kind Patagonia label that would be attached to the finished product. “I personally don’t believe there is anything [in the parka world] that comes close to the level of detail on the Encapsil Down Belay Parka. This stuff just doesn’t happen. It’s crazy really,” says Shaw.

Perhaps the biggest design accomplishment of the jacket is its 100% independently baffled construction. That is to say, at no place on the entire parka does a single stitch extend from the exterior shell all the way through to the inside lining. This guarantees that none of those specially treated feathers are going to shift to some place that they shouldn’t and thus compromise the jacket’s uniformity of insulation.

The functional improvements continue from there: double draft tubes bookend the main zipper, large front pockets (cut big enough to fit gloved hands) are positioned above the harness line, carefully split baffles around the pockets and zippers maintain uniformity of fill without adding extra bulk, meticulously laid out baffles of varying widths running through traditional compression areas (i.e. under your arms and around your shoulders) ensure equal warmth everywhere, a micro snow skirt with hideaway drawcord seals the waistline, inside stash pockets positioned on the side panels as opposed to industry standard of up front placement, and a hood that fits snug with or without a helmet.

The design crew also considered what not to include. There is no fuzzy fleece lining in the pockets or at the top of the front zipper. “That stuff may feel nice at first but it is just a sponge for moisture and ends up hurting you in the long run in real alpine conditions,” says Shaw, who has more than three decades of serious climbing experience to his credit. Then there is the omission of a split end front zipper, something which would traditionally be found on a belay parka so as to allow access to your harness while keeping most of your jacket zipped up. The double-ender was left out because they are more likely to break and because the slim profile of the Encapsil Parka allows it to more easily be tucked inside of a harness and rope set-up. “I'm sure we are going hear about that,” says Shaw. “Some people feel really strongly about those zippers.”

 

All told, the jacket went through dozens of mock-ups in each detail stage and three entirely different versions of “finished” coat before the final product was settled upon just a few months ago, with virtually every step of the process getting crucial field testing by Patagonia climbing ambassadors in places like Pakistan, Canada and the Andes.

“A huge amount of this was empirical and evolutionary. It [the parka] is just a testament to that process and commitment to it every step of the way by our team and our climbers. There isn’t a single piece of fluff in it,” said Shaw, his hands proudly holding the fruits of his labor in the late winter sun of Southern California just a few steps from the Forge. Looking at the final product, it’s easy to forget how much work the team put into it, the innovation and hyper attention to detail all but disappearing into an aesthetic that is perhaps best described as classic. His own gaze falling on the jacket, Shaw adds tellingly, “And it is just beautiful too.”

 

Ethan Stewart is a Senior Staff Writer for the Santa Barbara Independent and an occasional contributor to KCET's Artbound and The Cleanest Line. Born and raised on Cape Cod, he's called Santa Barbara home off and on since the great El Niño winter of 1998. A passionate explorer of Mother Nature's more open and wild places, Stewart reckons Boston Red Sox baseball is the closest thing he has to religion and considers anything ocean-related to be a mandatory daily activity.

Words by Chris Kassar, photos by James Q Martin



“Patagonia is not for sale! Protect her rivers!”   

“Defend Aysén! Keep Patagonia free from dams!” 

These chants echoed through the streets of Santiago, Chile in April 2012 as tens of thousands once again voiced their opposition to HidroAysén’s proposal to dam two of Patagonia’s pristine rivers, the Baker and the Pascua. A few days earlier, the Chilean Supreme Court voted 3-2 in favor of the HidroAysén dam project in Patagonia and against appeals filed by opponents. 

This decision was a major setback, but it has not turned out to be a green light for dam construction. Almost one year after the Supreme Court’s decision, the rivers still run free and a critical element of the project – the longest proposed power line in the world (1,180 miles from Patagonia to Santiago) continues to be a huge headache for HidroAysén, a big business partnership between an Italian energy company and a Chilean energy company called Colbún.

Last April, co-founder of Rios Libres, James “Q” Martin arrived in Santiago on the heels of the landmark decision that approved the dams. Since 79% of Chileans oppose the project and support alternative energy options, Q found himself in the thick of some of the largest protests the country has ever seen.

Amidst the chaos of these protests, Q traveled the length of Chile. He documented public demonstrations, interviewed experts and visited some of the most remote reaches of Chile to create our latest film, Streams of Consequence. The result is a solution-based documentary that addresses the difficult, unanswered questions including, “What does an alternative energy model look like?” “How do the Chileans feel about it?” and “Could Chile become a global leader by gaining energy independence via green technology?”



Even now, appeals from local and international environmental groups continue, legal actions from affected communities mount and movement on analysis of the power line has halted due to public dissatisfaction. In addition, pressure from within Chile grows, a big consideration for politicians since the country will hold presidential and senatorial elections at the end of 2013.

We hope Streams of Consequence bolsters these ongoing international and national efforts and helps paint the picture of a wild Patagonia – free from dams – and a Chile built on renewable energy. Streams of Consequence premiered at the 2013 Wild and Scenic Environmental Film Festival and will continue to show across the country via Wild and Scenic, other film festivals and grassroots screenings.

Please check out the trailer below and take action to keep Patagonia free from dams.



To purchase a DVD or schedule a grassroots screening of Streams of Consequence please contact Rios Libres at info@rioslibres.com.

Rios Libres Back Story

How many truly wild places still thrive on this incredible planet? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is not many. With a booming population, advances in technology and increasing development, blank spots on the map are vanishing right before our eyes.

That’s why we at Rios Libres are so passionate about keeping Chilean Patagonia wild. Patagonia remains largely untouched, supports animals and plants found nowhere else and provides a much-needed respite from our ever-expanding, ever-quickening world. These facts drive our continued work to support the ongoing efforts of Chileans to keep Patagonia free from dams.

Right now, the Baker and Pascua rivers flow freely, giving life to the diversely rich Aysén Region. These rivers travel untamed from source to sea supporting wildlife, ecosystems and the peaceful, productive culture of gauchos and those living along the river. However, a threat remains since big business seeks to harness these rivers for the power they can bring to support the mining industry that thrives in the north of the country.

In 2010, we traveled from source to sea on the Baker River to bring you our first film, Power in the Pristine, detailing the threats to this incredible region. Last spring, Rios Libres co-founder, James Q Martin traveled south once again and landed in the thick of some of the largest anti-dam protests the country has ever seen as the Chilean people took to the streets to voice their opposition to government and corporate plans to dam these rivers and alter their way of life forever. These protests and the political unrest surrounding the project forced a major stakeholder, Colbún, to backpedal on its commitment to the project. This action, among others, called into question the economic viability of the project and further strengthened the resolve of the international and national campaign.



Chris Kassar is a wildlife biologist and conservationist who has worked for many years as an environmental activist. She serves as the Environmental and Media Coordinator for Rios Libres, and networks with the existing coalition of environmental groups working on the dam issue in Patagonia.

James Q Martin (aka “Q”) is an acclaimed adventure photographer whose work has appeared in publications worldwide. He uses his expertise to make photos for Rios Libres that illustrate the beauty of the Aysén Region, the value it holds and the threats that it is now facing.

 

By Katie Klingsporn



Matt Stoecker spent his childhood tromping around in the creeks of the San Franciquito watershed where he grew up, hunting for frogs, fishing and exploring.

One day in the mid-90s, he found himself below the 65-foot-tall Searsville Dam on the Corte Madera Creek when he experienced a seminal moment: He saw a 30-inch steelhead jump out of the water and smash itself against the dam.

He had never seen a fish that size in the creek, and he was struck at the power and futility he witnessed.

Stoecker soon began volunteering with the San Francisquito Watershed Council, then started a steelhead task force and has been working to remove small dams and other fish barriers in the watershed ever since.

But all along, he said, “Searsville Dam was the biggest limiting factor.”

[Hidden behind the fences of Stanford’s Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve, Searsville Dam creates a stagnant reservoir where algae and non-native species thrive while steelhead and other threatened species are trapped downstream. Photo: Matt Stoecker]

The dam, which is owned by Stanford University, was recently pushed into the spotlight because of a major sedimentation problem in the reservoir, a large-scale study of the dam, a federal investigation into possible violations of the Endangered Species Act and a lawsuit against Stanford.

While university officials argue that dismantling the dam could jeopardize the reservoir’s riparian ecosystems and threaten downstream communities, Stoecker and other environmentalists say it’s been blocking fish passage for too long and it’s time for the dam to come down.

“It’s an antiquated, environmentally harmful reservoir that’s at the end of its useful life,” Stoecker said.

Searsville Dam and Reservoir sit amid the oak stands and serpentine grasslands of the Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve, a 1,189-acre outdoor laboratory used by Stanford University for research and education. The reservoir, which was created by the damming of Corte Madera Creek in 1892, was acquired by Stanford in 1919. Today it serves to store non-potable water for landscape irrigation at the school.



[San Francisquito Creek contains one of the last wild steelhead runs in the South San Francisco Bay, but Searsville Dam directly blocks their annual migration upstream to approximately 20 miles of former spawning and rearing habitat. Photo: Matt Stoecker]


But over the years, the reservoir has filled with an estimated 1.5 million cubic yards of silts, gravels and woody debris that have cost it more than 90 percent of its original capacity. Some experts estimate that the reservoir could fill entirely within a decade. Along with loss of the reservoir, sedimentation behind the dam threatens surrounding communities with possible flooding.

The sedimentation issue helped prompt Stanford to form a 12-person steering committee in 2011 to study its options. The study is examining such things as Stanford’s long-term water needs, fish passage, flood risks, the costs of dredging and the impact on university research programs.

According to Stanford, expert consultants are studying a number of options, including dredging, allowing the reservoir to continue to fill and transition to a marsh, modifying the dam and removing the dam altogether.

“From my perspective, the overall goal is to figure out what is the best, most responsible way to manage this watershed,” said Chris Field, faculty director of Jasper Ridge and professor of biology and of environmental Earth system science, who co-chairs the steering committee. “It’s a lot to learn and, at least for me, it’s important that we do a really good, thorough job … My feeling is that these issues are ones that have taken decades to build up, and we want to make sure any course of action we recommend is thought through deeply and also recognizes all the stakeholders.”

Complicating the issue is the role the reservoir plays in the preserve.

The reservoir, Field said, is home to beautiful open water and wetland habitats used by a large number of nesting and migratory birds. It sustains habitats for diverse plants and animals, including bats, salamanders and fish. It has also served the university as a living classroom for many years.

Despite that, Field said, the university “doesn’t have a preset goal of preserving the lake.”

Stanford anticipates completing the initial set of studies and recommendations in 2014. Its president and provost will ultimately decide how to act on them.

Stoecker, who is now a biologist, had been pushing for a deeper look at Searsville Dam long before the school initiated its study.

In 1999 he helped start a steelhead task force for the San Francisquito Watershed Council, which identified Searsville as the biggest barrier to migrating steelhead in the watershed, a primary source of non-native species and a principle contributor to the degradation of habitat. In 2001, along with Stanford and others, he helped form the Searsville Dam Working Group. It got the California Department of Water Resources to offer to fund an analysis of options for the dam — an offer Stanford declined.

“Since then, every time we tried to bring up finding a Searsville solution that worked for everyone, folks from Stanford didn’t want to talk about it,” Stoecker said.

In 2008, Stoecker formed Beyond Searsville Dam in partnership with American Rivers to push for a serious consideration of dam removal.

Searsville Dam was built by the Spring Valley Water Company to supply drinking water to residents of the San Francisco Peninsula, but it never did. Instead, Stoecker said, for more than a century it has impeded fish passage to historic habitat, dewatered downstream creeks and blocked the transport of gravels, woody debris and sediment that is vital to a healthy river system and the San Francisco Bay. The reservoir flooded and buried a valley where several streams once merged among wetlands and riparian forests, and has created an artificial habitat for non-native and invasive species.



[Native rainbow trout (descendants of sea-run steelhead) persist in creeks upstream of Searsville, but are at risk of being wiped out due to inbreeding caused by the impassable dam and lack of returning steelhead to maintain genetic diversity. Photo: Matt Stoecker]


“Each year as it fills in more and more, it becomes less useful, more problematic and more expensive to fix,” Stoecker said, adding that Searsville provides a small amount of water to the university, which has plenty of options for water storage that do not imperil wildlife.

“There are definitely better and less harmful ways of getting water and eliminating the need for this dam,” he said. “Based on other projects that have happened or are under way, and on studies from our nation’s top scientists, dam removal and low-impact water supply upgrades are preferable in terms of benefit to the ecosystem, surrounding communities and Stanford.”

Steve Rothert, California director of American Rivers, who also grew up upstream of the dam, said Stanford has “time and again missed opportunities to take initiative and take a leadership role in this.

“I think Stanford has a phenomenal opportunity to create another broad set of studies that would be associated with the changes that would take place with removal of the dam and recovery of the natural ecosystem,” he said.

Rothert said he is encouraged by Stanford’s current study, and thinks the committee consists of capable and committed people. But, he said, the fate of the reservoir is ultimately up to university officials, not steering committee members, and the university has appeared reluctant to open up the process.

For Rothert, the study would ideally lead to a project that provides fish with unhindered access to the upper basin, the safe transport of sediment and wood and water downstream, and provides Stanford with the opportunity “to regain a principled posture on this issue that is consistent with its image as a leader in science.”

In January, the National Marine Fisheries Service (NMFS) announced it is investigating whether Stanford is violating the Endangered Species Act (ESA) through its operation of Searsville Dam. Steelhead in this watershed are considered “threatened,” and as such, have been protected since 1997 under the ESA. (A “take” is an action that kills, harms or harasses a threatened or endangered species.)

Following that news, two environmental groups — Our Children’s Earth Foundation and the Ecological Rights Foundation — filed a suit against the university alleging it is violating the ESA for harming steelhead trout.

Stanford officials have expressed confidence that the school has not violated the act.

“The university believes that it is in full compliance with the Endangered Species Act and all local, state and federal laws in its operations of Searsville Dam and Reservoir,” states a FAQ put together by Stanford.

But Stoecker and Rothert, along with their legal team, disagree.

“There are clear impacts on the fish from blocked passage to dewatered habitat that we think constitute a violation of the ESA,” Rothert said. “We think the situation definitely warrants an investigation.”


Katie Klingsporn is a writer and editor of the Telluride Daily Planet in southwestern Colorado. Look for more of her posts highlighting issues featured in DamNation a documentary film being produced byPatagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with the Colorado-based filmmaking team Felt Soul Media.


Update 2/27/13: Two wild steelhead were filmed spawning downstream of Stanford's Searsville Dam on San Francisquito Creek. Watch the video. Photo: D. Rundle




For more on DamNation – watch the trailer, view more photos, get answers to frequently asked questions – visit DamNationFilm.com.

By Liz Clark

Editor's note: We're happy to follow up on Dallas Hyland's moving tribute to Patagonia ambassdor Liz Clark -- after she broke her neck bodysurfing -- with good news. Liz's neck has healed up well and she's back in Tahiti living on an organic vanilla farm near the boatyard where she's splitting her time between book writing and boat projects. This story is from Liz's circle of French Polynesia in early 2012, before her injury, and first appeared on her blog. Glad you're back Liz!

March 2012: And so the time had arrived. Cyclone season over, it was safe to head southwest say a final goodbye to the Marquesas. I poured over the chart, locating the tiny, isolated atoll of Puka Puka, 250 miles straight south. Raiarii’s grandfather was the first to colonize this desolate atoll in the late 1930s.

Tehani Henere Papa and his wife, Elizabeth, had 22 children there!! Two sets of twins!?! Tehani delivered each one of the babies in a tub behind their little house. They raised the kids on fish and coconuts and the fresh Pacific air. Tehani worked copra from dawn to dusk year round, and when the copra boats came to collect the dried coconut meat that he split, dried, and collected in the large burlap sacs, he could purchase sacs of flour, sugar, and rice with his earnings.

[Above: A load of bananas for Raiarii’s family on Puka Puka. All photos courtesy of Liz Clark and the Voyage of Swell]

Raiarii’s father, Victor, was number 15 of the 22, and left the atoll at age 17 to find work in Tahiti and had never gone back. Interisland travel is expensive and difficult for locals, with few spots on the cargo ships and high prices for airfare. So Raiarii had never visited Puka Puka, nor met many of the cousins, aunts, and uncles from his father’s side who are still living there. Upon learning this story, I decided we must try to sail to Puka Puka!

The wind was forecasted to turn north, giving us a good angle to sail there directly sailing, so we prepped Swell and collected fruit from our generous friends to bring to Raiarii’s family in Puka Puka, where the sandy, salty soil lacked the nutrients to plant food. We gathered limes, pamplemousse, oranges, bananas, breadfruit, papayas, starfruit, taro, and pomegranates! By the time we left, Swell’s forepeak was our cargo hold, carrying nearly 400lbs of fruit!

When the wind began to shift northeast, we raised anchor, and slipped around the breathtaking 2,000-foot cliffs, and pointed the bow south. I would miss the plentiful fruit, rugged mountain peaks, wild goats and horses, shaded valleys, cool rivers, and good people of the Marquesas.



[Swell’s forepeak converted into the cargo hold for delivering all the fruit.]



[Goodbye beautiful Enata Fenua!]


At sea again, with both the autopilot and the monitor broken, one of us was relegated to the helm at all times. I spent hours watching the sea and imagining our rendezvous at Puka Puka. The atoll has no pass by which to enter a lagoon. The reef extends, unbroken all the way around the island, so I hoped that we could find a safe place to anchor Swell. I’d already decided that either way, I would stand off aboard Swell, while Raiarii went ashore to meet his family and tour the atoll.

On the second day out, the winds lightened and steering grew awfully monotonous, but we plowed through the hot, long day, making mile after slow mile toward our special destination.



[Busting some early morning moves at the helm to stay awake, while Raiarii gets some rest.]


We hoped to arrive the morning of the third day, but the light winds slowed our progress. His family had been notified of our pending arrival, so we trimmed the sails and eeked every bit of speed possible out of the hull in order to arrive before dark. Finally we spotted Puka Puka’s flat-top of coconut palms on the horizon ahead, and simultaneously, the fishing reel buzzed with a strike. Raiarii pulled in a beautiful tuna. I thanked it for its life with a prayer and quickly put it out of suffering, grateful to be able to arrive with another gift for the family.

Our excitement rose as the island grew clearer. Taking turns at the wheel, we cleaned up Swell and ourselves a bit to be presentable upon arrival. No sooner, Raiarii spotted an aluminum tinny plying the seas in our direction.



[Greeted at sea by Uncle Richard, Cousin Teva, and the local policeman.]


Raiarii’s uncle, cousin, and the local police officer greeted us on the sea and motioned for us to follow them around to the backside of the island. The men assured us there was a spot up ahead that would be safe for anchoring. A pod of large bottlenose dolphins led the way, crisscrossing at the bow. Soon we were precariously close to the breaking waves on the reef, but still the seafloor did not rise beneath us. “Over here,” they called in Tahitian.

I nosed Swell in carefully, and we watched the colors of reef begin to show under her hull. It was a tiny ledge of reef that stuck out 30 yards more than the rest in about 30 feet of depth, before dropping off into the deep abyss.

Raiarii took the helm, and I jumped overboard to assess the reef for the best spot to place the anchor. With our concerted effort, I directed the anchor underwater to a barren ledge, where it was sure to stay hooked and not hurt much. We also slid a stern anchor over the deep ledge in case the wind switched.

It could hardly be called an anchorage, but the combo of light northeast winds and calm south swell would let us get away with it for this special occasion. Anchors down, we began to offload the cargo. Eyes bulged as the endless train of fruit streamed out of Swell. Filled with fruit, the little tinny rode low in the water. I scurried around Swell, securing a few things and flipping on the anchor light, as they insisted we come to shore immediately to meet the rest of the family and have dinner together. As we pulled away from Swell, I sent up a little prayer for her safety near the reef.

[Swell and I were rather nervous about the open ocean anchoring.]

Off we went in the tinny, the dolphins again at the bow as we buzzed back toward a small crack in the reef with a dock for offloading supplies. We followed a wave into the tiny pass as the whitewater crumbled along the reef on both sides. Uncle Richard neared the dock carefully in the surge, and a splay of arms reached down to help us out. A moment later we stood on land, cloaked in flowered welcome ‘heis’, meeting a lineup of family and friends who’d come to greet us. The kids dove for the bananas and star fruit and we wandered to the house of Uncle Taro, Aunt Patricia, and their four lovely daughters.

[Upon arrival.]



[Raiarii, being shown a photo of his grandfather, Tehani, whose father was Dutch, hence the European features.]

Honored by our visit, our gracious hosts fed us until we couldn’t eat anymore as we learned more about the history of the Papa family on the island. Almost a third of the population of 250 were Raiarii’s relations! While eating platefuls of sashimi, poisson cru, and fruit, we listened to stories and looked at old photos of Tehani and the children. It grew late. Weary from our long nights at sea, we asked to be taken back to Swell to rest up for the following day’s island tour and picnic.

Despite my fatigue, I slept little that night. The breaking waves sounded so close I kept sitting straight up and thinking we were on the reef! But by morning I felt assured that Swell was firmly stuck and safe as long as the conditions remained the same.

[Raiarii visiting his grandfather's grave.]



[Touring town with his cousins.]



[Precious mini cousin!]



[Off to picnic on the east side of the island.]



[My favorite ride on Puka Puka.]



[Unlce Taro's copra shack.]



[Water nymphs in the serene lagoon.]



[Puka Puka's claim to fame: first island in the Pacific that Ferdinand Magellan came upon in 1521.]



[All the Papa fam aboard Swell.]



[Boys on the bow.]

 
That morning Uncle Richard came to pick us up and the dolphins again escorted us to the dock. He told us that they loved to swim with people and were always playful and curious when the islanders were spearfishing. I hoped we’d get to swim with them later!

After an extravagant breakfast, we visited Raiarii’s grandparents’ burial site and went to the house where all 22 children were born. Everyone was so delighted by our visit, and the whole day I felt so glad that we’d made the effort to come. After helping prepare for the picnic, we set out across the island in the back of the truckbed, stopping at sites of interest and meeting other relatives along the way. The island had three separate, shallow lagoons on the east side, and we picnicked near the third and swam in the hot, extra-salty water with the kids.

On our return that afternoon, Uncle Taro asked the local mayor if they could launch the community boat so that everyone could come out and take a tour of Swell. He was agreeable, so family and friends piled in and we headed out to Swell. They told us only one other sailboat had ever stopped there as far as they knew, and certainly none of them had ever seen the inside of one. So they were delighted and awed to visit Swell and see that we had beds, sink, oven, stove, water, and all the essentials.

As we all sat aboard Swell, I noticed the waves were picking up. The sets were breaking a little farther out and I’d seen the forecast for south swell on the way. Sadly, I knew we’d have to leave before dark. It was a bittersweet goodbye, having been taken in so graciously and having to part so quickly, but we wouldn’t be safe there again overnight. Many tears were shed as all the family members crowned us with parting shell ‘heis’. Silent drops rolled down Raiarii’s cheeks as he hugged and kissed them goodbye and promised to visit again one day. We waved to their boat until it rounded the corner out of sight.

Just then a big swell lifted the hull and the boat jerked to starboard on the anchor line, reminding us of the reality we faced. The sun was setting, the swell was picking up, and we were getting dangerously close to being tossed onto the reef! We had to get both anchors up before darkness arrived and prepare the cabin for making passage again. As I dove and cleared the anchors, Raiarii pulled them up. I looked around in hopes of saying goodbye to the dolphins, but no sign of them appeared.

Anchors clear, we drifted away from the reef with the wind, readying the mainsail halyard and jib sheets. Just then, one of the dolphins launched into the air beside the cockpit, hovering horizontally for a moment and looking right at us as if to say, “What? Leaving already?!?”

Raiarii and I looked at each other, breathtaken. I jumped in and we took turns swimming with them until it was too dark to see -- a magical finish to a magical stopover.

[Dusk swim with the welcoming crew at Puka Puka.]

We finally dried off and rounded the corner to wave a final goodbye. In the soft dusk, we could see all the family lined up ashore. They flashed their headlights and honked their horns, jumped up and down and waved madly, and we did the same. Slowly we drifted farther and farther away with the wind. We were both sad to have to leave so soon, but grateful that the weather had afforded us those precious 24 hours spent there. After half an hour had passed, we saw the lights of the cars heading home and turned to take on the passage ahead.

As the excitement dwindled, our exhaustion surfaced, and with no self-steering we decided to heave to and sleep for a few hours while Swell drifted away from the atoll on the open sea. I lie there for a while in the cockpit under the stars, spilling over with gratitude and joy. I would never forget our ‘fruitful’ visit to Puka Puka…Time with family is a precious gift! Regardless of our lineage, I hope we will learn to treat each other like the One Great Human Family that we are!! One Love!

