V024

Fleeting Moments

SEASONS OF NATURE AND LIFE

Words and photography by Steve Shannon

 
 

Chug-chug-chug. Chug-chug-chug. Nothing. I wipe the frost off my seat and wait for the battery to warm up a bit more. The sun is out, but the chill in the air and fresh snow on the distant peaks mean winter is not far off. Eventually the bike starts, and we’re off for what might be our last ride in the high country for the season. 

 
 
 

With cooler days, beautiful light and the alpine snow finally melted out for maximum access, these are the days I live for. It’s a fleeting season where the mornings are cold, the days are short, and everything has to come together just right. One storm can end it all, so when the conditions are right, you know it’s time to drop everything and get out for a ride.

Exploring the Columbia Mountains is a special treat. Mostly hidden from the general population, these towering peaks are lesser known compared to the Rockies to the east or the coastal mountains to the west. I prefer it that way. It takes more planning. Hours of poring over maps, searching for the elusive mining claims staked a century before, in hopes of finding a route that isn’t completely destroyed by time and weather. Luckily some of these old routes are still intact, providing the perfect gateway into the high country. And like most things in life, the extra effort is worth it.

 
 
 
 
 

The farther we gain elevation, the more the trees and foliage slowly reveal a colorful spectrum. Vibrant hues only found during a few short weeks of the year. From low-lying valleys filled with golden stands of aspen, we climb through mature fir and spruce until we approach tree line, where we were greeted by unrivaled splendor. Larch trees during the autumn season are truly magical. Though they are a conifer, their character is more deciduous, as their needles turn vibrant shades of orange before falling off for the winter. Riding through this magnificent forest is like something out of a dream, and knowing that it only lasts for a moment every year, it makes me think about the fleeting nature of life.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My dad was the one who got me into motorcycles when I was a kid. He took me on adventures and supported my passion for racing. He instilled a love for the outdoors, and a respect for the mountains and has supported me through the numerous peaks and valleys of life. He’s always had my back, encouraged me to follow my dreams and has helped pick me up when I’ve fallen down. 

Unfortunately, his kidneys are failing, and days are numbered. He’s still able to ride, though I don’t know for how much longer. Roles are reversing, and now I’m the one picking him up when he falls down and taking his bike through the really hard sections. I cherish rides with him, as I know someday soon it’ll be his last.

 
 
 
 

Above tree line, the views opened up to show rugged alpine peaks and glaciers. The road crumbles apart into nothing more than a rocky path as we continue to climb. We’re in the heart of the Columbias, surrounded by some of the highest mountains in the range. With steep, craggy peaks draped in broken glaciers, the views are stunning. After a steep, loose climb up a scree field, we reach the top and are greeted by views of the neighboring valley. From the ridge top, we’re able to connect right to the toe of a nearby glacier, its blue ice a stunning contrast to the autumn colors in the valley. The exposed ice is melting rapidly, and as annual temperatures continue rising, this glacier’s days are numbered as well.

 
 
 
 

Watching the glacier melt tumble over polished rock into the valley below, I lose myself in thought once again. Why is it that these beautiful things can’t last forever? The melting glacier. My aging father. I’m not ready to lose him yet. We’ve had many adventures and great times, but there’s still more I want to share with him. Family has always been a pillar in my life, but I’ve yet to start one of my own. How much longer can I wait?  

A cold breeze snaps me back as the autumn sun is quickly fading behind the peaks. A chill in the air means this is likely my last trip to the alpine for the season. It’s time to head home. As I descend back into the warmth of the valley I realize that instead of fighting it, I just need to accept the fact that time is limited, and it’s fleeting moments like this that make it all so special.

Kelly McCaughey: See You In the Dirt

KELLY MCCAUGHEY’S PURSUIT FOR WOMEN’S RIDING

Words by Kirsten Midura | Photography by Jenny Linquist

 
 

The morning fog begins to dissipate as trailer after trailer lines up along the gravel entrance. Tents of every color bloom across the vast field. The slap of two-strokes reverberates through the clear August sky, and in due time, 200 women gather around a lone, unassuming brunette.

Microphone in hand, Kelly McCaughey begins: “I’d like to start by thanking all of you for coming to the fourth annual Over and Out.” Her words are met by an enthusiastic wave of applause from people who either know her or know of her. The crowd comprises a range of attendees; first-time riders stand alongside professionals such as Rachel Gutish, recently returned from winning gold at the International Six Days Enduro (ISDE) race in Italy. The nerves among the crowd are palpable, whether from fear of the unknown or from an anxiousness to get out and play in the mud. We listen with bated breath to hear the routes, the rules, and our cue to ride. 

 
 
 
 
 

Kelly finishes her safety talk, and we each grab a trail map from a nearby table. We have been asked not to show these to anyone outside of the event. The routes were created for us alone, and they will change with the next event to avoid being overriden. I look down and see sinuous lines of green, yellow, and red twisting across the laminated page, indicating easy, medium, and difficult trails. A woman leans over to me, eyes on her map. “Sadie’s Big Adventure,” she says with a smile. “She named that route after my dog.” 

The women disperse. Some venture out in groups of two or three, ready to take to the trails. Some ready themselves for a day-long guided dual sport ride. Others stay where they are and wait patiently for classes to start: beginners at 10, intermediate at 12, advanced class later in the day.

I join a small group that has been assembled by my friend from Brooklyn. We are taking part in the “Trail Boss Challenge,” a competition reminiscent of The Great Adventure, with ruts to be ridden and riddles to be solved. Until today, I have known my teammates only by their Instagram handles. We follow each other’s lives from afar, and it is good to finally put names to faces. To suddenly have riding friends across the country. We gear up and follow a muddy trail deep into the Pennsylvania woods.

