The Time is Now
A Journey Through British Columbia’s Coastal Mountains
Words & photography by Tyler Ravelle
One thing many of us are guilty of is not following through on our plans. We’ll talk about ideas at a party, influenced by a few beers with our friends. “Bro, this will be the year we finally get that ride in.” And we’ll all feel stoked by the thought of desolate dirt roads, endless views, remote campsites and the stories that follow a journey far away from home. We’ll cheers and say, “It’s about time! We’ve been wanting to do this for years.” Then the weeks and months slip by. Warm summer days fade into fall, time starts running out, and the floodgate of excuses starts to wash in once again.
“I can’t get the time off work.” “The weather doesn’t look good.” “My bike needs a service.” And suddenly the trip’s not happening. Too many variables, and things just aren’t lining up. You convince yourself it’ll actually happen next year. Now you’ve got more time to plan, and you’ll book more time off work. And the weather will be way better. Right?
But does life ever line up perfectly? Eventually you just have to go, and that’s what we decided to do this year. Rain or shine, there’s no better time than now.
With this newfound excitement, my close friends Mason Mashon, Kris Kupskay, Morgan Parker and I began to prepare for the adventure. Mason is an accomplished photographer who capitalized on a break in his schedule to join in on the fun. Kris is a professional artist and longtime riding buddy who made sure not to take any commissions that would mess with our time window. And Morgan, a marketing guru by day, cashed in on some vacation time and let the crew know that he was ready to ride.
Winter was approaching quickly in the coastal mountains of British Columbia, and this was our last chance to squeeze in the adventure before another year passed. Fall on the West Coast is typically a very wet and stormy time, but we wanted to keep our bags as light as possible, so we left the heavy rain gear behind. Crossing our fingers for warm weather and sun, we saddled up in the early hours of the morning, and I could already feel my anxieties about the trip slipping away. They had been replaced with the sheer excitement about the road ahead. Starting in the small resort town of Whistler, we’d point our bikes north and follow a network of old mining and logging roads that would eventually lead us to the desert town of Lillooet.
Smoke from wildfires across the border had made its way into the Canadian mountains, clinging to the ridge lines with an eerie glow in the morning light. In no time at all, we made it to our first dirt road, aptly labeled “The High Line,” and started climbing above Anderson Lake, one of BC’s finest glacial-fed bodies of water. Just underneath the constant revs of our engines, I could hear hoots and hollers as we jumped off every visible rock and popping wheelies like a bunch of kids. Day one, and the trip is already worth the effort.
We were traversing through traditional St’át’imc territory, who were the original inhabitants here. The territory is composed of 11 self-governing communities that span across the region. The St’át’imc vision of a good life is one of continually renewed relationships between the people and the land, so we were very careful where we rode as we traversed through this sacred ground.
As luck would have it, the First Nation town of Seton Portage was open for business, and this would be our first stop. We refueled our bikes with gasoline and our bodies with beers and good old-fashioned pub grub at the infamous Highline Bar. I’ve been coming to this place with my dad since I was a young boy ever 30 years ago, and it hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the same old dimly lit pub with two-dollar bills lining the walls and stains on the pool table. It’s a rare kind of charm that comes only with the wear and tear of a colorful history.
We continued crushing more miles into the afternoon and enjoyed more spectacular mountain views along the way. BC, in my opinion, is a mecca for dual sport riding. The province has a long history of logging and mining, which has resulted in numerous public forestry roads that provide remarkable access to this wild terrain. With this wide network of roads, constant navigation was required because one wrong turn could lead us a day in the wrong direction, and we could risk running out of gas and getting stranded.
We made it to my favorite spot of the trip just before sunset: a massive tunnel blasted through the side of Mission Mountain. There was something special about riding through this rock with the golden light bouncing off the walls and the sound of our exhaust ringing in all directions. Shortly after exiting the tunnel and just after dark, we found our first campsite. We set up our sleeping pads in the dirt and shared stories around the campfire while making plans for the day to come.
Our next destination would be the old mining town of Bralorne. Once one of the highest-producing gold mines in North America it had a bustling community of over 1,500 people. Eventually the mine had gotten too deep to run a profit and shut down operation in the late ‘60s, rendering it a ghost town.
Upon arrival the following morning we found a neglected ski chalet and claimed it by ditching our heavy packs on the floor. Then we hopped back on our bikes and ripped up the mountain, free from the shackles of our overnight packs. We tick-tacked our way through the rooted singletrack and eventually crested tree line, blasting into the wide-open spaces of the alpine. I’d almost forgotten how nimble motorcycles are without bags strapped to the sides. It was a very welcome break for our suspensions and our spines.
The crackling flames became our nightly source of entertainment out here in the middle of nowhere. It warmed our bodies and souls as we talked through the highs and lows of the day. Dark clouds moved in as the sun sank behind the mountains, and for the first time on the trip it started to rain, so we hunkered down for the night in the old chalet with the resident rats.
The following morning we continued the ride along the remarkable Carpenter Lake, a 34-mile-long reservoir boasting unbelievable glacial blue hues. We watched in amazement as the light beams radiate between the peaks and glisten off the lake. I’ve never had such a long ride go by so fast, with every corner on the road exposing new breathtaking views and jagged peaks.
We continued farther and farther north as our surroundings transformed into a drastically different desert landscape. The massive cedar and spruce trees transitioned into dry and desolate fields of sage and tumbleweed. When we pulled up to a canyon on the side of the road we looked down below and discovered the perfect campsite.
In hindsight, we should have checked the line down into the canyon before riding it, but by the time we dropped in, it was too late to turn around. Navigating the minefield of soccer-ball-sized rocks, it was a miracle we all made it down in one piece.
Celebrating our survival, we built a fire, and Mason found a small fishing hole along the side of the river, finally scoring a plethora of beautifully colored cutthroat trout. Unfortunately, the fish were just too small to eat, so Kris and I decided to cook some old sausages we found buried in our saddle bags. We were filthy from the days of dust layered on our clothes as our greasy hands clutched the last beer of the trip. We could hear coyotes howling at the rising moon, and we had this remarkable feeling that we were exactly where we needed to be. It doesn’t get any better than this.
During this trip we got a small taste of the struggle that life on the road can throw your way, but we loved it. We were slapping a few high fives to celebrate the end of an adventure, and we chased each other down the old desert roads one last time into Lillooet, the final town on our loop. It was smooth sailing from here.
The mountain peaks are showing a line of snow and it seems we snuck this trip in just in time. Retiring the what-ifs about this ride and just saying YES was the best choice we had made in a long time. And until the snow melts next spring, we’ll have these memories to look back on, and remind us to worry less and ride more.
From the Source
A Journey To Understand the People and Places That Craft Italy’s Finest Foods
Words by David Dellanave | Photography by Roy Son
How does one describe Italy? You might call it historic, passionate and colorful, but the true essence of Italian culture is impossible to put into words. Italy isn’t just a place – it’s an experience. An attitude. It’s a way of being that values tradition, hospitality, and quality over quantity. Where the love of craft, from the soil to the final product, brings life to some of the world’s finest foods. I think only when experiencing authentic Italian foods can you get a real sense of the indescribable land and culture of this country.
As long as I can remember, I’ve had my feet planted in two worlds: one in the Midwest, and one in Italy, my place of birth – the place where I feel most at home. Throughout my life I have discovered more and more about what Italy has to offer, and there is nothing I enjoy more than sharing my Italian heritage with others. It’s a desire that eventually led me to start my own olive oil import business, purely by accident. Friends would ask me if they could purchase bottles I had imported from the same mill in Italy that my family has sourced from for over 20 years. Soon their friends would start buying from me, and their friend’s friends and so on, and in no time I developed a business selling thousands of bottles to people all across the country.
It’s been amazing to see my friends in America enjoy this staple of Italian culture, but it’s inspired me to want to share more than just single bottles of oil. For every amazing Italian flavor I’ve experienced throughout my life, I’ve gotten just as much satisfaction out of the relationships formed with the people who create them. Each one has a story to tell about going against the grain of greater efficiency, larger production and higher profit to preserve their unwavering standards and old traditions. I wanted to share those stories with the world and turn the spotlight on some of my favorite people and places that best represent the Italian way of life. So, I decided to plan a multi-stop motorcycle journey to visit some of the country’s finest food producers and create a documentary of the trip to share those stories with the world.
The country that gave us Leonardo da Vinci, pizza and espresso also gave us Ducati motorcycles. A machine built the Italian way, with the highest standards of quality and craftsmanship. It would be the perfect vessel for us to experience the Italian countryside in the most meaningful way. There’s something different you get when riding through a location rather than driving. You find yourself participating in the world you’re traveling through, rather than just being a spectator. You’re taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells and all the little things that engage your senses in ways you could never experience behind a windshield.
Joining me on this adventure was David Chang, a motorcycle enthusiast, journalist, and the man behind CROIG, a brand that has amassed over a million followers on social media. Chang lives and breathes all things motorcycles, so I figured he would be the perfect person to join me on this unique two-wheeled adventure and to help tell the story of the people, places and foods we would encounter along the way.
Our first stop of the trip was the quaint northwestern province of Cortemilia, hiding in the majestic Alta Langa region. Cortemilia may be small in population, but it has a created a big reputation across the globe for one unique thing: hazelnuts. Alongside grapes, hazelnuts play a very important role in the local agriculture here. The geography offers the perfect combination of soil, air temperature, moisture and proximity to the sea to create an incredible flavor and unmistakable aroma when expertly toasted.
During our time in Cortemilia, we toured an impressive operation where they process, toast and package these hazelnuts for shipments around the world. Each hazelnut is meticulously inspected for quality and toasted to the different levels and flavors requested by the individual buyers. We also visited a local bakery specializing in all things hazelnut, most famously their incredible hazelnut cake. We shared bites of this delectable treat as the chef explained his care for the product: “Our hazelnuts depend greatly on the soil where they are cultivated. The aroma comes directly from the soil, and I actually go out into the fields to select them myself.” Up until the early ’90s, hazelnuts were used exclusively on desserts like this cake, but thanks to a few world-class chefs in the region, their use has evolved to also be used in a variety of pastas, meats and savory dishes.
The following morning, David and I enjoyed a spectacular ride through the mountains of Alta Langa, eventually arriving in the town of Alba. This town is known for exquisite wines and one of the most elusive foods in the world: white truffles. Once a year, thousands of chefs and lovers of this valuable fungus descend upon this little town for the annual truffle fair. These rare truffles are sometimes located up to 50 inches underground and would be impossible to find if it weren’t for specialized dogs used to sniff them out. The tremendous difficulty in finding them creates an incredibly high price: One of the street vendors showed us a softball-sized truffle and told us it was worth over 5,000 euro.
As we made our way farther south toward Bologna, it would have been sacrilegious not to stop at the nearby Ducati factory. That’s where we met Claudio De Angeli, director of the Scrambler Ducati division. Claudio gave us a delightful tour of the facility and a lesson on the history of the brand. Like me, the Scrambler is an Italian export with American influence – once again confirming we were on the perfect machines for this particular adventure. As we continued chatting with Claudio, he eagerly recommended the next stop for us to take on this adventure –and he assured us that it would blow our minds.
What’s the longest you can imagine it taking to make a product? I don’t mean passive aging; I mean consistent application of work to produce an end product. A year to make a beer? Several years to grow an animal for slaughter? Well, I can’t think of anything that compares to the minimum of 25 years it takes to produce the traditional balsamic vinegar of Modena. Twenty-five separate grape harvests are meticulously aged and filtered through a series of barrels to produce a minuscule bottle – designed by renowned Italian automobile designer Giorgetto Giugaro, of course – containing just a few milliliters of a product that words are insufficient to describe. So, you can imagine my delight when the owner of this operation offered us a sample – plucked with a wine thief directly from the final cask of his grandfather’s battery – of a balsamic that has been in continuous production for over 52 years.
There is no shortcut to producing balsamic of this caliber. There’s no hack, more efficient method, or even viable way to skip the queue. The ingredients are nine parts patience and one part hope that you don’t make a grave mistake that ruins everything. To even attempt to describe the otherworldly flavor the process creates would be an injustice, so I won’t.
We continued on to our next destination, thoroughly enjoying all of the scenery and culture passing by. Our luck in riding in such perfect conditions eventually ran out as dark clouds rolled in and the heavy rains began, leaving us cold and ill-equipped. As each mile became more miserable and challenging, I came to view riding in this rain as an analogy for the struggle of the producers of these incredible Italian foods, who put in the long, slow, uncomfortable work year after year to make things that can only be done the hard way.
Eventually we found shelter for the evening at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, a charming family-run agriturismo that we wouldn’t have known existed if it weren’t for the need to escape this storm. Agriturismi, or “agritourism” in English, generally operates like a bed and breakfast at a working farm, ranch, or agricultural plant to generate enjoyment for visitors and supplemental income for the owner. Just like in other countries, farming in Italy has been consolidating for decades. As it got harder to make ends meet as a small farmer, many were giving up completely. Access to this new way to diversify revenue and offset expenses resulted in a boom for small agricultural producers. They have been the saving grace of people who otherwise wouldn’t be able to continue to produce their goods.
The owners of this particular agriturismo explained to us the importance of the fruits of their land, and the traditions that they keep alive in their production. What they do and produce here is exceptional. But it’s also entirely unremarkable in the sense that there are thousands – roughly 20,000 as of 2019 – of agriturismi dotting the countryside of Italy. While it would be silly to vouch for all of them as being wonderful, should you land in one at random, the odds are pretty high that there will be something unique and remarkable about it.
After our heartwarming stay at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, we made a pit stop to visit a very special orchard in the town of Macerata. Here they are working to revive some ancient varieties of fruits, such as sour black cherries and white fig. The fields where the fruit is plucked is located in the front yard of the owner’s house, where they prepare and package delicious preserves to sell to happy customers. One of their specialties is a 17th-century recipe where they patiently cook cherries in the sun for 40 days. It seems that everywhere we go in Italy, the culture honors patience and tradition above all else. And that desire to preserve the past and restore old traditions is also what inspires the folks who run this orchard.
From Macerata, our next and final destination would be my birth city, Assisi. But I had one more place that I wanted to make a quick stop at along the way. Norcia is one of my favorite little hamlets in Italy, and it is known throughout the world for two things: black truffles and salumi. In fall of 2016, a series of earthquakes devastated the town, leaving many of its ancient landmarks in ruins. After the disaster in Norcia, the town has barely hung on to its cultural heritage. So it feels even more important to stop in and support the local vendors of this beautiful city, because without continued support from tourism this town may disappear entirely.
Just outside of Assisi there is a very special patch of land that has become highly prized for the grapes grown within its boundaries. You can’t talk about the fine foods of Italy without addressing the wine, so we stopped by the Arnaldo Caprai winery, home to one of the families who discovered the magical potential of sagrantino grapes. The wine from these grapes didn’t gain notoriety or individuality until recently, but now thanks to vineyards like this one, they are considered to be one of the finest wines in the world. Its newfound popularity has created new streams of income and sustainability for the region, and is yet another testament to the quality of the land and soil in Italy.
This whole adventure had started back in the States, when my friends were gaining interest in olive oil and my accidental olive oil import business had begun. Many of my customers wanted to know more about where the oil came from, who makes it, and why it’s so special. So here we are, at the final stop of our motorcycle journey, to visit my old friend and olive oil miller, Luigi Tega – the genesis for this whole idea. I’ve been using Luigi’s olive oil in my kitchen since I was an elementary school kid, coming home from school and making myself bruschetta as an afternoon snack. I’ve always known that Luigi produced exceptional oil, but it wasn’t until this visit that I was able to really understand the depth of his commitment.
Everyone who produces any amount of oil in Italy proudly believes their oil is the best on Earth, and Luigi is no exception. These days, he is considered by many to be one of the finest millers in Italy, and his olive oils consistently garner top awards at international competitions. Pursuing the more difficult and “long way” of producing olive oil wasn’t a question for Luigi; it was just a matter of discarding the convenience of modern methods and investing massively in the future – with patience and old traditions.
Inside the mill is a hearth. The nights get cold during late fall, so a gentle fire is always burning. A miller’s work is done mostly at night. The olives harvested during the day are brought directly to the mill and must be milled immediately if the best-quality product is to be obtained. Years ago, in the upstairs area that is now a bed and breakfast run by Luigi’s sister, olives would be stored for a week to ten days so that fermentation would crack open the cells and relinquish every last bit of oil. “No one asked whether the oil was good or not; they instead wanted to know how much was extracted. It was the quantity that counted,” Luigi explains. But these days, his focus is on the quality.
During those crisp fall evenings, when the machines are whirring and humming from sunset to the wee hours of the morning, you can toast a piece of bread in the hearth, walk over to the decanter to capture a cup from the stream exiting the final step of the process, and pour olive oil that is just seconds old onto your bruschetta. That exact type of experience is what I craved to share on this journey, and if this documentary never saw the light of day, at least I knew the time we spent meeting people like Luigi would make this trip worthwhile.
We spent that final evening at another agriturismo outside of Assisi and gathered for yet another delicious rustic meal with family and friends. I was reflecting on my father, who kept me connected to my Italian roots. It was his knowledge, passion and history shared about where we came from that inspired my love for this incredible country. He taught me about that Italian desire to make things that are exceptional, and the ability to use resources that are readily available and cultivate delicacies craved by people around the world. I now realize that this is my inheritance, and like any good Italian, I want to share this gift with others.
Holocene
An Ode to All That Lives and Grows
Words by sven signe den hartogh
Photography by Aaron Brimhall & Sheryl Crawford
Presented by REV’IT! | Directed by Ben Giese & sven signe den hartogh | Cinematography by David Chang & Daniel Fickle
I have always felt as if our relationship to Earth is more than pragmatic practice, academic understanding or aesthetic appreciation. But strangely, in our culture of rampant consumerism, overabundance, and endless information, there’s an overwhelming pressure to make constant progress and move ourselves forward toward an even greater dissonance from nature. We seem confused about our place in the world, and in the universe. We have paradoxically exchanged the genuine wonderment of our natural environment for illusory feelings of validation and happiness through social status and material possession.
So how do we rediscover the undeniable conviction we feel when faced with the miracle of life? How can we as humans relate to the incomprehensible beauty of the world, of which we are all a part?