[Goodbyes are never easy.]




We are of the Stars

After leaving Puka Puka, we moved somewhat quickly through the atolls, sailing over a thousand miles in two months with only four stops. Going with the trades was blissful after all the upwind miles we’d previously covered.

We could have waited on the parts to fix the windvane or autopilot somewhere, but rather I proposed it might be interesting to steer full time, having (thankfully) never had to do it. And seeing as there were two of us to share helm duties, it would be much more feasible than when I was single-handing.

I noticed right away that an obligation to steer let me witness more of nature’s magic. It wasn’t as if I never stared at the sea and sky when the self-steering worked, but I could easily be distracted. Now I was glued to the wheel, and an active participant in the scene, as I surfed Swell down the following seas. The waves flowed past the rudder, pulling the wheel right or left. I gazed out at the ocean panorama: ever-changing, ever-wondrous.

[Give yourself to the moment, and watch the magic unfold.]



[On duty at the helm.]

Day or night, there were marvels of light to behold. At every incline of the sun, the rays played on the water in their own exceptional way. Sunrise and sunset usually stole the show, but mid-morning’s fresh light uplifted, high noon’s radiance overwhelmed, and mid-afternoon’s bending yellows soothed and foretold day’s end…

Dusk had it’s own charm, too. Shades of gray lined the sky from horizon to horizon, while new stars appeared gradually, as if coming on stage. And when the last remnant of the sun’s glow disappeared, perspective shifted… we were suddenly sailing through the Universe! From horizon to horizon the heavens blazed in all their glory -- Perpetual, Supreme, Infinite.

I’d cover the GPS and practice steering by the stars, aligning them with the masthead or halyards. Hercules, Scorpio, or maybe the Pleiades, the chosen star cluster of the hour would hover around the mast as I pulled the wheel back and forth. Cloudy evenings made it more difficult, temporarily hiding the celestial chart. I’d maintain our angle to the wind, checking the compass every now and then. When the winds were light, I might lay back and steer with my feet a while to watch for shooting stars. And If fatigue got too distracting, I’d wake Raiarii and we’d switch for a while.

Despite being rather exhausted, I loved that being present at the wheel for so many hours acquainted me with new-found subtleties of the sea. Plus, I felt closer to Swell than I had in all the voyage. Nothing seemed more effective in learning her quirks, than holding the wheel and letting her tell me herself. Constantly applying my mind to sea, vessel, and sky 12 hours a day, I came to appreciate just how intimately and intuitively the ancient Polynesian navigators would have known their seas.

In the moments where no guidebook or Google or a GPS can tell us what to do, we must blur the lines that separate ‘Me’ from ‘That’. We must feel as much as reason. Listen. Be Present and Ready. Open and Humble. For the Voice within speaks to all of us, though it’s sometimes hard to hear in our distracting modern world. Nevertheless, it’s always there waiting to remind us that We are of the Stars.

[We had lucky timing at a few of our stops!]



[Never know what you might miss when you’re not paying attention!]



[The Navonics charts had great detail for navigation in the atolls.]



[Sad to take this beautiful female mahi, but what a blessing her meat was for us and the islanders at the next stop.]



[Brief renions with friends broke up the passages. Maheata always has a warm meal and smile waiting.]

Liz Clark is a Patagonia surf ambassador and the captain of her 40-foot sailboat, Swell. When she was nine, her family spent a year sailing the Mexican coast. “That trip inspired my dream of sailing around the world,” she said. After college she turned her dream into reality, as has been documenting her time at sea ever since.

By Alison Kelman



His message was simple. When you are in a hole, stop digging.

On Sunday morning I joined prominent environmentalist and 350.org President Bill McKibben, Sierra Club Executive Director Michael Brune, and over 50,000 protestors on the National Mall to participate in the largest climate change rally in U.S. history. The Forward on Climate Rally was supported by 168 organizations and environmental groups from across the country. Buses, trains, and bicycles delivered protestors from every corner of the nation. The temperature hovered just above freezing as we waved signs, chanted slogans, and huddled against strangers for warmth. Between flurries, rays of sun peaked out from behind the looming Washington Monument.

“All I wanted to see was a movement of people against climate change, and now I have seen it,” proclaimed McKibben to the crowd.

[Above: Author Alison Kelman and 350.org President Bill McKibben, backstage before Bill's speech. All photos courtesy of Alison Kelman]

The first attendants congregated at the makeshift stage set up at the corner of 15th and Constitution, but by noon the crowd had expanded as far as the base of the monument. Earth flags, green-lettered banners, and handheld windmills traveled above the crowds of young Occupiers, families pushing strollers, and seasoned environmental protestors. “Hey! Obama! We don’t want no climate drama!” they chanted as they stomped their feet in the freezing mud. As the wind blew I envied the men (or women) in their warm polar bear costumes, sporting SAVE THE ARCTIC t-shirts, raising their furry fists into the sky as Hip Hop Caucus CEO Reverend Lennox Yearwood pumped up the crowd.

“Fifty years ago, right here, Dr. King marched on August 28th, 1963,” opened Yearwood. “They marched for jobs and freedom, and they marched for equality. This rally, fifty years later, is as important or more important as that rally then. Because while they were fighting for equality, we are fighting for existence.”



[Protestors from across the country gathered at the base of the Washington Monument to bring awareness to global warming.]



[“Save the Arctic” polar bears from the Alaska Wilderness League.]


While awareness and education on climate change was the main act, the first step was clear: Stop the Keystone XL pipeline.

“This is the last minute in the last quarter in the biggest most important game humanity has ever played,” stated Van Jones, former Green Jobs Advisor to the Obama White House.

“President Obama – all the good that you have done, all the good you can imagine doing, will be wiped out by floods, by fire, by super storms, if you fail to act now to deal with this crisis that is a gun pointed at the head of the future,” said Jones. “The decision is in your hands Mr. President.”



[The first objective: Stop the Keystone XL pipeline.]


Constitution Avenue was closed to traffic, and we finally took to the streets, anxious to get our blood flowing. Volunteers in orange vests gently herded us off of the sidewalks and onto the streets; a few park police on horses marched along the sidewalk. As we slowly we turned up 17th street, the sun emerged and warmed our backs. In front of the White House, the crowd opened up and there was room to breath and mingle. Occupiers happily shared their drums and cowbells, yet no one’s voice was overpowered.

“Michelle Obama, tell your man – stop the dirty pipeline plans!”



[In front of the White House, protestors hold up “Clean Energy” signs supplied by Forward on Climate organizers.]


Looping down 15th Street, the crowd headed back to the mall. I hung behind the temporary stage and was lucky enough to catch a handshake from Bill McKibben and Michael Brune just before they took the stage for the final speeches of the day.

“I cannot promise you we are going to win, but I waited a quarter century... to see if we were going to fight,” finished McKibben. “Today I know we’re going to fight. The battle, the most fateful battle in human history, is finally joined and we will fight it together.”



[Over 50,000 people walk down 15th Street back down the mall, the final stop on the march.]



[Author Alison Kelman and Sierra Club Executive Director Michael Brune.]



[Supporters of green energy hold up mini windmills.]



[There was no shortage of Nano Puffs, Better Sweaters or Down Sweaters at the rally. Patagoniacs for the climate!]



[“It’s not easy being green, but we must!”]


Alison Kelman is a freelance writer and the Community Manager at Patagonia Washington DC. She has written for Outside, Women's Adventure Magazine, TheActiveTimes.com, The New Mexican, Away.com and Gorp.com. Alison specializes in travel writing, and has spent time traveling and studying in South Africa, Ireland, Greece, France, England and Belize. DC residents can keep up with Patagonia store events and news on Facebook and Twitter.

Twice before – in August of 2011, then again in 2012 – we joined with thousands of others across the country to ask President Obama to reject the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline. Tar sands oil is some of the dirtiest on the planet and our top climate scientist, NASA’s Dr. James Hansen, has said that fully exploiting the tar sands would mean “game over” for the climate. Read our recent post for more thoughts on the risks and reality of tar sands oil.

On  February 17, 2013, this coming Sunday, our friends at Sierra Club and 350.org along with more than 120 partner organizations are planning what could be the largest climate rally in U.S. history. Together, we are asking President Obama once again to reject the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline and to provide leadership to advance real solutions to the climate crisis.

We need your help – and your voice – to make this event happen, and to spread this message across the country.

Already this week, concerned citizens and leaders have been sticking their necks out to raise the volume on the issue: on Wednesday 48 environmental, civil rights, and community leaders from across the country joined together for a historic display of civil disobedience at the White House.

Here’s how you can get involved:

1) Attend the rally: Do you live in or near Washington D.C.? Have you always wanted to visit the capital and participate in our democracy? Visit this link for all rally details. Companies like Patagonia and Seventh Generation have donated funds to support bussing people from locations all over the U.S.

2) Attend a solidarity rally in your community.

3) Join the Thunderclap – our friends at 350.org are using a new online tool to amplify the message on Twitter and Facebook: it’s called Thunderclap. If we can get 10,000 people to sign on, messages will go out simultaneously from all of those individuals during the rally on Sunday. Add your voice to the roar: 350.org/thunderclap

4) Submit Your Photos – There will be a giant screen at the rally, showing photos and messages of support from across the country – to get your message on the screen, take a photo showing your support for the action, or photograph a part of your community that you want protected from climate change, then email it to forwardonclimatephotos@350.org, with your location in the subject line. (Or, you can post your photo to Twitter or Instagram with the hashtag #ForwardOnClimate). 350.org will pick out the best ones to put on the screen for tens of thousands of people to see, just outside the White House.

5) Share Your Sign – the 350.org web team put together this nifty sharable sign-maker that you can use to make a custom sign declaring your support for the action. They're beautiful, and easy to share on your social networks. Check it out: sign.350.org

Thank you for helping our partners make this the largest climate rally in U.S. history.

Need a little final inspiration? Read this statement from the 48 individuals who engaged in civil disobedience and were arrested on Feb. 13 outside the White House.

By Annie Leonard

Long before we were labeled treehuggers, before environmentalist, ecologist and conservationist, people with a passion for the Earth were commonly called nature lovers. What better time than February to re-embrace the term? If there's one thing the Common Threads community has in common, it's a devotion to hiking, skiing, climbing, surfing, fishing and other outdoor sports that bring us into loving contact with our beautiful yet fragile planet.

But with all due respect to the Beatles, love is not all you need. And to turn around Edward Abbey's well-known advice to activists, it is not enough to love the land, it is even more important to fight for it.

The long-running fight over America's public lands and other wild places is between the many millions who treasure wild places and want to preserve them for future generations and the corporate and political interests who want to exploit them for oil, gas, coal, uranium, timber and other resources – future generations be damned.

Most of the time, these trespassers on the commons – places that belong to all of us – barely even pay royalties on the riches they extract. There's almost no place they don't want to drill, mine or clearcut. They're blowing the tops off of mountains, filling pristine lakes and streams with mining waste and filing uranium claims near the rim of the Grand Canyon.

In recent years, those of us on the other side have been on the defensive. In a recent column, The New York Times' Tim Egan wrote:

"For all the ranchers and wildcatters, the loggers and right-wing county commissioners who clamor for control of the nation's public lands, the dominant user is an urbanite, who bikes, skis, rafts, climbs, hunts, fishes, watches birds, waits for sunsets with a camera or finds an antidote for 'nature deficit disorder' in a weekend on a high plateau.

"Yet this silent majority is taken for granted. Obama, following down the ravaged path of George W. Bush, has made it easy for oil and gas drillers to industrialize huge swaths of land that are owned by every citizen. About six million acres have been leased to drillers in the last four years; a total of 44 million acres are under lease now."

Egan and I find hope in Obama's nominee for Secretary of Interior: Sally Jewell, CEO of outdoors retailer REI. As Egan wrote, Jewell would be “one of the few directors of that vast department to actually share the passions of the majority of people who use the 500 million acres of public land under Interior's control.”

But a new Interior chief will make little difference if citizens aren't also demanding change and backing her up in protecting these beloved lands. Academic studies show that when environmental protest increases, more environmental legislation and rules are passed.

So, yes, let's love our planet, our wild lands, our shared public domain. And let's act on that love. Let's climb and hike and fish and surf, and then let's come home and write and vote and protest for what we love.

Che Guevera said: "At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love . . . We must strive every day so that this love of living humanity will be transformed into actual deeds, into acts that serve as examples, as a moving force.” In this season and every season, let's act on our love for the planet.

Annie Leonard is the founder of the The Story of Stuff Project. She has dedicated nearly two decades to investigating and organizing on environmental health and justice issues. Her monthly podcast series, The Good Stuff, features interviews with inspiring activists, entrepreneurs, scientists and others who’ve succeeded in making change.

By Fitz & Becca Cahall

Love – it's life's great surprise. You can try to pin its origins in brain chemistry and hormones. On the right timing. But those don't explain why tough guys make slow rock mixes or why a timid person suddenly introduces themselves to the person of their dreams. Why it works for one couple and not another is beyond me, so I've stopped trying to guess. Your mate could be across the ocean or right next door. But if you find him or her, it feels as though every moment lead to the perfect culmination, even the awkward middle bits. And even if you need the help of a voodoo doctor. Today, we present two stories about finding love.

Listen to "Be Mine"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Visit dirtbagdiaries.com for links to download the music from "Be Mine" or to hear past episodes of the podcast. You can subscribe to the show via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

By Zachary Collier



"Why wilderness? Because we like the taste of freedom. Because we like the smell of danger." ?Edward Abbey

Wilderness means different things to different people. For some, heading out of cell phone range is enough to make them feel like Grizzly Adams, but the Wilderness Act, signed by President Lyndon Johnson in 1964, defines wilderness as more. In almost poetic prose the authors of the Act wrote:

"A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his own works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain... an area of undeveloped Federal land retaining its primeval character and influence... which is protected and managed so as to preserve its natural conditions..."

[Above: Rough and Ready Creek, just outside the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, is ripe for protection. All photos courtesy of Zachary Collier/Northwest Rafting Co.]

The 1964 Wilderness Act set aside nine million acres of National Forest land in the original National Wilderness Preservation System. As of 2012, 107.5 million acres of land have been protected as Wilderness, about 2.8% of the lower continental United States.

In what is now simply known as The Wilderness Letter, Wallace Stegner, wrote in 1980 to urge the designation of additional wilderness:

"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed... We need wilderness preserved — as much of it as is still left, and as many kinds... The reminder and the reassurance that it is still there is good for our spiritual health even if we never once in ten years set foot in it. It is good for us when we are young, because of the incomparable sanity it can bring briefly, as vacation and rest, into our insane lives. It is important to us when we are old simply because it is there — important, that is, simply as an idea."

Thirty-two years later, we are still allowing irreplaceable wilderness to be destroyed with only a tiny fraction of our land base protected. Stegner has left us. Abbey has left us. As we approach the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act, it’s time to steep ourselves in their words, that of other wild visionaries, and the Wilderness Act itself. It’s time to roll up our sleeves and fight for more wilderness protection.

I've worked as a river guide and outfitter for almost 20 years, much of it introducing people to Idaho's Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. At 2.3 million acres, it’s the second largest Wilderness Area in the contiguous United States. Despite being visited by thousands of people each summer, signs of man are virtually nonexistent, and this area remains a respite for those seeking to visit true wilderness without leaving their mark on the landscape.


[Idaho’s MIddle Fork of the Salmon River runs through the heart of the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.]

In contrast, my friend Vladimir Gavrilov recently led a group of rafters to the Katun' River in the Altai Mountains of Siberia. The name, Siberia, conjures images of true wilderness, but instead they encountered campsites littered with the rusty tin cans of civilization. One of the guests, an American, quietly gathered up all the trash he found as the Russian guides looked on in surprise. Vlad, himself a Russian ex-pat, was pleased to see an American setting an example of environmental stewardship.

I’ve always loved wilderness and have most recently fallen for the Kalmiopsis Wilderness in southern Oregon. My first experiences in this steep, rugged area, were kayaking the upper reaches of the North Fork of the Smith River and the lower reaches of the Illinois River — two of three Wild and Scenic Rivers that flow through the Kalmiopsis. The third remained a mystery until after two days of carrying our boats and gear through thick brush, over charred trees, and down a steep, boulder-choked creek, our party reached the Wild Chetco River.


[Hiking up to Chetco Pass on our way to the Chetco River.]

In 2002, the Biscuit Fire had burned through much of the Kalmiopsis Wilderness. The natural recovery had reclaimed the bulldozed mining tracks and steep trails that provided access for the few miners, kayakers, and hardy hikers seeking the type of solitude only the Kalmiopsis can provide. Every year since the Biscuit Fire access to the Kalmiopsis has become more difficult due to the overgrown brush and fallen burnt trees covering every trail.

You might think that two grueling days getting to the river would put me off wilderness. However, the Chetco is one of the most beautiful rivers I've ever seen. The irony is, the same Wilderness Act that protects the primeval character of this land, also makes it more of a challenge to access and enjoy.


[Paddling the remote Chetco River.]

So last summer, I joined a Siskiyou Mountain Club crew working to restore the old mining track-turned-trail that’s the quickest route to the Chetco. Clearing the tangle of trees and shrubs would make access to the river only a half-day hike. Chainsaws are not allowed in designated Wilderness, so all trail work is done by hand. For four days, using long, crosscut saws, we rhythmically cut a path through the horizontal forest of downed trees. The backbreaking work allowed me time to think about wilderness and more specifically the Chetco.


[Trail clearing in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness from Chetco Pass to Slide Creek.]

I asked myself: Is protecting the integrity and wildness of places like the Kalmiopsis and its wild rivers more important than the ease of access? Would I — like Stegner — be willing to put the “need for wild country” first, even if I could “do no more than drive to the edge of it and look in.” As the wood chips flew, I realized the answer was: Yes!

There’s almost 200,000 acres of unprotected wilderness contiguous with the 179,000 acre Congressionally designated Kalmiopsis Wilderness, and thousands of acres of nearby roadless area. The de facto wilderness is watershed to the Wild and Scenic Illinois, Chetco and North Fork Smith Rivers, plus five streams that are eligible to become Wild and Scenic Rivers (Silver, Indigo, Josephine/Canyon, Rough & Ready, and Baldface Creeks).


[Rough and Ready Creek is a tributary of the Illinois River that lies just outside the Kalmiopsis Wilderness.]

The deceiving emptiness of the region surrounding the Kalmiopsis stands out on maps of the west coast. While this mix of protected and unprotected wild areas is admittedly small in comparison to the Frank Church’s 2.5 million acres, there’s a lot packed into a small area. Its rivers are free flowing — from their headwaters to the Pacific — with miles of some of the best wild salmon and steelhead habitat in the United States.

For plant lovers it’s the stuff of legends. Lilla Leach, the pioneering botanist who in 1936 first came across a diminutive pink flowered shrub on a trek across the Kalmiopsis Wild Area, reportedly fell to her knees in wonder. The object of her awe was indeed rare. Kalmiopsis leachiana is an ancient endemic species — a survivor of the last ice age, that found refuge in this rugged, wild land of extremes.


[Darlingtonia californica (aka pitcher plant or cobra lily).]

Now, I’m a river man, but paddling past a bank covered with wild azalea in full bloom, happening on a streamside fen of rare orchids, or seeing the bright green hooded leaves of the insect eating cobra lily is more fulfilling than a clean line through any rapid.

With such a concentration of treasures and so much potential, it’s hard to understand why there’s been no expansion of the Kalmiopsis Wilderness since the Endangered American Wilderness Act of 1978.

The Wilderness Act says it’s the policy of Congress “to secure for the American people of present and future generations the benefits of an enduring resource of wilderness.” Let’s remind Congress of its obligations to the people, and work to see many natural treasures protected as Wilderness. 2014 will be the 50th anniversary of the Wilderness Act. I hope that you'll join me in heading out to enjoy it. You may even find a new favorite piece of wilderness, and soon find yourself joining the efforts to protect it.

To learn more about the Kalmiopsis Wilderness and surrounding area, please visit the Friends of the Kalmiopsis website.

Update: To help protect the Wild and Scenic Chetco River from mining, please take a moment to send an electronic message to the Secretary of the Interior.

Zachary Collier is the owner of Northwest Rafting Company and an avid river runner. This next year he’s taking on an exploration of the Kalmiopsis Wilderness via it’s rivers and creeks.

By Kelly Cordes



Guidebooks come in all forms. The kind that I like the most are more than mere guidebooks; they have bits of history, interesting information and stunning photos. They inspire me. By necessity, they can only be written by a true expert. They don’t hold my hand, but they have the essential info, the things you need to know, while giving you the credit of assuming that – in the case of alpine climbing, anyway – you already possess a basic level of competence. Which, seems to me, is fair enough for an alpine climbing destination like the Chaltén Massif in southern Patagonia, Argentina.

The massif is home to so many stories, so many legends, so much vision from such great climbers from around the globe; some from previous eras, some still active, some just getting started.

One of Patagonia’s greats is Rolando Garibotti, who grew up in Bariloche, Argentina. He first visited the Chaltén Massif in the mid-80s – back then, El Chaltén had a single house. Garibotti was 15 years old, and he and a friend climbed Aguja Guillaumet. His passion had been ignited, and it’s been burning ever since.

[Above: One of the last pitches of Cerro Fitz Roy’s Supercanaleta. The summit can be seen in the upper left. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]

In the mid-90s Garibotti began gathering detailed info on the climbing, and climbers, of the area. He traveled through Europe (he was born in Italy, and speaks four languages), visited libraries in Trento, Torino and Chamonix, met with great climbers of the range – including many in Italy, Austria, Slovenia and France – and then, in the U.S., he ensconced himself for days on end in the American Alpine Club’s library.

He’s widely heralded as the climbing history expert of the massif, to which I can personally attest – during my 12-year tenure as one of the editors of the American Alpine Journal, Garibotti was, without question, the most dialed, accurate, and detailed correspondent I ever worked with. His knowledge of the massif is unparalleled.

[The Fitz Roy Group from the west. From left to right, Cerro Fitz Roy, Agujas de la Silla, Desmochada, Kakito, Poincenot, and Rafael Juárez. In the foreground the shadows of Cerro Torre, Torre Egger and Aguja Standhardt. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]

In the years since his teenage ascent of Guillaumet, he’s also become one of the massif’s most accomplished alpinists and activists. In 2008 he headed a massive two-season trails restoration project in the park (comprised of volunteers and hired workers working over 4,400 person-hours; Garibotti refused to pay himself a dime), was instrumental in defeating an attempt to take private control of the northern flanks of Fitz Roy in 1999, and also in defeating a proposed climbing permit fee structure back in 2004, has given detailed info to everyone who asks (at his cabin in Chaltén, I’ve often thought that if he would only charge one peso for everybody who knocked on his door for beta, he could retire...), and runs the free website pataclimb.com (which has a “donate” button if you’re so inclined, as I have, given how much I’ve relied on the site). It’s hard to imagine anyone with more passion for a place, or who has contributed more to climbing in the Chaltén Massif.

So when Garibotti and Dörte Pietron, herself a top-level alpinist, and similarly detail-oriented and dialed, recently completed Patagonia Vertical, the result came as no surprise. Patagonia Vertical is more than a guidebook. It’s a 368-page, full-color tour through one of the world’s great alpine climbing arenas. It covers over 250 routes on 39 peaks (every route on every peak in the massif), has 90 topos, 120 photo topos and 100 additional photos, plus general information on climbing in the area, transportation, staying in El Chaltén, weather, regulations, equipment, strategy, approaches, bivy sites, everything. It’s an indispensable resource, and a compilation of nearly 15 years of exhaustive research.

To be clear, it’s not one of those “put your left hand three inches to the right of the crack, and at the belay use a one-inch cam…” climbing guidebooks. You still have to routefind, you still have to think, you still have to make your own decisions. It won’t get you up the route of your dreams. (Damn it!) But to climbers visiting the historic Chaltén Massif, or who aspire to, or for those who love mountains, love climbing, and want to understand more about one of the greatest alpine arenas in the world, Patagonia Vertical will certainly ignite your passion.

[Colin Haley climbing the Kearney-Knight variation to the Casarotto route on the Pilar Goretta, Cerro Fitz Roy. In the background, from left to right, Cerro Pollone, the east flank of Cordón Marconi and Volcán Lautaro. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]










[Jorge Ackermann on the last pitch of the Ragni route, Cerro Torre. As seen in this photo, this vertical rime mushroom often requires digging a half pipe or tunnel to ascend. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]






[The Spigolo dei Bimbi route on Punta Herron’s north ridge. In the background the summit of Punta Shanti – down and left – and the west face of Aguja Standhardt on the right. Photo: Rolando Garibotti]




Patagonia Vertical is now available through patagonia.com, and soon at the Patagonia retail stores in Ventura, Boulder, Denver and New York City (meatpacking district store). This is a rare opportunity; you won’t find Patagonia Vertical on Amazon or most other book sellers. If you’re at all interested, grab one while they last.