 
 
 

THE MISSING LINK

In the last four years, Over and Out (OAO) has become one of the premiere women’s off-road riding events in the United States. Run by founder Kelly McCaughey, the annual, weekend-long campout invites women of all levels to come together to revel in their shared love of moto. There are marked trail rides of varying difficulties, trainings and guided tours, challenges, a raffle, and a nightly bonfire where women can share their proverbial war stories. This year, OAO even incorporated a mountain biking clinic. Some select men are invited to work the event as “trail dads,” including the crews from WLF Enduro and the Delaware Valley Trail Riders (DVTR). Otherwise, this event is run entirely by women, for women.

To an outsider, Over and Out seems effortlessly executed. But Kelly has spent years meticulously curating this event. She pays close attention to every detail, from the classes offered throughout the weekend, to the routes and staff, to merchandise and raffle prizes. “I think about everything and everyone’s experience,” Kelly says. “Everyone who comes to my events should feel like they’re equally included and here to have fun.”

 
 

Kelly herself did not find her way into dirt biking until she was well into adulthood. In the farmlands of rural New Jersey, she grew up in a family who rode everything except motorcycles. Her father used to train and break horses, her uncles and cousins raced dirt-modified stock cars. For Kelly, motorcycles were always just out of reach. As a child, she lusted after the bikes that she saw in ’80s movies: Karate Kid and Footloose taunted her with their casual cameos of Honda XL 600Rs and Yamaha DT 125 enduros. But as a rule-abiding youth, she heeded her parents’ warnings of the dangers of riding. It was not until she was 30 that she first threw her leg over a bike.

It was a warm summer morning when Kelly’s now-husband, Dan, lent her an XR100 and gave her her first lesson. Dan had been racing motocross for 30 years, and Kelly had only recently signed up to take her first basic rider’s course. They started in a grassy field, and Kelly took to it with ease. “On the way out there, I remember saying ‘I feel like I already know how to ride,’” she recalls. Her childhood years spent on mountain bikes and horseback had given her a natural feel for the movement, and shifting and braking came effortlessly. It was a smooth, if not uneventful, beginning. That is, until they hit the trails.

 
 
 
 

“I didn’t expect it, but my brain lit up,” Kelly said. “All these connections sparked; it felt familiar. I kept thinking, where was this all these years? Why hasn’t this been in my life all along?” She hurled herself through her first-ever singletrack, and a joie de vivre awakened in her that had all but faded in her life. She had finished high school with straight As; had played on her high school field hockey team; had gone on to study primate biology, film, and evolutionary anthropology at Rutgers; had taught herself jewelry design and small business management through her work; and ultimately had landed a corporate job at Macy’s. But despite her eclectic repertoire, Kelly admits, “By that point I’d spent a good five years feeling like I didn’t have a passion I was living for. With dirt bikes, it happened organically.”

For Kelly, transitioning into dirt bikes was relatively seamless. Relatively. Perhaps because she had started in her thirties, her shrewd emotional intelligence and innate attention to detail allowed her to manage the frustrations that most new riders face. Her control over her own mental state had been honed through practice, reinforced by countless hours listening to sports psychology podcasts. Her communication skills were refined from years of navigating relationships with friends, family, and coworkers. She knew that she worked best when focusing on hyperspecific areas of improvement. Move her hips back an inch. Push two strokes higher into the RPMs. And she had discovered a secret to maintaining a “PMA,” or Positive Mental Attitude. “It’s not easy sometimes,” she confesses, “but saying things out loud is a really powerful coping skill.”

 
 
 
 

Kelly found herself riding every weekend. She tested her limits on challenging terrain alongside her partner and group of male friends. “I came home every time and even after hard, exhausting days or bad falls, not once did I ever want  to quit,” she recounts. But even as she expanded her riding network, something was amiss. “I kept thinking, it’d be really cool if I had one other girlfriend who’d want to come do this with me.”

She looked for other women like her, but there were few. Were they there? Did they not have access to the bikes, the gear, the trails? Did they even know that trails were an option? Or had their views of motorcycles been shaped, as hers had, by the movies? Portraying only the open road. Limited only to asphalt. Ridden only by men. After all, she notes, “If no one’s taken you to a super-remote off-road trail, you don’t even know it exists.”

Kelly wanted to understand why women weren’t a central part of this sport. And she wanted to change it.

 
 
 

A SPARK IGNITES

Our team descends down a steep, rocky pass. Fist-sized stones span the width of our path, and they lurch and settle as our knobby tires press them into the ground. At the base, the road offers a brief respite of level grass before we dip back into the forested singletrack. The yellow sign ahead reads, “Vegan Loop.” Sunlight flickers through the trees, and my eyes light up when I see water shimmering across the trail ahead, inviting us into a long, flowing water crossing.

 
 

A humble, guided trail ride marked the beginning of what is now a staple in the women’s dirt bike circuit. It was 2016, and the first OAO hosted only 15 riders. Attendance was limited to women who had the appropriate bikes for the trails that Kelly had chosen. It was a success, but for Kelly it was not enough. A lifelong champion of inclusion, she had grown up in a household where she could only host sleepovers if she invited all the girls in the class. She needed to find a way to include everyone.

As Kelly ruminated on how to grow the women’s riding community, the space in which to do so was diminishing. “We have a shortage of public land for dirt bikes,” Kelly explains about the Northeastern United States. This is, in part, due to the widely held perception that dirt bike riders are environmental menaces. We tear up the forests’ delicate biocrust, and leave trash and exhaust in our wake. Whether unfounded or not, this limitation on land has necessitated riders’ protectiveness over our beloved trails. “When you find a new place to ride,” Kelly says, “you’re careful about who you tell. You don’t want it to be a secret, but it has to be.” 