We are inseparably connected with all that lives and grows, and we are each a small expression of a much greater whole. Like waves passing through the sea of existence. It’s crucial that we begin to understand our connection to the natural world, because that realization can help us to discover who we truly are and what we really need. It can open us up to experiencing true love, peaceful harmony and endless wonder.
The Old Postal Route
Connecting the Dots Through Remote South Africa
Words and photography by Simon Pocock
The Old Postal route traditionally runs from the Central Cederberg North East into the Tankwa Karoo, located in the Western Cape of South Africa. We trailered the bikes up to the Cederberg and headed North to Wupperthal and across the (dry) Doring River, before traversing East through the Biedouw Valley into the Tankwa Karoo for three days of dirt riding. We got lucky with an array of moody skies, warm and still evenings along with the blessing of Karoo rain.
Dropping down into the Wupperthal valley.
We were hoping for a river crossing but the Doring River was dry during the harsh summer months.
We speculated for ages as to how and why this bus was sitting in a farmers field in the middle of nowhere. According to the number plate, it was originally registered in Cape Town.
Bernard and Anne joined us for the second night out of the Karoo.
Waiting out the rain.
Home for the night.
Extraordinarily Present
Further Through Fear and Pain with Filson
Words by Thor Drake | Photos by Cole Barash
A film by Brandon Kuzma & Cole Barash
Riding motorcycles can be extremely dangerous and demanding, both mentally and physically. Sure, it can also be easy and delightful at times, but those moments inevitably fade the further you cross through physical distances and personal limits. Keep going and eventually you’ll become more acquainted with things like pain and fear, and that’s when the journey really starts to get interesting. All good things come with a price if you’re willing to pay it.
Four of us would start an expedition somewhere northeast of Seattle, deep in the heart of the Northern Cascades. We planned for six days of riding south on the remote Washington Backcountry Discovery Route, ending at the mighty Columbia River on the Oregon border. Aaron Piazza, an industrial designer by day, had done the ride earlier that summer, so naturally he became the group leader. Piazza roped in his co-worker and friend Ben Mabry to join us on the ride, as well. Completing the group was Brett Simundson, who had just bought a bike only a week before the trip. He’s a tough fella whose ambition would make up for any lack of experience. As for me, I made the trek north from Portland to join in on what was sure to be an unforgettable adventure.
The route we chose would skirt us along the east side of the Cascade Divide into one of the last remaining old-growth forests in the United States, with trees over 1,500 years old. The rugged, icy roads kept our minds sharp as we took in the immense majesty of this wild and untamed land. Endless rolling mountains and ancient forests as far as the eye can see. If Bigfoot or Yeti lives, he lives here.
We planned on its being cold, but we had no idea it was going to snow three out of the six days, sometimes up to six inches. That’s where the pain and fear began to set in. Riding and camping for days on end through rocks, mud, ice and snow creates an entirely new set of challenges – frostbite, hypothermia and the constant thought of bear attacks to name a few, but most of all the exponential risk of crashing. An injury would spell disaster out here in the middle of nowhere. Riding through this region in these conditions is not for the faint of heart, but we came here for the punishment, because the adventures you always remember are the tough ones.
The idea was to camp most nights, and with average evening temperatures dropping below 15 degrees, building a fire was mandatory to thaw our frozen appendages. Sometimes the mere thought of that flame at the end of the day was the only thing that got us through. It’s interesting when you set some strong-willed folks to a task, and that task is hard travel: The difficulty becomes the reward. There’s a cowboy trust that emerges, because you’re in the struggle together. You’re putting yourself through something that most humans couldn’t manage, and through that suffering you form a bond that can last a lifetime.
Many people wonder why we put ourselves through such torture – the lack of sleep, freezing all day and night, and the twisted sense of joy we get from the imminent danger that lurks around each corner. I guess I just feel really lucky to have these challenging experiences, because they force you to be extraordinarily present in the moment. Existing now, like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Navigating the turbulence at the mercy of the spinning world around you. Those moments create a mental state where life moves in slow motion, leaving the brain free to dance. Some would call it a high, or an altered reality, but it feels far too natural for that. I think of it more like a state of being.
Sometimes you have to put yourself in harm’s way to get there, but once you get a taste, all you want is more. I’ll always remember this trip with my newfound friends, and I can’t wait for our next opportunity to suffer through more challenges together.
Banch
A New England Privateer Motocross Documentary
A film by Jared Conley
Banch is an intimate glimpse into the lives of New England motocross privateers, shot in the Fall of 2020. The story follows Andrew Boccarossa, Seth Nicolo, and Joe Tait, from their cutty scenes in Connecticut and southern Massachusetts, to the furthest reaches of the Lucas Oil Pro Motocross circuit, meeting up with friends and family all across the country.
If you're interested in a physical copy of Banch, DVD's are currently in production and slated to be shipped by late February or early March. To secure a copy, visit Road 2 Recovery. Copies are $10 each, limited to 300, with 100% of the proceeds going towards the R2R foundation.
Vegas to Reno
A Two-Stroke Journey into the Soul of the American Desert
Words by Forrest Minchinton | Photography by Monti Smith & Will Luna
The haze of dust lingered, like a dense fog. The line of trucks and van headlights stretched as far as the eye could see in the morning twilight, all anxiously waiting to stage and unload their race machines in the dry Nevada desert. There was tech inspection, registration, transponders and each vehicle’s tracking units to chase down. It had all been canceled and/or postponed the day prior. The race, however, was on…maybe. No one really knew. This was only the largest and longest off-road desert race in the United States of America, amidst a global pandemic. All of the prerequisites the day before had been raided and shut down by the Las Vegas PD, like a college frat party after one too many people and a few too many keg stands. A lack of social distancing and too few face masks was the probable cause that ended this party. This is 2020, but someone forgot to forward the memo to the wrench-slinging, race fuel-guzzling thrillseekers that are off-road racers.
A last-minute scramble ensued to drill holes in fenders, mount tracking units and find race officials. Just a few hundred racers at the unpleasant hour of 4 a.m. in the dark Nevada desert. With minutes to spare I mounted my hand-numbing, vibration-station of a race bike – a feeling I had grown to love and become accustomed to over the preceding week. I headed toward my place as the 6th open pro motorcycle at the start line. The deep two-stroke rattle and violent power could be tamed only by the sleight of hand. This was followed by silence, until the racers were sent off one by one, with one-minute intervals of separation. The drone of engines disappeared behind the clouds of dust, wide-open throttles, adrenaline pumping. Fifth place was off the line, my two-stroke fiercely purring, waiting for the light to turn green. Green means go…1st, 2nd, 3rd, click it into 4th and still a gear to spare at 90 mph, blind into the lingering fog of dust. Speed-shift into 5th gear – 95, 98, 105 mph, and still pulling for more. Race mile 1, race mile 2 and then…seize. WTF?!
It was somewhere around midnight the day before our scheduled departure to the desert. We were on the edge of the Pacific Coast, a 1950s built garage in the heart of Huntington Beach, California. Scratch that – as a matter of fact, it was roughly a week past our original scheduled departure, sans the necessary motorcycle parts, bits and pieces, all of which were back-ordered, likely stuck on a container ship in the big blue Pacific somewhere between Japan and Los Angeles. Sitting in front of us was a half-built 1996 CR500. A chunk of Japanese aluminum and steel from a bygone era. An unconventional desert race machine, lacking not power, nor handling, but at this point parts. A project that most likely would take years to complete, and we had a month. A new fashionable motocross gear company, State of Ethos, had agreed to help cover our costs and chronicle our journey. Bell Helmets covered our entry fees, and the team consisted of myself, Nick Lapaglia, Ciaran Naran and Anthony Rodriguez. Nonconformists to the status quo racer. A desert racer, vintage racing aficionado, amateur motocross phenom turned scholar, and an unemployed Supercross talent. This bunch values a life well ridden as much as they value winning. That money Bell Helmets gave us? Yeah, we spent all of it on fixing our 24-year-old race machine. So, we had an obligation to wring the throttle and try our best to win the longest nonstop off-road race in America, from Vegas to Reno, for good or ill. We just had to do our best to keep our usual haunts around the roulette table and dance clubs short.
A day late and a dollar short, we all arrived at my desert ranch. The perennial testing grounds for all my ill-conceived ideas and aspirations. The compound is an eclectic culmination of my family’s life, which has always existed beyond the normalcy of southern Californian suburbia. The motorcycle was finished, the team present, all of us excited. There was motorcycle testing to do and high speeds to be experienced. Drawing on my desert racing experience and with the help of Boyko Racing, AHM factory services, and an FMF pipe and silencer, we had a motor built to race and suspension built for comfort. The old Mikuni carburetor tossed out in exchange for Technology Elevated’s Smart Carb, the latest and greatest in carb technology. Boyesen reeds and ignition covers, Thrill Seekers saddle, IMS footpegs and fuel tanks fueling the fun. All rolling on STI off-road rubber and Nitromousse bibs, so as to be 100% flat-proof. The bike was modified by Steecon, Inc., to run 2008 CRF450X forks and 2019 CRF wheels and axles, complemented by updated brakes front and rear. We needed advantages where we could make them, and the package was surprisingly capable. After all we had to conquer 515 miles of Nevada’s roughest desert – high speed and high bumps were on the menu.
We were in Johnson Valley on the edge of the desert when the buzz took hold. The 1996 CR500 hummed along, electric start and the modern comforts of 2020 a thing of the past. It was 100 degrees, but the wind on the face and the beautiful zing of a 500cc two-stroke through the open desert kept it cool. She sang at 112 mph. The fastest any of us had every gone in the dirt. At over 100 mph the vibration was intense compared to a modern race machine, but it was purpose built, and we knew it could be successful. The sheer top speed would be as big of an advantage as any in the long, vast racecourse from Vegas to Reno. So fast and raw that it was almost suicidal, and so it earned the name The Kamikaze. We were a special unit, our machine outdated by our competition, but we were unwilling to surrender, and it would be the death of the machine before any of us would ever admit defeat.
Fast forward to race day, race mile 2, 5:37 a.m., I sat there on the side of the racecourse. The Kamikaze had seized. Compression gone. A five-dollar part had failed, a faulty crank seal. My heart sank. The hours, the days, the weeks, the money scraped together by all involved, the chase crews spread out across the Nevada desert. It was all over, I thought. I grabbed my radio, and we devised a plan. We would take one of the boy’s stock bikes out of the van, slap on our transponder and numbers, and we would finish. It was against the rules, but we have never been very good at those anyway. We would likely be disqualified, but we didn’t mind. At this point, we needed to finish. Regardless of the odds stacked against us, there is always a way. Problem was, I was still 2 miles from the nearest access point to the course. I pushed, I ran, I walked, and I cussed as I struggled to push our race bike the 2 miles through the deep sand to the meet-up point. I arrived winded, and drenched in sweat, but we made quick work of the swap. I hopped onto the replacement bike, at this point an hour and a half down from the last-place bike, but started clicking off miles. The replacement motorcycle was set up for someone nearly a hundred pounds heavier than me, no steering stabilizer or mousse bibs, none of the essentials required to ride a motorcycle 515 miles at race speed. Every bump and rock nearly sending me flying off course.
One hundred and forty miles later, I gladly handed the bike off to Anthony, who made quick work and flawlessly clicked off his 100ish mile section. Ciaran took off from pit 6, and the spirits were high. We were down but not out, and the buzz was flowing, and it was, well, fun! Pit 7, Ciaran rolled in sitting sideways but rolling straight with a rear flat. The stock inner tubes had met their maker. We made quick work and ended up pulling tires and mousses off the Kamikaze’s wheels and began swapping out the tires on the Husky 501 replacement bike. Air-filter change, tightening loose spokes, tighten the handguard that was hanging on by a thread, and off we went. Pits 7, 8, 9, 10 were smooth sailing; Nick was now onboard and having as good a time as anyone, as he tends to do. Pit 11, bummed some gas off a friend, pit 12, and finally pit 13. Nick was wide open, oblivious that his rear mousse had failed. It was the final pit and excitement for the crew. Another tire off and on again. Off we went, the final finishers in the Open Pro division. Not quite legal, but still accomplished. Beers were had, smiles, stories and next year’s plans. These are the moments we live for.
Lost Horizon
One Strange Trip Down the Cosmic Highway
Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Jimmy Bowron
Shangri-La is a mythical earthly paradise, isolated from the rest of the world somewhere deep in a mountain pass. The fictional utopia is said to be located peacefully at the base of a harmonious valley full of exoticism and spirituality. British author James Hilton famously describes Shangri-La in his 1933 novel Lost Horizon as a permanent happy land whose inhabitants have become almost immortal. He describes the valley as both a physical and spiritual paradise where the people are happy and without want. In ancient Tibetan scriptures, Shangri-La is believed to be located in Asia, hidden somewhere in the Kunlun Mountains on the northern edge of the Tibetan Plateau. But after a profoundly strange trip through Southern Colorado’s San Luis Valley, I’m not too sure. We just might have found the real Shangri-La right here in our own backyard.
The San Luis Valley is a large, flat basin that stretches from southern Colorado into northern New Mexico. This mystical desert landscape is bookended by two majestic mountain ranges – the Sangre de Cristo Mountains towering to the east and the San Juan Mountains rising to the west. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains contain several peaks over 14,000 feet, including the highest in the range, Blanca Peak. For much of the year, those peaks remain snow-capped, rising like gods from the Earth’s crust and illuminating the sublime contrast when seen from the desert basin below. At the base of the Sangre de Cristos you’ll find the Great Sand Dunes, a marvel of nature containing the tallest sand dunes in North America, with over 30 square miles and 5 billion cubic meters of sand. To the west, you’ll see the San Juans, rich in minerals like gold and silver, along with several more beautiful peaks, painting heavenly backdrops on both sides of the valley.
There’s an uncanny spiritual energy you feel when passing through the San Luis Valley that’s hard to put into words. I felt it the first time I drove through, and I’m sure that energy is what drew the natives there thousands of years ago. Paleolithic hunters once killed now-extinct ice animals in the San Luis Valley, and throughout the following millennia numerous tribes would use the area for vision quests and sacred hunting grounds. Eventually the Capote band of Ute people established their dominance in the region. The Utes believed that all living things possess supernatural power, and they would receive that power from dreams, rituals and the magical land that encompasses the San Luis Valley.
The Navaho people called Blanca Peak the Sacred Mountain of the East. That’s where they claimed to see “star people” entering into our reality aboard flying pods – one of the many legends that intrigue me about this region. Several of the native Southwestern tribes also consider the San Luis Valley to be the location of the sipapu, or “place of emergence.” According to native folklore, somewhere near the Great Sand Dunes, they would gather for a ritual where the Earth would open up and ancient beings would welcome them inside for protection and cleansing.
These days, the San Luis Valley is often referred to as the “Bermuda Triangle of the West.” It contains a maximum-intensity aeromagnetic zone, which means that aircraft conducting geological surveys of the region record astonishingly high levels of magnetism. Strangely, many of the most fascinating and unexplainable ancient civilizations and monoliths across the globe – such as Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, the Mayan temples and the Great Pyramid of Giza – also existed in anomalous electromagnetic zones like this. And much like the natives of the San Luis Valley, those civilizations had a vast understanding of astronomy, a deep connection with the stars and a profound relationship with the “gods” that supposedly came from those stars.
Many people believe that the numerous artifacts resembling flying machines found at those ancient sites are actually depictions of ancient UFO sightings, like the flying pods described by the Navaho people in the San Luis Valley. It’s easy to roll your eyes at the subject, but to this day, residents of the San Luis Valley frequently report strange occurrences in the sky. With more recorded sightings of unexplainable aerial phenomena than almost anywhere in the country, the region is considered by many to be the hotbed of UFO activity in North America.
Thinking about all of these strange circumstances and connections makes me wonder: Does the San Luis Valley hold secrets from a forgotten ancient world? Is there some truth to those Native American legends? What are people really seeing in the skies above the San Luis Valley? And why aren’t more people talking about these things? With my curiosity at an all-time high, it was time to gear up and search for some answers. So I rounded up a few friends who seemed down for a weird weekend, and we hit the road. Andrew Campo and I rode some new Ténéré 700s that Yamaha lent us, and our friends Jimmy Bowron and Derek Mayberry loaded up all the camping gear and followed along in Jimmy’s truck. The goal of this trip was to escape the city for a few days and enjoy some lighthearted adventure while searching for answers to the unexplained. So with open minds and endless amounts of enthusiasm, our strange journey began.
Three hours south of Denver we veered onto CO-17, a 50-mile stretch deemed the Cosmic Highway by locals. My eyes were already scanning the clouds for anything abnormal as we approached the small village of Crestone. With a population of only 146 residents, Crestone is the self-proclaimed “New Age religious capital of the world.” Native Americans embraced the uncanny spiritual energy here in the valley for thousands of years, and modern-day Crestone is no different. With dozens of Hindu temples, Carmelite monasteries, Tibetan Buddhist stupas and Zen centers, Crestone is home to an eclectic mix of world religions and spiritual traditions. It’s wild to stumble upon such an exotic place hidden right here in the Colorado mountains. It makes me wonder, did we just find the elusive Shangri-La we’ve heard about in mythology? I’m not too sure… But we found an interesting mix of humans and stories, to say the least.
We parked our bikes off the main street that runs through Crestone and found some shade at a nearby picnic table. A few minutes later, a rusty old Toyota pickup truck rumbled in and skidded to a stop next to us. It sat on oversized mud tires, and the driver door was held closed with some duct tape. There were five or six dogs eyeing us down from the bed as a large bearded man in a tie-dye shirt stepped out and offered us a beer. I asked to pet his dogs, and he said, “They’ll bite you,” as one of them snarled and snapped at me. He proceeded to grab us some beers and sat down to drink them with us, occasionally looking over his shoulder to yell at the dogs. He asked what we were doing in Crestone, and I told him that we were here to explore some of the strange rumors that have been buzzing from this little town. I asked if he’s ever seen anything abnormal in the sky, and he responded without hesitation, “Oh yeah, tons of weird shit…” He squinted and looked at me as if my question was stupid. Obviously we weren’t from around here. He proceeded to tell us that everyone here has seen weird things in the sky. He continued explaining that most of the UFO sightings come from the over the mountains above Blanca Peak, just like the Navaho people described from “the sacred mountain of the east”, and can often be seen flying south along the base of the mountains towards the Great Sand Dunes.