By Colin Haley



My good friend Dylan Johnson has managed to briefly escape his responsibilities as a new father and self-employed architect to come down to El Chalten for some alpine adventure. Since he is only here for a whopping two weeks, and since he arrived exactly at the end of the enormous, two-week weather window, he was understandably a bit stressed as to whether or not he would get to go alpine climbing while here. Given these circumstances, we have been watching the weather forecasts like hawks, looking for every possible opportunity to do something in the mountains. Last week we hiked into the mountains to try something off the Glaciar Fitz Roy Norte, but with very high winds when the 3am alarm went off, it ended up being just another hike with heavy packs.

Every year, Patagonia ambassadors, along with climbers from around the world, visit the small town of El Chalten in Argentina. Their goal: climb huge granite peaks in the Patagonia region, some of the most challenging in the world. Follow the updates from our ambassadors and friends on these Patagonia channels and #vidapatagonia:

       

After looking at the weather forecasts on Friday morning we wrote off alpine climbing for the weekend, and figured we'd go bouldering in the afternoon. However, while eating our pre-bouldering empanadas, we watched the skies getting clearer, and rationalized that perhaps the weather forecast was good enough for alpine climbing after all. So, it wasn't until 3pm that we made plans to try Fitz Roy the next day, and not until 6:30pm that we finally started hiking towards Laguna de los Tres. We reached our bivy at Laguna de los Tres at dusk, and lay down for a few hours of sleep.

[Above: Colin harnessing up at the bergschrund below La Brecha de los Italianos, with an awesome sunrise over Lago Viedma. Photo: Dylan Johnson]

On Saturday morning we left Laguna de los Tres at 3:45 am, and headed up towards Paso Superior with good snow conditions. Our plan was to climb up to the Col de los Americanos (the col between Aguja de la Silla and Cerro Fitz Roy), and decide at that point if the weather was good enough to try the California Route (aka Funhog Route) on Fitz Roy, or simply Aguja de la Silla as a back-up plan. With a bit of fresh snow from the previous week of stormy weather, and no other climbers around due to the marginal weather forecast, it felt like the "old Patagonia," that I often miss.

At the Col de los Americanos it was chilly and definitely windy, but not unreasonably windy, so we decided to stick with Plan A, and headed up the California Route. The California Route is among the easiest routes on Fitz Roy, and ended up being the perfect route choice for the day. I think it was the biggest objective we could've succeeded on that day, considering the wind and cold. The Supercanaleta could've also been reasonable in such weather, but is currently in terrible condition.

The climbing on the California route is mostly very moderate, with only a few pitches of mid-5.10. But, with the weather conditions preventing us from ever donning rock shoes, we still eagerly pulled on gear here and there. We finally reached the summit a bit after 7pm, and eager to get off the mountain before the winds increased, headed down immediately. The descent fortunately went quite smoothly, and at 3:15, just a bit under 24 hours after departing, we reached our tent back at Laguna de los Tres. A great climb, and particularly satisfying to have snuck it in to a marginal window!




Dylan climbing up to La Brecha de los Italianos, via the left-hand route, with Laguna de los Tres far below. All photos by Colin Haley, except where noted.



Dylan in some 4th-class mixed terrain below La Brecha de los Italianos.



Dylan climbing 4th-class terrain from La Brecha up to La Silla.



Dylan climbing up to the Col de los Americanos, with La Brecha behind.



Dylan low on the California route.



Colin doing some low-angle aid climbing low on the California route. Photo: Dylan Johnson



Dylan leading a short squeeze-chimney.



Dylan mid-route, with Cerro Domo Blanco in the background.



Dylan nearing the junction with the Supercanaleta.



Dylan reaching the junction with the Supercanaleta.



Colin climbing a little squeeze chimney near the top of the Supercanaleta. Photo: Dylan Johnson



Colin happily belaying on the upper portion of the Supercanaleta. Photo: Dylan Johnson



Dylan high on the Supercanaleta, with the Torres behind.



Dylan near the top of the Supercanaleta, as clouds engulf the Pollone group.



Colin leading the last hard pitch of the Supercanaleta. Photo: Dylan Johnson



Dylan at a spectacular belay near the top of the Supercanaleta.



Colin on 3rd-class terrain above the top of the Supercanaleta. Photo: Dylan Johnson



Dylan nearing the summit.



On top of Fitz! Dylan's first time, and now my eighth!

Patagonia ambassador Colin Haley grew up hiking, skiing and climbing in the rugged Cascade Mountains where he developed a love of mountain adventure and an indifference to foul weather. His climbing is focused on the mountains of Alaska and Patagonia, where he’s drawn to the steepest alpine faces.

This report was first posted February 4, 2013 on Colin's personal blog, Skagit Alpinism.

If the California Route on Fitz Roy sounds familiar, it's because Patagonia's founder Yvon Chouinard made the first ascent in 1968 with his friends Doug Tompkins, Dick Dorworth, Chris Jones and filmmaker Lito Tejada-Flores. The climb became the inspiration for the name of our company, it also made for a great film.


[Mountain of Storms, a film by Lito Tejada-Flores.]

This is the flag Yvon and crew held aloft on the summit of Fitz Roy. It's now displayed in the Patagonia HQ reception area.




Finally, in other #vidapatagonia news, Kelly Cordes will be giving a slide show presentation at Patagonia Buenos Aires on February 26. Sign up to attend if you happen to be in town or know somebody who lives there. There will surely be lots of laughs.

El próximo martes 26 de febrero nos visita Kelly Cordes, histórico embajador de Patagonia. Kelly viene de vuelta de hacer temporada en el Chaltén. Vendrá a contarnos sobre esta y otras temporadas más, su historia y su vida como escalador. Si les interesa venir a escucharlo pueden registrarse acá > https://eventioz.com.ar/kellyenbuenosaires


[Kelly brushes up in Yosemite. Photo: Jeff Johnson]

On Sunday July 25, 2010, a pipeline carrying tar sands crude from Alberta, Canada, burst open and spilled more than 1.1 million gallons of oil into Talmadge Creek and the Kalamazoo River, near Marshall, Michigan. The oil coated wildlife and birds, soaked into wetlands and waterways, and directly impacted farmland, businesses, homes and communities as far as 40 miles away. After a delay of 17 hours, workers arrived on the scene and found that the sludgy, toxic, tar sands crude sinks in water, rather than floats – making it much more difficult to clean up. Recovery efforts have already cost over $800 million, and the price paid in ecological and human health is hard to measure.

As we move into the final phase of the Our Common Waters campaign, we’re taking a close look at expanding tar sands development across North America. From the strip mining of tar sands in Alberta, Canada, to the spider web of pipelines expanding across the U.S. and Canada, to ports and coastal areas that would act as hubs for export: at every point in the chain of production and transportation, water is at risk. The water we drink, the water we fish, the water we swim and boat in, the only water we have.

We’re asking ourselves and our community: Is it worth it?

[Above: Vast open-pit bitumen mines require massive clear-cutting of the pristine boreal Forest in the Alberta tar sands. Photo: John Woods/Greenpeace]

Tar sands are a thick, sludgy mixture of sand, clay, water and a “tarry” petroleum deposit.  Mining and drilling techniques used to extract the oil are expensive, energy intensive, use large quantities of water and have a huge environmental footprint. Surface deposits are strip mined, scraping away thousands of acres of Canada’s rich boreal forests and wetlands in the process. Deeper deposits are extracted using steam and solvents, with wastewater often ending up in giant toxic tailings ponds. Much of the water for tar sands mining in Alberta comes from the Athabasca River which feeds the largest freshwater delta in the world. Up to 15% of the Athabasca’s flow is slated to be used for current and planned tar sands projects, putting the biodiversity of that great freshwater ecosystem at risk.

But the impacts don’t stop at the point of extraction, as the Kalamazoo spill proves. As noted above, tar sands crude or “diluted bitumen” sinks in water, making spills much harder to clean up. It is also more acidic, more abrasive and contains more sulfur and other corrosive substances than conventional crude. These traits, paired with the higher temperature and pressure in tar sands pipelines, lead to a greater risk of pipeline deterioration and rupture. Oil pipelines aren’t new to North America – but the expansion of higher risk tar sands pipelines is. And, if one of these pipelines projects reaches a coastal port, which is the current goal for the major oil companies involved, access to overseas markets can only drive further development of this unconventional oil. Check out a map of tar sands pipeline projects here.

For several years, we’ve been tracking tar sands pipeline expansion projects, working with partners to understand the complex situation and voice our concern:

• In August of 2011 and later in 2012, we joined thousands of other activists, including Bill McKibben and organizations like 350.org, in asking President Obama to reject plans for the Keystone XL pipeline, which would connect the tar sands to the massive refinery and port complex near Houston, TX. Now 350.org is again at the center of a push to convince President Obama to reject ongoing proposals and plans for this pipeline early in his second term. Visit 350.org’s action site for more information.
• Since last year, we’ve supported activism to stop the Northern Gateway pipeline, which would stretch through British Columbia to the western coast of Canada.  Activists, including our partners at Raincoast Conservation Foundation, have been quick to defend not only the pristine BC forests, rivers and wetlands, but also to warn against the risks of oil spills from tankers along the rocky and treacherous BC coast. Visit this link to learn more about a film project that we have supported on this topic.
• Finally, through the Our Common Waters campaign, we’re working with two key partners – Environmental Defence (Canada) and National Wildlife Federation (U.S.) – to shed light on a convoluted plan to extend access for tar sands oil to the east coast, via the Great Lakes region, back and forth across the U.S./Canada border, ending in Portland, Maine.

As we continue to track these projects through the Our Common Waters campaign, Patagonia recognizes that, as a business that relies on transportation of products from point of manufacture to our customers, we are daily relying on vehicles that are fueled by oil and gas products.  Unlike the case where we can choose to buy only organic cotton for the clothes we make, or to use high levels of recycled content materials, our country’s infrastructure for oil and gas products doesn’t allow us to differentiate and choose between using tar sands oil and non-tar sands oil.  It’s all mixed together:  lower impact conventional oil products and “unconventional” oil products  – and thus, we are using tar sands oil products.

In our opinion, this situation makes it all the more important to engage in activism with a goal of reducing the current and future reliance of our entire fuel system on high impact oil sources – our support of campaigns to slow the development of tar sands extraction and pipelines is in line with this goal.

At the same time, we are actively pursuing as much information about our supply chain reliance on tar sands fuel as possible. Patagonia is collaborating this year with the University of California Santa Barbara on a research project to determine if it is feasible for us to avoid using tar sands fuel in our transportation systems, as well as how best to integrate low-carbon fuels and/or alter our business practices to reduce carbon emissions. In addition, we will continue to support environmental groups taking action on the tar sands issue with our grants program and various communication channels.

This year will be an important one for these issues, and while we focus tightly on risks to freshwater through the Our Common Waters campaign, the fact remains that tar sands oil development poses an even greater risk to our environment. As James Hanson, NASA scientist and climate expert notes, “Canada’s tar sands, deposits of sand saturated with bitumen, contain twice the amount of carbon dioxide emitted by global oil use in our entire history….”, and if we extract and use this entire resource, the carbon emitted into our atmosphere would mean “… game over for the climate.”

 

We hope you’ll join us in learning more about the issue and taking action. For current actions, visit:

In the U.S., National Wildlife Federation: TAKE ACTION

In Canada, Environmental Defence: TAKE ACTION

 

Finally, we recommend this resource as a good overview of many of the tar sands pipeline issues.

 

[Editor's note: Updated copy (missing paragraph) on 2/4/13]

 

By Kelly Cordes



I don’t know how Brittany does it. Or, if she’s being honest – and I think she is – how she enjoys it. I look at the scattered pile of junk in our El Chalten cabaña, and think back to her post. I’m suspicious. You’ve got to watch out for those wayward gypsy women, you know.

I hate packing. It stresses me out. I think it through, write it down, rethink, this shirt vs. that, these mountains vs. those, the conditions and ambitions, the projections of what we’ll climb. And not climb. For this trip to Argentine Patagonia, I had a goal: be ready ahead of time. Like chilled-out, not stressed, spend time with the lil’ woman (a.k.a. special lady friend, SLF) – that sort of ready – and enjoy the week before leaving. Check.

Every year, Patagonia ambassadors, along with climbers from around the world, visit the small town of El Chalten in Argentina. Their goal: climb huge granite peaks in the Patagonia region, some of the most challenging in the world. Follow the updates from our ambassadors and friends on these Patagonia channels and #vidapatagonia:

       

The climbing gear entails minor tweaking, but important tweaking. If you’re without a crucial piece of gear, it can mean no send. Equally important, though: You have to enjoy your non-climbing life. It’s essential for sending psyche. No psyche, no ruta, no cumbre.

[Above: Pre-trip packing hurricane, from casa de Cordes. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

So I remember thinking, a few weeks back...do I bring four books or five? Child of God, or The Sun Also Rises? Grams become ounces become pounds, and the bags can only weigh fifty. My SLF recently gave me a phenomenal book, The Things They Carried, and after reading half of the first page I was hooked. I couldn’t put it down, except to pack (and run, ski and climb – you have to get on the plane tired before international travel, lest you arrive grumpy from all the sitting). So I carried it.

What about Twizzlers? I’ve brought Twizzlers with me on nearly every trip I’ve done in the past twenty years. They’re one of my back-home vices, along with margaritas (which they don’t have here, but that’s all I’m going to say about it because if I pretend I don’t notice then maybe it won’t bother me). But with that ruthless 2 x 50# bag deal, and the incredibly diverse Patagonian climbing conditions – don’t the airlines know I’m going climbing for two months?!? – something had to go. The Twizzlers went. But really, I’ll be OK. I told myself that the great, cheap, Argentine red wine is kind of like Twizzlers. Roja. Vino. Twizzlers.

Climbing-wise, I’m pretty dead-set on the Fitz Roy chain, not the Torres (remembering my other goal: Don’t Unsend the Torre). So, synthetic or down? It’s crazy how the weather can vary in such a compact range, but the Torres get the brunt of wet storms coming off the Ice Cap – I’d want synthetic there (just in case I stray from my goal). OK, Nano. Or should it be DAS? Micro Puff? Nah, should be warm enough while we’re there…. Nano Hoody. But Fitz Roy is my big hope, and down is lighter and warmer, and I have this killer Down Sweater prototype, so that goes in, too. Suddenly I think, I’ve got enough protos in these bags to make things sketchy if they fail, before I stop thinking and just jam stuff in.

OK, back to thinking: I’m mostly looking to rock climb, so minor ice gear for approaches and summits should be enough – Gore-Tex mid-top sneakers and aluminum crampons. Cool, saves some weight. Twizzlers back in.

Ahhh, but if Exocet were in condition, and my cankle were well enough to hike that far? I’d hate to miss it. Better throw-in the steel crampons, just in case. And, well, that means I need serious ice boots. Sweetdearbabyjesus, if I pack for every possibility I’ll be worse than Imelda Marcos. I pack real boots and crampons. Which means I need two ice tools, not one. Pair of Cobras. What good is any of this without ice screws? Screws in. Damn, my bags just got heavy. I’m screwed. Extra cams come out. Rationale, boldly spoken from my living room: I don’t need more than two sets of cams for anything. More balanced stance: If I can’t do it with two sets of cams, maybe I don’t deserve it.

I eyeball the Twizzlers and grab my scale.

Flash forward a few weeks and once again I’m reminded that we make do with what we have, with the things we carry, and I have plenty, I think, as I sit, still mentally and physically fried, after climbing Fitz Roy. (Crampon Craig and I climbed the Afanassieff Ridge, a 5,000-vertical-foot rock pile, then endured a descent epic – but that’s another story.)

My eyes scan the mess of gear and clothing on our cabaña floor, and then shift to the stack of books. Glad I brought five (The Sun Also Rises, by the way). But I kinda wish I’d packed the Twizzlers. Oh well, a little vino roja will do just fine.



[Kelly making do with the wholly not-recommended minimal ice gear tactic (no axe, sneakers, aluminum crampons) on the approach to Fitz Roy. Photo: Craig Scariot]

[Kelly on the first day of Fitz Roy’s Afanassieff route (aka French Northwest Ridge). Photo: Craig Scariot]



[Craig Scariot on the headwall pitches, day two on the Afanassieff. Photo: Kelly Cordes]



[Soaking wet offwidth, or shift right onto the soaking wet slab? Craig Scariot navigates a gushing waterfall pitch late on day two. Photo: Kelly Cordes]



[Midway up Fitz Roy, after a few hours of frigid sleep at the second bivy, Kelly tries to motivate. Cerro Torre rises in the background. Photo: Craig Scariot]



[Craig Scariot cruising on the last hard pitch, but still a thousand feet of terrain remains to the summit. Photo: Kelly Cordes]



[Kelly nears the summit of Fitz Roy. Photo: Craig Scariot]



[Kelly halfway there – on the summit of Fitz Roy. Photo: Craig Scariot]



[Ruta, cumbre, psyche: Crampon Craig Scariot celebrates the summit of Fitz Roy. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Adhering to a life-long avoidance of full-time work, Patagonia ambassador Kelly Cordes specializes in margaritas, maximizing outdoor time and climbing alpine-style routes. Kelly is a regular contributor to The Cleanest Line and his unfiltered personal blog.

In other ambassador news from Patagonia, Rolando Garibotti reported the following on PATAclimb.com (posted 1/28/13).

Colin Haley and Chad Kellogg completed the first ascent of the Corkscrew Link-Up without using the Compressor Route bolts. The Corkscrew was Colin's third major link-up on Cerro Torre, having done the first integral ascent of Los Tiempos Perdidos in 2007 and the Travesía del Torre in 2008. It is also his third time on the summit of Cerro Torre this season. That is motivation for you!

Also on Cerro Torre, Slovenes Luka Krajnc and Tadej Krišelj, likely still a bit tired from a recent new route on Cerro Fitz Roy, did the third ascent of the Filo Sureste by fair-means, climbing the line followed by Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk before moving right to climb the last two pitches via David Lama and Peter Ortner's variation.

Elsewhere in the massif, Japanese climbers Jumbo Yokoyama and Ryo Masumoto did the first free ascent of Judgment Day on the southwest face of Aguja Poincenot. Jumbo describes the lower crux (originally graded 6c/A0) as one of the best pitches he has ever climbed in Patagonia and estimates it is 7a+, possibly 7b. A higher crux (6c/C1) went at 7a. They describe the quality of Judgment Day as "awesome", especially pitches 6, 7, 9, 10, and 13.

Earlier, Josh Huckaby and Mikey Schaefer climbed a new line in the south face of Aguja de l'S. Their “Carne y Papas” climbs an obvious crack system between The Gentlemen's Club and The Wormhole Theory. Schaefer freeclimbed until two pitches from the ridge, finding difficulties to 7a+ and A0. The name refers to the American expression “meat and potatoes”, which describes the basis or fundamental parts of something, in this case describing the character of the climbing, granite cracks and corners.
 

Thanks to Rolando for the updates. Visit PATAclimb.com for news, weather, route information and more from the Patagonia region.

By Colin Haley



My girlfriend, Sarah Hart, is joining me for some of this season in Chalten, and arrived on the same day that Jon took off. We had a week of bouldering in relatively stormy weather, and then yet another weather window descended upon Chalten - this time an extended one. Although Sarah's only two previous ascents in the Chalten massif were Aguja Innominata and Cerro Solo, we decided that we had to try to profit from such a long weather window, and headed to the biggest objective we had planned to try together: the Goretta Pillar of Fitz Roy.


Every year, Patagonia ambassadors, along with climbers from around the world, visit the small town of El Chalten in Argentina. Their goal: climb huge granite peaks in the Patagonia region, some of the most challenging in the world. Follow the updates from our ambassadors and friends on these Patagonia channels and #vidapatagonia:

       


We decided to try the route, "Mate, Porro, y Todo lo Demas," which was climbed to the top of the Goretta Pillar in 2008 by Rolando Garibotti and Bean Bowers, and finished to the summit in 2011 by Matjaz Dusic and Lovro Vrsnik. Since then it has had a handful of subsequent ascents. Sarah, gracious and generous as always, agreed to a plan to let me do all the leading. Although our rock climbing abilities are very similar, we figured that all my experience climbing in the range would make us climb a bit faster with this strategy. Additionally, since I have already climbed Fitz Roy via the Goretta Pillar two times before, trying to lead everything myself would make it still an exciting challenge for myself. However, to make the experience still enjoyable and exciting for Sarah, we opted not to take jumars, which undoubtably is a less efficient strategy, and more challenge yet!

[Above: High quality rock climbing. Photo: Sarah Hart]

We hiked into the Rio Electrico valley on Friday, January 11th, but because of wind and rain decided not to continue up to the Piedras Negras camp, and instead camped down in the forest above Piedra del Fraile. On Saturday we left our camp early, and made our approach over Paso del Cuadrado and up the Glaciar Fitz Roy Norte. As we climbed up the snow slopes below the west side of the Goretta Pillar we realized that conditions were much worse than we had hoped - a lot of the rock was snowed up, especially on the lower portion of the pillar. Nonetheless, the weather window was forecasted to last long enough to afford a slow pace, and we started up the initial pitches wearing crampons and mixed climbing in our very basic ice gear. The first part of the route is 4th-class rock where one would normally simul-climb, but in the snowy conditions we decided to pitch it out. When the fifth class pitches began, I was forced to climb the first several mostly on direct aid, using an ice tool to chip the ice out for almost every placement. We lost a lot of time on these initial pitches, but as the sun came onto the rock the ice began to melt very quickly, and as we gained height the rock became drier and drier.

At the end of our first day we had only climbed about half-way up the Pillar, and were forced to bivouac on a small uncomfortable ledge, rather than the large terrace two-thirds of the way up the Pillar. We got a leisurely start on our second day, and climbed up to the large terrace on pleasantly almost-dry rock. After a lunch break on the large terrace, we tackled the upper pitches of the Pillar, which now were unfortunately running with large amounts of water. We arrived to our second bivouac, the top of the Goretta Pillar, the same way we had arrived to our first bivouac - by headlamp. The one time I have previously slept on top of the Goretta Pillar it was quite comfortable, but this time it was very snowy and we spent at least an hour and half chopping ice before we settled onto our bivouac ledge.

Already quite tired, we got a leisurely start again on our third day, rappelled into the notch between the Goretta Pillar and the upper mountain, and tackled our last block of hard climbing. We once again had to deal with a lot of ice in the cracks and running water, but at least at this point we were quite accustomed to it! We reached the summit of Fitz Roy in the early evening, and were joined there by two young climbers from Provincia San Juan, Carlitos and Iñaki, who had just climbed El Corazon, on the east face. Sarah and I decided to start descending immediately, as the wind was already beginning to pick up. However, after a couple of rappels, Carlitos and Iñaki yelled to us to wait, and asked if they might rappel with us. As it turned out, they had core-shot one of their ropes on the ascent, and with only one usable rope were going to be in for a tricky descent. Additionally, since they had originally planned to descend El Corazon, they had only one pair of crampons, and to top things off, Carlitos had taken a big fall on the ascent that had left him with a broken heel! Rappelling as a group of four is of course much slower than a group of two, so we ended up spending another night on the mountain, at La Brecha de los Italianos, but it was all OK because Iñaki treated us to mashed potatoes and soup - a welcome trade since Sarah and I were now out of food! We finished the rappels and hiked out the next day, completing a very satisfying adventure!

We were joined on "Mate, Porro, y Todo lo Demas," by two other teams, Kate Rutherford and Madeleine Sorkin (from the US), and Luciano Fiorenza, Jorge ____, and Sergio Tartari (from Bariloche, Argentina and Salinas, Brasil). Everyone was happy to share the route, and congrats especially to Kate and Madeleine for making an all-female ascent of Fitz Roy (I believe the first via the Goretta Pillar, and perhaps the fourth ever of Fitz Roy).