 
 
 
 

Kelly compares the nuncupative nature of the dirt bike scene to that of the early days of skateboarding, or even the ’90s punk rock and hardcore factions. If kids heard about an abandoned pool, news of it would travel by word-of-mouth. If there were underground shows, you’d maybe find a flyer at a local record store. If there was a new trail, you learned about it from your riding friends. Once you’re in that world, you’re in the know. But if you drop out for a while, you lose that lifeline. “It’s totally community-driven.” Kelly says. “That’s why I use the tagline, ‘See you in the dirt,’” a play on the punk scene phrase, See you in the pit. “It means that sooner or later you’ll see them because you’re part of the same lifestyle.”

But to foster this lifestyle, Kelly needed a place to do so. A year after her inaugural trail ride, she had found just the spot: a large, privately owned plot of Pennsylvania land, rich with wide, grassy fields, remote singletrack, rocky hill climbs, river crossings, and a quarry-bound lake promising the most refreshing swim at the end of a long day’s ride. This property has become home to OAO for the last three years, and Kelly’s team has worked hard to keep it as such. “We’re not going to be part of overriding land,” she says, “That’s something we’re super aware of as an organization, and that’s what everyone should be doing – giving the land a chance to grow back. If you abuse something, you lose it.”

 
 
 

FROM RIDER TO LEADER

We arrive at a fork in the road. To the left, a dappled, sylvan trail stretches invitingly before us – the continuation of our yellow route. To the right, a menacing red sign stakes its claim, holding tight as water rushes around it. “Ralph’s Ramble,” it reads, pointing into the riverbed. The four of us stop and exchange an inquiring glance.

 
 

The year 2021 is the first that OAO’s attendance has broken 200 registered riders. Both the event and Kelly have come a long way in the last four years. “One of my biggest challenges was allowing myself to be the ultimate voice in charge,” Kelly admits. A team player at her core, Kelly learned through trial and error to put her foot down in times when decisions must be made. “I had to get used to the idea that if something is yours,” she says, “it comes down to you and your gut.”

Part of being a good leader, Kelly found, was finding a team that supports your vision and trusts your choices. And the cohesion of her team is evidenced by how smoothly the weekend is run. “We often talk about being a good leader,” Kelly says with respect, “but it’s just as important to learn how to follow. 

The people I have close to me know how to lead, too, but they definitely know how to follow.” Naturally, Kelly’s guiding principle is none other than inclusivity. “I’ll never do something that leaves people excluded,” she explains. “I get that from my mom.” Indeed, every facet of her events is a means of leveling the playing field for women, and sharing technical knowledge that used to seem all but off-limits. “That information is the stuff that people get from riding coaches,” she says, “but the average rider doesn’t get that. I think women in general need more information. Then they’re that much more ready, prepared, and psychologically at ease.”

 
 
 
 

But even with an open invitation, some women are reluctant to take the plunge. Decades of imagery reinforcing riding as a “man’s sport” have conditioned us toward skepticism. “There’s a mental boundary that some women have,” Kelly explains, “How we’re approached by someone else can completely change whether we take advantage of an opportunity.” When Kelly encounters hesitation from women, she approaches it in a way that is groundbreakingly simple: “I love when I get emails from girls who say, ‘I’m new to riding,’ or ‘I’m coming by myself, and I don’t know if this is for me,’” she says, “My favorite thing to do is to respond with so much positivity that it changes the whole energy with which they are approaching it.” 

 
 
 

THE REASON WHY WE RIDE

I leave my experienced team members to their own devices and gladly take the road more traveled. Enjoying the casual dips and turns of the yellow route, I practice my form and revel in the tackiness of the rain-soaked soil. Eventually, the curtain of foliage lifts, revealing my destination. I dismount and shake off my gear, and take a deep, relaxed breath.

In the field before me are thirty women on thirty bikes. Under the guidance of professionals, the women ride in turn toward a massive log. With newly acquired ease, each woman pops her front wheel over it, followed by the back. No one falls. No one yells. There is a pointed lack of bravado amongst the group. These women are relaxed, focused, confident. Concerned only with themselves and their own improvement. Each one is beaming with pride. I can’t help but think, “This is what it’s about.”

 
 

“I associate every win or loss with my own self-worth,” Kelly says frankly, speaking literally of each and every OAO. “I’m very Type A. My car ride home is thinking about the thing that went wrong, thinking about how to fix it for next year.” With everything running so smoothly, it’s difficult to imagine what she could be referring to. 

True to form, Kelly is thinking not of the big picture – she has that dialed in by now – but rather of the experience of the individual. She recounts an example from the year before: A woman had traveled out from Michigan on her own, and she did not know who to ride with. Kelly’s husband, Dan, ended up riding sweep for her throughout the weekend. “Had I known, I would have gone out and ridden with her,” Kelly says with genuine remorse. “That was my biggest regret after the last event. I need to get out and ride with people more.”

Most organizers would not reflect on their work with such granularity. But then, Kelly is no typical organizer. While OAO is her seminal event, she has begun to flesh out a program series dedicated to women, adding to the lineup a dual sport retreat, an MX event, and specialized clinics. With all these annual events to juggle, Kelly emphasizes the importance of savoring the small wins. While her capable team is off carrying out her events to perfection, Kelly has finally begun to schedule time to simply observe people enjoying themselves. She even makes time to go out and ride.

 
 
 

These moments allow Kelly to remember why she started all this in the first place. Why she stands her ground in the face of adversity, and why she thinks through every scenario and every person’s experience before making a decision. “It’s so similar to riding,” she reflects. “Everything you go through, that you feel – the challenge and the relief at the end, the excitement, the negatives – it’s all part of it, and without the lows you don’t have highs.” 

She pauses to reflect. “It’s like that quote,” she says, paraphrasing the adage from mountaineer Greg Child: “Somewhere between the beginning and the end of a trail is the reason why we ride.”