I asked a few more locals around town about their experiences and got a similar answer from almost all of them. Of course they’ve seen things in the sky. It’s normal around here. Nobody wanted to make a big deal about it, and it was hard to get any specific details because nobody really even cares enough to talk about it. UFOs are just part of living in this town, and the residents seem to be tired of outsiders coming in and making a big fuss about it. I want these stories to be true more than anything, and I desperately want to see something for myself, but I remain skeptical. I take note of the culture here in Crestone and notice that most people are dressed in tie-die, kimonos or exotic fabrics with worldly patterns. Shoes are few and far between, and the majority of residents have dreadlocks. Common fashion accessories seem to be beads, bracelets, headbands, necklaces, and psychedelic colored sunglasses. I realize it’s never fair to stereotype, but I’m under the assumption that large amounts of drugs are consumed here – which makes me question the legitimacy of all these stories. Are the residents of Crestone truly seeing UFOs in the sky above their town, or are they just baked out of their minds? Either way, the four of us remain curious and optimistic and the search continues.
On our way out of Crestone, we explored some backroads that led us farther up into the mountains. As we gained elevation, the pavement crumbled into a rocky dirt road, and for the next several miles we passed various spiritual centers tucked away in the trees. The route was lined with Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags, and at the end of the road we discovered a beautiful white and gold stupa towering up from the hillside. It suddenly felt like we were transported to the high mountains of Nepal. As we looked out over the valley and down toward the base of the stupa, we saw a sunburnt man kneeling in prayer and speaking in tongues. He had obviously been there for a long time and wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The August sun was cooking the four of us, and I questioned how that man could stay down there roasting for so long? It seemed like a miserable situation, but what do I know? Maybe Shangri-La is a state of consciousness – somewhere you go internally. Maybe that’s where he was at. Or maybe he was just tripping balls. We’ll never know. By this point we were all hot, dirty and thirsty, so we made our way back down the mountain to a nearby river to cool off and clean up.
Feeling refreshed, we continued our journey south on the Cosmic Highway, and as we approached the small town of Hooper, I recalled another fascinating story that a local told us earlier that day, which supposedly had happened somewhere nearby. It all started in 1967, when a horse named Lady was found lying dead with her head stripped clean to the bone. When the owner found the horse several days later, it wasn’t bloated and it didn’t smell. They noticed that the horse’s footprints ended over a hundred feet away from where the remains were lying. The animal’s lungs, heart and thyroid were gone, along with the brain, abdominal organs and spinal fluid. There was no blood on the skin or on the ground or anywhere to be found. The cuts on the carcass appeared to be cauterized and surgically precise, like they had been cut from a laser. There’s no way it could be from coyotes or vultures. Even stranger, cauterizing laser technology like that didn’t exist in the 1960s. The horse was eventually renamed Snippy and became almost as famous in death as the most famous racehorse Man o’ War was in his prime. Maybe some deranged high-tech psychopath killed Snippy. Or maybe it was aliens. Over the last five decades, there have been several more unexplainable animal mutilations in the valley, and Snippy’s death still remains a mystery. It’s hard not to draw a connection between those strange animal mutilations and the uncanny UFO activity happening in the San Luis Valley.
My recollection of Snippy is quickly interrupted as we rolled up on one of my favorite roadside attractions, the UFO Watchtower. I’ve stopped here a few times before when passing through the valley, but I’m excited to learn more about this quirky place. Riding through the entrance and up the driveway makes me smile as we pass dozens of alien statues and UFO sculptures. We parked our bikes outside the small white dome, which contains a fun little gift shop and a UFO-viewing platform built above. In front of the dome there’s a “rock garden” that looks more like a pile of trash at first glance. But as you wander through and take a closer look, you’ll find hundreds of random trinkets left behind by visitors to the tower. These trinkets are supposed to be offerings to the extraterrestrials to teach them about life on Earth. Visitors leave behind everything from faded baseball cards to old drivers licenses, sunglasses, bras, handwritten notes and pretty much anything else you could think of. It’s like a sun-faded time capsule with over twenty years of junk collected from people all over the world. I laugh to myself when I think about aliens that have traveled 100 million light years to receive offerings like a rabbit foot key chain or an old Britney Spears album lying in the dirt.
Inside the gift shop we meet the property owner, Judy Messoline. She’s been running the UFO Watchtower for twenty years now ,and it’s the last thing she ever imagined doing. Judy moved to the San Luis Valley to raise cattle in the ’90s and quickly realized that cattle can’t survive in the desert. “Cows don’t eat sand,” she says jokingly. When her cattle ranch was failing, Judy’s neighbor would talk about all the strange things she’s seen in the skies above the San Luis Valley and joked that Judy should build a roadside attraction for people to view UFOs. Judy was skeptical, but feeling desperate, she decided to listen to her neighbor and opened up a campground and a UFO Watchtower on her property. She had no expectations and had never even seen one herself, but the San Luis Valley attracts UFO seekers from all over the world, and little did she know her new business would attract tens of thousands of enthusiastic visitors over the subsequent two decades.
When Judy first opened the UFO Watchtower in 2000, she never thought she would actually see anything. But over the last twenty years she says there have been over 200 sightings at the tower, and she’s personally witnessed 28 of them. Her most notable memory was of a cigar-shaped craft that she observed, alongside a dozen other people, as it zipped across the valley at unimaginable speeds. Guests at the tower have reported numerous different accounts, varying from spheres, orbs, triangles, saucers and top-hat shaped objects, to name a few. Judy says that the majority of the sightings seem to happen near hot water wells, and she seems to think that the geothermal water that flows beneath the fault line at the base of the mountains has something to do with it. As she explains all of this, she just throws her arms up, shrugs and shakes her head, because she knows how crazy it all sounds.
I’m trying to connect the dots in my head, and Judy’s theory of the underground geothermal water running along the base of the mountains sounds strangely consistent with the flight pattern described by the locals in Crestone. It’s also consistent with the legends told by the Navaho people. I’m curious if those underground geothermal water wells have something to do with the Sipapu where natives claimed ancient beings rose from the earth. It’s also strange that all of this happens to be right inside that magnetic anomaly zone. There’s gotta be something to all of this. It’s hard to find any concrete answers, but this day just keeps getting weirder, and I’m loving it.
We said farewell to our new friend Judy and continued our ride down the Cosmic Highway. Somewhere near the town of Mosca, we turned off onto a dirt road and headed west a few more miles into the open desert. We found the perfect campsite situated in the middle of nowhere, cracked open a few cold beers, dug a fire pit and set up our tents. A local motorcyclist rolled in to check out our bikes and ended up hanging out to watch us shoot some photos of our Yamahas at sunset. His name was Dwight Catalano, and he told us that he’s lived here in the San Luis Valley for his entire life.
After the shoot we invited Dwight to join us around the campfire, and I told him that we were here to explore some of the unexplained mysteries here in the valley. His eyes lit up as he laughed and proceeded to tell us about his favorite UFO experience. In 2006, Dwight was gearing up to go ride his dirt bike and looked up to see a large gray sphere floating in the sky above him. He said the sphere was smooth and colorless with small portholes all around it. He watched it hover for a while and nothing happened, so eventually he put his helmet on and went riding. When he returned to his truck, he looked up and it was still there. He took off his gear and looked back up at the sphere, and a few moments later it shot straight up into the sky – in his words “at an unbelievable speed.” Dwight didn’t think too much about it at the time, but revisiting that memory around the campfire all these years later he seems genuinely intrigued to know what that object really was.
He then told us about a similar experience his uncle had here in the San Luis Valley back in 1948. His uncle was driving a tractor, pulling a large hay trailer across his 22,000-acre ranch, when he came across a large saucer hovering 30 feet above the road directly in front of him. He was too afraid to drive under the craft, so he froze in terror and waited until it flew away.
I’m fascinated by the UFO stories of that era, because many people believe the sudden influx of sightings in the 1940s correlates with our development of nuclear weapons technology. The first nuclear bomb was dropped in 1945 near White Sands, New Mexico, and over the following decade the American Southwest was plagued with a number of unexplainable events, most famously the 1947 crash in Roswell, New Mexico. Everyone’s heard about the reported recovery of a crashed alien spacecraft in Roswell. However, most people are unaware that at the time of the incident, Roswell Army Airfield was home to the world’s only atomic bomber squadron, the 509th Bomb Group. Is it all just a coincidence? Maybe. Are there reasonable explanations to all of these overlapping stories? Possibly. But between the Native American folklore, the geological anomalies, the unexplainable aerial phenomena and their strange connection to nuclear technology, it all just seems too coincidental. There’s gotta be something going on here that we just don’t fully understand. We still don’t have any definitive answers, but at least it all makes for some good campfire talk.
Dwight said farewell and headed home as the four of us got cozy around the fire, gazed up and let our thoughts drift into the aether. I found myself lost somewhere in the Milky Way, floating through a sea of billions of stars into the great beyond. It was the peak of 2020’s most prominent meteor shower, and as we watched balls of fire light up the atmosphere, I thought to myself: Maybe this is where those ancient people found god. It’s no wonder they had such an infatuation with the stars. I don’t think humans were designed to be packed into cities, spending our days in virtual worlds behind glowing screens. We’ve disconnected ourselves from the natural world, and I think we’re depriving ourselves from some of the most primal things that make us human. We need to spend more time outside, under the stars, appreciating our place in the universe. It’s ironic how looking up can make you feel so grounded. I’m just feeling thankful to be on this journey and alive here in this moment.
I look around at my friends who seem to be feeling the same way and think to myself, maybe we finally found the Shangri-La we’ve been looking for. Right here in this barren patch of dirt under the stars. A tribe of brothers sitting around the fire like the natives have done here for thousands of years. Suddenly it feels like I understand the spirituality of this valley, and all the problems happening in the world right now seem so distant. We enjoyed this moment of bliss for several more hours until a pack of coyotes cackled us to sleep. It’s been one strange adventure, and while we might not have seen any UFOs during our time in the San Luis Valley, it’s hard to imagine we could be alone in this endless cosmos.
No Destinations
6,000 Miles Through Europe
Words & photos by Isaac Sokol
A film by Isaac Sokol
When your friend quits his 9-5 and asks you to run away to Europe with him to ride motorcycles, you say yes. No plans, no obligations, no rules, no destinations, just freedom. As a freelance film director, I’d spent the last several years bouncing around the world from project to project, party to party, thrill to thrill. A few months earlier, I’d come to meet heartbreak for the first time; now left with cancelled plans to relocate to a more permanent residence and “take life more seriously,” I found myself sitting in Colorado, the place I’d called home for the last decade, a place that had my heart, and feeling it was finally time to move on and grow up. I guess I was right in the middle of my quarter-life crisis; I needed either a reset or a last hurrah, and this was the trip for it.
After a little research, Nate, my best friend since middle school, found a guy in Tours, France, who made it simple to find bikes. You shop the French version of craigslist, pick one out, wire the money, and our man Laurent takes care of the rest—registration, title, insurance, and pickup; he even gives ‘em a wash before you get there. A few weeks later, we rocked up to his doorstep, half expecting it all to be a scam, and saw our bikes sitting in the driveway. Laurent was a jovial man with the heart of a hooligan, but the wisdom of a sage, and when it comes to touring around, I’ll trust no one more. We sat down for a beer and a much-needed instant coffee and got some words of advice from a man who’s spent more time on a bike than in a car. He warned of Europe’s excessive number of speed cameras, the exorbitant French tolls, and the tough miles through rain and snow. After a few Easy Rider jokes and a photo for Mom and Dad, he sent us on our way with his best wishes. We hit the road.
Most folks who head out for these types of adventures ride a bike that you might say is designed for it. Hell, they’re called adventure bikes. Seven-gallon tanks, big comfy seats, windscreens, and beefy suspension ready for anything that might get thrown your way. If you ask me, that takes all of the fun out of it. We went with Sportster 1200s, certainly not Harley’s most reasonable option for this kind of trip, but they sure do look good. One kink in the hose was the tank size. While Nate’s bike was a mildly reasonable 2.7 gallons, mine was the Forty-Eight, which has a smaller—and if you ask me, better-looking—tank, totaling a whopping 2 gallons. At 40 miles to the gallon, going about 80 miles per hour, we needed to stop for gas every hour on the highways. As you might imagine, I ran out on the side of the road more than a few times. We wised up and got a gas can after the first mishap, but the whole situation added a bit of character to the trip.
There’s an almost overwhelming sense of freedom that comes from riding a motorcycle, especially when you have nowhere to be and everything you need strapped to the sissy. Tents, rain gear, a change of clothes, a camera or two, and a toothbrush. You can go almost anywhere, bend nearly every rule, and never worry about being fucked with. There’s a brotherhood that comes along with it, too. You help each other, look out for each other, and this quickly proved itself true on the very first leg of the trip. With our navigation set toward the southwestern coast of France for Wheels and Waves, we took off, going the scenic route, of course, through the Spanish Pyrenees.
It didn’t take more than a few hundred miles before something went wrong. Little black pellets sprayed off the back of Nate’s bike, the teeth in his belt stripped off. We pulled off to the side of the road, and before we even had time figure out what to do, a van pulled over, and a man started to ask us something in French. Now, at the time, our French covered three phrases: bonjour, bonsoir, and parlez-vous anglais?, but the man’s English wasn’t much better. After a few hand gestures and a whole mess of assumptions, we were loading the broken-down bike into the man’s van. Thanks to the language barrier, we never got his name, but Nate and I decided for the sake of retelling the story to call him by the most French name we could think of: Jean-Francois was taking us to a motorcycle shop in the closest town. Luckily, the owner there spoke more English than Jean-Francois and was able to straighten everything out. We got the bike on a tow truck and off to the nearest shop with the right parts, which just so happened to be next to our first stop, Biarritz. We dropped Nate’s bike in the shop and rolled into town for Wheels and Waves, two up on mine, bags and all. What for much of the summer is a ritzy vacation destination, Biarritz transforms for one weekend each year into the Wild West for bike folk. Thousands take over the quaint little town and turn it into a lawless playground. People line the streets for drag races, crowds gather for burnouts, and riders rip wheelies down the main strip all night long. Needless to say, we’ll be making our way back again, hopefully every year.
As soon as Nate’s bike was fixed, I started to have some trouble with mine. The clutch was gone. After a good amount of forcing things that shouldn’t be forced, I was able to get it over to a van rental, load it up, and drive it over to a little custom shop in Toulouse, France, called Dirty Seven, where we met Gael Canonne. Turns out motorcycle mechanics get pretty backed up in the summer, so we pulled up to the shop with a couple of Leffe twelvers and a broken bike. After a couple of cold ones with the guys in the shop and stories of our grand plans, Gael said he’d find a way to make it happen. Even with the help, we lost a couple of weeks to the breakdowns, but with both bikes straightened out and running better than when we had bought them, we made our way north. We had a loose itinerary based on where we had friends to crash with and where we could set up tents. Scotland is more or less one giant campground full of what I’d argue to be the most beautiful landscapes the world has to offer, so we made for that general direction. We stopped off in Paris and London for a few nights, catching up with a few old friends and some family, crashing on couches and floors after indulging in a bit of city life.
Along the way to Scotland, we came to the first road on the list. Now, when I say list, I mean an actual list Nate kept in his pocket; he spent weeks scouring the internet for the best roads Europe had to offer with notes on every detail – what the corners were like, how fast you could take it, how the pavement handled, and even where the speed cameras were. The first we came across was the famous Cat and Fiddle Run in Northern England, and that puppy did not disappoint. After staying at a nice bed and breakfast, run by the sweetest old couple you’d ever want to meet, we strapped up the bikes before sunrise and hit the run. I’d be lying if I told you we went straight on from there. The road proved to be too much fun. We ran a few laps through it until breakfast was served back at the B&B. As much as I love French food, boy, did I miss a real, hearty breakfast. We sat down to a proper English breakfast, filled up the bikes and hit the road again.
We continued north with our eyes set on the Isle of Skye. I can’t say I did a lick of research, but I had begun to romanticize the place in my head. It sounded almost magic – a desolate isle off the northern tip of Scotland. I didn’t know what to expect, but as we made our way up, nothing disappointed. So much of Scotland’s beauty comes from all the rain they get, but we lucked out; as we gassed up the bikes, I overheard an old Scotsman talking with the station attendant, “It’s got to be the most beautiful weekend I’ve seen in the last 50 years round these parts!”
Eventually we hit the next road on the list – the A82. It was spectacular. Fast and empty. Long, smooth curves all the way up past sprawling lochs and green mountains. Miles flew by without seeing another car on some of the best tarmac I’ve ever come across. We crossed the bridge into Skye, and the sun began to set. As we rolled into the West Point, we came across a small shop; inside, we found some cured meat and cheese, crackers, smoked fish, and a bottle of Scotch: the essentials for a night of camping. Having no idea where we were, we asked the shop owner if there was somewhere nice for us to set up a tent for the night. She directed us to the West Point Lighthouse. After a night of celebration and maybe a bit too much Scotch, we woke up before the sun to explore. When you’re in possibly the most beautiful place in the world, there is no amount of Scotch that excuses missing a sunrise; plus, keeping with the theme of doing whatever the fuck we pleased, we could nap the boring light away. Over the next few days, we covered a nice chunk of the island, camping and cruising the empty roads of Skye.
From Skye, we made our way south to catch the ferry over to Belfast. We danced in and out of the famed Wild Atlantic Way, a coastal road that takes you a couple of thousand miles through every nook and cranny of the Irish coast. As we passed into Ireland, where the speed limits on the windblown, wet, salty coastal roads felt more like a dare than any sort of regulation, it’s no wonder so many Superbike champions hail from that place. We raced down toward the southwestern town of Lahinch to meet up with a friend I’d met on a surf trip a few years earlier, Clem. The man might as well be the ambassador of Ireland, a uniquely generous human being with a heart of gold. After just a few texts in the weeks leading up to our arrival, he dropped everything to show us a good time, insisting that we stay as long as we pleased. We spent a couple of days off the bikes—which felt weird at that point—to enjoy the local pub and some sights, and, as luck would have it, a rare summer swell. We paddled out and got a few waves with Clem and a couple of the local boys at their secret spot all to ourselves. Oh, and breakfast rolls, an entire Irish breakfast on a baguette. I still dream about it.
