An enigmatic composer of art, music, and advocacy, Jean-Michel Basquiat has inspired creatives around the globe for decades. The Radiant Child, no stranger to the beauty derived from chaos, imbued this color into every medium of his work. This collection revels in the delicate art of abstract expression through movement, sound, and the rhythm and flow birthed from the combination of the two. We are proud to present this collection inspired by the iconic art of Jean-Michel Basquiat.
©Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York
“Be light, be present. We don’t know what’s ahead, we just know what’s now.” - Rio Lakeshore
The morning came quickly. In a dehydrated haze, the runners emerged from their small room, adorning their running shoes once again. Cappuccinos and fresh pastries revived their spirits, helping them out the door and into the brisk morning. After a hug and a slight groan, their feet fell into the same rhythm. A familiar and consistent turnover through the Sardinian countryside.
Leaving Samatzai, they quickly found themselves ascending into the mountains. The olive groves soon subsided and gave way to a rocky landscape, void of life other than the occasional herd of sheep. The midmorning sun beat down as they ascended into the sky, much hotter than before. The pass was long, and water was scarce. Quickly running out, Travis and Rio dug deep to finish the climb and descend into the next town. They violated the first vending machine they passed, filling their waters and washing away the dehydration induced paste in their mouths with cans of coke.
The miles started to click by, and in the words of Rio Lakeshore, “The body does adapt. Yesterday I felt 100 and today I feel 100% better than that”. Rolling through the countryside, farmers waved as the runners passed by, intrigued and utterly confused. Around noon, they stopped in a small town to wait out the midday heat and refuel at the only restaurant in sight. In desperate need of caffeine, the photographer and vital companion, Drew Smith ordered a cappuccino, requesting it come before the meal. He was met with a blunt, “No, after”. Guess not. They filled their bellies with Sardinian gnocchi, or Malloreddus as the locals call it. Smaller and toothier than its potato counterpart, Malloreddus was universally and instantaneously dubbed “the best meal of our lives”. But then again, so was every other meal.
Full and content, they carried on, moving deeper into the inner island. Rocks and sheep soon turned to vineyards, vines heavy with rich purple fruit. They floated through the neatly arranged rows of plants, adorned with purple gems, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
Racing the dissipating light, they hurried towards their destination for the night - a small farm in the hills. They soon reached their final resting place for the day, and were met by an overly-enthusiastic local farmer, excited to show them the property and cook them a meal. The language barrier proved tough - Travis and Rio spoke less than a lick of Italian, and their host didn’t have a single word of English in his pocket. Through a combination of pointing and intermittent stifled laughs they found themselves sitting in front of a feast of locally sourced meats and cheeses, pizzas, pastas and wine from his neighbor down the hill who apparently owns a tractor. Right on. The courses seemed endless, and the boys ate their fill. They stumbled to the bunkhouse, legs tight and aching, and a welcomed and wildly necessary sleep soon followed.
With somewhere around 50 miles on their feet, Travis and Rio are now somewhere around half way across the island. It’s all downhill from here - in a very figurative sense.
To be continued...
It’s funny how a memory — much like an adventure (or misadventure, for that matter) — stays with you longer, the deeper you felt it. And not like figuratively felt it, but literally did. On Roark’s recent trip to Sardinia, between surf sessions, Harrison Roach played chauffeur in a 80’s Volkswagen camper van, carting the crew up mountain switchbacks and down coastal village lanes in this vibey brick of a vehicle. There was no power-steering, no AC, and the van certainly did not prefer high speeds, however, everyone that hopped in instantly got it. The putt-putting point of reference for Harry’s entire Sardinian experience, he details how there’s nothing like an authentic old vehicle and good ole fashioned road trip to bond humans.
I think there's something really unique about vehicles, and, particularly, old ones, that contribute a lot of character to your journey. I like to think that a big part of my role on that trip was just to be a bit of a hype-guy, or, like, a chauffeur, to just keep the mood high and froth everyone up and get people to where they wanted to go.
I didn't have heaps of responsibility, so I just thought I could help a little bit by keeping the morale up. Whether or not I did that, or it was just a figment of my imagination — I don't know, but the car rides were some of the best times we had. When you're in an old car driving with a group of friends, the cool thing about it is there were different people in it at different stages.
People would just jump in the van for the experience and I'd have a new driving buddy pretty much every drive which contributes so much to the experience. And you’ve got this character of a car where we were just sweating in this thing, you know? There was no power-steering. It was huge, and we were rambling up these tiny mountain roads. I think I gained some muscle just turning the wheel of the f--king thing.
Then there's the character of the person sitting next to me, or the person sitting in the back, and that's really what I took away. We did a lot of driving, and those moments where you're spending time with new friends, just having a chin-wag and talking about what we're experiencing, talking about things we've experienced in the past, or whatever. That was pretty special for me. That’s another kind of adventure. And it was like a new little adventure every time we got in that van.
The reason I love road trips is that people are honest with you when you take a long drive. It feels like people let their guards down a little bit and you sort of have a level of trust in each other that is hard to find elsewhere because you don't often get those extended periods of time sitting next to someone, really. Outside of that, where do you do it? It's this unique thing, being on the road where people open up, and that was definitely happening on the trip.
I think of the classic highlights where I became a bit more of a fly on the wall as the driver. It’s sort of like listening someone’s music that they put on. Maybe someone’s choice of music, like their beliefs or opinions are similar in ways. Some of the songs, you really take on board and run with, and they become your own. Others, you're kind of like, yeah, yeah, maybe that one's not for me. You’re not always going to dig the same exact music and that’s OK. But sometimes it was like, wow, I love that tone, and absolutely agree with what you're saying.
In an old vehicle like the van — you're sort of at its whim. These days, I think we’re used to getting in your car, and you're closed off from the environment. You've got your music on, you've got your air-con blasting; you're really not a part of the environment outside. Which is why riding a motorbike is so special, because it's a vehicle that puts you so much more in the place. Hitzel, Roark’s founder, says it all the time about running. You literally get your feet on the ground and it's the best way to see a place.