Bralorne

BEAUTY AND PAIN IN THE COAST MOUNTAINS

Photography by Tyler Ravelle

Same As It Ever Was

NOTES FROM THE ROAD

Words by Alex Foy | Photography by Tal Roberts

I awoke the day of our departure with a healthy dose of hype churning in the gut and questions percolating that only the road could answer. Was my gear all dialed in? How efficiently could I pack a van? And where in the fuck is my spare socket wrench set?    

Thoughts like these seem inevitable before a trip and hold some value before you hit the road. Best-case scenario they make you consult and reconsult the checklist, but left to run rampant, these questions will leave you rudderless and intimidated. Moral of it: Triple-check your gear and then burn it down the asphalt – your questions will be in the rearview as soon you hit 60.

After packing up I headed over to my friend Willis Kimbel’s spot to link with everyone. Pulling up at 10 a.m., I wasn’t surprised to see that the front yard was already divided into tidy rows of camera gear, camp items and quivers. The bike trailer was parked neatly next to the curb. 

We had an all-time crew consisting of skateboarders Willis Kimbel, Jeremy Tuffli, and me, accompanied by videographers Elias Parise and Chris Varcadipane, and photographer Tal Roberts. Piper, Kimbels’ border collie, would also join for good measure. There wasn’t a dude in the van whom we hadn’t known for more than a decade, and that friendship certainly made chomping down the miles that much more enjoyable. 

We weren’t skimping on the toys, either. Final count totaled at three dirt bikes and 12 skateboards in a variety of shapes and sizes to cover any terrain we might find on the road. The tiedowns were locked and double-checked, Piper’s vest was buckled, and the coolers had ice. We budgeted two hours to pack, we expected three, and were on the road to a bowl in the hills of Klamath Falls just before noon.

 
 
 
 

It’s a coin toss if the body and mind will cooperate on your board after a five-hour drive, but the terrain had everyone hyped to skate. Built in the early 2000s by Dreamland Skateparks, the deep moonscapes, one-of-a-kind features, and endless pool coping have made this place a must-hit for two decades now. The temperature also dropped below 90 degrees for the first time that day, and the music blasting out Willis’ speaker amplified the hype. We rolled until the sun went down and the transitions became gray and shadowed. Any more grinds would ha’ve been greedy.

A dropped pin and some enigmatic texts from an elusive old friend, Rye Clancy, led us through a dark, winding road to his homestead above Klamath. That night after setting up tents on his property, we wandered through his little slice of paradise with head lamps adorned, and in the shadows, we found two bowls built into the steep land, along with several small structures and sculptures. It’s his own personal playground, and it contains everything he needs to be happy.

 
 
 

By 7:30 a.m., we could already tell this day was going to be even hotter than the last. I rolled out of my van sweating like Ace Ventura crawling out of the rhino, and we knew we had to get the session going quickly before the heat passed into the triple digits. 

Clancy’s bowls were rawer in the daylight. Traditionally bowls have either circular steel or pool coping on the edge of the transition. Clancy, however, bucked the system and cemented river rock into the bowl’s edge for his coping. Each grind raddled and ripped across the rocks, with debris flying out on each turn. When the rocks started flying, Kimbel got a strange idea. Gathering some spare stones from the property, he placed several on the rim of the bowl. His next frontside turn sprayed rocks across the ground like a surfer slashing through the edge of wave. In fact, some waves would have felt good in that moment as the sun continued to scorch down on us, so we jumped back in the van to crank the A/C and continue onward toward Mammoth.

 

A bit before the gas started burning on this trip, Kimbel caught up with his pal Jamie Lynn and rinsed a pint over recent travels and rambles to be, and Lynn gave Kimbel some hints for turns to take on this route. It’s impossible to give someone like Lynn a title. Artist? For sure. OG Pro Snowboarder? He’s done that. But Kimbel thinks of him more as a Renaissance man living life in a savage purity. He said meeting Vic Lowrence, aka “Sick Vic,” was a must-stop in Tahoe, and that was all we needed to hear to crank it west and make another detour.

Tahoe was never a part of the itinerary, but when Lynn made the connection and Lowrence hit up Kimbel about skating his private ramp in the woods, we just had to go. Traveling has taught us one rule that never ever seems to fail: Skateboards are the skeleton key to cool shit. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve encountered the most amazing people and most protected scenes simply because I had a skateboard and sense enough to bring some brews. And it’s no coincidence I’ve met my very best friends through skateboarding. 

 
 
 
 

“Stay wherever we land and we’re good” was always the plan, and when Vic and his wife Sarah Lowrence gave us their yard for the night, we all felt the unspoken code of the road. There’s an understanding that goes both ways when you find people who share a common passion for what you do. A basement floor or a bit of grass might as well be a 5-star hotel after cramming a month of fun into one exhausting day. And the people who extend that hospitality know it just helps us along to the next realm of good times.

Lynn told us that Lowrence is a doer of all things fun and fast, and he’s gnarly as fuck at it all. Sure, he scaled the pro snowboarding ranks, but we soon came to find that he can hold his own on any type of board, bike, or sled. We had planned to crash with him that one night only, skate his ramp in the morning, and then head south that evening, but that piece of grass under the balcony and Lowrence’s lust for life kept us around wanting more. Two days later, we finally found ourselves saying goodbye to them after multiple backyard ramp and pool sessions, river dips, and late-night stories. I took a step back as we sat fireside laughing our asses off with our new friends and realized that this trip was kicking into high gear. Meeting people like this is why keeping rolling down these roads.

 
 

We arrived at the high-elevation oasis of Mammoth late that evening. It was a long and lonely road from Tahoe, but FuBar clips and two-way radio banter kept us pushing through the dark. Despite pulling into town close to 1 a.m., our next host and friend, Tom Weniger, met us outside the motel he manages as soon as we pulled up. People in the know, know Weniger. Beside managing the motel where he hooked up rooms for us, Tom is a central figure in the Mammoth skate scene and recently started a project called Mental Illness Orange (MIO) to bring skate communities together to turn off the phone and talk about mental health.