Colin on the approach up the Glaciar Fitz Roy Norte, with Aguja Pollone looking pretty above. Photo: Sarah Hart



Starting up the snow slopes below the northwest side of Fitz Roy. Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah getting psyched on the approach. Photo: Colin Haley



Sarah climbing up the snow slopes below the route. Photo: Colin Haley



Sarah climbing in snowy conditions on the fourth-class terrain at the base of the route. Photo: Colin Haley



Colin aiding low on the route. Photo: Sarah Hart



Still snowy... Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah at a special belay stance, as the ice started to melt out of the cracks. Photo: Colin Haley



Still aiding up a slushy dihedral. Photo: Colin Haley



Finally some drier rock! Getting into some of the nicer pitches. Photo: Sarah Hart



Always more granite... Late on our first day. Photo: Colin Haley



Colin at the first bivouac. Photo: Sarah Hart



On day two, Colin starting up the pitches above the large terrace. Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah climbing above the large terrace on day two. Photo: Colin Haley



Colin nearing the top of the Goretta Pillar. Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah near the top of the Goretta Pillar. Photo: Colin Haley



Sarah on day three, climbing one of the last hard pitches, with the top of the Goretta Pillar below. Photo: Colin Haley



Sarah still psyched after two cold, uncomfortable bivouacs. Photo: Colin Haley



Colin on one of the last steep pitches. Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah finishing the last rock-shoe pitch. Photo: Colin Haley



Sarah coming up slushy ice near the top of Fitz Roy. Photo: Colin Haley



On the summit of Fitz Roy, for my seventh time and Sarah's first time! Photo: Sarah Hart



Sarah on the steepest rappel of the Franco-Argentina descent. Photo: Colin Haley



With all the rappels finished, myself, Sarah, Iñaki and Carlitos relax a bit on the Glaciar Piedras Blancas. Photo: Colin Haley


Patagonia ambassador Colin Haley grew up hiking, skiing and climbing in the rugged Cascade Mountains where he developed a love of mountain adventure and an indifference to foul weather. His climbing is focused on the mountains of Alaska and Patagonia, where he’s drawn to the steepest alpine faces.

This post first appeared on Colin's personal blog, Skagit Alpinism.

By Bridget Crocker



Sometimes a woman has to paddle against the current.

When I’d first met Doreen, last season, she was a highsider – a porter and training guide who helped weight the rafts through the Zambezi’s high-volume hydraulics. She was barely five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds, but as a highsider, Doreen carried heavy coolers, oars, and rafts in and out of the steep Batoka gorge, matching the men load for load. The other highsiders, all male, started complaining that she was taking more than her share, making it harder for them to provide for their families. Doreen didn’t have a family of her own, they argued, so she didn’t need the money like they did.
 
It was decided that Doreen must quit being a highsider and become the manager’s “house girl” – and so she came to work for us, doing the washing, ironing, and floor polishing.

[Above: Bridget Crocker and crew take on Rapid #8 (aka Midnight Diner). Zambezi River, Zambia. Photo: Greg Findley/Detour Destinations]

Doreen joined our groundskeeper, Gabriel, and guard, Mr. Amos, bringing our total number of staff to three.

“You have to do something about them,” I’d told Greg. “I don’t want to be the Madam – it makes me uncomfortable to have them doing all the work.”

Back home, I had cleaned plenty of motel rooms for money in-between river guiding seasons. To me, having servants was an affront to my working-class ethos and Aquarian sense of global equality.

“What do you want me to do?” Greg responded. “Throw them out? Then they won’t have jobs.”

Obviously, that wouldn’t do. “Fine, then,” I proclaimed. “But I’m not going to monitor the ironing or oversee afternoon tea.”

As it turned out, Doreen and I had a few things in common, besides scrubbing toilets for cash. We were both twenty-one years old and had grown up next to rivers: me in a small town next to Wyoming’s Snake River and Doreen in a Tonga village outside Choma, near the upper Zambezi. Before meeting us, she’d never been around mazungus – white people – in her life. Before coming to Africa, I had never been around black people in my life.

[Young Bridget Crocker at home on Wyoming's Snake River. Photo: Marilyn Olsen.]



[Doreen Hamangaba - highsider, housekeeper, kwassa kwassa queen. Livingstone, Zambia. Photo: Bridget Crocker]

We became best friends, spending afternoons swapping dance moves while playing UB40’s “Red, Red Wine” over and over. We eventually broke the cassette tape, so Doreen brought in her tapes from home of Zairian kwassa kwassa and Lucky Dube, a South African reggae megastar.

“What’s your biggest dream?” I once asked her. “If you could have any job in the world, do anything with your life, what would it be?”

She looked at the floor, and then cautiously up through thickly fringed lashes. “When I was a highsider,” she said, “I was just wanting to take those oars in my own hands.” She smiled earnestly. “I was wanting to steer the boat and be the one who is guiding, as you yourself are. That is my dream.”


***************************************************

My third season in Zambia, I applied for and landed a job guiding on Ethiopia’s Class III Omo River. Of all the rivers in the world, it was the one I most wanted to run, primarily because it was the stomping grounds of LUCY (Australopithecus afarensis), one of the earliest humans. Since the first descent in the early seventies, the Omo had been run sparingly, and only a handful of women guides had ever rafted it.

“Greg will let you go?” Angela was concerned. She relinquished the luxury of pursuing her dreams when she married and had two children.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Doreen helped me pack, carefully handing me carabiners, pulleys, and my river knife.

“I know you will be careful, my sister,” she said, smiling proudly. “Are you afraid of the rapids?”

“Not so much the rapids,” I said. By now, I had guided Class III and IV rapids in Wyoming, Idaho, and California. “I’m more scared of the hippos and crocs.”

Doreen erupted in a deep, carefree laugh. “Only tell them that I have sent you. They will not harass you then.”

[Dropping into Rapid #5 (aka Stairway to Heaven). Photo: Greg Findley/Detour Destinations]

Greg drove me to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, to board a train for Harare, where I was to catch a flight for Addis Ababa. With time to spare before the night train departed, we ducked into a matinee of The Power of One. We came out of the movie misty-eyed from its message of racial equality and being true to oneself, only to find we had been robbed. My bag filled with river gear was missing, as was the guard we had paid to watch our Rover.

We went to the central police station to report the crime. When it was my turn at the counter, I slid my passport over to the officer on duty.

“My duffel bag was stolen from our vehicle,” I began.

“Oho,” he raised his eyebrows and loudly flipped through the stamped pages of my passport. “And tell me, who is speaking for you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Who is reporting the crime for you? Who is speaking for you?”

“I’m speaking for myself,” I said, bewildered.

“No, no. You must have someone to speak for you – a husband, father, or brother. Otherwise, you cannot report it.”

“Here’s my boyfriend. . .” I offered.

“Sorry. He is not your husband.”

“But, my father and brothers are in the States.”

“Well, that is truly unfortunate, then. It is Zimbabwean law that a woman must have someone speaking for her to report a crime. Next in the queue,” he handed back my passport, looking over my shoulder, no longer seeing me.

Stripped of my river armor – life jacket, helmet, knife, throw bag, wrap kit – I felt vulnerable and ill-prepared for guiding a fourteen-day trip on a remote wilderness river near the Sudan border.

“What a bummer,” Greg said, as we took our seats at a neighboring bar. “You were really looking forward to going.”

I was tempted to numb my disappointment with a Cane and Coke, lean my head on Greg’s comfortable shoulder, and head back to Livingstone. I could nearly taste the cocktail’s sugary oblivion. Then I remembered Doreen beaming at me as I left, her compact, sturdy arms waving madly from the gate.

“Oh, I’m still going,” I said, and ordered a Fanta.

“But you don’t even have a lifejacket,” Greg pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’ve got a ticket.”

I boarded the plane as scheduled, bolstering myself with the knowledge that I had been chosen for this – been handed my dream-come-true – and there might never be another chance. I flew to Addis intent on holding those coveted oars, Doreen’s proud smile nudging me forward the entire way.

Bridget Crocker is an adventure guide, outdoor travel writer, and mother. She has led remote river expeditions and guided first descents down many of the world’s greatest river canyons in far-flung regions of Zambia, Ethiopia, the Philippines, Peru, Chile, Costa Rica, India, and the Western United States. Read more of her work at www.bridgetcrocker.com.

Hear more about Bridget’s river adventures at her upcoming presentation in Mammoth, California on January 29, “Whitewater, Crocodiles and Malaria: Navigating the World’s Wild Rivers” – part of the Mammoth Legends of Adventure Slideshow Series.

This story first appeared in The Best of Women's Travel Writing, Volume 8: True Stories from Around the World.

By Kelly Cordes



I came here with one goal. A New Year’s goal, despite my avowed no-resolution resolution of a year ago: Don’t un-send the Torre.

My prolific spray about the single climb I’d done in Patagonia, a link-up on Cerro Torre with Colin Haley in 2007, might lend the illusion that I’ve climbed a lot here. Nope. I’ve just been meaning to climb a lot here. Anyway, now I’m here and I ain’t touching the Torre because a guy like me needs to protect those memories, not undo them.


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 So Craig Scariot (formerly known as CFS) and I rolled into town with a ton-minus-one of possible objectives. We promptly ran into my good friends Chris and Justin. They’re animals, motivated, and had returned a few hours earlier from climbing Poincenot. Chris, aka The Chief, is one of my longest-running climbing partners, from back in the Missoula days (sordid story of me and The Chief here). Justin and I climb together back home in Estes Park, and he and his wife own Ed’s Cantina, my favorite local margarita eatery.

[Above: Justin, The Chief, and Kelly at Piedra del Fraile. Photo: Crampon Craig Scariot]

Soon after – like, real soon, starting the next day – a tiny and marginal weather window opened. OK, time to go. But big winds. So maybe not. No, wait, fitting for us might be the easiest route to the easiest summit in the Chalten massif: the Amy Couloir on Aguja Guillaumet. It’s only about a thousand feet high and of moderate climbing, but a big day – over 5,000 vertical feet of approach slog just to reach its base, on the east face, sheltered from the wind.

One problem: It’s mostly a snow-ice-mixed climb. Craig did a couple of ice climbs a decade ago, and he’d never done a real alpine climb. No problem. New nickname: Crampon Craig. Crampon Craig knows how to rock climb, and, most importantly, is a tough little bastard. He’s had more surgeries than me, and runs ultra-marathons. If we can do it, Crampon Craig can do it.

So we hiked to Piedra del Fraile in the evening, set up our tents and tried to sleep. All through the night we heard it, blasting, racing, like a fleet of jet airplanes nonstop above – that damned Patagonian wind. When the alarm rang at 2:45 a.m., we all thought the same (revealed only later): Too windy. We should bail, not even bother with the approach.

The wind here does that to you. It’s funny, even though everyone knows that the wind can steal your soul, from the comforts of home or even outside in a relative calm, you think, I can suck it up. A little wind won’t bother me.



[Midway up the approach. Photo: Crampon Craig Scariot]


But down in camp nobody wanted to be the wimp who spoke up. So we slogged a heinous slog of four hours to the base of the sheltered couloir that allowed the illusion of fortitude, helped Crampon Craig fit his crampons, and thought, This ain’t so bad, it’s mellow. Sure, it’ll be breezy at the notch, and on the ridge above, but a little wind won’t bother men of our intestinal fortitudes.

We finished the couloir and reached the notch, where I hid behind a rock wall. This ain’t so bad.

Then I stepped a meter to the right, fully exposed to the wind-funneled notch. WHEEEEEEWWWWWWHHHHH!



[The incoming “Wall of Hate” from the notch atop the couloir. Photo: Cordes-Crampon]



[Crampon Craig cramponing up the Amy Couloir on Aguja Guillaumet. Photo: Kelly Cordes]


Whatever will and fortitude you thought you might have had disappears in an instant under Patagonian winds. It’s funny how fast and furious it goes, much like the wind itself. Immediately, involuntarily, without analysis: Holy sh*t, screw this, we’re bailing!

Retreat behind the rock wall. This ain’t so bad.

Peek your head back around right just for kicks and yank it back, like your hand touching a hot plate.

Above, The Chief and Justin raced up the rock, meaning we sure as hell couldn’t bail. Besides, everyone can use a little JV-hardman training.

We climbed up and left, where the wind dispersed across the ridge, then back right, climbing easy rock in boots and belay parkas, and an hour later Crampon Craig and I hiked up a snowfield to the summit. I think.



[Crampon Craig climbs easy rock near the top. Photo: Kelly Cordes]


What’s really the top? How’s that summit thing work, anyway? I mean, ya have to be honest if you want to tell yourself that you summitted (even on the mighty Guillaumet). The top of the final block is an exposed boulder problem. So do I have to stand on the highest point (even if it were an overhanging cornice?), or can my head be as high as the highest point (does it count if I jump?)? Can I just touch the highest point? Screw it, I think, good enough. I sit on the boulder just below the tippy-top summit block. For a second.

Then I think, That doesn’t count, dude, and you know it.

I stand back up. Look at the tippy top. It’s taller than your head, so you can’t really say you were higher than the summit – even if you wanted to count it that way. And you know you can’t jump.

I reach up with my arm and balance on my tippy toes. A gust of wind nearly blows me off the mountain. Back down.

Wait.

Wind subsides. Try again, reach high. Your hand is still a foot below the top, so you didn’t touch the summit.

I reset, grab my ice axe and reach toward the top. Oh, so this is what you’ve come to, using your axe – you know that’s aid, don’t you? – and chopping the summit down to your level, huh?

Yup. I tag the top with my magic wand and bring up Crampon Craig.

A few hours later, the weather window slams shut as I wobble through the door of the cabin at Piedra del Fraile – damn, can’t remember the last time my gimp ass went 2,000 meters up and down in the same day. Crampon Craig strolls in ahead, where Justin and The Chief sit grinning, laughing, and hand us pizza and beer.

It’s still early in 2013, but we haven’t un-sent anything yet. Good enough start in my world.



[Justin DuBois climbs mixed ground to cross the bergshrund. Photo: Kelly Cordes]



[Justin on the first rock pitch above the couloir. Photo: Kelly Cordes]


Adhering to a life-long avoidance of full-time work, Patagonia ambassador Kelly Cordes specializes in margaritas, maximizing outdoor time and climbing alpine-style routes. Kelly is a regular contributor to The Cleanest Line and his unfiltered personal blog.

Here's a taste of the Instagram and Tumblr photos that have already come in from our ambassadors and friends down in Patagonia.


Finally unpacking and organizing the climbing gear after the #megaproj and the #musandamexpedition. Next up, two months of climbing in Argentina. #vidaPatagonia. Photo: Mikey Schaefer (@mikeylikesrocks)

So excited to be back down in Patagonia trying to claw my way up these magnificent walls! #vidapatagonia @patagonia. Photo: Mikey Schaefer (@mikeylikesrocks)



There is never a lack of people excited to go bouldering around town. Hiding behind the pads is @corn_silk @annegilbertchase @oceangoingmonkey @emstifler and Colin Haley. Photo by @mikeylikesrocks #vidapatagonia



Jumbo is back and training for the Care Bear Traverse @ the madsen boulder. #vidaPatagonia. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)



Colin Haley crushing. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)



@oceangoingmonkey comes up a little short on the Gato Negro problem just outside of town. Photo by @mikeylikesrocks #vidapatagonia



Brazilian beans and rice will power you. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)



Muesli power mix a la @mikeylikesrocks. #mountainfood #vidapatagonia. Photo: Josh Huckaby (@oceangoingmonkey)



Señor Cheyne Lempe!!! En la casa. #travelin'man #welcomewagon #vidapatagonia #windmakesmestrong. Photo: Josh Huckaby (@oceangoingmonkey)



Rolo going over the last minute details, before the boys launch in the mountains to tab a few cumbres! @corn_silk #vidaPatagonia. Photo: Josh Huckaby (@oceangoingmonkey)



Here we go! Madaleine and I are headed towards the Fitz Roy! #vidapatagonia #suerte. Photo: Kate Rutherford (@katerutherford)



On top of our world! Madaleine Sorkin and I stood on top of Fitz Roy on Monday, couldn't be more proud of us hypothermia princesses! I've always, always wanted to climb the North Pillar! #vidapatagonia #fitzroy #mateporro #climbing #cumbre. Photo: Kate Rutherford (@katerutherford)



The cumbre! @madaleinesorkin and I ate this best ever Panforte on top of Fitz Roy one of very few women's teams to stand on top of this big mtn :) @clifbarcompany #vidapatagonia. Photo: Kate Rutherford (@katerutherford)



Nice job, Chicas. @madeleinesorkin @katerutherford just back from sending mate y Porro on Fitz Roy. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)



Fitz Roy hands. @katerutherford. #vidapatagonia. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)



Just got back from an epic five-day mission into the mountains of Patagonia with Josh Huckaby (@oceangoingmonkey). Photo: Mikey Schaefer (@mikeylikesrocks) #vidapatagonia



Where do we go now? That is the question @oceangoingmonkey asks while doing the first traverse of Agujas CAT, Cuatro Dedos, Atchachila and Pachamama, a seven-summit traverse that we dubbed Manos y Mas Manos (hands and more hands). The name is in reference to amazing amount of hand jamming we encountered on the route. Photo: Mikey Schaefer (@mikeylikesrocks)



Mikey Schaefer (@mikeylikesrocks) straight off the trail (the trails start/leave from town), after finishing a new route on Aguja de l'S -- his seventh new route on one of the peaks of the Fitz Roy skyline. Photo: Kelly Cordes



Evening walk around town. #vidapatagonia. Photo: Josh Huckaby (@oceangoingmonkey)



#vidapatagonia. Photo: Lisa Bedient (@corn_silk)

More stories on the way. Stay tuned.

 

By Fitz & Becca Cahall

You might remember a story about climbers in the Magic Kingdom. It sounded like a dream job- climbing, secret lairs and cutting to the front of the roller coaster line. Our inbox flooded with emails about how to apply. But the program was canceled in 2005. Until last year. In an audition room filled with sponsored climbers and underground crushers, Susanica Tam felt her resume paled in comparison. Could climbing a mini-Matterhorn change Susanica's outlook on climbing?

Today, we present our annual Year of Big Ideas. We went out into our community and listened to what you want to do in 2013. Here's to saying yes to new opportunities, stretching ourselves, and embracing a little spontaneity.


Listen to "The Magic of Serendipity"
(mp3 - right-click to download)


Visit dirtbagdiaries.com for links to download the music from "The Year of Big Ideas 2013" or to hear past episodes of the podcast. You can subscribe to the show via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

Words, photos and videos by Adam Colton



My name is Adam Richard Colton and on August 30th, 2012 I set out on a solo self-supported journey to see what the outskirts of Tibet had to offer. I did not speak any Mandarin, I did not speak Tibetan but I am an expert at facial expressions and hand signals. Below is a bit of a recap of the trip. And videos after the jump. --Ed.

[Above: Skating at 15,000' and stoked, just over the big pass.]

I hit the ground running after a 25-hour flight from LAX to XINING, CHINA, elevation 7,000 feet. I felt like a wreck (hahah) and I knew this was going to be a hard trip. It was like waking up from a horrible sleep and rushing outside to run a marathon with no training or warm up. First day, right off the plane, I started skating. I was already being bombarded by big trucks, nasty smoke, and mountains to climb. Towards the end of the day I was so exhausted, I found shelter from all the stares and people in a gutter on the side of the road. When you are tired, gutters are comfortable.

Tasty smog for fueling my lungs.

Taking a rest in the gutter, hmmm tis nice.



[Skate CHINA (Qinghai, Xining - Sichuan, Chengdu) - Episode 1.]

Night came and my confidence was shot down again. BOY it was cold. Why was I such an idiot and knowingly forgot my sleeping pad? I put all my clothes on every night. I could only sleep on my side and stomach to preserve as much body heat as possible; sleeping on my back was too cold. To be semi-clever I took all my extra dry bags, pouches, and any material I had, and put that beneath me, perhaps providing some warmth or mental comfort at least.

I woke up each morning to a frozen icicle tent. Waiting for a frozen tent to thaw out takes too long so packing it up each morning was a ritual my hands did not look forward to. Then it took strategic planning throughout the day to dry the tent before nightfall.

 

Scrapping off the frost inside my tent.

Frozen footbox of my Nemo Gogo Elite Tent

Eating some peanuts, very excited. It is about to thunderstorm like crazy.

As I made my way further and further into the mountains, I became very irritated with the constant honking of horns. It is a different way of road manners here. When you pass someone on the road, such as a skater, you honk at them. You must honk to let them know you are there, it is programmed in them. Perhaps it is because people drive so crazy and impatiently that if they did not honk people would get run over all the time. Some days the honking was worse. You would have someone blaring the horn as they passed you, making you think, oh boy this guy is angry, yet to look up and have him smiling and waving at you as he drives by, killing your hearing. A semi-truck horn right in your ear is enough to make you want to fight, especially if in a bad mood.

 

Not in a good head space and dripping snot out of nose.

With all the honking and distractions, I could not get into a good head space. For me, the key to distance skating is not realizing you’re distance skating -- go figure. It helps to not be aware that you are pushing a not-so-efficient plank of wood, at walking speed, with a backpack on, up a very large mountain, with cars buzzing close to you. Why not be distracted with more lovely thoughts such as your girlfriend, why you were such a crazy person in high school, or dreaming about some made-up family and how you would raise kids?

Problem was, daydreaming for a long period of time did not happen because I was always struck out of it by a horn blaring in my ear. Then anger set in for a bit. Then, Adam, calm down get into the zone again, which led to another horn blaring in my ear (hahah). It was a cycle that, looking back, made me wonder why I did not go completely insane... or perhaps I did?

If I did get a break from the horns it made no difference because, with my luck, the trip occurred during a time when they decided to build a new road next to the entire length of the Route 214 I was traveling on. As you can imagine, I was quite the wonder to the  construction workers as they looked up to see some crazy white guy with a bright purple coat go sliding by on some weird moving object. Naturally, the outspoken ones whistled and yelled at me, wanting me to stop. And sometimes I actually did, especially if I had a question which I usually could not understand the answer to anyway (hahah). In my video series, I did not include the construction and trucks for the most part; I filmed the nice parts that I want to remember.



[Skate CHINA (Qinghai, Xining - Sichuan, Chengdu) - Episode 2]

Construction heading up the 15,000 ft monster pass

Building a new road next to the 214, not pleasant to skate through.

Most of the trip was at high elevation, some of the highest I have ever skated. The Andes in South America gave me a taste of what high elevation is like but China was on another level. In China there were too many 14,000-foot passes to count; they were relentless, one after the other they kept coming. Still, the hardest pass I have ever pushed over was in Peru. Paul, Aaron and I skated 79 miles from sea level to 14,100 feet through rain and dense fog. That pass took us four days I believe.

In China, my highest pass, and the highest I have ever skated, was 15,800 feet. This is cool because it is higher than Mt. Whitney (14,505'), the highest in the contiguous United States. I lucked out a bit because most of the 15,000-foot pass was an unskateable construction site, so I got to hitch a ride for most of it. But when the pavement turned good, I got out and I skated the beast. Yeah, you feel the altitude alright. Work is hard and you feel it in your breathing. Secret is to pace yourself, slow and steady. Nice easy breathing and you get it done.

I envisioned the other side being the gnarliest and longest downhill of my life. Well, that was not the case. I dropped a thousand feet or so and stayed at 14,000-plus feet for pretty much a week. I like skating over mountain passes but China (haha) that terrain needs to give you a break.

 

Skating to the top of the highest pass. Prayer flags usually marked the top.

Yeah boy now, highest I have ever skated and probably ever will.

Yaks and yaks, lots of yaks in the Sichuan province. They are the cows of China but they are like furry water buffalo.
 

While amidst all the road chaos and construction, I still had a sense of being very alone. The kind of alone and helpless feeling that made me wonder: if I got seriously hurt, how would I get treated and where would I be taken? If I was to become very ill, where would I go to get out of the cold and seek warm comfort? There was no communication between me and the people. Half the time people did not even speak Chinese; it was a Tibetan tongue. I really was a strange drifting creature pushing my way through their world. I was kind of in luck’s hands. At least I had my spot tracker. If I was dying I could hit the red button and get rescued by a helicopter, so they say. But would that work in China? The idea seemed nice.

 

Typical town, a bit rough around the edges, but usually nice curious people.

Everything from interacting with people in the stores to buying a selected amount of junk food to saying hi to kids that ran at me with rashes from the harsh cold on their faces, from knocking on someone’s door and having them open the door cold and dirty, blood on their hands and on the floor from meat bits with fur being torn and cut apart, to eating pretty much the same Chinese broccoli and noddle soup for three weeks straight, it really made me like the idea of the sushi place down the street from me in LA and the Lemonade restaurant with over 15 different kinds of healthy tasty dishes, sweet potato pistachio, arugula and blue cheese.

But it also made me realize a lot more. We have so much potential and options here in the USA. For most of us, we can pick and choose to rough it and survive in the wilderness on a camping trip, get cold, and then come back home to a warm place. I can go on the Internet and arrange a whole trip, flight, and accommodations in a far off place like France. I have mountain biking trails at my disposal all around me. Even though we live in a very complex time with lots of gadgets and distractions, we can still pick and choose our way through it all. I was here in China roughing it with the people surviving in their harsh environment but the whole time I had the option of leaving; I was going to leave. The families I saw in China did not have this option really. This was their life and it was fine and they were happy, working together as a family unit surviving, but I feel very fortunate to have a life with so many options and opportunities.