Another great thing about an old vehicle is that you’re limited by it, so you’re immediately forced to take it for what it is, rather than having this preconceived notion of how these things should run. You adapt to it, not the other way around. I think that old van was just so cool for that. It was a trip in and of itself. Also, we couldn't drive fast in it. It wasn't going to be nice and cool and comfortable.
You just end up remembering more about a place because of it. I cherish those sorts of memories where we're just sweating bullets on, like, a 6-hour drive. It’s physical. At the end of that 6-hour drive, you get out and you're at this incredible f--king restaurant in the mountains above the ocean. Like, you get out and you're like, ‘oh my god, look at where we are now,’ feeling like, ‘well, that was so worth it.’ That uncomfortable ride was all part of part of the fun. Those same, old purposeful misadventures that makes it more memorable. I dunno if that makes it feels more authentic, or just better.
Everyone that got in the van, from new friends like Mackenzie Bowen to old ones like Jeff Johnson or Jamie Thomas: you could see it on their faces immediately. It was like, oh...oh, this is different. I could see it every time somebody new jumped in the car. And then, you know, we had an AUX-cord, and I'm like, all right, guys — you're the DJ. That set the tone on a lot of the longer trips around the island.
On one hand, I started out in a little surf zone on the west coast. I went over with a friend a few days early and was welcomed with open arms by the locals there. I got this really cool experience before anyone arrived. Sometimes when you're solo, it's a lot easier to hang out with a group of people and get them truly how they are. We were eating, surfing, drinking wine, kind of just living the European dream while surfing in the Mediterranean. And the coastline — it's absolutely stunning.
Warm water, cliffs, and headlands. It's just so photogenic and beautiful. It’s very arid, and a unique climate. Then we ended up in the mountains where we went to meet the Roark team. Jeff Johnson and Drew Smith and his partner were doing this big climb, and all of a sudden, it's like a whole other world up there. Still very exciting and very Italian-feeling with incredible Italian food, but a totally different environment. Sheer cliffs and tall mountains and tiny little roads.
Then we hit the east coast, and it was, hands down, one of the most beautiful beach scenes I've ever seen. These rock faces above crystal, turquoise water with white sand beaches and huge caves right on the sand and cliffs going, like, 300 meters vertically off the beach. I was pretty f--king gob-smacked by the diversity, and we still only saw a small part of it. The people were welcoming. Food was incredible. The seafood was just nonstop. Some fun waves, and all the while we're driving around in this Volkswagen bus just having a ball.
It was a real sense of achievement having driven all around that big island, though. And while memories might fade over time, all I have to do is think about that van, and it's just a window into my whole Sardinian experience. That's kind of the way I see it. From the van comes every other memory in dribs and drabs. The van is the thing that initiates everything else. It’s just this real significant point of reference that all the memories are drawn from.
"My goal in 2023 was to go places I’d never been to before, surf new waves, push myself more. This edit, “From Here To Sunday,” is a direct reflection of that. "
Starting the year off in Tahiti with the Roark team, sailing a catamaran up into the Tuamotu region, we lucked out on swell. It is not easy to get waves in this region, and on our weeklong excursion we were able to surf a swell that had hit Hawaii five days prior. The translucent waters of the Tuamotu region combined with the limited crowd, outside of our small crew, made this trip unforgettable. I would return to Tahiti later in the year to surf Teahupo’o and continue to grow my relationship with the locals. I can’t believe I had never been to Tahiti prior to 2023, I will be back more and more as time moves forward.
The other main location in this edit is Puerto Rico. Like Tahiti, PR features turquoise waters and shallow reef breaks. Multiple swells allowed me to learn a couple of the trickier slabs and after bouncing off the reef a few times I had a couple makes to show for myself. I hope that this edit gets you stoked to send it over the ledge on your next surf trip. Because even if you don’t make the drop you will have a story to tell, and isn’t that what this surf life is all about?
Sardinia. An island off the coast of Italy where the inhabitants live longer than anywhere on the planet. A place that has withstood the test of conquering empires for thousands of years. Where the wine flows like water and the water shines like crystals in the hot mediterranean sun. The capital city of Cagliari, a once fortified medieval port, sits at the southern end of the island. This will serve as the staging grounds and starting point for the mission at hand.
Rio Lakeshore and Travis Weller: Purveyors of fine art, music, and eternal seekers of the inherent beauty of life. And, for the record, world class runners. Here in Cagliari we find two friends searching for meaning through friendship, countless miles, and good food. Emphasis on the last point. The plan was simple:
The first morning started slowly. A few cappuccinos at the small cafe down the street erased the pounding headache from a long night exchanging stories around a bottle of house wine and an anchovy pizza. The sun was already warm, despite the early hour. It was rising fast, casting shadows on the walls of the rich city walls, adorned with graffiti - a beautiful testament to the constant presence of art in Sardinian culture. Stripping down to running shorts and handheld water bottles, they took off through the city. Buzzing with anticipation and espresso.
Quickly escaping the bustle of people, Travis and Rio found themselves running down the side of the superstrada, semi trucks and buses flashing past them with overwhelming force. The sun intensified, creating a less than hospitable start to the journey. Finding a rhythm proved to be tough, yet a flow slowly exposed itself, guided by the thousands of miles banked in years past.
The freeways quickly turned to country roads. No longer watching for traffic, the runners shifted their attention to disgruntled farmers, visibly and understandably confused. Through miles of dusty olive groves, they came across a small town, boasting a bit of shade, a cold coca cola, and tortellinis made with lamb from the chef’s local farm. An oasis. They ate fast, and Travis’s stomach was not pleased. Rio smoked a cigarette on the curb and drank another coke. School had just gotten out for the day, and a stream of kids poured out of a nearby doorway, walking hand in hand down the street. They sang loud and proud, reciting a song unknown to the runners. The streets eventually went quiet, and the chef closed his restaurant for the afternoon. A siesta for the locals, but a sign to keep moving for the runners.
Their shadows grew long, and Travis’s stomach issues had yet to subside. Samatzai, a small farming town tucked into the hills, grew close, marking the end of the first day of a long journey. It was quaint and still, with luxuries still unknown. As the sun sets, they finally find solace in a small bed and breakfast along the side of the road. The owner pointed them towards a restaurant owned by his cousin, where they reveled in the day. The cousin enthusiastically recommended the “seafood meal”, and they graciously accept. It was the only thing on the menu.