The parking lot the next morning was a melting pot of hype and good friends. Scott Blum pulled up first. Kimbel has known Blum for over 20 years through surfing, skating, snowboarding and everything else in between. He’s a renowned snowboarder known for everything from the steepest backcountry powder lines to lip-sliding 40-stair handrails. Blum was followed by Creature Skateboards Brand Manager Jake Smith and a few other friends tagging along from Yucca Valley, and we were all ready to hit Mammoth.

 
 

Volcon Brothers Skatepark in Mammoth takes days to study and learn. Sure, you might get in some grinds and maybe a line you think is tight in the moment on your first day, but to really make the park work it takes days of false starts, lightbulb moments, and building up your bravado to step to the 13-foot-plus transitions. The park doesn’t give out freebies, and you’d best believe you’re going to smoke at least one pair of pants during a session. And it’s all worth it. There’s really no other park on Earth that has a combination of organic flow, massive concrete walls and unique features quite like Mammoth. The park is also a reflection of its geography; instead of flattening the rocks, earth, and trees from the space, the builders poured the concrete around and onto the landscape that has resided there for millennia. 

With the initial skate session being a success, we were all itching to unload the bikes and check out the endless trails surrounding us. We met Scott a ways outside of town at one of his local spots. It had rained earlier in the week, making the dirt soft and not too dusty, and Scott toured us around some singletrack trails he’s been saving in his back pocket for years. We were about 20 minutes out when we heard the first ping of hail bounce off our bikes, and soon we found ourselves laughing hysterically as we tried to find our way back in the onslaught of ice and cold. My iPhone was a casualty to the storm, but I’ll just chalk it up as one less distraction.

 
 
 
 

Our next camp area was nestled outside Mammoth in the surrounding Inyo National Forest. Scott clued us into the area, and it was far enough off the beaten path to provide the freedom we desired. Our camp sat in the middle of a large, wide berm with trees that could accommodate hammocks and provide shade during the long afternoons. Over the berm was a soft, sandy hill that dropped us onto miles of fire roads and singletrack.

Now that most of the skate footage was collected from the multiple, many-hour Mammoth park sessions, we turned our attention to ripping the bikes around the trails. One morning we even started connecting the dots between the bikes and skateboards with a bit of rope. A quick knot around the frame and a couple of ‘“hold my beer”  jokes later, I found myself holding the line behind Jeremy’s bike waiting for the slack to kick. Turns out that getting towed behind a dirt bike on a dusty trail is just as fun and as dangerous as it sounds. It’s the soft dirt that will get you, but with some momentum and a little hubris, you can ride straight through the rocks and roots. The key to riding skateboard wheels on these dirt roads is to lean heavily on your back wheels and commit lightly to every turn. Having the crew there to fire you up with every careening turn doesn’t hurt, either. It was an epic ending to our time in Mammoth before we said goodbye to Scott.

 
 
 
 

Three hours south of the Oregon state line, my van sat idling at the summit of another high-desert pass as Jeremy shared tales of an empty pool in an abandoned trailer park that was victim to last year’s rampant wildfires across the state. Heading southwest, as opposed to our current northern route, would add another day to our two-week mission, but we all knew what could come of that detour. Skateable empty pools in the Northwest are scarce, and you have to wade through the rumors and fool’s gold to fine one that’s worthwhile. So, when Jeremy told us it was special, we knew it was a no-brainer to head south again to check the pit.

The pool sat in the middle of a scorched, flattened land, and we knew its days were numbered. There were no signs of the mobile park that was once here. The surrounding area was littered with construction equipment encroaching the pool’s edge, and within a couple of days they would sink their steel jaws into it. The capsule-shaped pool was really good — not just good for the Northwest, but good by any seasoned pool rider’s standards. The surface was fast with smooth transitions. The coping was flush with the tiles, and the death box and ladder were in the right spots. We caught grinds and lines until dusk fell on the scalded concrete. 

 
 
 

Across the field from the pool, cars flew by to destinations unknown, and nobody paid any attention to the group of degenerate skateboarders hanging out in the bordering field. But if they did see us, they would have seen a group of best friends and a day we won’t soon forget. We go on trips like this seeking memories that we can preserve for the future, like the ones we captured at Mammoth Park or Ryes, or by getting towed down the dusty trails behind a dirt bike – where we missed the turn and wound up somewhere better – and the ones that leave us doubled over in laughter. Now that it’s all over, we know we can always find those moments, faded and folded in our back pockets, ready to revisit for years to come.

Road to Rooibos

SOUTH AFRICA’S ROOIBOS HERITAGE ROUTE

Words and photography by Simon Pocock

 
 

The Cederberg mountain region of Western South Africa is home to the magical rooibos plant, and it’s the only place in the world where it can grow. The name rooibos translates to “red bush,” and the plant has been used by the Khoisan, or indigenous, people for over 300 years to create herbal teas with a number of health benefits and homeopathic medicines with reputable healing properties. Simple and subsistence farming has been the way of life in that region for hundreds of years, and to this day rooibos is still harvested by hand and processed by the people who live and work along the small tracts of land found in the remote mountains South Africa.

Feeling inspired to explore that unique history, we embarked on a motorcycle journey along the Rooibos Heritage Route, a road that winds north through the mountains from Wupperthal up to the arid plateau of Nieuwoudtville in the Northern Cape. This route connects sparsely populated villages and farms that still harvest the rooibos plant, and the overlapping mountains and deserts along the route are lined with stunning views of wildflowers as far as the eye can see. This lesser-known part of the world has an early frontier-like feeling to it, and the sight of donkey carts used to move between the small villages is common along the old trade route north. The region is packed full of history and beauty, and it made for an incredible experience to explore on two wheels.