 

Flat noodle soup, some warm tea and curious girls. This was one of the most popular dishes there.

Nice lady with her store of selected junk food and soda. These are the stores I survived off of during my trip.

Cute little girl stealing my skateboard.

Tibetan Children running after me saying "Hi."

Hahah, not a bad way to travel.

Out of all my distance trips this one was the shortest, coming in at three weeks. But let me tell you, my three-week ordeal felt like six. Time is doubly slow when distance traveling for me. Time is dependent on the event and how fast or slow you perceive it going. When distance skating, it is typical for the first two weeks to feel like a month. Sooo slow. Everything is new, your senses are heightened, you are overly stimulated and nothing is smooth-going yet. You are still a bit too clean, not enough dirt on your clothes, or dirt under your fingernails. There is no Internet to distract you, no zoning out in front of the TV. All you have is the environment and your thoughts and loads and loads of time. Sure, daydreams take you out and away from the trip, a bit, but you can’t daydream the whole time and even they become tiring.

With time, usually around 1.5 to 2 weeks, something changes. You become a bit more numb. You are not overly excited. Everything is a bit like old news. You have your routine down of setting up camp, packing up, and heading off. The different ways people do things, that once puzzled you, are not so strange anymore. You have snot on your shirt sleeve, you smell sour, your gear is thrashed and the skin is peeling off your nose. From the clean off-the-plane California boy, you are now something of an animal in the environment, a wild scary looking traveler (hahaha). 

Over time you become more connected to the environment. In fact, you are wearing the environment. You move through things more like a dream and more relaxed and loose. Soon a month goes by and time keeps going faster and faster. Soon you start to get this craving to actually be home, the place you wanted to escape from in the first place. The idea of doing nothing excites you. No joke. Just sitting and being in comfort seems like the best thing after being tired and cold for so long. It is amazing to see this transformation. And for me it is quiet satisfying to come home with a deeper respect for comfort. But such is life: memories and activities fill the mind and soon you forget how good and comfortable you really have it.

 

This leg of the journey in the Sichuan Province was amazing. The mountains you see in the distance tower some 20,000 feet.

It has been three months now since I returned home. The mindset I had when I was done with the trip was, screw the skating I am over it for now, time to take it easy. That has faded and the romantic daydreams of another trip are slowly brewing. Funny how that works. I am sure if I could be transported back to all the sucky times, reliving all the exhausted, helpless, cold moments, I would be less inclined to go out and do another trip.  But as with life so many things happen and memories get faded and fuzzed over by new ones.

Life can be so drastic in a flash, and I knew this. Every time I had it really sucky in China, I just laughed to myself because I knew that in three weeks I was going to be lying in a warm bed cuddled next to my girlfriend and this bad moment would be something to shrug off and laugh about. 

This video series that I filmed will act as a way for me to remember, and possibly inspire you all, because inspiration is a cycle for everyone. I get inspired by all of you to go out and do something and in return I post a video and share my trip which hopefully inspires others to do something they will share and in return will inspire others -- a never ending cycle of awesomeness.

[Skate CHINA (Qinghai, Xining - Sichuan, Chengdu) - Episode 3]

The long road ahead.

Thanks for listening to my rambling. As you know, these are just thoughts. Thoughts change and are hard to express in words. If you really want to know what a distance trip is like, you are going to have to go out and see for yourself. Words are just words, actions and being there on a trip is the true testament.

Postscript

Stoked to be rocking Patagonia clothes on yet another adventure. I first wore the Merino 1 Silkweight Crew when I was a part of a crew pushing 2,500 km across Morocco on skateboards. I was just so impressed with how darn light the shirt was. I rocked a pair of Patagonia board shorts for a month straight during a 1,200-mile paddleboard trip down the Murray River is Australia.

So when I decided in 2012 it was time to slog a piece of wood with wheels through the Himalayas, I took with me, yet again, the Patagonia Merino 1 Silkweight Crew. It not only breathes well and keeps me comfortable, the long sleeves act as sun protection for my arms and as a barrier to keep me cleaner since showers are hard to come by. I rocked this shirt for three weeks, some 800 miles, every day with a full load of gear. It kept me comfortable the entire time and was always the first thing to dry when washed. It worked well as a baselayer paired with my Montbell and Arc'teryx Jacket. China was cold. Thanks again Patagonia for the support and making rad products.

Adam Colton is the marketing monster, video man, photographer, tester of awesome things, ninja, eyebrow waxer, and suitcase lifter for Loaded Boards. His newest hobby is speed flying.

 

Foreword

By Fred Beckey

We live on an astounding planet, punctuated by mountains on every continent. The mere presence of mountain ranges has long drawn the human imagination as an invisible force. Some say mountains have a “psychic gravity” enticing us into their grip. There is a magic among great peaks as a location of splendor, where changing light plays games with intense colors, affecting the tones of snow and ice and many gleaming ridge outlines.

Editor’s note: In honor of Fred’s milestone birthday, we’re pleased to share the foreword from his most recent book, Fred Beckey’s 100 Favorite North American Climbs. Happy Birthday Fred, from all of us at Patagonia. Photo: Jim Stuart

Mountain peaks have long filled humanity with a sense of the supernatural, and in ancient times were holy places, and in some cultures were considered sacred – the abode of the great spirit. In Asia, millions of the devout regard the Himalaya as the dwelling place of gods and a pathway to the heavens. Certainly the potentially dangerous nature of such mountains has tightened their grip on the human imagination.

Climbing teaches us persistence and courage, while building confidence. When an ascent has gone well, it can bring an intense feeling of satisfaction, but a precarious ascent can bring fear. We may need to make meaningful decisions rapidly and a commitment to continue or descend. Strategy may be more important than strength, endurance, or quickness. The addition of risk brings out a special alertness – one similar to hunting a dangerous beast. As David Roberts has pointed out in The Mountain of My Fear, without risk, climbing would be just another game.



[A storm at high camp on Mt. Seattle when winds threatened to blow the tents off a narrow ridge. Alaska. First Ascent: Fred Beckey, Don Liska, Jim Stuart, Art Davidson, Herb Staley, and Eric Bjørnstad in May 1966. Photo: Fred Beckey]


Climbing is never wholly predictable, and from this uncertainty a richness may arise. It is important not to diminish the spirit of climbing and eliminate all risk. To reduce all commitment lessens the spirit and engagement of the adventure.

The British climber Al Alvarez wrote about the pleasure of risk and how climbing brings out alertness. “When a climb has gone well, it is an intense sense of physical well-being,” he wrote. “Climbing . . . is a paradoxical intellectual pastime. . . . Each pitch becomes a series of specific local problems. . . . Each move has to be worked out by a kind of physical strategy, in terms of effort, balance, and consequences.”

To reduce the chance of an accident, competent climbers develop a balanced relationship with fear, an awareness of danger, and turn their mental energy into positive means to overcome problems. Both instinct and acquired judgment are developed from experience. One learns about choices, when to push limits, where to avoid stonefall, where to belay, and when to turn back.



[The Beckey-Chouinard route on the South Howser Tower, is directly in view – slightly right of center. It was first climbed in 1961. British Columbia. Photo: Marc Piche]



[49 years later, Yvon Chouinard and Fred Beckey reunited for a climb up the Sespe Wall above Santa Barbara, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson]



[Dirtbag royalty. Patagonia Christmas party 2010. Photo: Peter Briggs]


While the Alps were long feared and considered to be the home of dragons, demons, and evil spirits, these negative thoughts diminished when English gentlemen became alpine tourists in the mid-18th century. In 1786, Mont Blanc was climbed, and soon after, men of distinction stirred a dismissal of fear and dislike of high peaks. A passion for climbing certainly influenced Edward Whymper, who became enamored with the Swiss Alps in 1860, and five years later led his party up the Matterhorn.

Another Briton, James Outram, later came under the spell of the Canadian Rockies. He exulted, “There is a wonderful fascination about mountains. Their massive grandeur . . . splendour of striking outline” when giving reasons to scale the heights. Many have attempted to explain this vexing question – one that defies rational explanation – and so George Mallory’s reply, “Because they are there” became a cliché for the public. The simple joys and thrills of climbing, and its risks and commitments, were given an explanation by Guido Rey in Peaks & Precipices: Scrambles in the Dolomites & Savoy published in 1914.

“This was my first climb of the year, and as I was experiencing again in all its perfection the joy of alpine life, a joy unparalleled, pervading body and soul, different from all other human joys, compounded of countless almost indefinable sensations – sensations begotten of changing scenes, the lightness of the air, the solitude which is about us and the peace which is within us; of the sense of height, the expectation of danger, the thrill of freedom....”

Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, the craggy peaks of two mountain ranges were often visible, and their impressive outlines caught my interest. At a youthful age I became fascinated by landscapes, and also learned to finesse the conflicting demands of wild nature for a certain freedom from convention, as embodied in conservative parents and their friends. As a Boy Scout in Seattle I participated in forest and mountain hikes, where I became enamored with the wilderness. Here I found an addiction, camaraderie, scenic rewards, and a great outlet for energy.

My epiphany was the ascent, with a Boy Scout troop, of Mt. Olympus in Washington, where I became more aware of the ceaseless interplay of earth-shaping forces and the techniques of ascending a shining, crevassed glacier. Another of my first wilderness experiences was an ascent of Mt. Triumph, an isolated rock horn in the North Cascades. While standing on the summit and surveying the surroundings with a sense of awe, I felt a kinship with the noble, almost unbelievable peaks and tumbling glaciers.



[Beckey family: Fred (on left), Dr. Klaus H. Beckey (father), Helmy (brother), Marta Maria (mother) and dog Teggy, taken in the family home in Seattle, circa 1930. Photo: Beckey Collection]



[Leo Scheiblehner climbing the narrow and icy Yocum Ridge on Mt. Hood during a first ascent made with Fred Beckey in 1959. Oregon. Photo: Fred Beckey]


As I became consumed with mountaineering puzzles, I found an opportunity to make my own decisions that lasted far beyond the boundaries of team sports. I discovered that climbing required making meaningful decisions, practicing the facets of strategy, and a commitment difficult to equal in daily life. There was a freedom from constraints, and an intensity and happiness after a safe return. In particular, the summer of 1940 and 1941 brought challenging first ascents in the Cascade Range – ones that developed self-reliance, perseverance, responsibility, and had a seductive effect. Success, ambition, and an insatiable curiosity about greater ranges spurred my quest to undertake a six-week expedition in 1942 to Mt. Waddington in Canada, where my brother and I found our expectations almost exceeded our brief backgrounds. In time, we became comfortable with our isolation. Very likely we were considered to be eccentric nonconformist teenagers – yet creative with planning and technical advances.

The Alaska Panhandle’s stellar peaks became my next alpine obsession, one combining a creative approach to climb Kates Needle and Devils Thumb, which I made with Bob Craig and Cliff Schmidtke in 1946. Our victories were narrow, but led to more optimism. During the following summer I joined a large team with the fixed purpose of climbing remote unclimbed peaks in the British Columbia Coast Mountains east of Mt. Waddington. Mt. Asperity was our zenith, but an avalanche on Serra II brought a fatality and nearly ended my existence. Successive expeditions to the Juneau Icefield were productive, with skiing traverses that led to new technical ascents.

The Alaska Range beckoned in 1954, my adventures beginning with a new route on Mt. McKinley, to be followed by success on unclimbed and dangerous Mts. Deborah and Hunter with Heinrich Harrer and Henry Meybohm. Continuing mountaineering expeditions to numerous Alaskan mountains resulted in rewarding exploratory ventures. Yet the Cascade Range, Sierra Nevada, Wind River Mountains, Canadian Rockies, Bugaboos, and Coast Mountains also lured me into productive challenges. In a quite different arena, the Southwest desert brought both frustrations and triumphs on Shiprock, the Great White Throne, and numerous unclimbed freestanding monoliths.



[Heinrich Harrer (on lead), Henry Meybohm (below), and Fred Beckey made the first ascent of Mt. Deborah in 1954. Alaska. Photo: Fred Beckey]


The majesty, allure, and history of a cherished selection of peaks and routes in North America are portrayed in 100 Hundred Favorite Climbs. The choices range among ascents that have given me a special sense of satisfaction and accomplishment; climbs with aesthetic appeal, climbs with a range of difficulty, and what the pundits have touted.

The descriptions between the covers of this book include climbing history, the geographical setting, occasional anecdotes, and a summary of advice. I have attempted to avoid the typically terse imperatives of guidebook prose, but have included vital access and route details. Despite the assistance of photographs, descriptions, maps, and topos, finding a way among the many puzzling features of a complicated route or alpine peak may still be a serious challenge, with possible penalties arising from poor judgment and lack of competence.

Each of the exceptional ascents in this volume has something special to offer – be it steep cracks on a classic wall, a soaring buttress with little escape, high exposure on a rock tower, moderate to difficult snow and ice, or the undertaking of a massive mountain in the far north that may require an expeditionary effort. Altitude of the peak or route is irrelevant (although my choices are routes four or more pitches in length). All of these ascents have a specific appeal, and are a balance of moderate effort, occasional boldness and risk, stress, and sometimes much labor. The span of my presented climbs ranges from the scalloped cornices of Mt. Deborah, the ice-plastered faces of Mt. Robson, the inimitable Bugaboos, the honed pinnacles on Forbidden Peak, the granite knobs on Charlotte Dome, to the dizzying sandstone of Zion.



[Fred Beckey won the Special Jury Mention at Banff Mountain Film Festival 2012 for 100 Favorite North American Climbs. Photos courtesy of The Banff Centre]


Perhaps only a small circle of alpinists will be interested in following the more audacious routes presented here. Certainly some of the targets represent a time-consuming boldness and will not appeal to everyone. Other, more moderate routes may well have a greater attraction, especially for the weekend climber.

Fred Beckey is the author of 100 Favorite North American Climbs. He was born in Germany in 1923 and grew up in Seattle, where he still lives. His earliest first ascent was of Forbidden Peak in 1940; he has been climbing continuously ever since. One of North America’s greatest living mountaineers, Fred Beckey has written several authoritative climbing guides, which include several alpine classics, notably the seminal three-volume Cascade Alpine Guide. He is 90 years old today and still climbing.

For more on Fred’s climbing exploits, both old and recent, check out the following stories.

The Master’s Apprentice by Yvon Chouinard

Beyond and Back: Fred Beckey by Jeff Johnson

Fred Beckey, 90 Years old, climbing in JTree by Richard Shore

Those interested in purchasing the hardcover edition of 100 Favorite North American Climbs can still get the eBook for free (a $14.95 value) by entering promo code FredBeckey at checkout on Patagonia.com.

By Patch Wilson

Roughly 10 years ago the Madeiran government gave the go-ahead to seawall project that was built to protect the village of Jardim do Mar. This seawall put an end to the best big-wave right point in Europe. The wave that breaks there now is a shadow of its former self. The huge concrete boulders they installed as part of the seawall means the wave is just full of backwash, and according to local surfers is pretty dangerous to surf. Many of the people who supported the seawall originally are now complaining about its size and lack of asethetic. Jardim do Mar, once considered one of the most beautiful villages on the island of Madeira, has been vandalised by a government wanting to line its own pockets with EU money, and a wave that was once considered one of the best in Europe is now lost.

[Above: Patch Wilson dropping into a glassy morning wall. Photo: Mickey Smith]

So come forward another 10 years to now and Jardim do Mar's baby brother, Paul do Mar, is under threat from the same government that seems hell bent on destroying one of its best assets. The wave at Paul Do Mar breaks from 2-feet to 15-feet. It is so much fun when its small, serving up hollow walls across the boulder shoreline. When it gets up to 6-feet it just gets hollower and heavier. And when its big, it will hold huge, perfect hollow walls. Without a doubt it's one of the best rights in Europe.

[Who knows how this wave will be affected with a road in the place where I am standing in this picture. Photo: Mickey Smith]


According to Save The Waves, the Madeiran government have made the decision to move forward with the construction of a seawall in the village of Paul do Mar. The project includes a road and construction of a seawall along 500 metres of shoreline. I think this will definitely kill the end section of the wave which is where it breaks when it is small. And will probably put backwash through the wave that breaks further up the point. This will make it half the wave it is at the moment and who knows how it will break when it is big.

 

[Highlighted in Pink is where the current seawall is placed. Highlighted in green is where the new seawall and road will be placed.]

 

How can local authorities use images of surfing to promote local tourism, support surf competitions at Paul do Mar, and at the same time propose a project to destroy the natural conditions that make surfing possible?

According to local newspaper Diário (8.20.2011) the construction project has a price tag of 7 million euros. It is being funded by the EU, with an expected contribution from the Madeiran government for a percentage of the sum.

To me this sounds like the same story as Jardim do Mar: one of the best waves on the island under threat, EU funding for public infrastructure, and a seawall proposal.

Personally, I have been to Madeira four times. I have seen what has happened at Jardim do Mar and I have also seen how good the wave is at Paul do Mar. It seems tragic that the Madeiran government does not choose to safeguard its coastal heritage, its ecological assets, and the island's economic well-being through tourism.

 

[Tom Lowe cranks it of the bottom of a solid wall last winter. Photo: Mickey Smith]

 

Local surfers have organised a campaign against this project. Visit the Facebook page Save Wave Paul Do Mar and join the group. Also visit Save The Waves for more information.

My information has been gathered through Save The Waves and my personal experience of visiting the island and surfing the waves there. I hope there can be a different outcome to what's currently being proposed for the wave at Jardim do Mar.

Patrick "Patch" Wilson is a Patagonia surf ambassador from southwest Cornwall, England.

Words and photos by Sonnie Trotter



"Don't throw that away" she said, "we can reuse it".

A small pot of dish water was clutched in my hand, as murky as the amazon,

"Put it in here instead, we don't have much left."

She was right, we didn't. It was cold outside, a late November evening in Bishop, California and we had more than everything we needed for another amazing day of bouldering, everything except water. If we were careful, we could scrape by and still be very comfortable. If we wasted it, we'd have to drive all the way back into town, thus wasting gas as well. Or, we could just be dehydrated and miserable.

I poured the dirty dish water back into another pot, and we reused it to wash our dishes five more times before we ran out of food two days later.

Last spring, my wife and I bought a van, moved into it full time, got married and hit the open road for four months during the cold Canadian winter. Our first stop was Bishop, California.

These days, I don't think it's crazy to tell people that we live or have lived in a van. Most of them have either done it themselves or want to, some want to do it again. And if you're thinking what a bleak existence it must have been, I beg you to think twice. Living in a van allows the entire world to be your personal backyard.

You live and love, outside.

The best part for me is connecting with the natural rhythm of life. We sleep when it's dark, we wake when it's light. We eat when we're hungry, drink when we're thirsty, and pee with the cool breeze and all, under starry nights.

What living in a van has taught me is the difference between what we want and what we need. I don't want the mountains, I need them. But the scale is much wider than that, and stretches from absurd luxuries like gold-plated yachts in the waters of Morroco, all the way down to the basics of survival such as clean drinking water. If you have everything you need, the rest are just wants.









Van life has forced us to live with less and that has given us a greater amount of gratitude. I'm grateful for that. Below are some tips and perks of living on wheels...

1. You use less energy to heat the inside of a van than you do a whole house.
2. You don't have to pay rent, or a mortgage.
3. You only shower when you absolutely need to, thus saving more money, energy and resources. Often we showered at community centers, putting an average of six dollars a week back into the local economy.
4. One mouthful of water is all you really need to brush your teeth on the road. A sip to rinse, then drink. Brush. And another sip to rinse your brush.
5. Washing your face means using a wash cloth – less wasted water and a good scrubbing behind the ears.
6. When we strained our pasta, we'd save the water for tea.
7. When we steamed vegetables, Lydia would always drink the water afterwards, capturing more nutrients and hydrating without waste.

I remember my father always yelling at me as a kid to turn the taps off while I washed the dishes. I think he did it to save on hot water, not water itself. But his lesson was not wasted on me. I still hear his voice and I cringe when I catch myself letting the tap flow right down the drain.


[Graphic by Michael Buckley from "A Lime with That, Sir? - Transitioning to Waterless Urinals in the Workplace"]

Living in a van is not for everyone, and after a while we needed a change as well. But it's a deeply enriching experience and it's not better or worse, it's just different.

I suppose you know where this is going, but I'll say it anyway. One of the most important lessons I came away with during my van years was the realization of how much water we waste unnecessarily as a society. I am no preacher – do what you like – but one day, our children's children might not have the same luxuries we do. The things they want might also be the things they need, and water might be one of them.









Sonnie Trotter is a Patagonia climbing ambassador and photographer from Squamish, British Columbia. His lists of accomplishments encompass all styles of climbing, from deep water soloing to big walls. You can keep up with his travels at sonnietrotter.com/roadlife.

Van owners should check out Lydia's (Sonnie's wife) post on Van Yoga and the popular #vanlife tag on Tumblr and Instagram.

By John R.K. Clark



I always notice the sea birds when I’m out in the lineup, waiting for waves. On the south shore of Oahu, where I bodysurf most, I see manu o ku, or white terns, doing their aerial acrobatics. I see iwa, or great frigates, hovering almost motionless high above. But the birds that I really like to see are the kaupu — the brown boobies who fly fearlessly through crowds of surfers. Kaupu love to ride waves, and they get everyone’s attention as they skim through the lineup, wings spread wide, surfing the air currents along the face of a breaking wave. Native Hawaiians called their flight kaha, or gliding, and this is the word they used for bodysurfing: kaha nalu, wave gliding. To me this is the essence of bodysurfing: gliding across the face of a wave. Bodysurfers are wave gliders whether they’re making a death-defying drop at the Wedge, powering through a perfect barrel at Pipeline, or just cruising with their kids in the shorebreak at Makapuu.

[Above: Keith Malloy in Tahiti, from page 52. Photo: Chris Burkard]

In 1902, Augustin Kramer published a book called Die Samoa-Inseln, or, The Samoan Islands. One of his photos shows about 40 people in the ocean, bodysurfing in small waves on a shallow sandbar. He captioned the shot “Das Wellengleitspiel (Fa’ase’e),” which is “wave gliding sport” in German, followed by the Samoan term for surfing, fa’ase’e, which literally means to slide or glide. This unassuming photo of men, women, and children riding waves completely captures the surf stoke of the early Polynesians. It’s the same enthusiasm they’ve shared with the rest of the world, the same surf fever that lies deep within everyone who bodysurfs. The bodysurfer who really brought this point home to me was our president, Barack Obama, who, like many teenagers growing up in Hawaii, learned to bodysurf in the pounding shorebreak at Sandy Beach. During a brief vacation in 2008 before his run for the White House, he made time to bodysurf at Sandy’s and showed that his skill in the waves was just as good as it was when he was in his teens. The same surf stoke that lives within all of us lives within the President of the United States.

[The Plight of the Torpedo People - Book Preview from Torpedo People]

[Mark Cunningham in Tahiti, from page 10. Photo: Chris Burkard]



[Keith Malloy in Maine, from page 85. Photo: Chris Burkard]


I started bodysurfing in 1956, when I was 10 years old, and I’m still a bodysurfer today. As the author of a series of books on Hawaii’s beaches, my travels have taken me to every Hawaiian island, and I have bodysurfed on each of Hawaii’s eight major islands. Several of my most memorable sessions happened on the Kona coast of the island of Hawaii at a spot called Magic Sands. It’s mostly a shorebreak on a small pocket of white sand, but on big days an outside peak fires with long lefts that barrel past a lava rock point into the beach. Over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to catch it on several unreal overhead days. These are the magical days that we always remember, the days that live forever in our memories, the days that keep us coming back to glide again across the face of a wave.

John R.K. Clark is a retired deputy fire chief for the City and County of Honolulu and Hawaii’s foremost beach authority. He is the author of many books including The Beaches of Maui County and Hawaii’s Best Beaches. He lives in Honolulu.


[The Plight of the Torpedo People: Photographs and Text Surrounding Come Hell or High Water – a Film by Keith Malloy, book by Tom Adler. Available now.]

About the book: The Plight of the Torpedo People is a collection of bodysurfing photographs, frame grabs and personal essays documenting the making of Keith Malloy’s directorial debut, Come Hell or High Water — the first feature-length film to be made about the sport of bodysurfing. A winner of Best Film and Best Cinematography awards on the festival circuit, Come Hell or High Water explores the history and development of bodysurfing alongside the purity of experience that is riding a wave, taking a unique look at the culture and beauty of the sport, while capturing the stories and locations of those who belong to its community. The film’s unanticipated popularity may well reflect the less-is-more, environmentally aware consciousness of our times; as the simplest of all ocean sports, bodysurfing requires little more than swim fins and some waves. The Plight of the Torpedo People is a collaborative work by the best bodysurfers of today, captured doing what they do best by some of the world’s best surf cinematographers and photographers. With 69 photographs in color, the book includes an introduction by Keith Malloy.
 