Born and raised in Wales and then relocated to Tallahassee Florida when she was just twelve years old, Rhiannon Klee Williams knew something of adventure at a young age. After college, she made the big move out West. “I’ve lived a pretty transient life up until recently and currently live in Bishop CA, in the Eastern Sierra—the range of light and land of giant granite boulders. I work as a full time artist, creating works from time spent in nature. I am also a climber and my passion for climbing takes me on adventures all over the world.” Her most recent adventure? A journey to the enchanting island of Sardinia, Italy. Where she had climbed once before, and since longed to return to again.
“A few days after my husband and I got married, we decided to plan an impromptu honeymoon. We wanted to go somewhere that would be relaxing but also adventurous, and Sardinia seemed to be the ticket.” The quaint island off the coast of Italy has been a topic of fascination and mystery for explorers, mythologists, and climbers for centuries. The ancient Greeks attached quite a bit of significance to the island, as it became the basis of various theories that would link it to the legendary Atlantis — the mystical land that Plato described in his dialogues. “There’s something wild about climbing the sardinian limestone, especially the oceanside crags, but at the same time, it feels relaxed with the salty air and warm sunshine. The island has a strong cultural identity and a mysterious air about it, steeped in mythology and a place where some of the oldest people in the world live.” Watching Rhi scale the side of a cliff feels reminiscent of watching an artist brilliantly and slowly paint on a canvas, each hold and new grip another stroke of the brush. Poetry in motion. Being immersed in her world was a gift, packing all the promise and thrill of new adventure. Aren’t those the moments you chase without question? Throwing all caution to the wind?
“When we first arrived in the bustling city of Cagliari, I remember wandering around for food in a jet-lagged daze. It was late, but the streets were vibrant, strung with lights and packed with people enjoying meals at the seemingly infinite restaurants that lined the streets. It was the first international trip that Drew and I had taken together since covid. We had booked the trip impulsively, a couple days after our wedding and two days later we were on a plane en route to Europe. After one night in Cagliari, we took a bus a few hours north, arriving at the small village of Ullassi. Ullassai is nestled in the flanks of the Ogliastra mountains. The charm of the village is undeniable: rows of pastel terraced homes, cobblestone alleys, friendly locals welcoming you with a “buongiorno!” in passing. On a clear day you can see the ocean.
We were there during the off season, so many of the restaurants were closed, but we had a favorite pizzeria we would walk to in the next village over. The limestone crags rose around the town in all directions. After long mornings drinking espresso and indulging in butter croissants, we would chase afternoon shade at the limestone crags. On the first trip to Sardinia, the weather was hot and humid, making your skin sweat and the limerstone holds feel soapy. Most climbers don’t like climbing in the heat, but I actually don’t mind it. I feel more relaxed and like my body can move freely. I found that the slow pace of the days translated into leisurely climbing, which at the end of the day, was the whole point of the trip. Drew and I usually go on climbing trips that involve a lot more suffering (climbing in the cold, getting scared and pushing our limits). This was a different tempo.”
“I love getting to revisit a place you’ve been to before because it’s like you get to step through a portal back to the memories of that place and you also get to keep adding to your experience and make it a whole new thing. There’s comfort in it because with some aspects you know what to expect, but there’s still so much room for new experiences and expansion. Having the opportunity to go back with the Roark crew was so special. We got to show everyone our favorite climbing crags but also got to explore new places together.” When it comes to climbing, “My mantra is more or less about enjoying the climbing for what it is and not to define success by summits or sends because then you are simplifying this multifaceted complex experience into such black and white terms and robbing yourself of a rich experience.”
While climbing took a large chunk of the first trip, Rhi made sure to prioritize connection to self and slowing down with intention the second go around. “On the second trip in particular, I remembered how much I love to travel for travel’s sake. Taking in each day without routine or much of an agenda. One of my favorite parts of the trip was getting to visit Heart Studios, established by two artists based in Santadi, a small village in the south of Sardinia. Their work is rich with motifs and folklore from the island. They live in a quiet location, where they can really focus on their work and connection to the landscape. Their work was so true to who they were and it inspired me to continue to stay true to who I am an artist and to follow my gut.”
“I am an avid journaler and even if it’s just a few sentences, I usually jot something down. The first trip was a little slower in pace so I had spacious mornings to drink coffee and write in my journal. I also painted a series of starscapes. While the imagery wasn’t necessarily linked to the Sardinian landscape specifically, I was exploring the ideas of infinity and connections and how the vastness of the night sky feels like one of the greatest mysteries that you can take in visually in this world. A part of life that endlessly drives me to lean into gut feelings and follow tangents to seemingly endless places.” While the insane landscape, climbing, warm weather and emerald green water was rich in this fascinating place, so too was the culture and the food. “ Culurgionis d’Ogliastra , aka Sardinian ravioli, melts in your mouth! Culurgiònes are essentially handmade dumplings filled with potatoes, pecorino cheese, mint and or other ingredients. While I did enjoy the delicious wine, a negroni was my go to cocktail of choice.” All in all—limestone cliffs, the night sky, emerald waters, and nightly negroni’s sound like all the right ingredients for memories to last a lifetime (and maybe even the Fountain of Youth itself).
“When I was very young, we lived in a caravan in the garden of my grandparent’s farm house. I got to spend a lot of time running free in the fields with my sisters. Climbing trees and exploring the land, wild as a child should be. As I grew older, I became very serious about the sport of gymnastics and lost touch with that wild spirit for a while. In adulthood, I rediscovered my love for adventure and nature, feeling that I finally returned home to myself.”
It’s never been about where we’re going. The destination? Forget about it altogether. It doesn’t matter where in the world we might be. What matters to us is the how and the why of it all. It’s the journey. It’s the ups and downs, it’s the bonds that we formed from adversity with those traveling alongside us, it’s the flat tires and the perfect barrels, it’s the emerald green waters and the way it leads us back to ourselves in the end. It’s the pages upon pages of that one book that we consume ferociously at night while we wait for the sun to rise. We finally understand. The road isn’t taking us anywhere tangible. What is the destination? The road itself.