At this point, a bit of reality set in as we realized we were running low on time before we had to get back to real life. As much as we wanted to keep it rolling, you can only put off responsibility for so long. We had a choice – either take a leisurely ride back to France to drop the bikes, or hammer down and cross off the true prize of the trip, one of the world’s greatest roads, Furka Pass. There was never really a question, so we made our way toward the Alps. The next five days were a blur, smashing down highways for as long as our bodies could take the wind beating us down. We made it across Ireland, over to Wales, through southern England, over to France, into Belgium, and through southwest Germany until we hit Switzerland, but fucking-A, was it worth it.
Somehow, we found ourselves a bit ahead of schedule, and I thought, for the joke and the story, it was worth dropping into Italy just for a bowl of pasta. It added about 6 hours in the saddle, but now I get to write this sentence.
A storm brewed as we passed through the Alps from Italy back into France. Rushing to catch our flight, we knew we had no choice but to ride through it. As the rain fell, a fog rolled in so thick you could swim in it. You reach a critical mass of not giving a damn when it comes to riding in the wet. At some point you can’t soak up any more water; like a sponge in a pool, you’re as wet as you can be, and you might as well keep going. Atop the peak, a bitter cold settled in. A cold that cuts through everything you have. A cold you can only find in the mountains, where the rain drops like needles poking at your hands as your knuckles turn white, gripping the bars for dear life. The rain finally gave in and turned to snow. As we descended, the snow turned back to rain, but it picked up, and the road began to feel more like a river. Downshifting to save my life, the backfire of the V-twin echoed off the cliff walls as I hugged the corners. You can’t help laughing at it; something about the misery makes for the best days of the trip. Maybe because it makes for a good story, or maybe because you feel you’ve earned the sunny days. Regardless, each time I pulled up next to Nate, we were both smiling ear to ear. We had found a proper ending to our story.
Sitting in the helmet gives you a lot of time to think—maybe too much if you’ve got things you don’t much like remembering. I thought maybe all that time might help rid me of that heartbreak, but what I came to realize was that the old cliché rang true: Time is the best medicine for that. What I did find out from all that fucking about was: Why the hell would I want to put an end to it? The trip opened me up to the world of motorcycle touring and showed me what I’d say is the best way to see the world. It reminded me that this is exactly what I want to be doing. I ended up making the move to New York a few months after we got back home. It was time to make the smart choice for my career. But the freedom that you can only find on a bike showed me that I didn’t need to hold onto Colorado — that an adventure is always out there waiting if you’re willing to go take it.
Wesley Schultz
On Motorcycles and Music
Words by Dale Spangler | Photos by Ryan Handt
A film by Jean Pierre Kathoefer
Like many of us obsessed with two-wheels, Wesley Schultz got his first bike at a young age. As he describes it, it was one of those Dumb and Dumber minibikes where two people can fit on the seat if needed.
“I had a neighbor who was a mechanic,” recalls Schultz. “And one time he came over and took it apart and put it back together and made sure that the governor wasn’t working on it anymore. You could haul ass on that thing!” Not long after, when he was 11 years old, Schultz got his first dirt bike, a Honda XR80 that his dad bought for him. He learned to ride in the woods near his home in Ramsey, New Jersey, located in the northeast part of the state close to the New York border, and near the Catskill Mountains and Hudson River Valley. “I created a little dirt track in these protected woods nearby,” remembers Schultz. “I raked out a path from a walking path that was already there, created a jump, and a couple of friends and I would go out there and ride laps and see how fast we could go and how high we could get.”
Like most kids that age, his riding often involved a bit of mischief. “I remember calling my friend and saying, ‘Look out your window in 10 minutes.’ I was way across town, so I took the dirt bike on all these side streets, made it all the way there, rode by him and gave him the finger, kept going, and then got home and called him again on my landline and said, ‘Did you see me?’” Schultz has many fond memories of his childhood in New Jersey, riding bicycles and motorcycles, for which he is grateful. “I wasn’t very good at it, but I loved doing it,” says Schultz. “I remember riding dirt bikes and getting in these little accidents, falling on the dirt and wet leaves and things like that. Whereas concrete is not nearly as forgiving. I feel like just having an awareness of how fast things can happen, I think that that’s a really great way to learn. You take a little fall, so you don’t take a big fall.”
Fast forward to the present, and despite his success as a musician, Wesley Schultz is a man who still loves riding motorcycles. As the frontman of the band The Lumineers, he helped the band gain worldwide recognition and a massive following with his instantly recognizable, raspy-yet-soothing voice, honest and heartfelt lyrics and songwriting, and incredible musicianship. Add to that the other band members’ musical abilities, catchy melodies, infectious live energy, and a refreshingly raw sound, and the result is nearly 11 million monthly Spotify followers, with a combined 1.5 billion listens to its top five songs. They are a magical combination of extremely talented artists who put in the hard work and paid their dues by grinding it out on the live music circuit until they achieved success with their breakout 2012 self-titled album, The Lumineers.
With the Lumineers based in Colorado, Schultz spends most of his time in the Denver area, but he still tries to visit where he grew up and the Catskills as often as he can. To Schultz, the area has a special allure, and for many music fans and musicians, the area is hallowed ground—with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Janis Joplin, and other well-known musicians having lived and recorded in the area at one time or another. Schultz is also drawn to the Catskills because of the well-maintained, scenic, and twisty roads that are perfect for motorcycle riding.
Spending time in both Colorado and the Catskills throughout the year, Schultz believes that in their own ways, both places play a big part in his life. “I grew up about two hours south of where I’m at now, in the Catskills. This whole region just feels like home,” explains Schultz. “When we came out to make our second record, Cleopatra, we were about to record in Colorado. We were going to do a 1970s move and turn a barn into a studio. Then the guy renting us the barn found out who we were and tripled the price, and we were like, what?” With the band scheduled to record in three weeks, Schultz called upon his friend Simone Felice (of the band The Felice Brothers) to help them find a studio to record in. Felice, who’s from the Catskills, lined up a studio called The Clubhouse in Rhinebeck, New York, where bands like The National and others have recorded.
“So, it was sort of by happenstance that we came back out here,” recalls Schultz. “And when we got here, I started to realize there was this power to the area. It’s like a vortex. Something happened. It’s like what I’ve heard about Taos, New Mexico, but it happened here. All these people in the past, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan… I mean, Jimi Hendrix used to plug in his amp and play on his deck, and it bounced off the mountains. He loved that sound, and the neighbors never complained. So many iconic artists came up here and called this home for a while. It’s got a power to it that’s kind of hard to describe, other than to say it’s an energy that stirs something in you.”
After that fateful trip to the Catskills to record the album Cleopatra, the energy Schultz initially felt began to carry over into his motorcycle riding in the area. It’s something that has become a significant part of his songwriting and musical process. “I’ve been riding around on motorcycles a lot through this area for the last five years when I’m here, which is a lot, and I use it as a jumping-off point for lyrical ideas, and sometimes even melodies,” explains Schultz. “On Cleopatra, the song ‘Angela’ wasn’t even going to be on the album, and it became this defining song for the album. It wasn’t written yet. And then we started writing it while riding motorcycles. We were on bikes, Simone and I, just riding around, and we would stop randomly, and over the sound of the engines, we would shout lyrics. Sort of sing-shouting the lyrics, loud enough to hear, the verses of ‘Angela.’” On another occasion, he recalls riding at night on an eerie winding and narrow road, and coming upon a bank of fog. Fog he describes as the type that feels like one is riding through a ghost house. And that’s when the last verse of the song “Angela” came to him.
And it keeps happening.
The Lumineers are currently in the process of writing a new record. Schultz feels like the best song on the album doesn’t even have a name yet, but it’s a song he thinks can be a foundational track. A track that Schultz wrote the majority of the lyrics for while out riding. Not that riding motorcycles is the end-all for how he writes music. But he does believe the two go hand in hand. “It’s not necessarily that I get on the bike and say I’m going to write lyrics today,” Schultz points out. “It’s more like it just sometimes happens. I think part of it is where you ride. I’m riding on backcountry roads that I know really well now after five years, so I’m not thinking about where I’m going. I plot out a big loop, and then I do that loop.” Back in Denver, Schultz used to ride back and forth to the band’s studio. But he didn’t enjoy riding in the city, with all of its traffic and people who don’t always see motorcyclists the same way they do cars. It’s not that he worried about rider error; he was concerned about getting hit. So, Schultz sticks to mountain and backcountry roads when he’s in Denver, because he finds it much more relaxing and enjoyable.
As it turns out, splitting his time between Denver and the Catskills is a perfect way for Schultz to keep himself motivated and focused on his music. He draws parallels between the two places. After moving to Denver eleven years ago, he realized the Rocky Mountains define the area in much the same way the Catskills define southeastern New York. “The Rockies are a young mountain range, they’re adolescents. They’re angry; they look aggressive. The Catskill mountains are old, and they’re wise, they’re smoothed over. There’s wisdom in those mountains,” opines Schultz. He senses a similar power and energy in the Colorado Rockies to what he feels when in the Catskills. “I go back home to Denver, and it’s like, ‘that’s my journey.’ I grew up around here [Catskills], but I wanted to go somewhere on my own. It wasn’t necessary, but I found it to be just such an incredible place.”
Like the rest of the world, life changed significantly for Wesley Schultz due to COVID-19. Bands are no longer touring. Music venues remain closed. Instead of dwelling on it, Schultz tries to take things in stride, not look too far ahead, enjoy spending time with his family, live in the moment and be present instead of always looking ahead to the future. “I’m just trying to write as much as I can, but I’ve also never had this time with my family. It’s like that Michael Jordan documentary, The Last Dance. The thing about Michael that they bring up is how present he was. He had this ability to be present … He wouldn’t get too far ahead of himself, and he wouldn’t live in the past, either. It’s a good example to remember.”
When asked if he thinks it will be an incredibly special moment when he and his bandmates finally get to play live shows again, Schultz’s reply is an emphatic yes. He believes it will be a celebration for everybody because “people can only stream so many shows online.” For him, it’s about the feeling one gets when they’re there. Live and in person. “Music can be that way for me, for [all] people,” says Schultz. “We’re getting together, having someone say something on a microphone, sing something. The communal aspect of it is healing, it’s cathartic, and you can’t get that by virtually being there. We’ve evolved to be social creatures, so when live shows come back, there’s going to be a renewed appreciation for the fact that we can all do that together. I think people are going to be more emotional than ever because we couldn’t do that for a little while, and we figured out how important it was to us.”
Even though Wesley Shultz and The Lumineers are unable to play in front of a live audience right now, he believes the adrenaline and everything else that goes along with playing live music has to go somewhere. It doesn’t just go away. Instead, he believes that energy gets redirected toward something else. Triumph Motorcycles recently presented Schultz with a 1200 XC Scrambler, complete with custom paint. The bike gave him a renewed reason to get out and ride motorcycles in the Catskills—a perfect way to redirect his energy. “I didn’t see the bike before it was unveiled in person. I had a discussion with Triumph and with the artist Daar, who did the custom paint,” describes Schultz. “And then they made this thing that’s just so perfect, and I’m super grateful because I love riding. I’ve been riding anytime it’s a clear day. It’s become a catalyst for coming up with lyrics and melodies. You feel like you have this hit of dopamine, but you have to be ready to react quickly. You can’t be on your phone. You can’t be anywhere else in your mind.”
Season of the Sun
One Last Farewell to Summer
Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Alex Strohl
Directed by Alex Strohl | Produced by Ben Giese | Cinematography by Caleb Stastko | Edited by InMist Media House
First you feel it in the air. Winter is coming like it always does. The season of sun and fiery love is at its bitter end. I fill my lungs in the brisk Montana afternoon and exhale a sigh of relief. I just landed in the small resort town of Whitefish, and as I relax at the edge of the river, I notice that a few of the nearby peaks received a dusting of snow last night. It’s still green down here, but soon these leaves will fade to a color rare as gold, and the days will begin to grow a bit darker and colder. Within a matter of weeks, the Flathead Valley will be painted white and our motorcycles will be exiled into hibernation. I’m here to meet up with photographer Alex Strohl – we’ve been chatting about a two-wheeled adventure for several months now, and this might be our last chance to make it happen before the snow. It would be the last big ride of the season. One final night under the stars. One last farewell to summer.
Photo by Isaac Johnston
Alex Strohl is a Madrid-born French photographer who now resides in Whitefish with his life partner, Andrea Dabene. They call Montana home, but Alex spends the majority of his time on the road, traveling to some of the most remote corners of the globe capturing beautiful images of the people, places and moments that unfold before him. His photography seems to exist on a higher level, one unattainable by most mortals. So, it comes as no surprise that his client list includes some of the largest brands and most prestigious publications on the planet. His work has also gained notoriety from millions of fans and aspiring photographers across the world, and Alex enjoys giving back to that community through workshops offered by his company, Wildist.
Alex picked me up by the river, and we drove up the mountain for an evening at the incredible home that he and Andrea recently designed and built. Andrea welcomed me inside, and Alex proceeded to give me a tour of the place, which was recently featured by Dwell Magazine. Alex and Andrea prepared a beautiful dinner for us, and as we sat around telling stories I pondered how one rises to such levels of success. We ate cheese and drank wine, and as I got to know Alex a bit better, the answer to my question became more clear. Whether it’s the process of designing and building this extraordinary home, a love of certain vintage cars and motorcycles, a passion for travel and geography, a taste for single-origin coffees or a surprisingly intricate knowledge of olive oil – when Alex finds an interest in something, he goes all in. He’s a man of obsession and curiosity. And it shows in his work. He tells me that even when he doesn’t have a camera, he’s taking pictures in his mind. It’s just how he sees the world. And I think that’s what it takes to be great at something the way Alex is. It’s why his photography is in such high demand. It’s just the way he lives his life. Always on the move. Chasing the next adventure and the next location. The next beautiful moment to capture.
The following morning, we said farewell to civilization and headed out into the forest to meet up with a few of Alex’s friends who would be joining us on the ride. The ragtag crew consisted of Isaac Johnston, Theron Humphrey and Eli Clark. Friends and photographers from different walks of life who all share a love of vintage motorcycles and the great outdoors. Local filmmaker Caleb Stasko joined in, as well, to help document the journey. Caleb and I stood back and observed as the boys unloaded bikes and exchanged high fives and hugs. It was obvious that this group knew each other well. Likeminded souls with an intimate bond that could only be found through years of shared experiences. Alex tells me that these guys try to meet up for these rides several times each year, and it’s something they always look forward to.
Alex mapped out a route that would take us 60 miles through some dusty dirt roads and singletrack up to a scenic camping spot near the Canadian border. So, we mixed some gas, kickstarted the old two-strokes and hit the trail in a cloud of blue smoke. It felt good to finally be on the bikes with the wind and dust in our faces, soaking up the last of that seductive summer sun. We enjoyed this moment of bliss for a few miles until Alex’s Husqvarna broke down and skidded to a stop. We’ve got a long way to go still, but nobody seemed too concerned. These kinds of issues are just part of the adventure, and part of the challenge that comes with riding these vintage machines. Isaac busted out some tools and spent a half hour or so investigating the problem, and when we finally hit the road again, Isaac’s Yamaha started acting up. Alex and Isaac had just bought these bikes before the trip, and this was their first ride on each of them. I guess you can expect a motorcycle to acquire a few gremlins over the course of 40 years, but it surely wasn’t going to keep us from reaching our destination.
Back on the road, we started gaining elevation, and the rocks and holes seemed to be getting rougher with each mile. The bikes were showing their age, but the humans were all smiles. Eventually we turned off the road and onto a steep stretch of winding singletrack that took us deeper into the pines and farther up the mountain, until we reached Cyclone Peak, an old fire tower with a spectacular 360-degree view of the Whitefish Range. This felt like a great place to chill for a bit and take in the expansive beauty of Big Sky Country.
We sat around throwing rocks and laughing like little kids as Alex climbed up the fire tower to snap some photos. He decided to shoot the entire trip on a film camera. He tells me that shooting on film helps him to be more present in the moment and not think so much about the photography – a beautiful perspective that I wish more people would embrace. I’m getting the sense that there’s a deeper, more unspoken significance to these rides, too. It’s like these guys are living proof that you don’t need expensive equipment to have a good time. Old bikes and analog cameras are enough.
Eli points down to a distant spot in the valley and tells me about the Polebridge Mercantile, a bakery famous for their huckleberry bear claws. Some baked goods sounded pretty amazing after eating dust all afternoon. Isaac revealed his insatiable sweet tooth and urged us to gear up and blaze a trail back down the mountain before the bakery closed. So, we continued onward down more singletrack and winding dirt roads, stopping occasionally to snap some photos. There was no real schedule and no real plans. That’s how Alex likes to work. Capturing the moments as they really happen. Nothing forced. I think that mindset brings a lot of authenticity to his work, and with each new image you know there’s going to be a story to tell.
We reached the bakery just in time, and what a marvelous and memorable place it was. A rustic paradise at the end of a long and dusty road. A living piece of history hidden deep in the wilderness. An oasis for the weary traveler, where fresh-baked breads and heavenly cinnamon rolls await. The Polebridge Mercantile was originally established in 1914 and has served as a remote general store, bakery and base camp for over 100 years. It feels like stepping back in time, as I imagine this place hasn’t changed much over the years. Some refer to it as “North Fork’s Last Best Outpost,” and many consider it to be an essential stop when visiting the western side of Glacier National Park. It’s not easy to get here, but like all good things, the journey is part of the reward.
We feasted on a variety of bear claws and pastries, and Isaac ate a few extra for safe measure. I didn’t want to leave, but we still had another 15 miles to travel before dark, so with full bellies and a satisfied sweet tooth, we got back on the bikes. The sun was getting low, and we spent the next couple of miles riding through heavenly beams of golden dust shining through the trees. As we climbed higher and higher, the landscape opened up and the sky began to fade into a delicate shade of pink. A truly sublime moment with my new friends.
The sun faded away behind a distant peak as we arrived at our camp spot near Hornet Lookout. Wildfires charred this region back in 2003, but now it flourishes with grass and wildflowers, and the lack of trees now offers breathtaking views of the surrounding terrain. Isaac and I sat on our bikes and admired the afterglow as he told me about a recent trip he took up here with his family. Meanwhile, Alex was snapping some photos of the sunset, and Theron pulled out his chainsaw to cut up a downed tree. Eli built us a fire, and we spent the next few hours reminiscing on an amazing afternoon. Endless smiles around the glow of our last summer flame. No chairs or tents, just our motorcycles and the stars.