Introduction by Keith Malloy. Foreword by Jeff Johnson.
 
Text by Dave Parmenter, Bruce Jenkins, Mark Cunningham, John Clark, Judith Sheridan.
 
Photographs by Chris Burkard, Scott Soens, Dave Homcy, Brian Bielmann, Tim McKenna, Cyrus Sutton, Bud Browne, Jim Martin, Brent Jacobson, Ron Romanosky Brian Pezman and Hugh Berenger

Visit www.torpedopeople.com to learn more.

By Katie Klingsporn



In September of 2011, machines began chipping away at the Elwha Dam in Washington’s lush Olympic Peninsula, kicking off the largest dam-removal project in United States history.

The dam has since been completely removed from the section of the Elwha River it had occupied since 1913. Another dam upstream, the Glines Canyon Dam, located in Olympic National Park, is partially dismantled and expected to be a thing of the past by early next summer, freeing the river for the first time in 100 years.

[Above: The 210 foot Glines Canyon Dam in Olympic National Park has illegally blocked spawning habitat for an extraordinary chinook salmon run since 1927. Photo by Ben Knight/DamNation]

The landmark project is the culmination of a costly, multi-year river-recovery effort put together by the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe and a coalition of state and federal entities. The idea is to reconnect a severed river, one in which the hundreds of thousands of adult salmon that used to spawn each year have dwindled to a few thousand.

But while it represents an impressive set of partnerships and a noble cause, it is also a grand experiment. Dam removal of this scale has never been done in the U.S. And with a staggering 24 million cubic yards of sediment being released into the river, there were some doubts about the project’s success.

So far, though, it’s been a promising story of recovery.

Within weeks of the Elwha coming down, fish were observed moving beyond the site of the former dam. Recolonizing adult coho salmon and wild winter steelhead reached well beyond within seven months. And in August, adult chinook salmon were seen in the park — the first observed salmon to naturally migrate into the watershed.

“So far it’s been good,” George Pess, a scientist with NOAA’s Northwest Fisheries Science Center who has been working on the Elwha for years, said this fall. “I think things have worked out pretty well. The fish have responded favorably.”

Biologists this winter have been keeping a close eye on the coho and chum salmon expected to migrate upstream to spawn during the fish window of November and December. Although turbidity is high in the river — due in part to increased rainfall — up to 5,000 coho and chum could make their way upstream, according to the Park Service.

Meanwhile, the high stream-flow and heavy turbidity have been transporting a great deal of sediment down the river, which is causing dramatic changes as it fills in pools, creates new beaches and reshapes the river.

Recovery isn’t limited to the river channel. Biologists have been replanting a forest of new vegetation along the banks of the river and at the sites of the two reservoirs that once sat above the dams. And the transportation of nutrients that salmon bring to an ecosystem has begun.


[As the Elwha Dam was removed its reservoir receded, revealing beautifully preserved old growth cedar stumps and sites of cultural signifigance to the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe. Photo by Ben Knight/DamNation]

Another noteworthy piece of the project, said Barb Maynes, a public affairs officer for Olympic National Park, is cultural recovery. In August, members of the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe gathered at their people’s sacred creation site — long buried by the waters of one of the reservoirs — for the first time in 100 years.

“It’s been a really exciting year since dam removal started,” Maynes said.

Dylan Tomine, a Patagonia fly-fishing ambassador, author and Wild Steelhead Coalition trustee, noted that the Elwha provides an excellent opportunity to test post-dam river recovery because it’s in pristine habitat.

“I think it’s really just an incredibly interesting laboratory to see how nature responds to this kind of thing,” Tomine said.

Right now, Tomine said, the Elwha’s not the prettiest place in the world. The water is loaded with sediment and what once were reservoirs are now dry lakebeds.

“But it’s been very encouraging,” he added. “To be able to see the river carving its own path again, without sounding too sappy, it’s a pretty moving thing.”

The only fly in the ointment for Tomine is the presence of a hatchery on the river; he would rather see fish returning naturally. But overall, he says it holds a great deal of promise, demonstrating what can happen if people are committed enough to a cause.

“The fact that we seem to be in an age of actually removing dams is pretty amazing,” Tomine said.

Workers are removing the Glines Canyon Dam gradually to allow the river to flush out sediment over time. Downward notching is on hold until January for the winter fish window.

Before the dams were built — the Elwha in 1913, and the Glines Canyon in 1927 — an estimated 400,000 adult salmon swam up the Elwha River each year to spawn, including monster Chinook that weighed up to 100 pounds. Steelhead and trout populations were also robust.

Annual salmon populations have dwindled to just a few thousand, but the Park Service is hoping their numbers return to historic proportions in the coming decades.

Tomine is optimistic.

“I think we’re going to see the project being completed and the river returning to its natural state. It’s really an example of people working together and really sticking to it,” he said.



Katie Klingsporn is a writer and editor of the Telluride Daily Planet in southwestern Colorado. Look for more of her posts highlighting issues featured in DamNation a documentary film being produced byPatagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with the Colorado-based filmmaking team Felt Soul Media.

For more on DamNation – watch the trailer, view more photos, get answers to frequently asked questions – visit DamNationFilm.com.

by Fitz & Becca Cahall

Alastair Humphreys has biked around the world, crossed glacial highlands and desert lands. But in 2011, he stayed in Britain, focusing on trips close to home. The idea of backyard adventure wasn't new, but he put it in terms everyone could understand. While Alastair was perfecting the microadventure, Josh Norris and Ty Atwater were distilling down the elements of past adventure and cramming them into an all day -- well, Sufferthon. Can they create Type 3 fun without leaving Oregon?

Listen to "The Sufferthon"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Visit dirtbagdiaries.com for links to download the music from "The Sufferthon" or to hear past episodes of the podcast. You can subscribe to the show via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year from all of us at Patagonia!

by Jim Little, Patagonia Creative Services

We have some great benefits at Patagonia. But none is better than the opportunity to volunteer with environmental groups through our internship program. During my 15 years working as an editor here at our headquarters in Ventura, I’ve gotten to follow wild buffalo in West Yellowstone, see the effects of industrial forestry in Chile, learn about the sagebrush environment in northern Nevada, and most recently, spend two weeks in Patagonia, Argentina, working with The Nature Conservancy on its grasslands project.

Sheep ranching is the most prevalent land use in the Patagonia region, which is three times the size of California and mostly privately owned. Overgrazing is turning its grasslands into desert. To reverse the degradation, preserve biodiverstiy and freshwater resources, Patagonia has partnered with The Nature Conservancy and Ovis XXI, an Argentine company that manages and develops a network of wool producers.

[Above: A gaucho and his border collie head to their flock.]

Together, we’re promoting a sustainable grazing protocol with the goal of conserving 15 million acres of Patagonian grasslands over the next five years. The protocol employs holistic management practices that mimic the historic grazing patterns of migratory guanaco and rhea that are native to the region. By emphasizing high-density grazing followed by adequate recovery time, we are working toward the actual regeneration of grasslands, instead of simply slowing desertification. Patagonia (the company) is using the sustainably sourced merino wool in a number of our products, including merino socks (available now), as well as women's merino sweaters and all of our merino baselayers (in fall 2013).

In September 2012, I traveled to Patagonia to learn about the grasslands project with the goal of producing a brochure for The Nature Conservancy. Patagonia is a semiarid scrub plateau that covers nearly all of the southern portion of mainland Argentina. With an area of about 260,000 square miles (673,000 square kilometers), it constitutes a vast area of steppe and desert that extends south from latitude 37° to 51° S. Here are some photos from my trip.



Built on the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi, Bariloche is a resort town on the eastern side of the Cordillera with great skiing, fishing, mountain biking, climbing and other outdoor recreation. The Nature Conservancy coordinates its grasslands project from an office in the city.



Local color: Back street Bariloche.



Upon arriving in Bariloche, I received a warm welcome and a thorough briefing from staff at The Nature Conservancy, some of who are pictured here. (L-R) Carlos Fernandez (Project Manager), Gustavo Iglesias and Valeria Bran.



The next day we loaded up The Nature Conservancy's Hilux and set out on a 1,200-mile road-trip through northern Patagonia visiting sheep ranches.



It was early spring and snow was still falling in the mountains.



Three of our four-person crew: (l-r) Diego Ochoa (The Nature Conservancy), Cristobal Costa (Patagonia Buenos Aires store) and me, Jim Little. The Nature Conservancy's Gustavo Iglesias (not in the picture) patiently took the photo, drove the truck, expertly described all of the natural history and prepared the mate. Photo: Gustavo Iglesias



Always thinking ahead, Gustavo fills up the thermos with hot water for the next round of mate. Many gas stations in this part of the world have tanks that heat and hold water for their customers' mate-drinking pleasure.



Yerba mate in one hand, iPhone in the other, Cristobal Costa deftly balances communication devices old and new.



Thousands of miles of dirt roads and barb wire crisscross Patagonia. This road led to Estancia El Cronometro, a 50,000-acre sheep ranch that recently adopted the sustainable grazing protocol.



El Cronometro is owned by a pro soccer player who lives in Chile. Concerned about the environmental health of his ranch, he began working with Ovis XXI last year. Under the sustainable grazing protocol, his sheep are now being managed in such a way that they help to regenerate El Cronometro's grasslands. There are significant benefits for both the rancher and nature.



Sheep were allowed to graze too long on this patch of Estancia El Cronometro. This is a scene repeated all over Patagonia, home to millions of sheep. Allowed to wander, sheep nibble their favorite grasses right down to the roots. The grasses die or are seriously weakened, and the topsoil held by their roots is carried away by wind and rain. Desertification results. Water runs off instead of soaking into the ground. Less carbon is absorbed. There is not as much forage for native guanaco (a camelid like the llama), choique (a large, flightless bird also known as the lesser rhea) and sheep.



A sheep-eye view of healthier grasses.



Guanaco are native herbivores that can be hard to photograph without a telephoto lens. To best understand the sustainable grazing protocol, imagine Patagonia’s pre-European grasslands in which guanaco and rhea roamed the countryside in large numbers – eating its diverse grasses, defecating, stomping and salivating along the way. They were integral to the health of the ecosystem, and unlike badly managed sheep, they never stayed in one place long enough to overgraze, as predators kept them constantly on the move. Instead of turning grasslands into deserts, they tilled and fertilized the soil, transported seeds and stimulated the growth of grasses.



Though I had always thought of flamigos as a tropical bird, they too share the Patagonian landscape with livestock.



Spring is shearing time in northern Patagonia, and an itinerant crew of shearers was hard at it inside this shed at Estancia El Cronometro. Each bale of wool weighs about 400 lbs.



Merino sheep await shearing. Ovis XXI's selective breeding program yields the super fine merino wool for Patagonia products.



The shed was a whir of activity. Using shears powered by electric motors, it took these guys about three minutes to defrock a sheep. The sheep don’t appear to enjoy it, but they don’t suffer more than separation anxiety and a few nicks.



Not all wool is equal – some is long and fine, some is short and coarse and some is in between. Here it’s pre-classified before it’s trucked to a facility that washes, combs and sorts it.



Pablo Borrelli, one of the principles of Ovis XXI, fondles the good stuff.



On most ranches in Patagonia, sheep are raised for both their wool and meat.



As his workers sheared away in another building, the crew leader prepared lunch the old-fashion way. Despite his steely gaze and the glint of his oversized knife, he was generous with his lamb sandwiches and graciously agreed to pose for a portrait.



Separated from their wool, sheep go back to grazing.



And we go back to counting sheep.

by Gerry Lopez, photos by Abe Blair



?Josh Dirksen is a very social, genuinely friendly person with a lot of close friends all over the world. He has been a well-respected and well-traveled professional snowboarder for his entire adult life – a top competitor, free rider and now, for the past 6 years, as an event creator. The 6th Annual Dirksen Derby is Mt. Bachelor’s first snowboard event of the season and will happen this weekend, December 14-16, 2012.

Editor's note: Follow Patagonia on Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter or Facebook for #dirksenderby photo updates all weekend long, as well as the Dirksen Derby Facebook page.

The idea for it came from Josh wondering what else he could do with his snowboard career as far as giving something back to the community and having fun with his pals. A longtime contender at the well-known Mt. Baker Banked Slalom, Josh thought, with a little help from his friends and a few days of serious digging, he could create a fun rally race of some sort at his home mountain. The Derby naturally turned into a fundraising event when young, Bend local, Tyler Eklund, was tragically injured and paralyzed in an accident at the USASA Nationals in 2007.

[Above: Josh and crew building this year's course.]

The 2011 Dirksen Derby drew over 300 competitors and it's a fact that every single one of them had a great time. What started as a friendly rally now attracts a wide field of entrants, including many of the Mt. Baker hardcore like Jake Blauvelt, Matt Edgars, John Laing and Blair Habenicht, as well as Bend homeboys Austin Smith, Curtis Ciszek and Jake Price, all vying for bragging rights. Oregon locals were surprised when Norwegian Terje Haakonsen dropped in for his run last year.

One thing that has happened, and has come to be expected, is that each year’s Derby gets bigger and better. Last year, $18,000 went to Tyler, most of that came from the entry fees and sponsors but about 30% was generated at the Friday night auction of interesting and unique pieces of art by local artists.





[Gerry signs one of his snowboards for the auction.]


Patagonia began to get involved with the Derby when Josh became a snow ambassador for the company several years ago. That combination plus the help from a long list of other sponsors continues to make this one of the most awesome, good fun events of the season. ‘Tom Sawyer’ Dirksen is up on mountain this week with his fence painting crew digging the course and it looks like another fantastic effort. Officially billed as a Snowboard Parallel Banked Slalom, it is a crazy, super tight, highly technical run that will have the best riders putting on their most serious game face on the course before breaking into a huge smile at the finish.

Mt. Bachelor has given them an entirely new area for the Derby this year over near the Sunrise Lodge. Friday will be an open day for all competitors who want to take some practice runs on the new courses. Things get underway at 6pm Friday evening with the Dirksen Derby Kick-Off Party and Broken Board Art Auction at the Century Center. Racing will be 10:00am – 2:00pm Saturday and Sunday. The schedule is subject to change based on weather and snow conditions so everyone should be available to race both days. There are seven divisions including Men’s [14-49 years old], Derby Elites [invite only], Women’s [14-49 years old], Groms [13 and under], Older and Wiser [50+ years], Splitboard [all ages] and Sit-Ski [all ages]. People are encourage to register online at the Mt. Bachelor website and get a free limited edition Dirksen Derby beanie from Patagonia while they last. Registration is also available at the Sunrise Lodge on Friday [9:00am – 3:00pm], Saturday or Sunday [7:30 – 9:30am]. Discounted lift tickets will also be available at Registration.





[Josh gives this year's course the thumbs up.]


I asked Josh what the secret formula for a good run was? “Easy, just have fun and everything else will work out fine.” He also told me to try one of my wife’s boards since a shorter board would be easier to handle on the tight course. I tried running the curvy, banked course that wound around, in and out of the trees two different ways with surprising results. Flat out fast as possible but on the ragged edge of control was actually not as quick as taking it slower and smoothly.

So there it is, don’t miss the 6th Annual Dirksen Derby Snowboard Rally Race this weekend at Mt. Bachelor. And it doesn’t matter whether you're racing or just spectating and cheering, it will be a spectacle and a good time will be had by all.

Gerry Lopez is a Patagonia ambassador and Mt. Bachelor local. He surfs, writes, shapes, and shreds powder days near his home in Bend, Oregon. 

Tahoe-based photographer Abe Blair has been capturing images for the last 20 years. See more of his work at Blindman Photography.




Check out the official video from last year's event:

[Official 2011 Dirksen Derby Video from PeterAlport.]

by Trevor Gordon, photos by Jeremy Koreski



This was my fourth time up to Vancouver Island to surf and camp along its coastline. I’ve sort of made a pact with myself to visit this place at least once a year after first falling in love with it three years ago. The beauty and power of Canada captures you, and it keeps me coming back. Each time I’ve been up there, I say, “It’s so close! Next time, I’m going to drive up!”

I have a maroon 1988 VW Vanagon that would likely meet its death if I attempted the trip aboard it. My vagabond buddy Foster Huntington has been living in his van for more than 16 months. His is the mature, accomplished, big-brother version of my van – a 1987 4WD Vanagon with an Audi motor.

I had a window of 12 days to make my trip to BC happen before I had to be back. After that, I couldn’t make it work until spring and by then conditions for surf are even less favorable. I asked Foster if he was around to take a road trip up to Vancouver Island and before I could finish he insisted we take his van. “I’ll get a tune-up tomorrow!” he said.

[Above: The van charging north through patchy fog in Humboldt County, California.]

There was no itinerary. No plans to be anywhere at any specific time. No idea of where to spend nights or which roads to take. The plan was to load the van with as much gear as comfortably possible and head north, flyfishing, surfing, and all things fun were the only goals.

[Day two, a full day of driving past San Francisco. We stopped in a redwood grove to make another cup of coffee and a couple avocado/hot sauce burritos. From here, we headed north to meet up with Joe Curren. Humboldt County.]


The nice thing about traveling in a van versus the air is that you can bring all the gear you would have otherwise dismissed due to baggage fees or practicality. We loaded the van. A cooler of bananas, 12 avocados, hot sauce, tortillas, kefir, half-n-half, a 12-pack of beer – the essentials. We resituated the trunk to hold a few bags of clothes. Pillows and sleeping bags filled the back and of the van, all held down by a pellet gun. A bucket of fly fishing gear, axes, knives, gum boots and swim fins all slid in. Bags of 35mm film under every seat and wrist rockets on the dash. The roof rack held tents, wetsuits, and miscellaneous camping gear. A rocket box housed six surfboards while two laid inside. Two skateboards jammed in. CLIF bars and Trader Joe’s spicy cashews in every cup holder and a five-gallon jug of water completed the pack job.

Jeremy Koreski is a Tofino born-and-raised, photographing superhero. I’ve stayed with him each time I’ve been there. He flew to San Francisco to meet up with us and make the drive.



[The crew settles down for a much needed warm-up by the fire. “Usually while camping at this spot, it’s raining. This time there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, allowing us to camp under the stars for the first time here.” –Jeremy Koreski]



[Trevor, taming the beast in San Francisco.]



[We met up with Joe Curren and he showed us around some of his local surf spots. Here the crew gets ready to head out for a quick session. Northern California.]



[After a great surf in San Francisco, the van was packed to the brim with gear and groceries for the stretch ahead. Golden Gate Bridge.]



[After unloading the boat and setting up camp, we had an hour or so to surf before night fell. Trevor and Foster running out over the rocks somewhere off Vancouver Island.]



[Foster stretching his legs after a long drive through Humboldt County, California.]



[We awoke to dense clouds and an incoming storm. After coffee and breakfast, we packed the gear tight for the long ride back to Tofino.]



[Trevor looking out the back for the men in grey while also finding a way down the cliff. Northern California.]



[It had been raining for a few weeks straight before this trip. Trevor trying to get the wet – but seemingly dry – wood to ignite.]



[Accessible by van, we found some nice clean offshore waves close to Tofino.]



[After a night spent in the van in the suburbs of Portland, Ore., a fine cup of coffee and a finger dance session were in play.]



[In Canada’s autumn, night comes quickly and so does the cold. Trevor Gordon and Foster Huntington scrambling back to camp to get the fire going.]



[The crew packing the van back up after camping out at the surf for two days.]



[The land twists and turns so much in BC that even during a stormy day like this, there are places where you can find some hidden gems. Trevor Gordon sneaking into a fun one.]



[This night, we camped along a logging road somewhere in California’s Humboldt County. Every hour that night, a logging truck would rumble by. T, making some wake up.]



[The van taking the shortcut to go look around the bend for more southern Oregon surf possibilities. Some close deep-sand calls later, we decided against a surf and went for a flyfishing mission further up the coast.]



[Joe Curren, southern Oregon.]



[Unloading the gear out of the van and into the boat. Tofino Marina.]



[After getting turned around at the U.S./Canada border for having a high-powered pellet gun (we mailed it back home), we plopped the van on the ferry and headed towards Vancouver Island.]



[Just a few necessities for camping in the Pacific Northwest.]


Trevor Gordon is a Patagonia surf ambassador and artist from Santa Barbara, California. He enjoys experimenting with alternative surf equipment and traveling in search of exotic and uncrowded surf. Check out Trevor's paintings and book projects at trevorgordonarts.com.

Jeremy Koreski is a professional photographer based on the west coast of Canada. Born and raised in the small town of Tofino, B.C., Koreski has been shooting outdoor life, coastal culture and action sports since his teens.

As Patagonia moves out of its Broken Rivers phase of the Our Common Waters environmental campaign, we wanted to take a look back at what was achieved in the last couple of years as it relates to broken rivers/dam removal. We often don’t take the time to consider these events during or after the course of our campaigns. So, with that in mind, please look at the following list of accomplishments that happened with the hard work of thousands of citizens across our land.

• Dams taken down in 2012: 53 and counting
• Major dams removed in Washington: 3 – The Condit Dam on the White Salmon River, Elwha Dam and Glines Canyon Dam on the Elwha River
• Size of the Glines Canyon Dam – in terms of all dams removed in human history: Largest, at 210 feet
• Number of miles of river habitat that Atlantic salmon will be able to access thanks to ongoing Penobscot River dam removals in Maine: 1,000
• Number of river herring traveling upriver on the Kennebec in Maine before removal of the Edwards Dam: 200,000
• Number of herring returning to the river after removal of the dam: 3 million
• Number of emails sent to members of Congress regarding Congressman Hasting’s "worst dam bill ever" to prevent federal funding for dam removal: over 8,000 (opposed)
• Number of actions taken, encouraging NOAA to continue funding the Community-based Restoration Program and the Open Rivers Initiative: 10,394 (since 2005 these government programs have removed dams and culverts, restored rivers and freed up passages for wild fish)
• Number of emails sent to protest two boondoggle dam and reservoir ?proposals on the Chattahoochee River, listed as one of the 10 Most ?Endangered Rivers of 2012 by American Rivers: 3,352
• Number of dams in the U.S. labeled “high” or “significant hazard” by the Army Corps of Engineers: over 26,000

 
For more, see all blog posts from the Our Common Waters campaign.

[Photo: Instructions for removal of the Matilija Dam, Ventura County, California. From "We're Just Getting Started: Elwha and Condit Establish Dam Removal Momentum"]

by Laurel Winterbourne



The world needs GOOD stories. Fortunately there are people like Trevor Clark who put it all on the line, travel thousands of miles and spend countless hours, days and months to get these stories out there. Trevor is an outdoor adventure photographer and friend of Patagonia who decided that he wanted to tell stories that mattered to him.

After meeting Jessie Stone and hearing her story, there was no question in Trevor’s mind that this story needed to be told. Jessie is a professional whitewater kayaker and medical doctor who went to Uganda to paddle the Nile, but what she saw, changed the course of her life and the lives of many others.

[Above: Dr. Jessie Stone is a member of the US Freestyle Kayak Team and a Medical Doctor. In 2004, she founded Soft Power Health to provide malaria education, prevention and control for the people of Uganda. Video frame: Trevor Clark]

It was a year and a half ago that our late great friend and voice of The Cleanest Line, Mike Colpo, posted about Trevor’s mission to travel to Uganda to tell the story of Jessie Stone and her inspirational work. Mike knew that Trevor would find success in his journey and did his part to help spread the word.

Trevor used Kickstarter to fund the hard costs for the project and thanks to The Cleanest Line readers, Patagonia employees, family, friends and complete strangers he received just enough donations in the last couple hours to reach his goal. It is all or nothing with Kickstarter. If you don’t hit your goal, you get nothing.

This story has now come full circle and Trevor’s efforts are reflected in the multimedia piece he created which tells the story of a kayaker, turned doctor, turned humanitarian. The story was picked up by CNN, and Jessie’s foundation is beginning to gain the support it needs to continue to do GOOD.

[Two Unlikely Passions, One Unlikely Place from Trevor Clark Photography.]

Laurel Winterbourne has been with Patagonia for three years and finds her passion in writing, the environment and outdoor adventures. She grew up surfing in Encinitas CA and now lives on Donner Lake in Truckee, California and has made the Sierra her playground.

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Editor’s note: Today marks one year since we suddenly lost our good friend and co-worker Mike Colpo, known to Cleanest Line readers as localcrew. It’s been a rough year for many of us who knew him well, especially Mike’s widow, Liz. She continues to find strength in writing, like her husband did, and sharing her work on Elephant Journal and Recovering Yogi.