The immense granite and limestone faces of this place will forever captivate us and draw us back for the climb, for that dive under the boat, for the Aperol, for the good times. We can't wait to see you in these durable, adventure-ready pieces. The road is taking us somewhere, anywhere—here.
Encouraging freedom of expression through movement is the mantra of Run Amok. Possibly the most expressive medium is music. It shapes our identity, affects our emotions, and propels us mile after mile; figuratively and literally. We hope you find the inspiration to drop the hammer or flow untethered with our latest addition to the Run Amok playlist, "Flight II" by Nash Mader.
Recorded Live On The Range
We recently drove up California's Central Coast with friend and musician Matt Costa, searching for ideal barns and saloons to record some music. Turns out, Matt had a previously unrecorded track up his sleeve, inspired by Roark ambassador Drew Smith... Check out the latest music video, recorded live On The Range...
Filmed & Directed: Kyle MacLennan
Many thanks to The Maverick Saloon for the hospitality
You never forget where you were when the question hits: How did I get here, to this other world? If you’re coming from anywhere other than the island itself, the journey to Japan is a marathon of connections and long-haul flights. Despite the distance, it’s become a beloved prelude to Japan, a journey just long enough to compliment the feeling of being transported to another world. It’s a love only overtaken by that feeling when a motley crew of six— all of whom journeyed across oceans and continents—meet up at baggage claim carting all manners of boards and gear equipped to chase turns on the fabled Mt. Rishiri.
Mt. Rishiri, known as the floating mountain, is not keen to let visitors summit casually. While the topography is rather straightforward, it’s the relentless wind and obscured vision that Mt. Rishiri is known for. Nevertheless, you show up and see where the invitation leads you and pray you don’t get completely skunked.
The rough idea was this: the crew is to head north across Hokkaido, and ferry from Wakkanai to Rishiri Island. To refresh our legs and break up the 8-hour drive from Sapporo, we’d spend a couple of days touring and riding around the bubbling thermal vents of Asahidake. Asahidake is the tallest mountain in Japan’s Daisetsuzan National Park. Easily accessed via the Asahidake Ropeway tram. Called “Kamuimintara” by the indigenous Ainu people the mountain is known as the garden where gods play. Sure, we aren’t gods, but we intended to play.
You’re never so stimulated as you are when you are in a foreign country driving along unfamiliar roads on the opposite side of the road in the opposite side of the car all for the first time. As the flats became foothills and mountains and grass became a mix of white birch and matsu (Japanese pines) forest our energy ignited. In the morning, as we rolled into the parking lot of Asahidake Ropeway, it was pouring rain. We figured with some nasty wind forecasted for the next day we’d take our chances with the rain.
You know how people can look like their dogs? I’d never met anyone whose appearance matched their board so perfectly as legendary snow surfer Kazumasa Jr. Yamada. A credit to our incredible local fixer and shredder Pizza, Jr met up with us to show us around the mountain. Dare you to meet the man and think of him as anything other than a weapon. With narrow features and a slender silhouette, standing beside his towering 186cm Impossible Gentemstick, another weapon entirely in itself, everything about Jr oozes sharpness and finesse. We did our best to speak above the rain pelting the tram box. It’s never anything new being challenged with bad conditions, it only matters how you salvage the day. In anticipation of becoming wet dogs, the moment the tram docked we battened down the hatches of our gear and stepped outside.
All geared up in a very distant landscape after 24+ hours of travel, sleep deprived, and getting ready to drop into the “thing” will forever be a surreal experience. Here we were, standing atop the tram, with my vertigo starting and our initial inspiration slightly dulled. No sooner than we circled up, the milky cloud cover turned into rocky slopes punctuated with violently churning vents. The rain stopped and the wind did the rest. Hyped, we started towards the vents. Unreal.
Considering the time of year, we couldn’t be anything other than grateful for the conditions we found ourselves in. The snow was thin but enough to lay a turn in. After standing in awe like dwarves among the giant vents, it wasn’t long before Argentine shredder and Roark ambassador Manu Dominguez noticed an ideal spot for a turn along the wind lip contouring the vents. What followed was one of the most creative and fun hours-long sessions I’ve ever been a part of. One after another we hiked the adjacent hill and dropped into play with how close we could get to the spewing Sulphur and steam. It wouldn’t be the only time Manu’s infectious motivation to ride would rally the crew. Beers in hand and riding giddy, we haphazardly made our way through the perfectly spaced birch trees to Onsen.
Back on the road we started towards the ferry in Wakkanai. Stopping along the way in Nayoro to rest, indulge in the roadside all-you-can-eat sushi, and throw some darts at a local bar. No moment is left unsavored. Is there anything better than being on the road with a crew whose shared purpose is to explore a place we’ve never been? All together chasing the feeling of being expansive and spontaneous and a little detached, there is so much in life where we all must constantly be attached to— it’s good to let go.
At the port in Wakkanai, we boarded the ferry; Rishiri in our sights somewhere beyond the waves, clouds, wind, and rain. The crossing was hands down one of the rowdiest moments I think any one of us has experienced on the open ocean. The ferry felt like a bath toy bobbing between the massive waves. Wind and rain ravaging our faces and hair, we howled with laughter as the ocean spray blasted us. Soaking wet and red in the face we arrived and met our local Rishiri guides Shingo and Loki and took off to check the surf.
Rishiri Island, administratively part of Hokkaido but a realm unto itself, greeted us with full fishing village charm. Along the main road—that circumnavigates the island— the coast is dotted with modest homes adorned with countless trellised seaweed strands hung by the weathered hands of local farmers. Rishiri, like any fishing village, isn’t a wealthy place but it’s clear the people have love, tradition, and purpose. After watching Nate, Shingo, and Manu make the best of the evening set, we made for ramen and Onsen.
In the morning we started our approach. Sun shining, fueled by mass amounts of onigiri, we marched like perforated dots towards the ridge. As we climbed, the gusts and firmness of the slope increased. Whenever you think you don’t need ski crampons, just throw them in your bag for good luck. You won’t regret it. Topping out at the false summit before the final climb, seeing the summit obscured it became clear that the top wasn’t for us. A healthy reminder in this day and age that nature's whims still take precedence.