Winter’s cold breath whispered upon our camp and the frigid mountain air summoned us to bundle up in our sleeping bags. The temperature would end up dropping well below freezing that night, yet another reminder of summer’s cruel demise. I zipped myself up tight so that only my eyes were exposed, and as I looked up at the stars, I contemplated what a paradox Alex Strohl is. He’s got this cozy life at home and clearly enjoys the finer things, but he finds the most comfort out here sleeping in the dirt. He’s obsessed with the details, but not when it comes to making plans. He’s very particular about most things, especially food, but he’s thrilled to sit here and eat MREs around the campfire. And while his photography has risen to incredible levels of fame, he somehow remains completely grounded. He’s a fascinating human with a solid head on his shoulders. I’m thankful for this opportunity to share an adventure with him and his friends.
After a long and cold night, the moon gave way to the rising sun, and we geared up for a frosty ride back down the mountain. I could already see a change in the leaves from the previous night, and it was obviously time for us to let go and say our goodbyes. To the trees and the dusty trails. To our bikes and the adventures they bring. To each other and to summer. One last farewell.
Dead Man Walking
The Justin Mulford Story
Words by Brett Smith
A film by Fox Racing Digital Cinema | Photography by Anthony Acosta, Derrick Busch, Gordon Dooley, Jordan Hoover, Ryan Marcus & Avery Rost
Denise Mazzotti bolted from the hospital room the moment she heard the “pop!” Running down the hallway and screaming, she overheard a walkie-talkie, maybe a speaker, crackle: “RAPID RESPONSE TEAM TO ROOM 448!” Her oldest son, Justin Mulford, was bleeding to death. Again. He had asked to get on his feet to use the bathroom and brush the fuzz from his teeth. He hadn’t brushed his teeth since he had shattered his right leg four days earlier. An occupational therapist assisted him to the restroom. While brushing, Mulford mentioned how dizzy he felt. The therapist moved with haste to get the patient back to the bed.
The loud “pop!” happened when Mulford moved to a prone position and swung the tender leg back on the bed. Blood squirted “like water out of a sprinkler,” Mazzotti says, from every hole in his leg, which had multiple incisions and staples from several surgeries in two different hospitals over the previous four days. He also had seven holes left over from the external fixator he wore after a failed first surgery. Blood gushed from all outlets.
Staff rushed into room 448. Distraught, Mazzotti says she waited in the hallway because she didn’t want to worry him. She could hear the nurses and doctors telling Justin to keep calm so his heart wouldn’t pump blood faster. She felt far from calm.
Ten minutes went by. “But it could have been three minutes,” she says. “It felt like forever.” Then she got the sinking feeling that maybe she would never see him again. She poked her head into the room and locked eyes with her boy. He had no saturation in his skin tone. “Mom, I’m cold,” he said. While the medical team rushed to get blood back into his body and prep him for yet another operation, he remembers having what seemed like “100 blankets” on top of his body, yet he still shivered. Someone looked down on him and repeated in a mantra-like tone “stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.”
“I thought I was losing him right there,” Mazzotti says. Mulford says the constant pain he’d felt for days suddenly evaporated. His body was letting go. He urinated and defecated in the bed. Then, a serene, euphoric feeling overcame him, and he no longer felt he was in his own body. “I thought I had died,” he says. “I felt like I was in some waiting room, waiting to go to heaven…” He pauses. “Or hell.” He laughs. “I felt really pure. There was no one around. I didn’t get it.”
Mulford had suffered a ruptured pseudoaneurysm in his lower leg. The “pop” was the artery bursting. Also known as a false aneurysm, a pseudoaneurysm is a collection of blood trapped between soft tissue layers of an artery.
How the artery was compromised to begin with is hard to prove, but when Mulford arrived at Palomar Medical Center – after being transferred by his mother from a different hospital – on the afternoon of June 6, 2019, major swelling in his leg prohibited doctors from performing an ultrasound. He arrived unannounced to the Palomar ER in the back of his own cargo van. Twelve hours earlier, in the small hours of the morning, Mulford had emerged from a five-hour surgery at an acute-care facility north of San Diego, California. Mazzotti and her younger son Anthony spoke with the orthopedic surgeon for almost 20 minutes. He told them Justin needed further surgeries, the bone was “pulverized,” and the rod didn’t take because his bone was too fragmented. Instead, a fasciotomy was performed so the leg didn’t get compartment syndrome, which would have killed the muscle tissues.
Mulford had no medical insurance. They were advised to apply for emergency Medi-Cal, California’s Medicaid healthcare program, and get transferred to a trauma hospital that accepted that coverage. Mazzotti already felt dizzy from trying to understand why her son needed more surgeries and learning the logistics of what to do about being uninsured; when she finally saw Justin later that morning her concerns multiplied. Ultimately, she signed an “against medical advice” form, plopped him in a desk chair and wheeled him out to his van.
With his leg still caged in an external fixator and bleeding from the fasciotomy, he gritted his teeth and bumped along California Highway 78 toward Escondido. A storage tote supported his limb; the toes of his black-and-blue foot stuck out the end of the ecru-colored bandage wrap. This was a familiar scene: Less than 24 hours earlier, he had arrived at the first hospital in the back of this van, his Honda CRF450R tied down next to him. Wrapped in a blue hospital gown, he scrolled through his Instagram feed. When he arrived at Palomar, he needed six pints of blood. The average human body contains 10 pints total. Three days later, most of that blood pooled around the bed in room 448.
Mulford knew he hadn’t gone to heaven (or hell) when he saw a friend, professional skateboarder David Loy, sitting next to him. He said to himself, “No way! I’m not dead!” When the artery was sealed and he woke from surgery and saw his leg still attached to his body, Mulford cried from happiness. “I saw the light and kissed death,” he says. He had been through hell and survived, but he wasn’t even close to the end.
He spent nearly the entire month of June 2019 in hospitals. And, not only did he have another operation planned six weeks into the future to fix his shattered right ankle, he was hoping that his bones would be strong enough to someday continue what he had started: a full video part for Fox.
From Bikes to Boards
Listening to Justin Mulford talk is exhausting. He speaks rapidly in syntax-challenged sentences that either don’t get finished, or he changes thoughts midway through. It’s mental whiplash for the listener. But that grinding, energetic, erratic mind is what gives Mulford – known as MULFS to his fans and friends – the creativity to pursue his craft. Raised by a surfer and heavily influenced by skateboarding, Mulford has a unique blend of talents not found in most dirt bike riders. But those talents sometimes came at the expense of contentious, emotional and often painful circumstances.
In 2006, he came home from school to see, with mixed feelings, his father selling his motorcycles. Support from a benefactor had dried up, and the money wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t think it was permanent, though. He had hit the pause button on his amateur motocross career before.
Born in October 1989, Mulford grew up in Huntington Beach, California. His dad, Jerry, wrapped automobiles and worked for the City of Pomona as a painter. Though his passion was surfing, he bought Justin a Yamaha PW50 off the showroom for his third birthday in 1992 and got himself a Honda CR250. They rode together until Jerry broke his leg and gave it up. Justin continued to ride, and Jerry focused on his son. Justin remembers the exact date – March 17, 1997 – at Starwest; riding a 50cc LEM, he entered his first race and won.
He became one of the kids to watch in SoCal. At the major races, such as the AMA Amateur Motocross National Championships at Loretta Lynn’s, the World Mini GP and Mammoth Mountain, he had tough competition. He saw Josh Hill, Wil Hahn, Zach Osborne, Drew Gosselaar, Sean Hackley, Jeff Alessi and others regularly. He earned the nickname “Bustin’ Justin,” which announcers often elongated to “Bustin’ Justin The Beach Boy Mulford.” A funny side note – yet still connected to his love of video parts – Mulford lived down the street from Seth Enslow and appeared in several Crusty films. His most notable appearance was in Crusty 4: God Bless the Freaks, where he opens the movie delivering newspapers on his Kawasaki KX60 (he was only eight years old). In Crusty 2000: The Metal Millennium, he’s the kid who rides up and steals the ice cream from Bubba. This association might explain how he wound up with sponsorship from alt-edge brands like Fleshgear and Black Flys Eyewear.
Mulford’s star shined. Honda of Houston supported him, and the contingency money earned at major races in Southern California and the wider region became a windfall. Then came the expectations.
“I stopped [at 13 in 2003] because the pressure got to be too much,” Mulford says. “I felt like my dad wanted it more than I did. We got physical with each other. Mentally it was hurtful.” He paused for eight months and went to live with his mom. Two years later the money evaporated, the bikes were sold off, and he stopped talking to his dad. They’re very close now, but he didn’t touch a motorcycle for almost 10 years.
Mulford immersed himself back into his other passions: board sports, especially skateboarding. He idolized Mark Gonzales, a street skater named “The Most Influential Skateboarder of All-Time” in a 2011 issue of Transworld Skateboarding magazine. He watched the 1998 Birdhouse Skateboards film The End every single morning and owned three Willy Santos boards as a child.
“I just know that if I lost everything in the world, I could have a skateboard in my hand and just be chill,” he says. He was 15 when he stopped racing motocross for good, but he already had a decade of street skating exposure and experience. He also liked to snowboard. His parents split in 1992, not long after the motorcycles arrived, and his mom eventually ended up in Big Bear, California. Justin stayed in Huntington Beach, but when he stopped racing, he said, “I’m going to be a little scumbag snowboarder!”, and he lived in Big Bear.
With his friends and younger half-brothers, he made street snowboard videos at Bear Mountain, applying to snow what he had learned from years of watching his skate idols. He traveled to Japan four times and all around the U.S., started a media brand called FEELixx and earned some small sponsorships and even pro boards with Smokin’ and Tech 9. A contract worth $30,000 was put in front of him at one point. He was 17 years old but didn’t really feel like he had earned anything. “I didn’t want that pressure. I wasn’t comfortable with that.” He turned it down.
In 2009, he went to the Anaheim Supercross by himself and got a gut punch. Riders he had battled just a few years earlier ran up front in the qualifying heats. Damn it. Jerry was right. As a child, whenever he had struggled or expressed desire to give up, Jerry told him someday he would go to a professional race, see kids he competed against and be bummed. Those kids would win because they worked hard and put in the effort.
“I walked out of that race with tears in my eyes,” he says. “I told myself I’d never touch a dirt bike again.” He sunk himself deeper into snowboarding, skating and filming. Mulford openly admits his bitterness and how he acted like a “punk ass” to counter his depressed feelings. Snowboarding helped him cope, and he learned to collaborate with other riders on video parts and sessions. He still wanted nothing to do with dirt bikes.
Taking it to the Streets
Through mutual friends, he met Nyjah Huston in the summer of 2011. Huston was 16, had just cut off his dreadlocks, was in the middle of filming his Element video part, “Rise & Shine,” and already was on his way to earning the title he owns today: most successful competitive street skater of all time. As of November 2020, Huston is a 13-time X Games gold medalist, with 23 Street League Skateboarding victories. He has a 10,000-square-foot personal street skate course in a Southern California warehouse, owns a fleet of exotic cars and splits his time between homes in Hollywood and Laguna Beach, where his ocean-view mansion earned a feature in Architectural Digest. He also loves dirt bikes and rode them around the Huston farm as a child, where his parents lived a strict and secluded Rastafarian lifestyle.
Huston remembered Mulford’s name from the pages of Racer X Illustrated, a magazine devoted specifically to motocross racing and lifestyle. They also bonded on the subject of overbearing fathers. In a February 2018 appearance on The Nine Club, Huston opened up about his youth: “He was always on our ass,” he told host Chris Roberts, about the Huston brothers working with their father managing and coaching them. “‘You need to be winning this shit!’ It was hectic being that young, having a father figure that was so, like, ‘you need to do good.’”
Huston and their friends begged Mulford to get back on the motocross track. He rejected the idea outright every time. “No, I’m not going,” Mulford remembers saying. “You cannot fucking get me to go out there ever again.” They didn’t relent and spent over a year working him, needling him. They knew better than he did where he needed to be.
During a night of partying and too much liquid courage, Mulford caved and agreed to show up at Milestone MX, a now-closed public facility in Riverside, California. He was pissed about what he had gotten himself into, but he kept his word. While gearing up to ride, he got the old vibes and energy that he’d thought were long lost. “I felt like a Transformer,” he says. “You know when you have that routine as a kid, you think about how you want to do things… I was already calculating what I was going to do when I got on the track that day. I was focused. That’s why those kids walk around with a mean look all the time; they’re focused as shit.”
Riding Huston’s 2012 Honda CRF450R and wearing his gear, Mulford felt fluid on the track. The skills, the muscle memory, the motorcycle memory came back. Maybe they had never left. He thought maybe he could even race! After all, he was only 24 years old. He teared up when he came off the track and talked faster and more erratically than usual. “I annoyed myself I was so excited!” he says. Mulford tried to buy a bike the very next day. He had no money, nor the credit to finance a bike. He loaded up on credit cards, even got a Best Buy card and bought a laptop and other accessories to build up a credit score. When he could, he sold his Volkswagen Jetta, bought a truck and then a 2015 Kawasaki KX450, and he started hitting the tracks and hills. Old sponsors started sniffing around, and he was happy to enjoy two wheels again.
The euphoria of spinning laps at the motocross tracks around SoCal, however, faded. “I realized I wasn’t going to be able to afford racing,” he says. “Plus, I would have to have 10 people sacrifice for me. I would have to kiss a bunch of ass, and I was so far behind already. I didn’t want to do freestyle; I didn’t want to do backflips. I needed my own route.”
He can remember the day, even the moment, when his route became clearer. In October 2015, at Fox Raceway in Pala, California, he motioned his crew’s attention toward a three- or four-step staircase that had a six-foot-long picnic table set about a bike length from the top step. He said he wanted to “firecracker nose press” it, a board sports term that doesn’t completely translate to dirt bikes. Basically, he wanted to use the stairs as a ramp and ride across the picnic table on the front wheel of his bike.
His buddies scoffed. “You’re not going to do that,” he remembers them saying. “So, I go to nose bonk this bench and it hit me right there, ‘Bro, I want to make films!’” A half-dozen people stood around the table and captured Mulford on camera. He got a confidence boost when Jeremy “Twitch” Stenberg’s brand, Dirt Bike Kidz, posted the clip with this caption: “Our dude @_justinmulford using his snowboard skills at the track again haha.”
The following summer, Huston asked Mulford to bring a bike to a public park in San Juan Capistrano for help filming skate clips. Mulford towed Huston into a roller for a high-speed backside flip. Eventually a moto session broke out in the middle of the public park. In an Instagram post, he officially put the word out that he wanted to release an urban moto part. But he learned quickly that the dirt bike community wasn’t as welcoming as skating and snowboarding. If a spot had already been ridden, it was considered “shut down,” and if you rode it after someone else, you were labeled a copycat or a poacher. It wasn’t a collaborative effort as it is in skating, where one rider tries to outdo another and urges each other on in the interest of progression.
Ricki Bedenbaugh has spent 30 years in the streets with a camera in his hand. He understands the code that street skaters live by. “Skaters won’t tell you about a spot until they get what they want out of it,” he says. “But when someone sees somebody do something at a spot or on a feature, then everyone else knows it’s possible. And it means something else can be done on it.” Now a full-time employee in the Fox video department, Bedenbaugh said motorcycle riders are still developing their code.
Mulford openly discussed ideas with other riders whose talents he respected. He wanted to build camaraderie and community, lift each other up. But then he’d see his ideas pop up in social media clips days or weeks later. Backs started to turn on him, and he knew he had to be more careful. It confounded him, because he thought he could bring a lot of value to this sub-niche of riding. He believes people take his kindness as a weakness.
“It takes a lifetime to know the streets,” he says. “I know how to study a spot, evaluate the security and patrols, and hurry up and get it done when it’s time.” He’s learned the hard way, too. After spending hours prepping a snowboard location, he and his friends didn’t realize the cops were waiting and watching nearby. When they finally went to ride it, the officers stepped in and shut them down.
A break came when he met skate videographer John Note, who helped finish the urban moto part. Having an experienced cameraman with equipment and connections didn’t solve all his problems, though. Mulford was so broke in 2017, trying to focus on riding and stacking clips, that he lived out of his truck. He painted houses with his dad, trimmed weeds for friends and occasionally worked for his mom’s taxi company in Big Bear. “I love this whether I’m paying to do it or getting paid to do it,” he says.
He was close to finishing the part when a $1,000 one-night demo gig at a county fair popped up. On the first jump, he framed the landing hard and broke four ribs, lacerated his liver, bruised a lung, dislocated a wrist, and blew tissue out in his ankles. He had to wait another four months to ride again and had to watch in agony while other riders released clips of themselves hitting his spots.
After more delays, the part finally landed May 1, 2018, on Race Service Media’s channels, with the curious and cumbersome title “Justin Mulford drops the first ever STREET MOTO part.” Today he laughs about that headline, which raised eyebrows with its bold claim of being “first.” Nobody asked him what he wanted to call it. Between YouTube and Facebook, the part picked up 4.5 million views, an impressive haul for a rider with no major sponsors pushing his message.
Mulford hit legendary skate spots like El Toro and incorporated favorite hangouts of his youth. He rode up and over a baseball field’s chain link backstop, and for the finale, jumped over the 710 freeway on-ramp in Long Beach. Running into the frame at the end of the two-minute, 25-second part was Nyjah Huston.
The video caught the attention of Jeff Taylor, then the senior vice president of global marketing at Fox. Taylor wanted a full street moto video part for Fox and signed Mulford, who couldn’t believe it: Fox wanted to pay him to do something he would do (had been doing!) for free. Ryan Marcus, Fox’s video director, also saw it and said to himself, “This dude is insane and he’s thinking about things differently. Who is this guy?”
Suddenly, Mulford didn’t have just one videographer simply happy to help; he had the entire video department of an iconic moto brand at his disposal. Mulford made a location wish list and went to work riding spots that he had wanted to hit in his first video. Bedenbaugh was one of three videographers on the project. He jelled with Mulford because they shared skate influence. “He’s got the mentality of a skater and sometimes acts like a skater,” Bedenbaugh says. “If it doesn’t work, you keep coming back. Mulfs has that mentality. He gets it.”
They started in earnest on the film in February 2019. Bedenbaugh met Mulford at Hollywood High, a legendary LA skate location. Huston came, too, which was such a rich confluence of talent for Bedenbaugh. He had first shot Huston around 2003, as a dreadlocked grom. At Hollywood High, Mulford rode up the 12-step, wheelied across the flat and jumped down the 16-step. They also did some doubles shots where Huston grinded the rail and Mulford jumped down the stairs.