Trevor Clark, the photographer featured in this story was also a good friend of Mike's. Trevor's photos of our mutual friend are priceless now and Trevor addresses this in a post on his blog, Why Do What I Do?

“I spent last weekend saying goodbye to a lost friend (Life IS Short Pt. III) in a special place. It was not an easy thing to do, but we had some images on hand that showed moments of his life ranging from childhood to fun outdoor adventures to his wedding with the love of his life. Over time I have contributed a few images to the pot of visual memories of our friend, and at the time they just felt like cool fun images. Now, they all hold much deeper meaning to everyone in our group. When I look back on it all, I can’t imagine how things would be if I had not clicked the shutter those few precious times. Would we otherwise lose those treasured moments in the flood of visual and emotional experiences we have everyday?

Maybe not, but one thing is certain, pictures bring those memories and the quality of those moments front and center. They help you remember small details and particulars you can’t explain.  For me, they brought back the voice of my friend. When I saw those pictures of him I remembered the sound of his voice when he was completely engaged in conversation. It was nice.”


[Our pal Mike making us laugh and serving up his famous tartiflette. Photo: Trevor Clark]

If you knew Mike and want to share memories of him, you can do so at his memorial website or here on The Cleanest Line.

 

by Brittany Anne Griffith



This may sound weird, but I love packing. When essentials are limited to two 50-pound bags – what a van can carry – a 40-liter backpack, or even just a carry-on, the things you think you need to take versus the things you actually do take is a fun game for me.

My most recent trip had a slightly different take on our typical domestic climbing adventure and my packing volume was restricted to a boatload – literally. We were going to take a boat down southern Utah’s Green River, camp on a sandbar, prepare Thanksgiving dinner, and climb desert towers. That’s a lot of shit to remember to bring, and it all had to fit on a raft. We would be somewhat remote, a day’s boat ride and drive from Moab, so forgetting an essential could range from a hassle to devastating. JT gave me his short list as he rushed out the door to work the day before we left: pruning shears, axe, hatchet, waders, two each of #4, #5 and #6 Camalots, and three cases of beer. I don’t know what concerned me more: the request for an axe or that we might be climbing something that would require all that wide gear.

[Packing the boat along the shores of the Green River. Photo: BAG’s iphone]

I’m an excellent packer. I rarely forget things. It’s one of my only real talents. I sometimes think that I’m a packer first, climber second and that climbing is just an excuse to pack. I’m away from my domain 200+ days a year, so I’m constantly packing and unpacking. Sometimes I literally unpack a bag, throw the contents into the washing machine, and put it right back in the bag. In the past 12 months I’ve been to Sicily, Spain, Ukraine, France, Turkey, China, and more than a dozen states.


[A better way to carry a Black Hole Duffel is to stack it on top of a Freewheeler or Black Hole Roller (coming soon). Photo: JT]



[The more you pack, the more you have to carry and keep an eye on. Brittany unloading at the Hand of Fatima, Mali basecamp and keeping a close watch on the bags in a Burkina Faso bus station. Photos: JT]


[Big wall packing is my absolute favorite. Don’t forget the baby wipes! Yes, that is Keith Malloy. Photo: BAG]

As with any game, you have to have a plan. Here’s my twisted strategy for packing.

Although we live in a 2700-square-foot house, there are only three rooms that contain things I need: 1) bedroom, that’s where my clothes are, 2) bathroom, that’s where my toiletries are, and 3) the basement, which is where all the gear – from ropes, cams, helmets, surfboards, wetsuits, tents to Dutch ovens – is located.

From those three rooms I do a quick, basic pack. Regardless of the season or where I’m going, I always bring a Nano Puff, Torrentshell, knit hat, long skirt, Spright Cami and flannel. From that base list I backfill based upon activity and location. Then I get the gear together and chant headlamp headlamp headlamp so I don’t forget that crucial, easily overlooked item. Toiletries are easy – toothbrush, lip balm, earplugs and this little green bar of soap that washes everything from my hair to clothes.


[My turn to watch the bags during an 18 hour layover in the Moscow airport. Photo: John Burcham]

Three rooms. Everything I need. It’s a nearly foolproof system, I think.

So now here I stand, typing on my iPhone in the basement, amongst boxes and bags filled with rubber boots, crusty Dutch ovens, and gritty #6 Camalots. But I don’t have time to unpack. I’m going to the Dominican Republic in three days. Puff pants to bikinis. I love it.

Brittany Griffith is a Patagonia climbing ambassador and a regular contributor to this blog. She’s led 5.13 sport and traditional routes and vows someday to lead the gym’s 5.11c purple route. She obsesses over her garden and vacuuming and holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. As a former McDonald’s employee, Brittany served an estimated 12,308 Happy Meals. 

Kohl Christensen's life balances the search for the biggest waves with building and farming at home in Hawaii. Deep Water, a new short video series, follows Kohl and his friends as they chase huge surf around the world.

Hit the jump to watch episodes two and three.



Maui in the morning and the North Shore in the afternoon. In the second part of the Deep Water series, Patagonia ambassadors Kohl Christensen and Ramon Navarro double-session one of the first swells of 2011 at Peahi and an Oahu outer reef.



After a double-session day in Hawai'i, Kohl Christensen chases a swell to the cold waters of Northern California. In this third part of the Deep Water series, Kohl speaks about Mavericks, remembering Sion Milosky and the toll big wave surfing can take on the body.

For more vids and ambassdor Instagram photos, visit the surf blog on Patagonia.com.

by Emilene Ostlind, photos by Joe Riis



The pronghorn antelope that migrate 170 miles from Grand Teton National Park south to their winter range face plenty of obstacles: rivers, fences, a high mountain pass, subdivisions, energy development. The most dangerous place in the migration corridor is the geographic bottleneck known as Trappers’ Point six miles west of Pinedale, Wyoming. Here, two rivers swoop toward one another and then apart, outlining a mile-wide strip of land the shape of an hourglass. A subdivision blocks half the bottleneck, and Highway 191, the main roadway connecting I-80 to Jackson Hole, runs across its middle flanked on both sides by barbed wire fences.

Editor's note: Today we're please to share a follow-up story to our Freedom to Roam campaign. Patagonia's Rick Ridgeway first teamed up with Joe Riis four years ago to document migrating proghorn and the man-made obstacles they faced.

One October day in 2008 Joe Riis, a National Geographic Young Explorers Grantee, photographed some 700 pronghorn crossing the highway at Trappers’ Point. He was part way into a two-year-long project to document the entire migration in photographs. The animals packed a trail in the snow as they ducked under one barbed-wire fence. They sprinted between cars and trucks on the highway. A dog from the subdivision chased them as they tried to find an opening under the second fence. In a panic, they continued south.

[Above: Wyoming pronghorn and mule deer migrate over the new highway overpass at Trapper's Point, Wyoming. All photos: Joe Riis]
 
Drive past Trappers’ Point in the spring or fall, and you’re likely to see a broken-backed pronghorn carcass in the right-of-way. Mule deer, who more readily leap over the barbed wire fences on either side of the road, are even more vulnerable, their bodies strewn along a 12-mile section of highway from here west and north. An average of 140 animals a year meet their end on this stretch of road.





Or that’s how it used to be. Not this year. This fall the thousands of migrating mule deer and antelope that pass seasonally through Trappers’ Point encountered, for the first time, a wildlife overpass, a wide bridge with a tunnel underneath for cars to drive through.

Where the barbed wire fence used to stand, the antelope came up to an eight-foot-tall game fence. Joe, who returned this year to photograph the overpass, describes them stopping at the fence, sometimes bedding down. He watched the bucks run along the fence searching for a way through until they found the opening to the overpass. They led the rest of the group tentatively up the steep ramp on the north side.




 
The hero of this project is an unlikely one. The Wyoming Department of Transportation, after failing to get federal funding for the project, wrote the $9.7 million check for the Trappers’ Point overpass, as well as another overpass, six wildlife underpasses, and fencing on both sides of this 12-mile stretch of highway. The savings to the state and drivers from avoiding vehicle damage while saving the lives of deer, antelope and other species will pay for the project in a dozen years.
 
But it took more than just numbers to get this project approved. WyDOT needed to know the rest of the migration corridor was adequately protected. They wanted to ensure that if they built the structures, animals would continue to use them over coming years.
 
“We’re sitting really well right now,” says Scott Smith, a state Wildlife Management Coordinator. He tallies the protections for western Wyoming’s pronghorn migration: the Bureau of Land Management made Trappers’ Point an Area of Critical Environmental Concern putting it off limits to gas drilling and other development. Biologists used wildlife collars to map the corridor and pinpoint road crossings. The Forest Service designated the first national migration corridor over the northernmost 45 miles of the route. Local land trusts replaced fences with new ones friendlier to antelope and put ranchlands along the Green River into conservation easements to keep them as pastures rather than subdivisions. And now the overpasses. “There are a lot of pieces in the puzzle that have come together over the last 10 years. I think it’s a pretty neat story.”

WyDOT also needed to be convinced this was a project the citizens wanted. Over the last half decade, this long-distance antelope migration has become one of the most treasured wildlife stories in Wyoming, thanks in large part to the photographs Joe captured of the migration and showed to thousands of people around the state and elsewhere. His pictures of antelope running through traffic from that October day are some of his most compelling.

“The last time I was at Trappers’ Point I was watching antelope cross the highway,” he says. “Now I show up four years later and they are going over a bridge.”







Eight-foot-tall earth berms topped by fencing line either side of the bridge. The antelope can’t see the highway or the traffic rushing by underneath. When they reach the crest of the overpass, they see over the south side, across the hills toward the Mesa and the edge of their winter range. They break into a run, streaming shoulder to shoulder down the bridge and out through the sagebrush.

“This year is the most difficult because none of them have seen it before,” says Joe of the overpass. “Next spring they’ll remember it. Next fall they won’t even think twice, they’ll just move right over.”

He hopes humans will learn from this project as well. Aerial photos and close ups of the animals on the overpass might help people understand the importance to wildlife of this project. “I’m just trying to show it functioning so other people working on these types of issues can think about their own projects where they live,” Joe says. “These highway projects are just starting to get ramped up. In the future they will be commonplace.”




Emilene Ostlind and Joe Riis spent two years exploring the migration corridor to document it in stories and photographs. "Perilous Passages," their High Country News cover story on the migration, received the National Association of Science Writers' 2012 Science in Society award and the 2012 Knight-Risser Prize for environmental journalism in the West. Find the story at emileneostlind.com and see more photographs at joeriis.com.

by Dr. Tony Butt



We are constantly reminded that our oil-based consumer society, with our excessive use of plastics, obsession with air travel and inefficient ways of heating and lighting our homes, will eventually lead to environmental suicide in the form of global warming and resource depletion. But for many people, including surfers, global warming and resource depletion are a little hard to grasp; because they are difficult to actually see happening. However, our addiction to oil is one of the ultimate causes of another, much more tangible effect: when oil that is being transported spills into the sea and arrives on the coastline.
 
Almost exactly ten years ago, the Prestige oil spill occurred off the coast of Galicia, in Spain, very close to where I live at the moment. It was the worst environmental catastrophe in the history of Spain and Europe, and I don’t think it should be forgotten. So I apologize in advance if you find this article a little gloomy.

[Photo: Stéphane M. Grueso]

Galicia is a province in the far northwest of Spain. Some say it is the forgotten corner of the Iberian Peninsula, the last outpost before the Atlantic Ocean. The granite topography, constant rain and year-round cold water give the place a harsh beauty and ensure its beaches and waves will never be overcrowded. A wide swell-window and countless spots facing all directions mean that the surf here is consistent and of high quality. Apart from around the more populated city areas, you might find yourself looking for someone to surf with, even in summer. Most surfers still prefer the easy access, warm water and reliable weather of France or Portugal.

In the far northwest reaches of Galicia lies La Costa da Morte. This extraordinary stretch of unspoilt coastline is blessed with empty white-sand beaches, crystal-clean water and one of the highest yearly average wave heights in the North Atlantic.

The people of the Costa da Morte are as hardy as the granite rock that permeates every headland. Many of them are percebeiros, collectors of percebes or goose barnacles. This involves clinging onto the rocks in all weather and wave conditions, painstakingly picking off the shellfish, one by one. About five thousand families live exclusively from the sale of percebes that they have collected themselves. You could say that, compared with most jobs in modern society, being a percebeiro is perhaps a little more sustainable and more in balance with Nature.



[The percebeiro: perhaps the nearest thing to a hunter-gatherer you might find in Europe. Photo: Txetxo]


On the Costa da Morte, you would think that the environment might just be rugged enough to protect itself against over-exploitation and the effects of human greed and materialism. Unfortunately, this idealistic hypothesis was proved wrong in November 2002 when, thirty miles off the Costa da Morte, the Prestige spewed out 60 thousand tonnes of heavy fuel oil.

The Prestige was a single-hulled supertanker, flying a Bahaman flag of convenience, carrying 77 thousand tonnes of heavy fuel-oil, apparently from Russia and Latvia, and was either on its way to Singapore via Gibraltar or to Turkey to be scrapped.
 
Around 13th November 2002, the vessel started leaking oil and the first slick was already headed towards the Costa da Morte. For the next four days the ship was towed this way and that, while the authorities hesitated and the population of Galicia watched, unsurprised. Eventually it was towed to a point over 100 miles from the coast. There, on 19th November, it broke in half and sank, spewing out the rest of its contents into the ocean. The oil gradually made its way down the coast of Portugal, along the Spanish Biscay coast and up into France.

The Prestige oil spill was an environmental catastrophe of the highest order. Its consequences were far-reaching and profound, affecting every member of the coastal community, human and non-human.
 
In the first months of 2003, people were still in a state of shock and the latest news about the Prestige appeared daily in every television, radio and newspaper report. The Mexican-Spanish word chapapote, meaning crude oil, was the latest buzzword, heard everywhere. Tens of thousands of volunteers in white overalls continued to clean up the oil, while more oil arrived every day. Myself and four friends spent weeks cleaning up at our local beach, Meñakoz. Between us we probably collected about 200 kilos of the 77 million kilos that the Prestige was carrying.



[Tony at Meñakoz, before the arrival of the Black Tide. Photo: Jakue Andikoetxea]


Until June 2003, all fishing was banned along Spain’s Atlantic coast. Hundreds of fishing boats were converted into oil-collecting vessels, the fishermen themselves scooping up the slicks with giant spatulas. The oil was carried back to shore aboard the boats in green dustbins. This method was acknowledged as much more efficient than letting it arrive on the beaches first, then painstakingly having to clean almost every grain of sediment. None of the research into high-technology oil-spill recovery methods that must have been done (?) over the fourteen years since the Exxon Valdez oil spill was made good use of in Spain.

At first, people were unsure about whether to go surfing or not. Many decided it just wasn’t worth it, what with the unknown risk of the contamination, in addition to the cold water. From January to March 2003 – peak winter season in Europe – line-ups were empty. In France, the authorities even decided to hand out fines to those attempting to go surfing. Even during winter 2003-2004, more than a year after it happened, I remember paddling out at a beach almost a thousand kilometres from where it happened, and coming out covered in stinking brown-black stains. The list goes on.

 

-----------------------------------

 

Within the remoteness of the Costa da Morte, lies the even more remote fishing village of Camelle. A few metres from the water’s edge at Camelle are the remains of a tiny hut, in which lived the first human victim of the Black Tide of the Prestige. Among the many hundreds of thousands of birds and mammals that needlessly perished, most people agree that Manfred Gnädinger died as a direct result of the Prestige. He was murdered by the people responsible.

Manfred was known to everyone in the village simply as ‘Man’ or El Alemán (the German). He arrived in Camelle one day in 1962, from Dresden, Germany. Nobody was sure why he came. They knew he was a well-educated man, always polite and courteous, but they knew little more. Many people believe he came to Galicia disillusioned with the western world. Whatever the case, after staying in Camelle for a short while, he decided to opt for a different kind of life. Man spent the next 40 years living alone in that small hut, just a few metres from the raging Atlantic Ocean.

Man lived a simple life: no car, television or mortgage, no telephone, no stress. He created an open-air art gallery, full of stone sculptures reminiscent of, perhaps, Gaudí. The gallery was his pride and joy, his very livelihood. The small income he needed to survive was drawn from the 100 pesetas [about $1] each tourist was asked for the privilege of browsing his works of art. He was a kind, gentle person who caused no hassle to anybody. He wanted little out of life, except to be allowed to continue with his artwork. His modest lifestyle was not detrimental to his health – he could be spotted swimming great distances in the frigid Galician waters, even into his early sixties.

On 18th November 2002, Manfred woke up to the stench of crude oil. His precious art gallery, yesterday a beautiful garden of multi-coloured sculptures, was now a thick mess of black tar. There was no hope of recovering it; the oil from the Prestige had penetrated deep into his life’s work, into his home and into his soul. On 28th December 2002, just over a month later, Manfred was dead.

“Morreu de melancolía”, say the locals. He died of sadness, lost hope, a broken heart. After the black tide of the Prestige, he simply gave up the will to live. He may have already been sick, nobody really knows, but what is clear is that the Prestige finished him off.

Man was an integral part of the Costa da Morte, a land where many people still live in equilibrium with Nature and are not destroying their own resource base. The world of greed and excess has always been snapping at the heels of Galicia but has hardly managed to take a hold, perhaps due to the harsh environment. Throughout forty years, Man had escaped the modern world with its gluttony and overindulgence, the world he had left behind in 1962. When it burst through his front door and trampled all over him, he must have thought it had been chasing him the entire time.



[Photo: José Manuel Casal]


Many people may have thought Man was primitive because he didn’t own a TV or a washing machine, didn’t drive around in a car, and didn’t fly half way around the world every week to talk to about money. However, his relinquishment of the trappings of modern society perhaps put him on a slightly higher plane than most of us. He managed to avoid not only vanity, greed and materialism, but also aggressiveness, territorialism and xenophobia: traits all too prevalent among so-called sophisticated people.

The death of Manfred is not just another unfortunate incident to be forgotten. It is highly symbolic. Manred and the Costa da Morte are the antithesis of the Prestige and all it stands for.

Dr. Tony Butt holds a BSc in Ocean Science and a PhD in Physical Oceanography. He lives most of the year in a forgotten corner of Northwest Spain, where he has pioneered a couple new big-wave spots and works with NGOs like Surfers Against Sewage and Save the Waves. He makes a meager living writing articles about waves and the coastal environment for Surfer’s Path and other publications. For more from Tony, check out his books Surf Science: an Introduction to Waves for Surfing (2004), The Surfers Guide to Waves, Coasts and Climates (2009), and A Surfer's Guide to Sustainability (2011).

by Charissa Rujanavech



Yvon Chouinard first came onto my radar in 1999.

I was a young lass from the Midwest, transplanted for the summer in southern Utah and awestruck by the dramatic landscapes of the West. Having never traveled beyond the forests of Missouri, I was eager to explore these wild mountains, deserts, and rivers. I soon discovered what would become my greatest passion: rock climbing.

My early climbing mentors taught me lessons in balance and delicate footwork during the day, and recounted stories of the Yosemite Golden Age rock legends over the campfire at night. The names of Salathé, Frost, Robbins, Pratt, and Chouinard were brought to life, through tales of near-mythical ascents up immense granite walls I couldn’t even begin to imagine tackling.

[Yvon Chouinard holds forth at the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies. Photo: Anthony Clark.]

Yvon Chouinard was a central character in the climbing firmament, an emblem of the beautiful lifestyle with which I was falling in love. His climbing heroics, combined with anecdotes about how he taught his children to eat roadkill as a practical source of food, earned Chouinard my early admiration. While I refrained from adopting this unconventional diet myself, his climbing adventures helped inspire me to dedicate myself to the sport, and my own skills began to develop apace.

I learned a bit of history, too, about Patagonia and Black Diamond, two companies Chouinard founded which have long been renowned in the climbing world. At first, however, I had no interest in digging much deeper: to me, Patagonia and Black Diamond were just purveyors of quality products or gateways to further adventures in the mountains. Chouinard was a hero of mine for his rock-climbing feats, not for his business endeavors.



[Dan "The Danimal" Yagmin Jr. on Predator, Rumney, New Hampshire. Photo: Charissa Rujanavech]


Yet these two worlds converged when I started reading the environmental essays embedded in the Patagonia catalogs. Interspersed amongst pictures of the mountaineering gear for which my sister and I were pooling our savings were essays about endangered habitats and threatened species, and how Patagonia was actively campaigning to save these ecosystems and wild places.

One of the essays that stands out in my memory was one written by Chouinard himself, on the role of grassroots citizen organizations in catalyzing social and environmental change. Chouinard believed that government and private industry lacked motivation to advocate for conservation issues, but local people — farmers, climbers, fishermen, kayakers — who are truly dedicated to their ecosystems, and affected by injustices, can and will fight for the cause. As Bryce Courtenay put it in The Power of One, the book given to me by the guy who taught me to climb, “Little beat big when little is smart, first with the head and then with the heart.”

I read about Patagonia’s commitment to donating 1% of their sales to these activist grassroots organizations, and their vital role in creating the alliance of businesses that have pledged to do the same. I was captivated by their 2007 campaign to protect the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and later their Freedom to Roam movement, which focused on establishing migration corridors that allow wildlife to move between protected landscapes. And I remember the influence that Patagonia’s Vote for the Environment campaign had in Boulder, Colorado — my home at the time — during the 2008 presidential elections.

But it wasn’t until Yvon Chouinard came to Yale, where I’m now a Master’s student, that I truly came to appreciate how deeply both Chouinard and the company he founded are committed to fighting environmental crises through every available platform.
 
During his two lectures at Yale and a personal interview, Chouinard’s story came through to me clear and steadfast: We have grown too big. We are running out of resources. And we all — industry included — need to completely rethink how we live on this planet before it’s too late. Twice Chouinard quoted the legendary environmentalist David Brower: “There is no business to be done on a dead planet.”

Patagonia attempts to address these issues through its business conduct, by focusing on high-quality products, socially responsible labor practices, and a natural growth rate. To be sure, Patagonia has not been perfect: like any other business, they have certainly caused harm in the past. To its credit, however, Patagonia’s business approach is, as Chouinard put it, to “find out what we’re doing wrong and fix it, and then prove to the rest of the world that it’s good business.”

This model is typified by the company’s journey to exclusively sourcing organic cotton. In 1988, Patagonia opened a store in Boston in an old retrofitted building, and within days its employees were complaining of headaches. Environmental engineers found the structural problem to be the ventilation system, which was recycling the same air inside the building, but Chouinard wasn’t convinced: he wanted to know if there might be another cause. The engineers kept searching, and soon discovered that all of Patagonia’s treated cotton garments, such as wrinkle- or shrink-resistant fabrics, contained formaldehyde, the health impacts of which were being exacerbated by the recycled air.

Instead of just fixing the ventilation system, Chouinard promised to switch Patagonia’s entire cotton supply to organic cotton. “If we couldn’t find an organic substitute,” he says now, “we were going to close up and stop selling cotton clothes.” The transformation was difficult, both logistically and financially, but by 1996 Patagonia was providing all its cotton from organic sources.

Chouinard has created a company that challenges our preconceptions of industry, a company that suggests that businesses can indeed profit without harming the environment. Waste and toxic chemical reductions, innovations in bio-based and recycled materials, forays into renewable energy, fair labor practices: across the spectrum of environmental and social responsibility, Patagonia has been a pioneer even as it continues to grow and increase its profits. As Chouinard wryly remarked at the lecture events, Patagonia actually does well in the recession, when prudent consumers pay closer attention to their purchases. “Whenever I am confronted with a business problem,” says Chouinard, “the answer is to improve the quality.”



[The author contemplates the imperative to climb within her means. Nervous in Suburbia, Moab, Utah. Photo: Heidi Spees]


The notion that consumption is linked to the deterioration of the natural world is a familiar theme in the worlds of environmentalism and corporate responsibility. Less familiar, though, was Chouinard’s intertwined story of how risk sports define his approach to business strategy. And, as a climber, it was this final message that I found most resonant.

Chouinard isn’t asking us to all become risk sport enthusiasts, though I think that might amuse him. What he’s asking is for us to think like risk sport enthusiasts: to understand our limits and live within our means. These are fundamental concepts in risk sports, where the failure to be cautious and prudent results in drastic penalties. Attempt to free solo beyond your climbing abilities or drop blindly into a rapid you cannot paddle, and you may not return to tell your story.

While risk sport aficionados innately yearn to push the limits, theirs is a self-regulated determination, coupled with an acute understanding of their personal capabilities and the consequences associated with their actions. Chouinard cites many of his outdoor adventures as foundational learning moments for building Patagonia, and he uses those lessons to offer a simple, if unorthodox, proposition to the global consumer: Know the limits of your consumption, live within your means, challenge yourself to live as responsibly as you can, and above all, respect the Earth.