As we descended the slopes, the ice returned to slush, one after another we chased the contours of each other’s lines. Below the wind, Manu and Pizza led the charge for a different more appropriate line to session. Just because the summit wasn’t in the cards, didn’t mean the whole mountain was off limits. We’d come from Canada, New Zealand, Argentina, America, and the road just to be in the moment together, our fulfillment from the trip couldn’t be denied by a summit. There’s always more to explore, you just have to answer the call.
The Daisetsuzan Traverse is 70km of incredible mountainous terrain located on the island of Hokkaido at the northern tip of Japan. It connects 13 different peaks and takes the average person 5-8 days to cross depending on the conditions you are facing. We planned to do this in two days. “Ambitious, yes. Impossible, no”.
This is when Nash brought up the idea of MISOGI. We started talking about the concept, and tying up to this ambitious but not impossible task of crossing the Daisetsuzan Traverse. How would it impact our lives mentally, spiritually, and physically? Misogi is a Japanese Shinto practice of ritual purification by washing the entire body. Misogi is related to another Shinto purification ritual, harae. Thus, both are collectively referred to as misogi-harae.
I am very spiritual and am a practicing Dharma practitioner studying Buddhism for some time now. I love anything that pushes me to practice the things I have been cultivating and put them to full use. This is where I truly get to practice the Four Noble Truths: What is Suffering? How is the Suffering caused? How can I work to stop Suffering (Cessation)? The Insights and self-realization that are gained from learning how to work with Suffering help you live the Eightfold path.
Every year, many people take pilgrimages to sacred waterfalls, lakes, and rivers, either alone or in small groups, to perform Misogi. Mount Ontake, the Kii mountain range, and Mount Yoshino are a few examples of ancient and well-known areas for Misogi in Japan. In Kyoto, people douse themselves under Kiyomizu Temple's Otowa no taki (Sound-of-Wings) waterfall, although the majority of visitors drink from the waters rather than plunging into them.
While the Western way of looking at Misogi is best described by Jesse Itzler: “The notion around the misogi is, you do something so hard 1 time a year, that has an impact on the other 364 days of the year. Take on challenges that radically expand your sense of what’s possible. There are just two rules: you have a fifty-percent chance of success at best, and it doesn’t kill you. Does it make your jaw drop? That’s a good litmus test for whether something can be a misogi or not.”
We all knew where we stood with this mission and I knew this was going to be a radical Misogi of some sort for everyone, you could just feel it after the call. A sweet mixture of nervousness, a little doubt, and fear, with a whole heap of excitement, a sprinkle of danger, and for me a little contemplation. The fact that this was the first Buddhist country that I would visit, and the spiritual calling to this unique part of the world that I never thought I would get a chance to see was made even more special and mystic by the company of my brother, Travis Weller.
I did some research, looking at pieces of written documents and video documents. I knew this was not going to be a little walk in the park, this was some live or let-die type shit and I need to be ready for the good and the bad.
At one point I was trying to psych myself out and tell myself I couldn’t do it, and every time I have gone down this road of self-denial and self-doubt, intuitively my partner would remind me of some life-changing work that I have done and snap me back to reality as if to say, “ You've done hard shit before and you can do it again.” So in the last week, I carried this mantra in my heart and soul: I CAN DO THIS!
Soon, we finally arrived in the backcountry of Daisetsuzan and already things started to change unexpectedly. We drove into a bunch of cold air, fog, and mist. Next, Nash goes down with an inflamed back and could hardly walk (I still think the 7-11 corn dog has something to do with it). I tried to give him some Guasha, a very old traditional Chinese medicine technique to get blood and qi moving in blocked areas of the body, along with ibuprofen and Tylenol; nothing was working so now Plan A and B are aborted.
Tracking weather we could see that we were going to encounter snow, fog, maybe rainstorms, and most of all 40/50mph winds, which on top of a ridgeline is no fucking joke, so now we had to do this as a 3 man team in unfavorable conditions. Sleeping at, and starting at the northern terminus at an ungodly hour was out of the question, luckily we were near a hostel that would become our base camp and a place where Nash could find some solace and relief. The night before we decide to regroup, talk kits, and go over what we will be carrying in our packs and all the usual stuff before embarking on adventures in the backcountry. Mentally and spiritually I was in a good place and I knew whatever happened I was good with my life, I was good with my relationship with Buddha, and I knew whatever suffering I was going to endure, the insights would life-changing, and I was open to receive whatever the universe wanted to throw my way.
Travis and I had some real heart to hearts on this journey, many that I will forever hold in my heart. The night before we talked about this moment and this adventure that would either make us or break us, what it took to get to this point, and how there are no other humans I would rather be on the mountain than us.
I started to gain trust and value the connection between myself and Drew, who was on the ride to capture this whole experience and was no rookie to incredible dangers on mountains being that he just came off an expedition where he was trying not to die in avalanches. I knew if I was going to be in any danger, Drew would be a trusted resource to help navigate whatever may come up, so I was ready to do this MISOGI.
Out of the three, I knew I was the least skilled in climbing, hiking, and running summits. Travis is an accomplished Ultrarunner who has the Redwoods to use as his playground., Drew is a beast and is an avid climber along with his wife and is no stranger to high elevation. I just started climbing, hiking, and trail running maybe 7 years ago and in that small amount of time ran up volcanoes in Mexico, and hiked some of the tallest peaks in the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, but this was going to be something else, something different, this I knew was going to make me different.
After some hot brews, gathering thoughts and meditations, we embark on this journey from North to South starting at these lily pads that would be our entry point to this adventure.
From the beginning, I could sense this was going to be challenging and then the onset of snow several yards in I just knew I was about to fuck around and find out. The sun was out but that didn't matter, the snow was the true teacher out there, and it taught us some major lessons. At one point I had to put some micro spikes on because the snow was not playing any games and I would find myself losing half a leg and having to pull out of the snow near these big trees not knowing about tree wells.