Mulford banked clips through the winter and spring and checked locations off his list. Support from Fox came in. His dreams weren’t just dreams anymore. They were actions. Then disaster struck. “I got greedy and I got served,” Mulford says of the crash that put him in the hospital on June 5, 2019. Make that two hospitals. He had found a wall ride in Oceanside he wanted to hit. But first he made the grave error of jumping over a chain link fence. He wanted to warm up, get psyched for what he came to do. An easy blip of the throttle put him up and over the fence. He landed on a sloped dirt bank that butted up against an asphalt access road. He went for it again, only this time he wanted to “send it to the street.”
In mobile phone footage shot from the landing side, his takeoff looked awkward. The bike turned down to the right side, and Mulford’s left leg dangled off the back like he planned to pull either a nac nac or eject. As the bike descended toward the smooth, dark asphalt, he swung the leg back to the foot peg. He didn’t get fully straightened out and landed on the rear tire’s side knobbies. The front wheel pointed toward 11 o’clock. Mulford’s right leg stabbed into the ground while the rear end bounced back into the air for a fraction of a second. With the force of 240 pounds falling from approximately 20 feet in the air, the leg bent and twisted underneath and behind him at an unnatural angle. Mulford’s head slammed into the ground; his helmet visor ricocheted. The bike slid to the other side of the road and Mulford grabbed his right leg before the body stopped rolling.
After five surgeries and 27 days in hospitals, followed by months of wheelchairs, crutches and canes, Mulford returned to the bike on February 7, 2020. Before he hit the track, he pulled his riding sock over the leg that gruesomely told the story of his struggle. The skin graft on his right calf looks like a large piece of smoked salmon embedded into his body. Taken from his upper thigh, the piece of flesh (attached with 90 staples) runs from his knee to his ankle. After a day on the vet MX track, he hit booters in the hills later that week. He wanted to get back in front of the camera.
Then COVID-19 came to America and shut down everything in its wake. The checks stopped coming in, and the video crew was grounded. Thankfully, like most of the world, they slowly got back to work as restrictions eased. Now Mulford is antsy and excited to share his vision but also move forward.
“I’m so ready to get it out,” he says. “I want to get on to other stuff. I want to drop this thing and go ‘All right, cool, what’s next?’ I want to keep it going. I got youth left. Images and clips of the part have stayed on lockdown, to use an appropriate 2020 term. Over two dozen locations were visited during the nearly two years of filming. They went to Moab, Big Bear, Arrowhead, Red Bluff, Bakersfield, Oceanside, Huntington Beach and more. Mulford wanted an international locale, but again, the virus. While the streets play a heavy role, the edit found on Fox’s YouTube channel will have a broad range of scenery. “It’s not just trick porn,” Marcus says. “It’ll show a different side of Justin and how much he cares about the tricks he does, the locations he visits, how he looks on the bike. He understands the power of storytelling. He texts me constantly with ideas, locations, even the camera equipment he wants to try. There are few other riders who care about the final product the way he does.”
Mulford hopes this video inspires and sticks in people’s minds. He enjoys seeing other riders post their clips, but he feels new feats lose their strength in the white noise of social media feeds. He hopes he can create lasting memories.
“I hope the part will set a new tone,” he says. “I want longevity. I still watch stuff from 1995 because it stands the test of time. I want to unlock doors for people who don’t have the opportunity to ride every day.”
Cole Seely
Free the Wyvern Souls
A film by Will Luna
Directed by Will Luna | Cinematography by Mason Prendergast & Griffin Denbesten | BTS Photos by Connor Reilly, Will Luna & Mason Prendergast | Music by Louis the Child
The sun is out and it’s a beautiful day at Wyvern Ranch. This location holds a special place in my heart as one of my favorite riding spots & old stomping grounds. I’ve had this video concept in mind for a while now, and I've always wanted to shoot it here at the ranch with Cole. We have been buddies since our early teens, growing up racing and riding together all over the U.S. It’s always fun to shoot with him and so inspiring to watch him ride a motorcycle. His talent and skills are endless. We have had some insane memories together over the years and this project is just another page in our book of good times.
Redux
An Old Machine, Reborn
A film by Ot Boqué featuring Stefan Lantschner | Photos by Héctor Saura
‘REDUX’ not only symbolizes the rebirth of a motorcycle, but the state of mind of a person living in difficult times.
The first time that Stefan Lantschner saw a cafe racer was on a BMX road trip in Austin, Texas ten years ago. “I have always been into motorcycles, but this one stood out to me.” Taking a lot of inspiration from his BMX riding, which has always been smooth and stylish, he found a new creative outlet to express himself. “I think that a cafe racer is very similar to a BMX bike: it’s as minimal and simple as it can be, but still allows you to show your personality in every detail.”
For Stefan, a bike has to look good but also be functional. “I see builds that look insane, but you can tell that they were just made for a showroom.” That is not his approach when it comes to building. “My bikes are built to be ridden. I don‘t waste my time just to look at them afterward. I want to ride them and pop wheelies!”
Like it has been for many others, being locked down at home wasn’t easy for director Ot Boqué. “I couldn’t be productive and I had no ambitions. It kind of felt like a personal crisis, but I was aware that I had to get out of that hole.” So he started thinking, writing, and conceptualizing this project.
As soon as the Spanish government lifted mobility restrictions, Ot and Stefan began shooting and it helped Ot get back to the place he was before the pandemic. “Seeing how Stefan worked on his old bikes, simplifying something very complex and giving it a new life, motivated me to move forward.”
An old machine, reborn to last forever.
The Karakoram Highway
A Three Week Journey Through Northern Pakistan
Words and photos by Archie Leeming
In the north of Pakistan lies the Karakoram mountain range, home to some of the highest and most remote peaks in the world. Against all odds, the Karakoram Highway winds its way through these rugged mountains connecting Pakistan to China at the Khunjerab pass. We set out on motorbikes from Gilgit for three weeks and headed north along the highway, exploring the off-shooting valleys and the small villages it links together.
The journey begins, and we were quickly dwarfed by the vastness of the valleys. We peeled off the highway and found a smaller road across the river to explore.
Finding our way through the terraces of Minipan, one of the many tiny villages perched on the edge of the mountains.
The Karakoram Highway winding its way through the Hunza Valley.
A large section of the highway was damaged by a 2010 landslide that created Lake Attabad. The landslide cut off both the Hunza River and Karakoram Highway, resulting in the formation of the lake.
Two years later, 24 km of bridges and tunnels were built to restore the highway between Pakistan and China.
While we were on our trip, Ramadan had recently passed and its was the festival of Eid al-Fitr that marks the end of the fasting. Thousands of men make the journey by motorbike from Pakistan’s southern cities along the highway to mark the occasion and celebrate. With most women left at home, Zoe was quite a surprise to them when she arrived on her bike.
Before the tunnels were built, boats like these used to ferry cargo and cars around impassible sections of the mountains.
The village of Misgar. Beyond here is the Mintaka pass and the original route to China before the Karakoram highway was built. China thought Mintaka would be more vulnerable to attack so decided on a route via the steeper Khunjerab Pass instead.
Heading north and deeper into the Karakoram mountains, towards the Khunjerab pass.
For centuries this route was used by caravans plodding down the Silk Road. Khunjerab means ‘valley of blood’ as local bandits used to take advantage of the terrain to slaughter merchants and plunder their wares.
From the Khunjerab border post to the petrol stations, whenever there was the chance, there was dancing.
The snow began to fall, and it was time to head back down the pass to warmer temperatures.
We stopped in Ghulkin on our way south and spent two nights with Rehman and his family. Rehman had been sent a laptop by a friend in China, though sadly between the two of us we couldn’t work out how to find the English language option!
Rehman showed us around the valley, taking us to the Passu glacier and the summer village of Zarabad via a fairly treacherous suspension bridge.
Back in Ghulkin, the main road had been turned into a volleyball court.
Along the highway, adjacent valleys run further into the mountains. The road along the Shimshal valley is a dramatic one, so we crossed the river and made our way to the small village at the end of the valley.
For 60km the road hugs the cliff edge along the narrow valley.
With the drop off only getting bigger, Zoe was not happy with my instructions to ride along the left hand side for this photo.
No escape from wet feet as we made our way through the rivers at the bottom of the valley.
We finally made it to Shimshal, the end of the road. We set up camp overlooking the village before we received a visit from the the village policeman and were told we had to stay in a guest house.
The roads were ever-changing, landslides often make it easier to re-route roads rather than rebuild them.
More bikers from the south making their way along the highway. The small 125cc bikes, loaded up with two men and their gear, being pushed to their limits as they pootle up the hills.
On the way back south we took the main highway all the way, which gave us a chance to see all the villages and dirt roads on the opposite side of the valley that we had taken north.
After a week up the Karakoram highway, we made it back to Gilgit to start the journey east to Skardu.
Despite having broken down, there was only cheeriness from these two.
Along the valley, wooden suspension bridges give access to life across the river. Some bridges are in better shape than others.
Old Toyota FJ45s that refuse to give up, work as the mountain taxis.
The strongman of the village Machlu shows me his olympic lift with his homemade barbell. Next it was my turn…
“Welcome to the land of the mighty K2” - The Shigar valley is the gateway to some of the world’s highest peaks, including K2.
Starting the climb towards the Deosai plains, the second highest plateau in the world.
For centuries, it was believed that the Deosai (‘Deo’ meaing giant, and ‘sai’ meaning shadow) plains were haunted by giants, hence the name ‘The Land of the Giants’.
Over the other side of the plateau, we descended into Astore valley.
Another check point, and our name and passport details enter a book to never be read again.
Hand painted and covered in decorations that jingle as they slowly pass over the rocky roads, before smothering you in a plume of black smoke.
Summoned into a checkpoint building to have our photos taken and a friendly interrogation as to whether we were enjoying our time in Pakistan.
Before heading back to Islamabad, we hopped in a Jeep for the ominous journey to Fairy Meadows, a grassland at the foot of Nanga Parbat, the 9th highest mountain in the world.
This was probably one of the scariest hours of our lives. The driver didn’t seem to be fazed by any of it. The road is single track with only a few passing places, so meeting a car along the road is interesting. Usually a stand-off occurs, before one of the two drivers gives in and confidently reverses.
We hiked to Bayal camp and pitched our tents as the sun was setting. Our last night in the mountains before heading back to Islamabad.
Namakwa
Traversing the West Coast of South Africa
Words & photos by Simon Pocock
We had debated traversing the West Coast of South Africa for years and after weeks of hard lockdown we emerged all the more hungry to tackle it.
The plan was to follow the coast North, before hitting the border on the Orange River and then head inland along the Namaqua eco-trail through the Richtersveld, before heading back home.
We travelled for days without seeing any other people, true isolation in a magical environment. Spring weather meant we were blessed with warm days and nights - with the cold only catching up with us on the last day.
Eight nights and 2000km on the bikes, fun technical riding and amazing environments made for an awesome trip!
After detouring around a diamond mine we found our first coastal campsite, West of Lutzville.
Sand riding - the perfect blend of stress and stoke!
Namaqua National Park
Hondeklipbaai
Refuelling in Koingnass.
Archie / Honda XR600R
Scotty / Suzuki DR350
(lost his moto goggles on the first day and opted for the hardware store edition)
Bernard / Honda XR650R
We had grand plans to tackle a 4x4 trail heading East from Kuboes over the mountains, but fully loaded bikes and broken bodies meant we only covered a little ground and with limited water, we knew we were in for some challenging times!
After many hours of tackling the trail we were losing light and pitched our tents on the flattest section we could find.
Cold Cokes and route discussions After getting off the mountain in Kuboes.
Flat tires in the sun.
Discovering fresh and clean water in the desert never felt so good, after a day of overcooking in the sun.
Back in the mountainous Richtersveld en route to the Orange River.
Luxury campsite on the Orange River - after many days of wild camping.
Scoring fuel from the rafting camps along the Orange River.
The only shade for miles.
Snapped clutch cable for Scotty and his DR350.
We camped along the Orange River on the Namaqua eco trail.
Archie’s second flat tire, our only 2 flats for the trip.
Rain and cold weather caught up with us outside Loeriesfontein, the local hotel opened up & sorted us out. Small town hospitality at its finest.
Departing Loeriesfontein, we rode hard back to Cape Town. Avoiding as much weather as we could - it was a long and cold day on the bikes.
End of the Line
Singletrack & Trout in the North Cascades
Words by Jann Eberharter | Photography by Cameron Karsten
Summer arrived late in Washington state this year. Usually by June it’s nothing but sun in the forecast, with temps peaking in the mid-80s. But 2020, by all accounts, has been anything but normal. So, when the misty mornings and favonian gray days extended beyond the summer solstice, a twinge of confusion hung in the air.
The mountains held their snow. The rivers steadily surged. Together, this forecast spelled uncertainty for plans that had been months in the making. At the epitome of the Coronavirus lockdown, some two weeks into our stay-at-home order, we’d hatched a plan to get away from it all and search for some semblance of “normal” in the mountains.
The North Cascades have earned the nickname “the American Alps” for good reason. Aside from the volcanos, only a few peaks in the range hit the 9,000-foot mark, and they slowly descend in height as they trickle outward. While not record-setting in their prowess, the range’s rugged and raw landscape is not to be taken lightly. These mountains have cast spells on many, from long-forgotten miners searching for gold to the likes of beatnik poet Jack Kerouac, and the venerated king of dirtbags and mountaineer extraordinaire Fred Beckey. More than a few lives have been dedicated to these fractious peaks.
Needing a reprieve now more than ever, it was into this madness we would go. However, everything about our planned escape was an experiment. I had never done a multi-day motorcycle trip before, for one. On top of that, both I and my good friend Boe Trosset were within the first year of getting acquainted with our 650s, but eager nonetheless—we didn’t just want to ride, we wanted to fish. From our perspective, these dual-sport beasts are insanely fun to twist the throttle on, but they’re also the perfect tools to access trout-occupied waters.
The idea was to leave from our respective backdoors in Bellingham, Washington, ride Highway 20 through the heart of the glorious North Cascades, head south on the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route (WABDR) and end up somewhere near Highway 2, before cruising home, all while fishing at every stop possible. The WABDR is spliced together with old logging roads and two-track traverses that navigate the whole state from north to south. It provides both an established thoroughfare frequented by off-roaders and cyclists, and endless opportunities to get creative with routes. Lucky for us, for every peak in the North Cascades, there’s a river-filled valley to match.
Departure day seemed to line up perfectly with the first week of actual summer. The temps were prime for riding, and the weather had been just nice enough for the past two weeks that we suspected the rivers were finally calming down after such an extended spring melt. By 9 a.m., our crew was assembled with the arrival of photographer, Cameron Karsten, who would be following behind in his Tacoma. Unbeknownst to us, he also happens to be a veritable trout whisperer, thanks to countless hours spent chasing the world’s best anglers around the world.
Our original plan was to do the trip unsupported, so true to that ethos, Boe and I decided to keep all our gear on the bikes. We certainly weren’t opposed to a support vehicle—especially when Cam pulled two six-packs out of the cooler the following evening—but we were also excited to be as self-sufficient as possible.
My bike tops out at 65 miles per hour—or maybe that’s where I top out. Either way, it’s a pretty comfortable cruising speed that turns the world into a euphoric blur. We connected the backroads of the Skagit Valley to Highway 20, which is the lone way through the Cascades this far north. The highway follows the Skagit River, which has a lifetime’s worth of fishing itself, but our sights were set on the smaller creeks of the East Side.
With every mile farther east, the mountains seemed to rise around us. We passed by the steely blue waters of Diablo and Ross lakes, and beneath the Early Winter Spires, their snow still slowly melting in the summer heat. It was the hottest part of the day as we descended into the Methow Valley and the small town of Winthrop. The tiny Western-themed town would be teeming with tourists normally, and even in the midst of a pandemic, it was far from dead.
The Methow River cruises right through town. It’s known for its fish, no doubt, but also it features mellow whitewater and meandering scenery as it makes its way to the Columbia. Within hours of leaving home, we were in fish paradise. Not even a full day into our trip and we’re buzzing with excitement about that fact that it was actually working. Donning waders and assembling rods, we took to the waters in search of a reprieve from the triple-digit temperature. Twenty minutes later, Cameron had the first fish of the trip. “Where’s your fat uncle?” he asked the fish. That’s who we were really looking for.
This valley was home to the Methow Tribe for thousands of years before it was unjustly taken from them in 1879 through a transfer of land that was done without their consent. The river once had bountiful populations of steelhead, spring Chinook and bull trout—all of which are now protected under the Endangered Species Act. After decades of over-harvesting, habitat loss and the introduction of hatchery fish, there are multiple restoration and recovery efforts under way to help these fish thrive once again.
Darkness began to surround us as we rolled out of our sleeping bags on the edge of a beautiful stretch of water some 20 miles south of town. A big chunk of concrete served as a perch above the hole, letting us cast into the black abyss, wait for a tug, and then set the hook with a loud “Yeowww!” The fish were hungry enough that we kept serving up an all-you-can-eat buffet of stimulators and chubby Chernobyls, prolonging our own dinner late into the evening.
We fished the same stretch the next morning and were handsomely rewarded for bailing from the coziness of our down bags much earlier than we would have normally. Apparently, the chubby uncles feast at dawn. Then, after a quick session of coffee, tea and oatmeal on the riverbank, it was back on the bikes and bound for dirt.
Peeling off Highway 20, we were immediately thrust into a welcoming world of sand, sagebrush and switchbacks. The WABDR made its way up to Sawtooth Ridge, peaking out at more than 6,200 feet, with 360-degree views of the surrounding Okanagan National Forest and Lake Chelan. The latter was our destination for the afternoon.
Turns out, it’s pretty easy to underestimate 60 miles of dirt road. We rolled into Chelan tired, hungry and slightly behind schedule—although, admittedly, we didn’t truly have one. Between bites of sandwich and gulps of beer, we amended our plans. We decided we’d skip the next section of the route—another 50-plus miles that would surely take us far longer than we expected—and take Highway 97 toward the Entiat River instead.
The flat came out of nowhere, as they usually do. One minute we were turning around in a gravel parking lot, the next, Boe was swerving to the side of the road, his rear tire looking pretty damn sad. On closer inspection, after he’d already placed two patches, it was apparent a nail had pretty much shredded the tire as he rolled to a stop.