Our plan for the ride was five days on the road, leaving from and returning to our homes in Cape Town. I was joined by two of my good mates: Dan Walsh and Paul Boshoff. We’re a small and nimble crew, all self-sufficient and capable of efficiently blasting across the desert and moving like the wind through the mountains. We would camp wild wherever the day drew to a close, and our goal was to keep the plan loose and allow the adventure to reveal itself with the passing landscape. We were on our own, in the middle of nowhere. Disconnected. No cell signal and nothing but open country and inspiring history ahead of us. It’s exactly the kind of escape we were looking for, and exactly where we wanted to be.

 
 
 
 
 

The Northwestern region of South Africa has an endless allure for me, and even more so with the spectacular wildflowers that come during the spring months.

 
 
 
 

The towns are remote and sparsely populated, yet somehow always full of interesting personalities.

 
 
 
 

We moved past wild rooibos fields and humble villages all day, each one supporting the micro-industry in their own unique ways.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

It’s not all romantic travel, however, and our resilience was tested several times throughout the trip. We faced a variety of water crossings, locked gates and mechanical failures along the way, including a broken exhaust we fixed with an old tin can.

 
 
 
 

We pitched our tents wherever the day would draw to a close, and Dan would cook up a delicious veg curry for the lads - a simple and effective meal on the road for a bunch of vegetarian travelers.

 
 
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Ghosts Of New England

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A MAD DASH TO THE EDGE OF AMERICA

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Filmed & Edited by Kasen Schamaun | Produced & Directed by Ben Giese

 

The sky was dark and ominous above Grand Isle, Vermont, as my younger brother Mike and I geared up to head east across the old colonial backroads of New England. A bitter cold mist settled on the jet-black pavement as we layered up to stay warm for the rainy evening ahead. We had 72 fast and furious hours to slice through the neck of America, and 450 beautiful miles of lush rolling hills, charming historic towns and endless golden foliage ahead of us.

 
 
 
 
 

The plan was to zigzag our way to the great Atlantic coast of Maine, then turn south along the quiet shores of New Hampshire and Massachusetts to our final destination in Boston. 

Within the first few miles we passed by some old farmhouses decorated with pumpkins and Halloween skeletons, and it was just the kind of October scene I had always imagined. I’ve dreamt of a motorcycle trip like this for many years now, and my long-lost fantasy to experience fall in the Northeast was finally happening. We were officially on our way, off into the autumn wonderland on two brand-new Royal Enfield Continental GTs, with all the miles ahead and all the things to see. I could hardly wait, and having my brother here with me just made the trip that much more special. 

 
 
 
 

We’ve been riding together as long as I can remember, but we’ve never taken an adventure quite like this. And now that we’ve become adults living in different cities across this great big country, these opportunities and this time together feels a lot more meaningful. 

Dusk began to creep in and the gray skies darkened as we passed through some dreary little East Coast towns. Dim lights illuminated the sleepy streets, and sad old homes with chipped paint were tucked away in the trees, hidden in the hills and forgotten to the world. These lonely towns radiate a kind of sadness, but not the depressing kind you might imagine. It’s more of a beautiful and poetic sadness, with a palpable sense of nostalgia that can only be found in these older parts of America. 

 
 
 
 

Darkness came quickly and the freezing rain followed, so it was time to seek some food and shelter to warm our bones. We shivered into a cozy restaurant in an old brick building and laughed with joy at our newfound comfort, celebrating with a feast of smoked brisket and delicious local microbrews. Our shelter for the evening was just down the road in a cabin in the woods, where we lost our minds in a swirl of music, laughter and card games late into the night before falling asleep on a dusty couch to the soothing sound of rain on the old metal roof. 

The dark clouds followed us that next morning, and we prepped for a cold and wet day ahead, but the gods of New England were kind and we managed to stay dry the entire ride. We were blown away by the beauty and charm of rural Vermont, so we took the longest way possible to Portland. We followed the backroads south, and then north, slowly creeping toward our destination in the east. We stopped frequently to take in the sights, but never for too long. We had to keep moving. There was too much to do, too much to see, too far to go, and we wanted it all. So we just kept going and stopping and going in a frenzy of excitement for the road ahead. 

 
 
 
 
 

The hours melted away with the greenest rolling hills we’d ever seen, and we lost all sense of time and direction wandering the canopied forest as amber leaves rained down on us from the heavens. There were classic old trucks parked in front of big red barns, and little shops in small towns selling Vermont maple syrup. We were surely behind schedule to make Portland by dusk, but it didn’t really matter. There was a fairytale happening all around us, and we never wanted it to end. 

New Hampshire blessed us with more beauty as the sun was getting low and pastel cotton candy clouds gleamed off the endless glassy lakes surrounding us. By this point, we started picking up the pace to make up for lost time, making it to the border of Maine just after dark. We crossed the entire state in blackness, like ships in the night through a daze of darkness and delusion. 

 
 
 
 

I could see the lights of cottages flashing by in the woods, and I could smell fireplaces and cooking coming from inside. I imagined families at home, resting in their islands of comfort and warmth, with no sense of the crazed riders outside on a mad dash into the cold black abyss. Ghosts from the West, invisible to the world, sailing east through the haunted October trees of Maine.

We never saw the sun in Portland because our madness for the road ahead was pulling us forward to something more spectacular. And as we crested one final hill, the great Atlantic Ocean revealed itself, reflecting the deep-blue early-morning glow of a sun yet to rise. We made it to the end of the earth, 2,000 miles from home at the edge of the American continent, just in time to watch a new day begin. The world was still asleep as we stood on a cliff near the historic Portland Head Lighthouse. Waves crashed on the rocks below, and the sun slowly rose from behind the horizon, and all those crazy miles behind us were well worth the view.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

It would be a much more mellow and relaxing day on the coast of Maine. We could finally shed some layers as the temps warmed up and a salty ocean breeze lulled us along the shore through dreamy beachside communities and quaint fishing villages. We made a few detours to check out some lighthouses along the way, and of course we had to try some lobster rolls for lunch, because that’s what you do in Maine. 