Just as I am getting used to this terrain there’s another added layer, it is getting steep and the breathing starts getting shorter and shorter but what serves as a secret sauce is I would turn back every once in a while and just look at this incredible picture. It was just purely breathtaking, it almost looked like we were in the Pacific Northwest: luscious luminous greenery along with cascades of snow was our backdrop as we climbed higher and higher following the pink tassels leading us through the trail.
I would just stare and reminisce about the times I yearned for somewhere like this; breathing in this air thinking how grateful I am to be here and also how much of an honor to represent my ancestors in this mystical land called Japan. There were many times my heart was released and I would cry knowing how much of a journey it was to this point. I kept telling myself that I was worthy to be here and that I made my ancestors proud by showing up. What I was doing was a radical act and I know how important it is for other Black and Brown folks to witness this magic. This was in my head and my heart a lot during this campaign and left me with a desire to keep going even when it got tough and spicy.
Originally we had planned to do 20 miles the first day, get to one of the huts/refuges on the way, sleep, and do the rest of the traverse the following day. Mount Ashi-dake had other plans for us. As we were going up we faced myriad conditions from nice and sunny, to blistering winds that would cut you like a knife, there were also times being engulfed in the clouds where visibility was little to none, and we had to watch the next man’s shoes so that you knew where you were going.
Ridgelines of snow and different colored rocks along this volcanic mountain were also stepping stones and guideposts along the highest peak in Hokkaido, and at this time all I could think about was how good that steaming hot veggie miso ramen was going to taste in less than 48 hours, telling my partner I did it and celebrating with the boys at a vinyl bar in Sapporo; these things were what was keeping me going.
At one point I looked down on this steep ridgeline and realized there was no going back down any time soon. There was no room for mistakes and thank god that this team was locked in and was assessing every action. At a certain point, we all looked at each other and said we truly need to think about how much further we can take this show because the forces of nature were having their way and we needed to start making some crucial decisions because after this hut, we were not going to get to a shelter for many miles and quite a few hours.
I also knew that we had already hiked a grade 3/4. I was feeling very uncomfortable doing a grade 5 climb in these conditions, although I had lamented about what would happen if I lost my life to the mountains, and how that would look. If I was going out, I was going out on my terms. I know my skill level and I brought this up to the team. While smelling the gulf streams of sulfur erupting in the nostrils of Mount Ashi-dake, we had a long team dialogue and thought it best that we forgo doing the full traverse and instead just summit Ashi-dake and then make it back down base camp in one day.
There were no bruised egos. There was no bashing of skill sets. There was no finger-pointing or blame.
There is an old saying about how mountains will indeed humble you, and on this adventure, the mountains humbled fuck out of us, in particular me. I was very humbled and I ate every piece of that humble pie. We all agreed to make it to the highest peak of Hokkaido and celebrate our win. It was beautiful to see three grown men getting sensitive and letting hearts release on top of a mountain.
There were times I just didn't want to look down, where the wind went from a light breeze to get the fuck off this mountain, where the windchill felt like darts penetrating the skin. Ashi-dake wanted it to be known if you are going to climb me you are going to have some respect, and we sure did.
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There were a couple of unspoken moments between myself and Travis where I knew we had been in battles before in different lifetimes and I trusted this man with my life and I knew going into this battle we would come out victorious. At one point halfway between the hut and the summit, Travis looked at me, we locked eyes, and it was a very spiritual and auspicious moment where really nothing needed to be said. He looked at me and said, “You ok?” I don't even think I answered, I think I just gave him a head nod, but at the moment I knew we were nearly there and I was not giving up.
The moment we summited, I looked at Travis and just sunk my head on his shoulders and started to cry. It was overwhelming. We embraced each other and I told him how thankful I was for him and how much I loved him for giving me this opportunity.
This was my 7th or 8th summit and I am sure there will be many more but this one was special, very special. The bond I have with Travis and now Drew through this experience is something that I will take with me through infinite lifetimes. The Brotherhood, the kindred essence of this adventure, the vulnerability, the love, and adoration not only for each other but this land is something that I will share with my grandkids and great-grandkids, and will forever be in my heart.
I honestly didn’t know or think I was capable of completing this mission and Dukkha and Mara (doubt, fear, death: the archenemies of the Buddha) came to challenge me and knock me off my square – but it didn't work, the ancestors had my back.
I came to Japan to prove to myself that I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams. I showed up for myself, my ancestors, and all the Black and Brown and Indigenous folks who paved the way for me to go through my own personal Misogi.
There comes a point in every summer where it’s time to pack the boardbag and skip town. Limited sunny days and even more limited days with fun surf at home meant that by mid-August the froth was real for a surf trip. I saw a little pulse of swell heading down to Mexico and by the time I hit up Eli (Viszolay) he had seen it too. The timing was right to escape the madness of tourist season at home. We booked the flights and got on that 3-hour flight south.
Walking out of the Volaris plane into the dense humidity of Mainland Mexico never gets old. That’s when the surf trip feeling sets in. Grab the boards, hail a taxi, strap the boards to the roof, and head west. Our hotel is right on the beach and a friendly cast of local characters greet us as we shimmy the boards off the yellow cab. Drop the gear in the room, put on the boardies and rinse in the pacific. The water moves a lot here. There are countless stories of Mexican tourists getting sucked into the lineup. It’s dangerous, but it gives you that man vs nature feel that not many places can. That evening, air drying on the shore, sipping on a cold cerveza, we smiled knowing tomorrow morning would hold crystal blue tubes.
We’re up before the sun drinking coffee and squinting through the first shades of mornings twilight. It always looks small at dark. But there’s waves, enough to wax up the 6’6” and start the tube hunt. We punched through the shorebreak just as the sun crested over the palm tree forest. Rights, lefts, closeouts. Rip currents, sandbars, backwash. The lineup is a rubix cube of action. Surfing a beachbreak is about reading your surrounding environment and reacting accordingly. If you see a set over there, check out that zone for a bit. If you see a rip forming, bail out of it sideways before you float out to sea. Most times there is no rhyme or reason with when and where the wave of the day comes in, which keeps things interesting.