With our options fading along with the daylight, we opted to swap his DR for the dirt bike on the back of Cam’s truck and raced up the road wanting to simply get to our destination. But it wasn’t in our ability to call the day’s mishaps done. With our headlights illuminating the way and impatience factoring into our speed, both Boe and I saw the branch at the last minute and were barely able to swerve out of the way. Cam’s truck, however, took the broken-off treetop to the headlight like a javelin in what he recalled as an explosion of wood splinters. By the time we made it to camp, we were exhausted and ready for the day to be over.
In 2018, the Cougar Creek Fire rolled through the Upper Entiat valley, evacuating residents and burning some 42,000 acres. Firefighters spent more than a month working to contain the burn. When all was said and done, the region’s landscape was drastically altered. Two years later, the valley’s soil resembles ash, and where lush evergreens once stood, charred trunks stand like toothpicks, just waiting to fall over.
With Boe en route to Wenatchee to get a new tube, Cam and I explored the Entiat. We had our sights set on fishy-looking holes and subtle seams within the water’s topography. To our surprise, the road ended at the Entiat River Trailhead—which happened to be opened to motorized vehicles. Unsure of what we might be getting ourselves into, Cam and I opted to walk the trail until it met the river and explore from there.
When we all met up at the campsite mid-day, we were ecstatic to tell Boe about not only the fishing, but the singletrack. With all three bikes fully functioning and all three of us fully frothing, we blasted onto the trail to see where it would take us. Perfectly contouring the hillside and paralleling the river, the trail’s sandy soil was ripe for roosting. It was comfortably wide with minimal tech, perfect for the dual-sports. When the trail crossed the river and got a little spicy, we hiked into Myrtle Lake, casting for cutthroat and brookies before returning to the Entiat and fishing the crystal-clear pools of its upper canyon.
By this time in the trip, I had nearly forgotten about the troubling state of our current events. It’s funny how fast that can happen. When trout are the only thing on the mind, friends the only people near and a cell signal non-existent, being completely present is the only option. As the fire dwindled into embers that night and the Milky Way shimmered overhead, it felt like all was right in the world.
But alas, these dust-laden dreams cannot last forever. Our cruise over the next stretch of the WABDR the next day did, however, prolong them. Cruising back down the Entiat, we flipped the bird to the remnants of the tree that busted Cam’s bumper before turning west in the small town of Ardenvoir. This time, in the Wenatchee National Forest, we followed the WABDR up Roaring Ridge before peeling off the route toward Lake Wenatchee. This way, we’d minimize our time on the highway and avoid the crowds of Leavenworth.
Yet the crowds found us as we rolled through Plain, where swim-trunk-clad families toting superfluously large float tubes overflowed from the lake. Here, we said goodbye to Cam, who’d be splitting south to head home. Boe and I still had fish on the mind. We merged onto Highway 2 just as it crested Stevens Pass, the definitive indication that we were back on the west side.
Turning up the Beckler River, we wet the lines for a few minutes, but to no avail. Back on dirt, things felt a little more removed from reality once again, but this time it was a Friday afternoon, and we were far from the only ones trying to escape into the woods. Twelve hours after we’d left the Entiat that morning, we finally found a spot to crash for the night on the bank of the North Fork of the Skykomish River.
After five days of nothing but riding and fishing, I was far from ready to give up this exhilarating lifestyle. But as we walked the riffles of the North Fork that next morning, I felt oddly content, knowing we had achieved exactly what we’d set out to do. We had nothing left to prove. That’s when I looked downstream and saw Boe knee-deep in the river, his rod bent nearly in two with what was certainly a fat uncle on the other end of the line.
Cartel Land
Near Death in Mexico
Words & photography by Justin Chatwin
I act for a living and ride motorcycles in my spare time. And I have a lot of spare time. About five years ago, I had a dip in my feature film career that I blamed on the failure of a not-so-great movie that I did, called Dragonball Evolution. It was basically a live-action adaptation of an anime ninja cartoon series. I was cast to play the world’s greatest ninja, with massive dippity-do hair spikes, and an orange kimono dress. Originally, I thought the character was supposed to be for a small Asian boy, however, 20th Century Studios thought I fit the role perfectly – and so I jumped on a plane to shoot it in Durango, Mexico. That was back in 2005.
In 2015 I decided to take a motorcycle trip down to South America with my adventure buddy Nik. Nik started a delinquent clothing company out of Vancouver called Lords of Gastown. So, Nik and a few of his motley crew showed up at my home in Venice, California, and we took off down the Baja Peninsula. When we boarded the ferry in La Paz, we had a lot of the Sinaloa locals turning their heads to look at us. The Lords of Gastown looked like the spawn of Nikki Sixx, Dennis Rodman and Rob Zombie, and their lives were just as complicated as their attire. One guy’s girlfriend was days away from giving birth; another guy was sleeping with that guy’s girlfriend; and the first guy was oblivious to what was going on. The third guy hated both of those two guys. Needless to say, a lovely bunch. Riding with these guys all came back to bite me in the ass when one of them became imprisoned in Honduras.
That night they went through two cases of Tecate on the top deck of the ferry, along with all the pan-American semitruck drivers. When the boat docked in Mazatlan, the circus entered into new territory: Sinaloa, Mexico, home to a lot of terrifying stories that you may see on Netflix cartel documentaries.
We noticed a mechanical failure with one of the newer Harley-Davidsons, ironically, and so we rode into town to look for help. A local bike gang noticed our custom Sportster dirtsters and came over to see what we were about. Let’s call the leader Big Bobby. Big Bobby was Mexican but spoke perfect English. “Why you guys look like satanic lumberjacks?” No one knew how to respond. “Forget it, man. Come have a beer with us.” Like I said, we were wary of the locals. But I’m sure they were wary of us, as well.
We decided to throw caution to the wind, and grabbed a case of Pacifico and some carnitas. After all, we needed a local motorcycle mechanic. No one else in Big Bobby’s gang spoke English, so we decided to communicate in gestures. Everyone was thumbs-upping each others’ motorcycles, and as smiles began to form, I relaxed. But I’m always a skeptic.
The next morning, the bike was magically fixed. We tried to offer money, but Big Bobby wouldn’t accept. On top of that, they offered to ride us out of town a few hours.
I read on the news that morning that the cartel had murdered some tourists in the same direction we were heading. So we decided to skip the coast and head inland toward Durango on the Devil’s Backbone.
Within an hour, Satan popped my tire, but luckily Big Bobby knew someone in a village 200 feet away. Bobby knew everyone. Again, I tried to offer money for the tire repair, and again they declined. I’ve never been able to successfully pay for a tire repair in Baja. Isn’t that incredible? Free every time.
The afternoon was getting late, and Big Bobby turned back to Mazatlan and wished us well. We were now on our own, heading up into the mountains. Since we were running out of daylight, we hopped onto the newly constructed Highway 40D. It has 135 bridges (one of them being the highest suspension bridge in the Americas) and 62 tunnels. This project must have cost a small fortune, and I was curious – where did that money came from?
It got dark. And cold. December at 6,000 feet made us stop every 45 minutes to warm our hands roadside by fires lit in old oil barrels. Eventually I got spun around and realized I was lost with no cellular service. I could see that my buddies were looking tired, but I didn’t want them to know that I didn’t quite know the road. So, I kept pushing forward as the pavement turned to dirt, and I really didn’t see anything that resembled a city nearby.
It felt like the start of a horror flick. Right when I was thinking that, a vehicle flicked on its high beams behind us. We were riding pretty fast, which meant he was driving pretty fast, as well. Naturally, I slowed down a bit to see if he wanted to pass, but it seemed like he just wanted to continue to high-beam us. A few minutes felt like a few hours when he finally came roaring past us, kicking dust all over us. A black Suburban in poor Mexico. He didn’t keep going, but actually slowed down. He was toying with us. My heart rate was up and we were in the middle of nowhere. At least I had four guys behind me.
The black SUV slammed on his brakes, and so did we. Everyone just stood still. We really didn’t know what to do, or what they wanted.
After what felt like an eternity, a tinted window rolled down, and a hand beckoned me to walk to the SUV. I looked back at my friends, whose faces were mirroring the same emotions I had.
The worst thing here would be to flee and get in some high-speed chase down a dirt road on Harley Sportsters at night. So, I got off my bike and walked very slowly over to the SUV. I was sweating now. No longer cold. Maybe this Simpson helmet would protect me from the gunshot if I were to take a bullet to the head. Maybe I’d only be partially brain damaged, or I could buy them out. I had $400 in my motorcycle boot.
When I arrived at the vehicle, the window was rolled down a couple of inches. I could see five men inside. Bearded men. Mexican men. Wearing all black. Then I saw it. Written on the patch of his leather vest was the group name that I had seen in one of the cartel documentaries that I had recently watched. Why I had ever watched that movie before this trip, I will never know.
They stared at me. I stared at them.
“What’s your name, man?” he said in English.
“Uhhh…Justin,” I replied, hoping my Canadian naiveté would charm them.
Then he looked closer at me. “Chatwin. Justin Chatwin?” I had my helmet and goggles on. How the hell did he know my name? I nodded.
He kicked open the door and grabbed me. But in a bear hug. He was beaming.
“No shit, man. I haven’t seen you in 10 years, man. I was the medic on Dragonball. It’s so good to see you, brother. Bobby told us you were coming, and we’ve been waiting for you guys all day.”
“Oh shit oh shit wow! Wow. Dragonball. Bobby! I mean wow. Fucking great to see you, man!”
I shook the other guys’ hands and called my buddies over as the blood began to come back into my head.
The patch on his vest read “presidente” and the other patch read the word I saw in that documentary. “Well, it’s cold, no?” he said. “Let’s get you guys some food and housing.” A couple of the guys from the SUV pulled their Harleys magically out of nearby bushes and led us over the mountain and into the familiar city of Durango.
My buddies all gave me that look you give when you first take a psychedelic and begin to see faces. I guess we were rolling with it. I mean, curiosity never really did kill the cat, right?
That night, we got VIP at the local discotheque; we ate some of the best food we’ve ever had; and we were put up in an excellent hotel. One of their prospects even watched our Harleys till the morning, when they also brought us out for breakfast. They told us stories of their antics and adventures and how they give back to the less fortunate. A real Robin Hood and his Merry Men story. They have to live like this because the government won’t help anyone. Maybe that’s how the Mexican government was able to build that wicked highway we rode in on?
Who really knows if these were bad dudes or just really big Dragonball fans. Regardless, if this guy really was the president of this group of Merry Men, he really had worked his way up the line from a set medic to the King of the Outlaws. And I respect that type of work ethic. A true American!
So, in the end, I don’t think Dragonball ruined my career. I think it may have saved my life.
All or Nothing
Joven y Viejo: The Bruised & Battered Dust or Bust Goodtimes Ride of Dustin Humphrey
Words by Nathan Myers | Primary photography by Monti Smith
A film by State of Ethos | Directed by Dustin Hmphrey & Kelly Hammond
Travel photography by Dustin Humphrey | Additional photography by Woody Gooch, Tom Hawkins, Max Mandell & Harry Mark
The tattoos tell the story best. Tattoos and scars. He’s riddled with both. Good memories and bad decisions. A life lived fully. Dustin Humphrey pulls a vintage moto jersey on and pushes a pair of dual sport bikes into the driveway. Helmets. Gloves.
“Most of the moto gear on the market these days looks like it should be worn by a transvestite hooker in Vegas,” he says. “It’s good quality, but no one would ever wear it off the track.”
He is a man of aesthetics. From photography to film to designing motorcycles and surfboards, how it looks is how it performs. Vintage influence. Modern performance.
“I find myself immersed in the motocross world,” he says. “And I’ve fallen in love with it. But it’s basically exactly the way it was when I was a kid. Why hasn’t it evolved since then? The other action sports have. Just look at the surf and skate world.”
We’re in Temecula, California. For all his worldly travels, it’s a place Humphrey never imagined settling down. But as we prepare the bikes in his garage full of motorcycles, surfboards and tools, it all seems to fit. As a longtime photographer, filmmaker, and one of the founders of Deus ex Machina, Humphrey is on the cusp of his new adventure. “State of Ethos,” he calls it. So, I’ve come here to ask him about it.
For Humphrey, this is more than just a brand. It’s his whole life story. Every bruise, break and midnight ink job reassembled into this new house of cards. He leads me to his garage and pushes this bike toward me. He still rides motorcycles, but with the damage he’s done to his body over the years, he picks his battles. These bikes are good middle ground.
“I’ve always been a storyteller,” he tells me. “But I’m not good with words. It’s better if I just show you.”
He throws his leg over the Husky 501, cringing slightly at the act, and twists the throttle. Apparently, we’re going for a ride.
He was born in Oklahoma to parents who weren’t quite suited to each other. His wild-child mom and his God-fearing father, making a tractor pull of his childhood. His earliest memory is of sitting on an old Honda 50cc Monkey with his dad. Then riding it on his own, going over a small jump, and seeing his dad’s eyes light up with fear and elation. “I don’t know which feeling I loved more,” he recalls. “Riding the bike or seeing how happy it made my dad. Actually, I do know.”
Mom split to LA when he was six, dating a film director. And Dad moved, too. Everywhere at once. A traveling salesman. I ask what he sold. “Easier to ask what he didn’t sell,” Humphrey replies.
Some months he lived in Echo Park, the only white kid in his barrio. Others, he was with Dad. Sundays for church. Friday and Saturday for the tracks. Moser Valley. Ascot Raceway. And sometimes it was just construction sites and dirt roads. Fond memories.
One time in Dallas they found him out cold at the base of a big jump. Helmet split. Broken collar bone. Amnesia for days. But Dad didn’t even take him to the hospital, since the month before at another—another crash—they’d thrown him into an ambulance too quickly and it cost him a pretty penny. So, take an aspirin to it, son. Walk it off.
Back and forth he went. State to state. Parent to parent. Lost before he was ever found. But those weekend rides meant everything to him. Still do, it seems.
Dad remarried. Four more kids. Soon their expensive motorbike hobby faded from the equation. One day they sold his old bike to afford a new KX80. And every day he’d run to the garage to see the new bike that never was to arrive. That was the end of his moto days. Eventually, he picked up the basketball.
But hold on, I’ve already fallen behind. Over the years, I’ve followed Dustin down enough trails to keep up. The road here climbs the hill behind his house toward open country. I find him waiting at the ridge. Uncharacteristically reflective...or maybe just checking his phone. He rarely stops moving, caught up in the whirlwinds of his own creation. Projects. Ideas. Missions. But here at the top of the mountain, he seems calm. Below us, a vast canyon wilderness sprawls out, undeveloped as far as we can see. Nothing but trails, dirt and emptiness.
“This is where I realized I could live out here,” he says. There’s a long, winding road leading toward the valley, but instead of taking it—no, that would be too easy—Humphrey wheels the bike sideways and tears straight into an overgrown singletrack. No choice but to follow.
He was living in Texas. His father’s overcrowded, underfunded house was growing intolerable. His mom called him in Texas on a Monday, said she’d made a little money, and he could come live with her in Huntington Beach. He was there by Friday.
Surfing consumed his world. It was everything. He found his people hanging around the shaping bays of Robert August (the surfer best known from his travels in The Endless Summer). A community. Good people. And for that he was blessed. His friends ranged from older men to little kids, the only hierarchy being your skill on a wave. This was “Surf City,” and there were always pros around, returning from epic adventures to faraway beaches. Their stories filled his dreams.
For starters, they drove to Baja. Camping. Fishing. Off-roading. Next came a three-month stint in Costa Rica. “I almost didn’t come back from that one,” he says. “Thought I might just become one of those expat fisherman, surf bums. But something told me there was still more I needed to see and do. So, I came home and got back to work.”
He was a ferocious worker. A deckhand on fishing boats. Waiting tables. Whatever he could find. He’d work 70 days in a row just saving for the next surf trip. He forged his mom’s permission to drop out of high school. No more free rent or home-cooked meals, Humphrey was on his own now. He enrolled in Junior College to pursue a degree in marine biology. At least he could stay near the ocean. One of the courses included shooting photos of the marine mammals off the California coast, so his mom gave him her Minolta x700 SLR, and he took a night class to learn how to use it. The following semester, he enrolled exclusively in photography courses, devouring the information. Steve McCurry, Annie Leibovitz, Sebastião Salgado. He’d found his heroes. “I remember calling the school to get my grades at the end of the semester,” he says, “and when the recording said I had a 4.0, I had to hang up and call back again. Thought I had the wrong number.”
The next big trip was Indonesia with his friends Travis Potter and Timmy and Ryan Turner. Along with two single-fins, he packed his camera, two lenses, a water housing, and all the film he could afford. He had no dreams of becoming a surf photographer. “Surf photographers had a weird rap at the time,” explains Humphrey. “I don’t want to use the word ‘creepy,’ but it just wasn’t a highly regarded position.” No, this was just a surf trip.
The first day in Bali, they paddled out at the infamous Padang Padang reef (thinking they were somewhere else) and scored a rare, overhead swell. Humphrey paddled into a solid set, pulled into the barrel and got closed out on the reef. As the next waves came pounding in, he planted his feet on the razor-sharp reef (rookie mistake) and unwittingly began his career as a surf photographer. The cuts on his feet were deep and painful, but they didn’t prevent him from swimming with his camera. So, he spent the next couple of months shooting surf and traveling with his talented friends (who went on to pro careers).
Back home, he’d need to work again just to afford to develop the film. But Timmy Turner couldn’t wait that long, so he developed the film himself and then sent the slides to Surfer Magazine. The mag ran a feature, inspired as much by the travel images as the action, and Humphrey saw the opportunity to keep traveling.
They returned to Indo the following season for an even longer trip, plunging deep into the raw adventures that fester and bloom in every corner of the archipelago’s 14,000 islands. Turner was making a film, and Humphrey’s eye for aesthetic and sense of visual narrative was critical. Wild cross-country rides. Crazy locals and crazier travelers. Feral jungle campsites. Indonesia is a steamy tapestry of human insanity, stitched together by ferries, buses and motorbikes. The travel is hard. The waves are worth it. And everything in between was exactly what Humphrey had been looking for. Unseen visions. Looming dooming. Endless stories.
“We loved every second of it,” Humphrey says. “Travel was everything to me.”
He pulls back his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of Indonesia across his forearm. A map, worn and faded from time and sun.