The Patagonia mission statement –– “Build the best product, cause no unnecessary harm, use business to inspire and implement solutions to the environmental crisis” –– mirrors these humble requests. Chouinard and Patagonia are working to convince us that it is possible for us to live on this planet and cause no unnecessary harm.

And not only is it possible, it is imperative. Whether we are a corporation or consumer, we are faced with the obligation to reduce our footprint. As Chouinard succinctly concluded during the Yale lecture series: “This is it. This is the planet that we have. And we’d better take care of it.”

Charissa Rujanavech is a second-year Master's of Environmental Management student at FES studying business and the environment, with a specific focus on a life cycle analysis approach to sustainable product design and manufacturing. She has been rock climbing for over 13 years, and while she has climbed throughout much of the US and around the world, one of her favorite places will always be the sandstone cliffs of Southern Illinois, where she grew up climbing.

This article first appeared in Sage Magazine, a student-run environmental arts and journalism publication of  the Yale University School of Forestry & Environmental Studies in New Haven, Connecticut.

Here’s the Livestream recording from the event Charissa attended at Yale. Yvon Chouinard and Vincent Stanely present "The Responsible Company: Lessons From Patagonia's First 40 Years" in support of their new book, The Responsible Company.

by Katie Klingsporn



A little over a year ago, a 125-foot-tall dam stood in Washington’s White Salmon River, a concrete plug with a serene reservoir at its back and a trickle of river spilling out downstream.

But it’s hard to tell that today.

The Condit Hydroelectric Dam, which was built in the early 1900s to harness the energy of the White Salmon for local industry, was blasted into the history books in October 2011 with 700 pounds of carefully placed dynamite.

The explosion, part of a phased project orchestrated by dam operator Pacificorp as an alternative to building costly fish passages, released the White Salmon River in a torrent of muddy water, debris and sediment, draining Northwestern Lake in less than two hours and freeing the river for the first time in almost a century.

Since that time, demolition crews have completed the removal of some 35,000 cubic yards of concrete, as well as logjams and other debris in the river.

And when public-access restrictions were lifted in early November, a group of boaters, river activists, biologists, rafting guides and kayakers converged for a historic float.

[Above: Washington’s White Salmon river was officially opened to boaters this month after the removal of the Condit Dam, and spawning salmon have already been spotted upstream for the first time in a century. Photos by Ben Knight/DamNation]

About 30 people — including individuals who had followed the dam-removal project since day one — piled into two rafts and 13 kayaks to float a section of river that had been reborn. The boaters paddled about five miles of class II and III rapids that wound through what used to be the reservoir and dam site.

“It was beyond fun,” said Tom O’Keefe of American Whitewater, a longtime proponent of the dam removal who helped organize the float. “This is a day that I’ve been waiting for for over a decade.”

Though it came together as kind of a spontaneous outing, what commenced was a jubilant and sincere celebration of a river’s revival.

“We realized it was going to be the first official float down the river and it quickly turned into this great celebration,” said Amy Kober of American Rivers. “It was an incredibly meaningful experience to be there together, to float through the old dam site.”

The river was running clear — a huge contrast to the sediment-laden waters of a year ago — and on this characteristically drizzly fall day, it carried the boaters through deep canyons and past basalt outcroppings. Salmon passed the boats on their way up river; herons and ducks were spotted near the banks.

And compared to a year ago, when the water was chocolate-milk muddy and the landscape raw-looking from the release, signs of revitalization were everywhere.

“It was gorgeous,” Kober said. “You think back a year ago to when the blast happened, when all that sediment was let loose. Just a year later, the salmon are spawning in the lower river. It’s incredible how resilient the river and the salmon are. It’s a new river, and it’s still evolving so much.”

The Condit Hydroelectric Project was located a little more than three miles upstream from the confluence of the White Salmon and Columbia rivers. The section of the river above the reservoir, which is home to fantastic sections of whitewater, has long been popular with boaters. But it had an anticlimactic ending, Kober said.

“You would have this amazing run and then the takeout was at the reservoir. You would kind of emerge into this big flat water,” she said. “Now you can paddle it for miles and miles toward the Columbia.”

But freeing up a recreational use was only one reason advocates pushed for the dam to come down. They were also driven by a desire to see fish habitats and river ecology restored.

“It’s not just the recreational experience, it’s that whole experience of connecting with that river and everything that makes a healthy ecosystem,” O’Keefe said.

The group paddled through the former reservoir site, looking high above them to see the bathtub ring that once was a lake’s edge. They passed pillow basalts and waterfalls spilling into the river, before they came to where the dam once stood.

“You can hardly tell where the dam was, they did such a good job of cleaning it up,” O’Keefe said.

Passing the dam site, they pulled off onto a gravel bank to celebrate.



[Enjoying the free White Salmon River. Photo: Thomas O'Keefe, American Whitewater]


“We all sort of took in the moment, passed a bottle of champagne around. There were lots of hugs and cheering,” O’Keefe said. “I was thinking, all those years working on this project, that it’s not the Endangered Species Act, Federal Power Act … the economics, it wasn’t any of those things that ultimately made this happen. It was the people who cared about this river. It was that passion and excitement that made this happen. Seeing that was pretty fulfilling.”

Ben Knight, a filmmaker with Felt Soul Media who was there to document the event for Patagonia’s documentary project, DamNation, said people these days have become almost desensitized to seeing wild places developed or manipulated.

“But it’s incredibly rare to see things go back to the way they were before,” he said. “So seeing something returned back to its natural state is an awfully powerful thing to witness.”

After the champagne toast, the group continued downstream, where they were able to run the new version of Steelhead Falls. The dam had previously diverted water around it, but now the class IV rapid was bouncy, dynamic and powerful – just what you would expect from a free-flowing river.


Katie Klingsporn is a writer and editor of the Telluride Daily Planet in southwestern Colorado. Look for more of her posts highlighting issues featured in DamNation, a documentary film being produced by Patagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with the Colorado-based filmmaking team Felt Soul Media. You can read Katie's first post from the series, "America: the DamNation."

For more on DamNation – trailer, photo gallery, FAQ and more – visit DamNationFilm.com.

Before you run the Lower Gorge yourself, check out this post from American Whitewater.

by Annie Leonard

If you ask people what they’re most thankful for in life, three things nearly always come out on top. Not their car (even if it’s a hybrid), their shiny new ultrathin laptop or a 700-fill-power goose down ski jacket. Surveys consistently find we’re most thankful for friends and loved ones, good health and the wonders of nature. What’s more, clinical studies show that gratitude is good for us. Grateful people are happier, less depressed, less stressed, more satisfied with their lives and better able to cope with problems. Being thankful even helps us sleep better.

It’s a good time, then, to ask: Why don’t we walk the talk?

The main reason, of course, is the blitzkreig of commercial advertising and marketing we’re bombarded with 24/7, which peaks at this time each year. Many of us respond by spending too much time and energy chasing more Stuff and not enough on the things we say we’re most thankful for. To put it in marketplace terms, we’re underinvesting in the things that pay the most dividends, while we overinvest in Stuff that actually threatens the things we profess to value. We have more and cooler Stuff than our grandparents ever imagined, but we pay the price – more time spent working and shopping and maintaining our stuff, much less time spent in leisure, recreation, community service and with friends.

As a nation, this imbalance is not making us happy campers. In the latest Happy Planet Index, the United States ranks 14th out of 143 countries. Costa Rica, where the Gross Domestic Product per person is about a fourth of the U.S., ranked first. (In a group of 20 rich countries, however, we are number one in poverty, income inequality, spending on health care and people who can’t afford health care, infant mortality, obesity and climate change pollution.)

What can we do to reset the balance? Here’s a start: this holiday season, choose family over frenzy. The day after Thanksgiving  – so called Black Friday – is a perfect time to opt out of the consumer frenzy and focus on those things we’re really thankful for.

Revisionist history aside, Thanksgiving is a great holiday. Two full days when most Americans are liberated from work and school to gather around a table, break bread and share conversation with those we love. We get the chance to spend two days pausing, recharging, looking into the faces of loved ones rather than into our computer screens.

Instead, the day after Thanksgiving, many Americans will rise at dawn, drive to a mall and spend the day searching for sales on products we don’t really need and which don’t ultimately make us happy. This year, let’s instead focus on the things that make us most thankful. Stay home, unplug the computer and the TV, bring out the board games, play touch football, walk the dog, take a hike – do anything but join the shopping frenzy. You’ll be thankful you did.
Annie Leonard has dedicated nearly two decades to investigating and organizing on environmental health and justice issues. Her first book – The Story of Stuff – was published by Free Press in March 2010.

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The Common Threads Initiative is a partnership between Patagonia, our customers and eBay to make, buy and use clothes more sustainably, with the ultimate aim of keeping the clothes we sell from ever reaching the landfill. Take the pledge and tell a friend. When you do, you can opt in to have Annie's next editorial delivered right to your inbox.

 

The Copp-Dash Inspire Award is currently accepting applications through December 31, 2012 for small climbing teams attempting fast and light alpine climbing objectives with a desire to creatively document and share their experience. The award was established in memory of American climbers Jonny Copp and Micah Dash, who were killed in an avalanche in China in May 2009 along with filmmaker Wade Johnson.

Sponsored by Black Diamond Equipment, La Sportiva, Mountain Hardwear, and Patagonia, with support from the Jonny Copp Foundation, American Alpine Club and Sender Films, the Copp-Dash Inspire Award will distribute $20,000 in 2013 to North American applicants.

[Jonny and Micah. Photo courtesy of Copp-Dash Inspire Award]

In honoring Jonny and Micah, the award supports climbers who choose to follow a similar path, both in life and in the mountains. The fund’s goal is to assist climbers before, during and after expeditions with financial grants and multimedia instruction to help empower them to share their current and future adventures with a wider audience.


[James Q Martin, Jeff Achey, Jer Collins and Pat Goodman on the summit of Peak 2451 aka, The Phoenix, a trip made possible by the Copp-Dash Inspire Award. Photo: James Q Martin]

“The Inspire Award continues to do exactly that: inspire climbers to pursue their adventures and share their stories,” says Jonathan Thesenga, Content Manager at Black Diamond Equipment. “It’s a great tribute to Jonny and Micah that so many great stories have been shared by the past award winners through an outstanding assortment of photos, videos, paintings and podcasts.”

For more information on the Copp-Dash Inspire Award and application downloads, go to CoppDashInspireAward.com or http://www.americanalpineclub.org/grants/g/5/Copp-Dash-Inspire-Award.

Only teams/individuals from North America are eligible for expeditions occurring between April 1, 2013 and March 31, 2014. Award winners will be announced by March 30, 2013.

[Video: Smash & Grab - An Ascent of Burkett Needle from Copp-Dash Inspire Award winners Dave Burdick, Zac West, John Frieh.]

by Fitz & Becca Cahall

We've all day dreamed about it – becoming a pro. What would it be like? Well, besides getting to do the thing you love everyday, you'd probably get free gear, meet incredible people, get your photo taken, maybe travel the world. You might even get paid. We call it living the dream. And it's good work if you can get it. But, how do you get the gig? And is it really all that it's cracked up to be? Zack Giffin and Timmy O'Neill share their stories of finding the spotlight and moving beyond it.

Listen to "Making It"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Visit dirtbagdiaries.com for links to download the music from "Making It" or to hear past episodes of the podcast. You can subscribe to the show via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

[Graphic by Walker Cahall]

 

The application period for the 2013 Mugs Stump award is quickly dwindling. Established in 1993 to honor the late Mugs Stump, the award provides grants to a select number of individuals and teams whose proposed climbs present an outstanding challenge – a first ascent, significant repeat or first alpine-style ascent – with special emphasis placed on climbers leaving no trace of their passage. Interested parties have until December 14, 2012 to apply. Visit the official Mugs Stump Award page for application details.

We asked a few Patagonia ambassadors to share some memories from trips they were able to take because of the Mugs Stump Award.

Steve House: “The MSA helped me fund my crucial, early expeditions in Alaska. Yet as my ambitions expanded, the award kept pace, helping me to launch an expedition to Nuptse in Nepal, attempts on Masherbrum and Kunyang Chish in Pakistan and successful climbs of K7 West and Nanga Parbat's Rupal Face.”

Marko Prezelj: “Mugs Stump Award is a special stimulation in the process of trusting climbing ideas that are beyond instant reach. Inspiring confidence is very powerful support. Thanks for all that.”

[Above: Naisa Brakk in the Charakusa Valley. Photo: Marko Prezelj]

Colin Haley: “The Mugs Stump Award has helped me get to the Karakorum and to the Alaska Range. In one case it helped me achieve a great climb, in other cases I came home empty-handed but with strong memories, and in all cases I was able to try something that was otherwise out of reach. If you have all the other ingredients – experience, skill, motivation and dedication – but lack the funds, it is the perfect resource to help make a trip happen!”

Kelly Cordes: “I can thank the Mugs Stump Award for what, to some, would be the worst vacations imaginable, but what, to me, have been some of the most powerful memories of my life. You're assured to be cold, wet and scared when trying ridiculously improbable objectives – but, for some reason, you convince yourself that you can actually pull these things off, and you train your ass off, climb like mad, and try to make them happen. And sometimes magic actually happens – indeed the award has supported many of the most incredible climbs of our generation. The award rarely covers the whole trip, and it shouldn't. If you really want it, you'll make it happen. Hell, I'd always figured we were going anyway, even if it meant moving back into a shack, selling my car, and eating more ramen. But I've been grateful for the times when I didn't have to do that, and had the support of the award. It helps, and has helped me to challenge myself on things that demanded my best. I was honored when I first received the award, and years later, I still look back and feel honored to have been in that position. It's a privilege to receive the award, given what it represents and the types of trips it supports: real-deal, no B.S., lightweight alpinism, which is something that, for all the glitz and flash of today's instant-media world, still exist. Thanks to the Mugs Stump Award for supporting alpinism.”



[Marko Prezelj, Vince Anderson and Steve House on Makalu. Photo: Marko Prezelj]


Dylan Johnson: “I thoroughly enjoy ‘grant season’ – the beginning of winter, when you call your best partners around the country and scheme up the finest, out-there climbing adventure the two of you can think of. You spend late nights researching the AAJ and old, foreign climbing mags and photos, as you craft the application and sketch in your proposed line.

“Here’s a little memory from one of the trips I received Mugs support for:

“In the late summer of 2010, for the first time in my life, I found myself high on a mountain that had never been climbed. Since childhood, I had always wondered what that would feel like - I'd actually expected it to feel like any other mountain, never thinking it was that big of a deal to be somewhere no one had ever been before. But the feeling was unexpectedly exciting, almost surreal. Looking out across a sea of peaks thinking no human had ever seen this view, it was far more emotionally profound than I had anticipated. A few hours later, with Chad Kellogg a rope length below, I pulled onto the summit of China's Seerdengpu – years after the iconic image of the peak had been plastered across my mind, I was actually sitting on top of the mountain, where no one had sat before. It was a surprisingly powerful and memorable moment, much more enjoyable than the endless hours that followed trying to get back down to basecamp.

“With the Mugs program out there, it’s impossible to set your sights too high. It lets you scheme as big as you want and, with any luck, you won’t be held back by a lack of financing for the trip. It enables you to focus on the climbing.  I encourage every alpine climber who is looking to push themselves on new lines on remote, compelling peaks, to apply.”

Visit MugsStumpAward.com to apply. For more on the incredible life of the late Mugs Stump, check out Michael Kennedy’s article “The Dream - A Journey of the Spirit with Mugs Stump.”

by Dallas Hyland



It was a random meeting. Okay, it was kind of a random meeting.

My family has been following Liz Clark’s voyage via Facebook and her website with a mixture of curiosity and inspiration. We live in the high desert of Southern Utah just outside of St. George and suffice it to say getting outside is a daily ritual around here but the ocean is a treat mostly experienced online.

I grew up twenty-five miles from the place where Yvon Chouinard forged a company that has left an indelible impression upon me – one that I intend to pass on to my children. I surfed the breaks of Ventura County from a young age and spent much of my late teens and early twenties working on or in the ocean in some capacity and like to think, however far-fetched it be, that if Yvon saw me, he might recognize me.

I am a documentarian of sorts and part of my process involves interaction in the community I inadvertently belong to. I get ideas and inspirations from it. I also meet amazing people.

Last year, my wife and three boys in tow, I made the trek to Ventura to see Keith Malloy’s film, Come Hell or High Water. It was a grand adventure as it was the boys’ first time to the ocean. On the evening of the film, we met Keith and Mike Stewart who were both gracious and inspiring to me as a filmmaker and to my sons as fellow adventurers.





You see, that is what I tell my sons every time we strike out on any mission, be it a trip up the dirt road behind our house or a road trip to Cali to learn to surf and meet other bohemians… I say, "Let's go on an adventure!" Because after all, life is just that and though some are for sure better than others, they are all what we make of them and with the right attitude, can all be memorable and fun.

In any case, the trip was a hit and when I saw that Liz was doing slideshows during a break from sailing the Pacific, I messaged her on Facebook to ask about a possible Ventura date. She wrote back and I said we were going. As it happened, it was just my oldest boy, Kael and I who bombed it down that Thursday getting in town in time to catch a few sloppy waves, wolf down some grub and head down to Patagonia.

We were walking up to the store when we bumped into Liz. Kael was stoked. It is one thing to watch someone’s adventure unfold online and it is something else to meet them in person. It is even better when that person exceeds any level of expectation in humility and graciousness towards their fellow sojourners. We liked her right away.



As the slideshow was presented and Liz told her story, Kael nudged me and whispered, “Dad, could we do that?”

And that’s it isn’t it?

You see, to some people the life of someone like Liz’s might seem like she has it made. A dream job with unreal perks that are only attainable by an elite few. But to my son, it was the embodiment of what was possible for the asking and the desire to do it.

Suffice it to say, we were shocked to recently find out Liz had injured herself pretty bad. I have been milling in my head for some time now the thought of writing her to tell her what an impact her life had on my son. As any parent can attest, no one will earn my respect more than one who wins the adoration of my children. There seemed no better time than now to put this out there.

We hope to see you abounding in adventures soon Liz. Maybe we will cross paths in along the way but know we are with you in spirit regardless.



Dallas Hyland is first and foremost a husband, father, and friend. His personal and professional aspirations as a documentarian merge in the craft of storytelling through writing, photography, and filmmaking. He cherishes a modest life lived well.

Liz Clark is a sailboat captain and Patagonia surf ambassador. In early October she swam out for a bodysurf and broke her neck. Liz is healing well and "can now sit up long enough to type." You can read more about the injury on her blog, or keep up with her progress on Facebook.


[From Liz's blog: "My hair especially seems to miss the ocean!? Shorebreak hair, Whitewater hair, Double Overhead hair, Offshore Closeout hair!"]

by Yvon Chouinard

Now that the election is over, our work continues. I support the front-line activists, the river keepers and tree sitters who work to save a single patch of land or stretch of water. Today in the United States, small groups of kayakers and fishermen work tirelessly to bring down dams; duck hunters toil to preserve wetlands. And it’s mothers who exert the most pressure to clean up local toxic landfills. Activism never dies. Keep up the good work.

Stay involved with us: http://www.patagonia.com/enviro

 

by Katie Klingsporn



Despite their imposing numbers and size, most people never give dams a second thought.

Patagonia founder and owner Yvon Chouinard is not one of those people.

When he sees dams, he sees broken waterways, an antiquated way of thinking and a means of generating energy that is far from green. He also sees the potential to mend the damage by taking down dams.

“I’m a fisherman, and I want to see fish come back to these rivers,” Chouinard said. “I want to establish that when you put in a dam or when you dig an open-pit mine or scrape down a mountain, that you have to restore it. There’s a public trust there and you have to restore it.”

[Above: Executive Producer of DamNation and Patagonia founder, Yvon Chouinard, has long been an advocate of dam busting and protecting free flowing rivers. Photo: Tim Davis.]

Chouinard, along with his son-in-law, fisherman and biologist Matt Stoecker, are at the forefront of a growing movement to decommission dams in America. The best way to do that, they figure, is by raising public awareness and support. And they believe the public will only support dam removal if they understand the complexities.
 
That’s the idea behind DamNation, a feature documentary produced by Patagonia and Stoecker Ecological in conjunction with the Colorado-based filmmaking team Felt Soul Media.

The film, which will be released in spring 2013, explores successful dam-removals, looks at dams that are subject of current removal fights and shines a light on others eyed for future dismantling. It paints the history of dam building in America, and chronicles the evolution of dam-busters from the radical monkey-wrenchers of yore to the tie-wearing coalition-builders of today. It focuses on some of the pivotal figures on either side of the dam issue.
 
Shooting began last summer, with filmmakers Ben Knight, Travis Rummel and Stoecker gathering footage from Maine to California.

Though Chouinard and Stoecker aren’t shy about their position on taking down dams, DamNation seeks to explore the issue fairly. The filmmakers interview the farmers who rely on dam to irrigate their fields, Native people whose cultures’ depend on the salmon that dams have destroyed, and legislators who view dam opponents as environmental extremists. They speak with scientists, dam employees and others.

“Our goal is to let the audience make up their own minds by giving them all sides of the issue,” Rummel said. “I don’t think it’s a black and white issue where it’s take out every dam.”

Despite their usefulness, dams have hugely impacted the rivers they were built in, and many have outlasted their purpose.

“I think the public is unaware of this,” said Chouinard. “I don’t think they realize that there’s a lifespan for these things.”

Chouinard has been working for two decades to take out dams, and he has discovered a pattern. Efforts typically begin with a small grassroots group that faces a steep uphill battle. Opponents are powerful, red tape is plentiful and many who are involved are resistant to change. If the group does manage to make it through the bureaucratic and permitting thickets and gain funding, support and success, it’s only through years of really hard work.
 
“But then the dam comes down and the river begins to almost instantaneously heal,” Chouinard said. “And then there’s not one person who says, ‘gee that was a mistake.’”

The impetus for DamNation came from the desire to mainstream dam removal by showing the many benefits that result. Stoecker, who worked to successfully remove his first dam 10 years ago, noted that while dam-busting used to be a fringe idea, it’s now one routinely considered by governments and dam owners, as well as environmentalists.

“Now we’ve got less harmful alternatives,” said Stoecker. “There’s been a total shift in thinking.”
 
A good example of this new mindset, he said, can be found on the Elwha River in Washington, where a coalition of Native tribes, environmental groups and government officials worked together to take out the biggest dams in U.S history — the Elwha and Glines Canyon dams in and near Olympic National Park (a project featured in the film).

“There are wild steelhead and salmon returning to the river above the Elwha Dam site before the project’s even done,” Stoecker said.

Chouinard hopes DamNation will open people’s eyes.

“I just hope it gets around to a lot of people and changes their way of thinking about dams,” he said. “I’d like to see a few more dams come down in my lifetime.”

Katie Klingsporn is a writer and editor of the Telluride Daily Planet in southwestern Colorado. Look for more of her posts highlighting both the development of DamNation and the issues surrounding the complex topic of dam removal in America.

For more on DamNation – trailer, photo gallery, FAQ and more – visit the newly launched DamNationFilm.com.

by Fitz & Becca Cahall

Ever walked through the woods late at night and felt like you were being followed? Had a strange feeling about someone you just met? Or had an encounter with the strictly inexplicable that led you, abruptly, to pack up and bail? Often, we rationalize these instincts – just a bird in the trees cracking limbs, just a strange fellow with good intentions, or, well, our senses simply must have failed us. But what about when these warning signals don’t go off? Today, Micah McNulty, Trey Johnson, and George Braun bring us stories of the times that intuition didn’t kick in when maybe it should have.

Listen to "Tales of Terror Vol. 3"
(mp3 - right-click to download)

Visit dirtbagdiaries.com to hear or download the music from today's podcast. You can subscribe to the show via iTunes and RSS, or connect with the Dirtbag Diaries community on Facebook and Twitter.

And just like last year, our cuddly receptionist, Joyce, is ready to greet you at Patagonia HQ today. Just don't make her cry...

[Welcome to Patagonia. Would you like some coffee? Tea? A warm bottle? Photo: Kasey]


We also had some nifty pumpkin carvings posted to the Patagonia Facebook timeline. Props to all of the creative carvers.


[Pumpkin by Ryan Garnsey]



[Pumpkin by Justin Gosser]



[Pumkin by Donnie Arthur, "...modeled after the Patagonia Trout logo"]



[Pumkin by Mike Galbreath. Hope you won those lift tickets, Mike.]



[Pumkin by Patagonia Hathersage for a window display]



[Update: This just in via Twitter. Pumpkin by Jarrod Turnage]

Happy Halloween!