Day in day out the waves showed up, and we found some blue tubes to keep us happy. We’d surf all morning until 11 or so, power a big breakfast right on the beach, and wander throughout the rest of the day, trying not to let happy hour start early. There was a hurricane on the way, starting just below us off the coast of Nicaragua. Hurricane Hilary showed up the night before we were set to leave. Strong South winds battered our room window as I laid my head on the pillow, closing my eyes just as a 4.2 earthquake hit. The building shook for a few moments and it was over. I fell asleep with a feeling tomorrow would be a sight to behold.
Dawn broke the next morning to a turbulent sea. A current sucking across the beach from South to North, visibly moving as set waves started to pour in without end. It was messy, but within 30 minutes of first light it cleaned up and a big perfect left spit its guts out right in front of where we were watching. I went into overdrive, running to wax up my 7’0” and put the padded safety springsuit on. I ran up the beach with my new French buddy Louis, the both of us taking deep breathes in hopes of making it through the inside and into the lineup. Turns out I wouldn’t make it out that first try. After duckdiving around 30 waves I looked behind me and was a mile down the beach. I went in and there was a guy with an ATV at the edge of the water. He offered me a ride and we went more than a mile up the beach this time. I then sat on the shore for an extended breather, attempting to time the nonstop sets amidst the rapidly intensifying swell. Somehow, huffing and puffing, I made it out the back.
The ocean was jumping and wedging all around me, and with Louis out of sight down the beach, it was just me and Hilary. I soaked in a bit of the chaos around me and decided I need to catch a wave quick. The current was pulling me so fast I was minutes from approaching the death zone up the beach. The swell had jumped from 6-8 feet to 12-15 feet in a matter of that hour. Just as I began to think the worst a left came to me. I turned, knifed the drop and was forced the straighten out before the warbly lip took me out and potentially broke my board or leash. I bear clawed the board and rode it to the shore. I walked up the sand completely spent from the whole ordeal. I was out of sight from everyone on the beach in front of the hotel. And looking out at sea it was perfectly obvious I shouldn’t have been out there. But I just had to try.
Japan’s Daisetsuzan Traverse is a roughly 70km trail that spans Daisetsuzan National Park located in central Hokkaido Island. The average time to complete the grueling traverse is 5-8 days of all-day hiking, connecting a baker’s dozen of dizzying peaks along the way. The weather is famously unpredictable with many accounts of folks taking shelter for days waiting out unrelenting storms to pass during the mid-July through September hiking season.
Our crew: Drew Smith, Hakim Tafari, Nash Mader, and myself. Our plan: run/fast pack the traverse in two days, in early June, with an overnight in a backcountry shelter roughly halfway through. Ambitious, yes. Impossible, no. Besides, the inspiration for this journey was a more contemporary form of misogi, the practice of transformation by attempting a challenge that forces you to confront fears, doubts, and weaknesses head-on.
Our plan began to unravel after our long drive from Sapporo to Daisetsuzan National Park. When we arrived at the traverse’s northern terminus, Nash was barely able to stand up due to a sudden back spasm that left him bed bound for nearly 24 hours. Returning to the southern terminus in the dark to find a camp spot and begin the adventure after a few hours of sleep was out of the question. Plan A aborted. We regrouped at a local hostel and decided to get an early start going north-to-south versus the more common south-to-north route.
Daylight comes early on Hokkaido with first light peeking through at 3 a.m. Drew, Hakim, and I began the long, steep trek towards Asahi-dake, Hokkaido’s tallest peak, after a quick round of warm drinks and final gear prep. We hit deep snow within 10 minutes from the trailhead and it was soon obvious we’d be traveling atop snow start to finish.
As we ascended through the buried forests of birch and ash trees the terrain opened up into snow fields stretching upwards towards the still-frozen and hidden Sugatami pond. The terrain got steeper as we climbed and by the time we reached the halfway point to the active stratovolcano’s summit, we decided to once again reassess our goals at the small stone refuge.
A decision was made, there would be no attempt at a full traverse. We were traveling very light and would run a high risk of overnight exposure in extreme weather atop the unprotected ridgelines. Plan B aborted. The new plan was to summit Asahi-dake and then continue south to a backcountry refuge, retracing our route the following day. Asahi-dake had other ideas.
The volcano’s legendary weather began to rear its gnarly face as we began the final approach from the stone refuge. Our pace became a slow crawl, literally at times. The wind went from a steady breeze to a full-on raging scream. Our fingers began to mimic the frozen boulders scattered all around us.
Our fields of vision would vary from expansive to nonexistent as we ascended deeper into the mountain’s fury. There was a moment when Hakim and I locked eyes and without words, I knew the summit would be our finale if we even made it that far. Eyes still linked he gave me a head nod, a mini bow of sorts, suggesting he was willing to continue. He was immersed in his personal misogi and I felt honored to bear witness to it.
We slowly continued skyward while the mountain aimed to blow us off its face down into the volcanic steam vents a few thousand feet below. A final switchback and short ridgeline scramble led us to the summit of Asahi-dake. Atop the highest point on Hokkaido island, we embraced and shared a moment I’ll carry with me for eternity. That hug was a culmination of respect, trust, gratitude, brotherhood, and love.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I write this, weeks after returning home from Japan. Written words cannot fully express the emotional transformation that occurred on the slopes of Asahi-dake. The physical goals that went unaccomplished melted away with the winter’s snow and provided nourishment for our spiritual flowers to bloom. Love, respect, gratitude. Give and accept the flowers.
Yeti recently released an epic film about Roark ambassador, Emi Erickson. Directed by our own Jeff Johnson alongside Keith Malloy, the film showcases the innate dedication and drive that Emi has when it comes to charging some of the world's biggest, heaviest waves.
Roark surfers Nate Zoller, LJ O'Leary & Max Beach find some waves on the California coast during the epic swell that Hurricane Hilary brought.
Don’t beers just taste the best when you’ve earned them? When you’ve bike-packed all day or snowboarded for hours on end or explored a foreign city by foot? Roark’s company of waywards sure thinks so, and our recent trip through Hokkaido, Japan was no exception. We sang for our supper — and we also sang after supper. The following is a guide to our favorite haunts we uttered kampai in, loosely translated to “drink your cup dry” plus a few other spots our local Roark Japan crew vetted for us around Hokkaido. Now, you’ve just gotta get your passport — and find them yourself.