We’ve paused in a deep thicket of brush. No view. No escape in any direction. I’m pulling cactus spines from my arm and wondering if my leg will need stitches. Humphrey seems oblivious to the absurdity of this trail. No pain, no gain.
The next trip, he didn’t even come home. Why would he? For $3,200 a year, he rented a two-story home in a quiet village in Bali, bought a new DT100, and settled down with a girl he had met in Jakarta. An emerging surf magazine called Transworld Surf had wooed him to their team with travel budgets, a new Hasselblad camera, and bags of slide film. “Just do your thing,” they told him. And true to form, Humphrey was all in. Photography was everything.
For the next few years, he traveled the world, stretching budgets and pushing the limits in places like India, China and the Mediterranean. “I didn’t give a shit about good waves,” he admits. “I had plenty of that in Indo. For me, the surf trips were just an excuse to see the world.”
In the pages of Transworld Surf, Humphrey’s imagery set a new standard of surf photography. Most surf photographers of this era carried only a long lens and a fisheye for the water, focusing exclusively on action. Humphrey was instead inspired by big-league travel heroes like McCurry and Salgado. The portraiture, culture and curated artistry of his photography elevated the genre as a whole. Then one day Transworld called Humphrey and skate photographer Atiba Jefferson into the office and thrust new digital cameras upon them. “This is the future,” they said. And so it was. Humphrey has always been one to embrace progression, even when it spelled his ruin.
Through his Bali friend Rizal Tanjung (“the prince on Indonesian surfing”), Humphrey connected with a well-known surf filmmaker named Taylor Steele, and the two bonded over their near-masochistic love of exotic travel. Over the following year, Steele and Humphrey dragged legendary surfers like Rob Machado, Dan Malloy and Kelly Slater (Steele’s close friends) to outrageous surf destinations like China, Cuba, Italy and Egypt, documenting their extended journeys on various photo stocks and 16mm film, focusing on culture and beauty rather than perfect waves.
It’s one thing to explore the dark corners of the world on your own, but another entirely to lead others there. In Egypt, they snuck past security to photograph the pyramids from an unseen dawn angle. In Iceland, they crossed a glacier in whiteout conditions to score a never-before-surfed bay freshly powdered from the storm. In India, their bus driver fell asleep and drove off a cliff, nearly killing everyone inside. With two fractured vertebrae, Humphrey still made it to the beach to shoot the next day. In each location, they discovered waves no one had ever surfed before. They were pioneers. Explorers.
The resulting film/book combo, Sipping Jetstreams, went on to win American Photo’s “Book of the Year” (beating submissions from Humphrey’s heroes Steve McCurry and Annie Leibovitz). He’s got the logo from the book tattooed on his arm, committing those years of adventure to his flesh.
Now we emerge from the brush and thicket on the singletrack. Something I thought I’d wanted. But here I find Humphrey parked amid a series of large boulders at the top of a forbidding cliff. “I’d forgotten this was even here,” he says, staring down the too-steep hill. “You might not want to ride this part.”
He considers this a moment, then heads down the hill.
If this were my own story, I’d tell you about that hill. My twisted ankle and bruised knee. But I will say that Humphrey arrived at the base covered in dirt and dust, as well. This is how we met. Chasing pro surfers around the world. As the editor of Surfing Magazine, I’d just moved to Bali myself to collaborate on projects with Humphrey and Steele, who’d also started basing himself in Bali. He put me up in his house (as he did for many) and set me on my path as an expat.
The photography work was ramping up for him now. Fashion shoots in New York and Paris. Ad campaigns for mainstream brands. He took on an agent and hired assistants. The money was coming in, but there was a price to pay for it.
Steele and Humphrey had just started a followup to Sipping Jetstreams, filming Vietnam, Peru and Iceland. He also started his own film project with surfer Rob Machado called The Drifter. This was a dark, complicated project, with Machado drag-racing the demons of divorce across the Indonesian outskirts. Humphrey built a custom, vintage motorcycle to be Machado’s costar, full of rattle and romance. Budgets were approved. One of the first-ever Red cameras was delivered to Bali. And the whole crew set off to create one of the most ambitious surf films ever.
But it all went to hell.
His son Kelana had just been born. His once-spacious house was now crowded with visiting crew members juggling multiple projects. He barely even touched his cameras. Instead, he’d train up young locals, set them up on the beach, and approve the photos later. With the digital age in full swing now, the skill and mystery of photography was gone. Just Photoshop tricks now. Anyone could do it.
“I was sleepwalking through it,” says Humphrey. “Just saying yes to everything. Digital photography was too easy, and I lost my love for it.”
Deep in the jungles of Java, he contracted typhoid and dengue at the same time and ended up in the hospital. Overworked and overwhelmed. At odds with his own ambitions. It was his sanity that concerned him most. From the hospital, he checked himself into therapy.
The films moved on without him. The mags grew distant. His home grew quiet.
After the great and violent storm his life had become, a silence fell upon his house. Darkness. And then, after a time, the phone began to ring again.
On an overnight flight to Australia, he ended up in first class beside another Bali expat named Dare Jennings. Two generations older, Jennings started the surf brand Mambo in the ’80s, and pioneered the notion of sponsoring artists and musicians alongside surfers and skaters—the idea being that these activities were not necessarily separate. Jennings eventually sold Mambo for a chunk of change and spent the next decade traveling and indulging his love of custom motorcycles. Eventually, his hobby began taking shape as a business in Sydney, called Deus ex Machina—a coffee-shop, moto-building clubhouse in downtown Sydney. Jennings offered to loan Humphrey a few of his custom bikes for an Australian surf trip he’d been working on, and the two stayed in touch.
That project became Lover’s Land, a month-long, vintage surf/moto road trip up the eastern coast of Australia that would prove formative in Humphrey’s future (and inspire another tattoo across his arm). He was shooting on film again. Directing and riding. Feeling alive and inspired again. They camped along the way, then rented a beach house in Byron, communing with artists and curating a festival-like show full of art, photography, music and writing. The entire traveling circus experience was posted daily to a live blog, with photos, video and journals. Long before Instagram and vlog culture, audiences barely knew what they were looking at. But Humphrey knew they were onto something. This immersive, all-in experience. It was everything.
His conversations with Jennings continued until one night, over dinner, they shook hands on the idea of bringing Deus ex Machina to the remote Balinese village they both called home.
A new chapter had begun.
At the base of the hill, dirty, thrilled, exhausted, we emerge into something new. This wide, green valley filled with trails, jumps, berms and hills. A couple of dirt bikes are ripping gleefully around the track. The smallest among them has his name on his custom jersey: HUMPHREY.
“It’s kind of like a secret spot down here,” Humphrey says, putting the kickstand down on his bike to watch his son ride. For the moment, he seems to have arrived somewhere. We take off our helmets and mop the sweat with the dust.
“You know,” he says, “there’s a movement in the moto scene of guys who travel places they want to ride, wait for a big rain, then shape the ground into jumps and features to film content around. It reminds me of what we used to do in surfing. There was no such thing as freesurfing until a handful of guys just started doing it. I feel like moto is evolving toward that same idea now, too. People are more open-minded.”
In Bali, the Deus build was massive. It included a spacious retail space, outdoor cafe/restaurant, motorcycle workshop, surfboard-shaping bays, photo studio, editing suites, and even a barber shop. There was a skate ramp out back, waves just down the street, and nothing but empty rice paddies in every direction. The locals couldn’t believe what these crazy white boys were building way out here in the middle of nowhere.
As the project neared completion, Humphrey was offered a yearlong campaign for Corona beer—the biggest, most lucrative photo/film directing opportunity of his career. He passed on it to stay focused on this new behemoth. His agent lost his number. The magazines cut his retainers. He got divorced. But the Deus build continued. Constructed from ancient teak sourced from other islands. Hand-carved wood. Lush gardens. Quiet corners and creative spaces. A towering matrix of dreams, ideas and passions. They called it “The Temple of Enthusiasm.”
Of all the things the Temple was meant to be, a nightclub was not one of them. Some friends played music for the opening party, and the tradition continued over the weekends to come. For all of its party culture, original live music was rare in Bali, and the expat culture was famished for it.
One night the boys from the rock band Wolfmother were in town to unwind after their stadium-filling Asian tour and staying at Dare Jennings’ expansive villa. They only wanted to surf, chase girls and disappear, but it was John Lennon’s birthday, so lead singer Andrew Stockdale suggested playing some cover tunes at the cafe. Humphrey rented the gear they needed, asked some musician friends to form an opening band, and then made a little blog post the morning of the show. “John Lennon’s birthday,” it read. The rumor translated across the island that “Wolfmother was playing Deus,” and by sunset, nearly a thousand people had congregated in the courtyard at Deus. The opening band decided this was the gig of their lives and turned it up to 11.
Watching all of this from Humphrey’s office overlooking the courtyard, Stockdale quickly realized an acoustic set of Beatles covers wasn’t going to appease this half-naked mob. But after three months of touring, the band was tighter than ever. They stepped onto the stage and ripped into one of the most blistering, no-holds-barred sets of their streaking comet career, belting out classic rock covers, Wolfmother hits, and psychedelic jams for over three straight hours.
That night won’t soon be forgotten. And the little moto shop in the village would never live down it’s reputation as one of Bali’s best live music venues.
It’s no small task to describe how Deus evolved from there. They built custom motorcycles, yes. And custom surfboards. And the restaurant, barber shop, clothing lines, and art shows turned the place into a tourist destination. The film productions, four-day surf/moto art festivals and steamy Sunday night DJ hip-hop parties were a mainstay for locals and travelers alike. They sponsored surfers, shapers, moto-riders, artists, celebrities, sushi chefs, and girls, lots of girls, to infuse their time at the Temple. Then they traveled throughout Indonesia creating lush travel films like South to Sian and I Had Too Much to Dream Last Night. These were the beautiful and uncomplicated travelogues he’d been trying to make from the beginning. Simple. Romantic. Friends sharing adventures.
Photography was a huge part of everything Deus. But instead of shooting this himself, Humphrey began mentoring a series of young photographers. Hurling them into the churning boot-camp of Deus’ never-ending trips, events, parties, projects and products. These photographers—guys like Tom Hawkins, Woody Gooch, and Harry Mark—surely bear their own scars from Humphrey’s no-filter, tough-love program, but they are each successful professionals today, owing much to his mentorship and creative vision.
“I’m an average businessman,” says Humphrey, “but I am a good storyteller. And Deus was all about stories. That connected with people. And it showed people that you don’t have to be just one thing. No one’s just a surfer, or just a moto-rider, or just an artist. You can be all those things at the same time.”
As if to prove his point, Humphrey set up thirteen sewing machines in his office and dedicated himself to the creation of boardshorts. Retro styles made modern with four-way stretch materials and modern details. Aesthetics. Just like the bikes at Deus. The food. The Temple itself. All these things, Humphrey never physically worked on any of them, but they all originated in his head. Drawings and designs, sketched by artists, translated to builders, and each of them tongue-lashed when they got it wrong. “Yeah, I can be a hardass,” Humphrey admits. “But it’s just because I care about this stuff so much.”
Amid all of this, young Kelana Humphrey was growing up fast. Surrounded by surfers, shapers, riders, mechanics and artists. He’d ride his little skateboard around the Temple and sit in for all the inappropriate stories and late-night parties. His dad brought him along on all their travels, and eventually, when he was seven, Kelana asked if he could come riding, too.
They’d been headed to the beach for one of their traditions of sunset flat-tracking the low-tide sandbars. While Dustin had never pushed Kelana to ride, the bike was ready for him. Seven-year-old Kelana twisted the throttle, tore down the beach, and that was it. He hasn’t stopped pinning it since then.
Kelana was raised by the Temple. Growing up, he thought people drag racing in crazy costumes on the beach was normal Thursday-night activity. That lighting a motorcycle on fire and dancing around it was just something people did. His bikes have always been custom. His surfboards hand-shaped. The waves were always epic and when he decided he wanted to race, Dad was all in.
“We were already fans of the sport,” explains Humphrey, “but racing in Indonesia is pretty disorganized. The tracks are hard to reach, and barely worth it when you get there. I’m no stranger to hard travel, but I’m used to reaching the beach at the end of the line. This was just more dirt, more jungle.”
His first year competing, Kelana finished runner-up Indonesia national champion (against much older kids). But Dustin remained skeptical of the whole program of Indonesian racing. He joined Kelana at one of his training camps in Java, thinking to advance his own riding in the process. After riding his 250cc for a few days, he borrowed a 450cc and massively overshot a double jump. The crash broke his left foot in 21 places, split his right tib-fib in two, and wrecked his knee permanently. He spent the next eight months in a wheelchair, and a year after that just learning how to walk again. This was a dark time, clouded by pain meds, poor health and business growing pains. Their little Balinese village had grown up, with dozens of rival restaurants and clubs creating a nonstop festival merry-go-round. The rice paddies were gone. The surf breaks were crowded. The spotlight was blinding.
At some point in all of this, he took Kelana to California to train with moto-coach Sean Lipanovich. The quality of the tracks there was night and day compared to Indonesia, and with Sean’s help, Kelana was getting ready for a bigger stage. Around this time, Deus—now an international brand with shops in Japan, Italy, and California—sold part of the company to an Italian conglomerate, headed by the CEOs of LVMH and Ducati. Humphrey sold the Deus Indonesia operation to them and took the role of global media director, cutting his ties with the Temple.
He moved to California and invested heavily in RVs, bikes and support vehicles for Kelana’s racing career. All in, once again. It was Dustin and Kelana versus the world. Until the day that a unicorn crossed his path. He fell in love with the girl of his dreams, Emily. And with an epic fiesta in Mexico, they became a family. With kids in tow, they honeymooned driving south through Baja, passing nothing but cactus and tombstones before finding perfect waves at the end of a very long, dry, bumpy road. Humphrey happily gained another son, Dylan, with this marriage. It’s hard to say if Dylan loves surfing or watching Kelana race more. The crew couldn’t be better matched.
Within the first year of racing in America, Kelana finished 6th at the infamous Loretta Lynn’s and won two AMA Monster Energy Supercross Future titles. Even still, Humphrey questions this career path. “Motocross kids have a 0.1 percent chance of making it as a pro,” he says. “And many of them just completely burn out before they get the chance. It’s the most physically demanding sport in the world. So, personally, if he did make it, I’d love to see him spend half the year racing supercross and the other creating movie sections, the way the pro athletes in the surf and skate industry do. I think that’s better for the fans and the brands, anyway, and doesn’t kill the athletes in the process with the hectic schedules.”
Watching Kelana, it’s not hard to imagine him as the 0.1 percent. He’s got a natural style, a mature attitude, and a showman’s flare (the kid loves a good victory celebration). While his years in Bali were a revolving door of influential mentors, moving to Temecula has taken it to the next level. Here, Jason Anderson has become a friend and role model; he regularly connects with top freeriders like Twitch and Tyler Bereman just to ride on a weekday afternoon, or pop over to Jarred McNeal’s house to jump his ramps. Riding here is fun. Less serious. And that’s definitely the point.
While it still baffles Dustin that he’s back here, he’s realizing America is full of its own adventures. They’ve just returned from two weeks in Utah, creating the first State of Ethos content with co-conspirators Nick Lapaglia, Todd Cram, Micha Davis and Forrest Minchinton. They shot 16mm film photos and Super 8 film to splice together with action, and behind the scenes shot on Red cameras. “The whole vlog thing isn’t really my cup of tea,” he says, “but I do see the importance of it; it’s not the polished film feel that generally attracts me, but I do see a need for it in this day and age. So, my approach is to say, okay, how can we make this better. You gotta keep up with the algorithms.”
Kelana spots us watching and wheelies up the hill, followed by the other rider, who I quickly realize is Forrest Minchinton.
Forrest’s dad, Mike Minchinton, used to shape his boards when he first started surfing in Huntington. Forrest was Kelana’s age then, just hanging around the Robert August shaping bays. When Dustin flew Mike out to shape boards at The Temple, he brought Forrest, who quickly won every division of the moto event they were hosting. Deus sponsored Forrest, who soon became a mentor to Kelana. And when they started making trips to California, Forrest’s desert compound in the Johnson Valley became an essential training ground for Kelana’s development as a freerider.
The sun’s getting low in the sky, and it’s time to get back to the house anyway. I was dreading the return ride, but we end up following Kelana along an easy dirt road back to the house. (Why didn’t we come this way in the first place, I wonder?)
Back at “The House of Good Times”—as Humphrey has dubbed his new home—the sunset is painting an epic view for about a hundred miles. Layers of mountains, a glimmering lake, the twinkling stars of strip malls spilling into darkness. The cool calm of dusk. Humphrey opens a bottle of white from the local vineyards and Emily throws a tri-tip on the BBQ. While the rest of us settle into the porch, Kelana keeps riding. He’s got a full dirt playground carved into the backyard—complete with full-size FMX ramp, pit bike track, turn tracks—and Humphrey can just sit on his stoop and watch his sons ride.
“I couldn’t dream of anything more than this,” he says. But then his phone buzzes, and I know he told a lie. He’s never been one to sit back and watch.
“I feel like State of Ethos is the sum of everything I’ve been working on for the last 25 years,” he says. “What I learned from building Deus is that it doesn’t have to be just one thing. People aren’t like that anyway. It’s okay to love lots of different things at once. That’s how life is.”
On the surface, Ethos is a line of motorcycle gear. Beyond that, it’s a vehicle to continue his narrative. His storytelling. What he’s always done. Building campfires to gather around. All the years of photography and filmmaking, the style and clothing manufacturing he learned at Deus, and a lifetime rambling the world on two wheels.
“I’m not a professional designer,” he says, “but I’m a design enthusiast. And right now, I don’t love anything that I see being made out there. But rather than complain about it, I’d rather just try to make it better.”
He’s been doing this for years with Kelana and Forrest’s custom Deus gear, with Deus rebuilds, and with his own films and photography. So, this is just scaling up. “The goal is just to bring some of the style and culture that doesn’t really exist in motocross these days,” he says. “And to be able to do that with my friends and with my son, what more could I ask for?”
Kelana hits the kicker and sails 70 feet through the sunset backdrop. He’ll be gone before long. A teenager chasing his own dreams and adventures. Yet for a moment, Humphrey seems to be fully here and now. Enjoying the sight of his son soaring across the sky like a streaking comet.
Maybe it’ll become his next tattoo. Or maybe a scar. Either way, there’ll be a story to tell.