When we finally reached the North Shore of Boston, we got tied up in the mania of rush hour traffic, with all the people coming and going, to and from the business of their lives. The defeated faces of Boston workers trying to get home on a Wednesday evening told the story of broken dreams and the search for cheese in a rat race that never ends. I felt badly for those people, and as the sun went down over the Massachusetts Bay, I contemplated how lucky we are to be here. To have this unforgettable experience with my brother, and to escape that mad way of living for a few days. And when I stop to think about the whole point of this whirlwind adventure, I realize there never really was one to begin with. It was simply about seeing a new place. Smelling it and tasting it and experiencing it for all that it is. 

 
 
 

I used to sit and wonder what autumn in the Northeast might be like, but now I can dream about those rolling hills of Vermont and the wise old lighthouses on the coast of Maine. The trees and the farms, the glassy lakes and salty ocean breeze, the briskets and beers, and the sad towns and dark nights. I’ll remember all the little roads between, and all the things we saw along the way. Like ghosts of New England, invisible to the world, passing through for one moment and gone the next. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only road we’ve ever known.

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The Last Wilderness

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A PLACE WHERE THE DREAMS NEVER END

Words by Chris Nelson | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Filmed & Edited by Daniel Fickle | Soundtrack by John Ryan Hebert | Produced & Directed by Ben Giese

 

The dreams don’t end after we open our eyes. First, we taste the thick morning air that drips through the mesh of our tents, and in the tree branches above us we watch the tangled strings of pale green moss hanging down like long, bony fingers coaxing us to climb out of our sleeping bags. As we walk through the small, dank campground we see a thick brown slug slime its way up the side of an empty can of Rainier Beer, breathing through an open stoma on the side of its body. Then a deep voice cuts through the quiet dawn: “The water is warmer than the air is,” Noah Culver says as he stands knee-deep in Lake Quinault, which sits at the bottom of a glacial valley on the southwest corner of the Olympic Peninsula in Western Washington State.

 
 
 
 

Known as America’s last wilderness, the 3,600-square-mile Olympic Peninsula is home to rugged alpine mountain ranges, primordial beaches, salmon-filled rivers, and vast temperate rainforests that stretch from the Pacific Coast to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which separates the northernmost edge of the U.S. from Canada. The Olympic Peninsula is now visited by over three million people annually, but native tribes had thrived in the formidably beautiful paradise for millennia prior to the arrival of European settlers in the 1500s, who came to poach otter pelts and strip the forest of its timber.

It wasn’t until 1897 that the area received its first national designation, Olympic Forest Reserve. Forty years after that, President Franklin Roosevelt visited the Peninsula and gave his support for the establishment of a national park in order to protect its natural resources, as well as the cultural histories of its Native peoples. Today, eight Olympic Peninsula tribes recognize a relationship to the park based on traditional land use and spiritual practices, and one of them, the Quinault Indian Nation, claims ownership of the water that Culver slowly wades through.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A Hollywood-based producer who has brought to life some of television’s most addictively and mindlessly entertaining shows, Culver shuffles his feet across the pebble lakebed with a steaming mug of instant coffee in hand. The ripples in the water break the still, mirror-like surface blanketed in an opaque layer of fog, split in the middle like an over-risen loaf of bread, and through the break we see the silhouettes of grand houses tucked into the trees on the far side of the lake, bathed in citrus sunrise. Suddenly another man, Mike Burke, bursts forth from his cheap, child-sized tent and runs into the water, until he trips and plunges down with a violent splash. When he stands up, he looks back at the shore with a wide, wild smile as water pours out from his snarled beard.

 
 
 
 

Burke owns a company that does large-format digital printing, and he and Culver were invited on this adventure by their friends Alan Mendenhall and Thom Hill of Iron & Resin, a Ventura, California-based clothing company. None of the four men had ever visited the Olympic Peninsula and thought it would be an idyllic location to ride motorcycles and photograph a lookbook for Iron & Resin’s newest collection. They invited META along to document their two-day ride north from the lake along the lone road that loops around the Peninsula, U.S. Route 101, to explore as much as possible before ending the trip at the top of Mount Olympus on the edge of the Peninsula’s largest city, Port Angeles. 

Once everyone finishes their coffees, the guys saddle up on an eclectic collection of motorcycles: Burke has his Yamaha WR450, Culver rides a Honda XR600, Hill brought his Ducati Scrambler Desert Sled, and Mendenhall has a Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 that he recently transformed into a Baja-worthy, scrambler-style bobber. They ride in a tight pack through the morning mist as small leaks of sunlight shimmer gold against their wet waxed-canvas jackets. After 30 minutes, they arrive at Kalaoch Campground, which is perched on rocky bluff above a sandy beach that is home to “The Tree of Life,” a large Sitka spruce tree that continues to green despite the ground around its roots having eroded long ago, making the tree appear to float in the air.

 
 
 
 
 

We set up camp at a first-come, first-served site before getting back behind the handlebars and riding an hour inland to the Hoh Rainforest, one of four temperate rainforests on the Olympic Peninsula. We wade through the mile-long Hall of Mosses trail loop, which can be one of the quietest places in America. We stare up at the lush green canopy created by the huge, knotted branches of big-leaf maples, cedars, spruces, hemlocks, and firs, with bright-yellow leaves falling through beards of clubmoss and swaying epiphytes. Underfoot is a soft, soggy forest floor of mosses, lichens, and ferns that Burke can’t help but jump up and down on, amazed by its sponginess. Culver quips that it looks like the Hobbit home of the Shire, and asks, “Did anybody else’s feet just grow a few inches, or is it just me?” 

 
 
 
 

On the way back to camp, we decide to stop at Ruby Beach, where massive sea stacks stand sentry just offshore, bald eagles nest in the bluff trees, plum starfish crawl through the coastline tide pools, and huge piles of driftwood collect on the shingly beach, the bones of the rainforest picked clean by the sea. Burke jumps up onto a long-dead tree trunk and starts pushing his feet forward, riding the driftwood down the beach like a professional log roller. 

He loses his footing just before reaching the water, but then out of nowhere, Mendenhall jumps on and finishes the job. Unfortunately, the fun was short-lived, because Instagram fame turned this once-untouched beach into a destination for van-life influencers and misguided couples who force their camera-shy dogs into self-indulgent engagement photos, and before long our patience wore thin, our bellies moaning for dinner and beer.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Back at camp, Willie Nelson plays through a Bluetooth speaker as we build a campfire and watch Hill plop sausages into a beer-filled crock, cutting potatoes into wedges and wrapping them in aluminum foil lined with butter and garlic. For whatever reason, food is more satisfying when cooked over an open flame. We spend the rest of the evening sharing stories, telling jokes, and laughing under the moonlight. 

The forecast had called for heavy rain throughout the night and into the following day. Most of the Olympic Peninsula is typically wet and rainy, especially in the shoulder seasons and winter, so we had figured it would likely be unavoidable. As we head north the following morning on the 101 through the now-famous town of Forks – where Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight book series is based – the gloomy scene still feels like a dream, but one that at any moment could turn into a nightmare: darker, drearier, more ominous and foreboding, yet still undeniably captivating. Thankfully we get to enjoy a short break in the weather as we ride around Lake Crescent, a deep, glacially carved lake in the northern foothills of the Olympic mountains.

 
 
 
 

The rain falls in cold, whipping sheets as we start up Hurricane Ridge Road, a steep, 17-mile stretch of smooth pavement with tunnels, chicanes, and long corners that climbs to an elevation of over 5,200 feet. On a clear day the peak offers incredible panoramic views of Olympic National Park, but all we can see are dark silhouettes of pines set against the faint outlines of distant mountaintops. All four guys tremble with cold in the dripping wet, but they can’t help but smile. Burke says, “It’s about enjoying these moments, no matter what. Even riding through this pissing rain, I don’t care that my legs are cold, and my hands are frozen ... it’s clarity, it’s freedom, it makes me feel alive and brings value to my life.”

We all crack open beers and offer cheers to the Olympic Peninsula, which we agreed is one of the most fantastically inspiring places any of us has visited. Though it is no longer untouched by modernity, the Olympic Peninsula remains a sanctuary for those seeking asylum from the pressures of contemporary living, and its wiles are best experienced from the seat of a motorcycle. 

Culver puts it best: “We live in this world full of complication, where you’re constantly having to choose your words carefully and negotiate this crazy world we live in, but anytime you get out into a place like this, it’s full of honesty. If it’s cold, you’re cold. What you see is what you get, and there’s no complication to it. You get to be in this situation where all of those complications are gone, and as humans we crave that kind of honesty.”

 

As much as we want to descend into the town of Port Angeles and find somewhere to warm our bones, none of us moves an inch, unaccepting of the impending return to normality and life’s complications. We let the rain slap against our skin as we search through the darkened trees to find grazing blacktail deer and squint to find the massive blue glacier at the peak of Mount Olympus, and in that moment, we shared the significance of standing in one of the most awe-inspiring places in America. We never would have been able to leave if we didn’t believe that when we lay down in our beds that night, the dream would continue even after we closed our eyes.

Keep On Rolling

VOLUME TWENTY-FOUR

Words by Ben Giese | Photo by John Ryan Hebert

 

Lately, my eyes have been buried behind old books, fixed on the compelling words of the great Jack Kerouac as they effortlessly spill out onto the page with colorful texture and a refreshing lack of regard for the rules. He says things in strange ways, combining random words and nonsensical punctuation, but somehow it all works beautifully. He does it all wrong, and that’s what makes it so right.

We’ve never really been interested in following the rules, either. And we’re not all that interested in doing things the way they’re supposed to be done. That’s why we started a print publication at a time when the world was going digital, and it’s why we chose to pursue real-world experiences and create a tangible product when the rest of the world was moving online. It’s why we tell these stories about such unique people and places, and work with photographers and writers who choose to see the world through a different lens.

Kerouac’s voice was a rejection of things like authority and materialism in favor of virtues like freedom, rebellion and fearless individualism – the same virtues we founded META on over eight years ago. We value our individuality above all else, so when the news broke that a corporate Goliath was changing its name to Meta, it felt like a punch to the gut. With the flip of a switch our identity was suddenly watered down, and we watched our name circle the drain and wash away with something we had no control over.

 

Cover photo by Tyler Ravelle

But our brand is much more than just a name. We represent a way of living. We speak to inspire and encourage the rare breed of humans out there bold enough to chase their dreams and never look back. The ones who live with passion and enthusiasm and share an obsession with all things fast and fun. I think Kerouac said it best:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles...”

That fire is still burning inside of us, and the death of our name isn’t going to prevent us from keeping this dream alive. We will continue to publish this magazine and create the same content you’ve grown to know and love, but this will be our final issue with the title META. We’ve embraced this moment of change as an exciting opportunity to revitalize the brand, rethink our approach and further improve on the work we love so much. It’s blessed us with a fresh outlook and a jolt of renewed creative energy we can use to burn and crackle with excitement for what’s next. The future is glimmering gold, and the possibilities for the road ahead are endless, so like Kerouac says, “just keep on rolling under the stars.”

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