*special thanks to Ryu Atobe for the tips
Bar Barunba (Niseko) Barunba’s been holding it down for over 25 years at the same location in Niseko. One of the many iconic bars in ski town. Through the small Japanese-size entrance, you’ll find that all the local and tourists are there are in high spirits with good vibes after enjoying some of the best powder in the world. Next, immediately order their famous signature cocktails: Jet Li, Bruce Lee and Bruce Willis.
Bar Moderno (Sapporo) Located in Sapporo city, Bar Moderno only has 8 seats with one counter, a super cool vinyl bar known to play records live. You can also dig through their collection for requests to play or even buy albums.
Bar Gyu (Niseko) Another great bar in ski town, Bar Gyu’s entrance door is actually a refrigerator door, thus, many people call it the “fridge bar,” as well. The owner Hisashi has the best bartender lineup in town and does epic cocktails. He also spins vinyl there and even plays live music at the bar.
Ajishin A dope little restaurant serving the frostiest Sapporo Classic Beers.
Sapporo Beer Museum (Sapporo) Is worth a visit, and during the summer there’s a beer garden where you can cook genghis kan (lamb) on a grill. Get a beer tower if you can.
Seafood Izakaya (Fisherman Town) Izakaya restaurants are rad because they serve a bunch of small dishes and you can try so many different types of food in one place. Seafood izakaya makes especially great sashimi plates straight from fish market. Proper izakaya has good Japanese saké selection, too, and they’ll suggest the best sake bottles that go with what dishes you ordered.
And if you’re looking for good sake… Kunimare has a superb selection, and are the northernmost sake distillery in Japan. Check out the Nikka distillery for epic Japanese whisky, if you’re done with sake.
Our Favorite Karaoke Spot… Pub and Bar DNA was where the Roark crew had the time of their life and a legendary karaoke session. Highly recommended.
Our Favorite Ramen Spot… Ki Kyo Ken (Hidaka area) Hokkaido has thousands of ramen places, but somehow this one just hits different. There’s a rockabilly chef making absolutely next level miso ramen and spicy miso ramen. The location is also near a surf spot, and how good is ramen after a cold surf?
Our Favorite Sushi Spot…Toriton Sushi Train is the one. The balance of fish and rice is culinary perfection.
Solid spot for live music in Hokkaido… RSR (Rising Sun Rock Festival) The biggest outdoor music festival in Hokkaido, happening every August.
Or, if you’re trying to earn those drinks, do this: Snowboard during the winter months. The amount and quality of snow in Hokkaido will blow your mind and change your life. The surfing’s pretty good too… Hike Asahidake, the tallest mountain in Hokkaido. August is the only month without snow and pretty good conditions to do it. Mostly local Japanese people doing that rather than foreign tourists.
Rock and roll is our lifeblood: maintaining perpetual movement and keeping us forever young. Never failing to get us on our feet, the adrenaline pumping tracks expel a magnetism that connects every walk of life.
Black Sabbath has long been a cornerstone of our daily rhythm intake, fueling our trail time, nights out, and creativity. It comes with great excitement that we announce our collaboration with these pioneers of heavy metal, pumping fresh air into our existence Somewhere Between Freedom & Chaos.
"It runs through our veins."
In the spirit of things, we compiled a list of our go-to jams for getting our bodies moving and shaking. Something like a fountain of youth, these tracks continuously inspire and foster excitement. We hope you enjoy.
The weekend escape has been a staple in our lives as pseudo dirtbags for as long as we can remember. Packing up our rigs Thursday night for a 5:01 exit from work the following day, the goal is to pack as much into the two day escape as possible. No phone service, long hours in the sun, and certainly no showers.
We followed two friends as they did just that, high in the backcountry of the Eastern Sierras in California. With one pair of Baja running shorts each, a bottle of Mezcal and a dream, they had themselves the perfect weekend. Coffee, miles, swimming, more miles. Capped with a burger, communal bottle of booze and Europe ‘72 on the radio. And then they did it again. In a dreamlike fog they return south on the 395, mentally prepared to sit in their chairs for another week, their Alexander Supertramp approved playground waiting for their return.
Let’s circle back to these shorts that can put up with a feral trail runner for two straight days in the mountains. Constructed from a polyester spandex blend, the Baja is a stripped down running short, offering everything you need and nothing you don’t. With everyday use in mind, you’ll find yourself pulling them off the top of the dirty clothes bin again and again. Offered in a 5” and 7” inseam the shorts boast a rear water resistant zipper phone pocket, a gel pocket and an integrated brief liner. Made for using, the Baja’s are durable and dependable and will quickly become your new go-to short.
Words by Beau Flemister
A couple hours off of Makatea, the hazy, raised atoll shrinking behind us, and we’re celebrating with Hinanos again. The seas were really smooth, despite the weather that had come days before. It was quite comfortable too, and the captain, Alex, was a really fun guy. Tereva, our Tahitian surf guide was super-fun, too. Over the course of the next few days that we were on the boat, Ra’i, who was sort of the chef and the first mate, would make us all kind of delicacies. Every single meal she made was just absolutely delicious.
She’d pull out braised lamb from nowhere, and we were just like, ‘Where the hell did she even get that from?!’ And then, of course, all the fish was just absolutely amazing, cooked so many different ways. We had coconut crab one night, too, which was insane. She even cooked us this stuff called, pain du mort, basically “dead bread,” where she reanimated these ends of stale baguettes by making them into French toast, and it was just epic.
So we sailed through the night to get to the next atoll to the north-northwest called Tikehau. Tikehau has this world-class wave, a super, super dreamy, perfect righthander that peels around a reef pass that looks like a point break, and it’s kind of the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. We get there in the morning, and it’s firing, and there’s about eight people in the water.
One of them was Tahitian surf god (and Pipe Master) Michel Bourez, plus his cousin, and so we sail through the pass, and there’s a perfect overhead right rifling around one side — and then across the pass is a perfect left slab spitting it’s guts out on the other. Then we just anchored inside the lagoon right inside of the two waves, and there’s a little fishing village there. We gear up all the boards and stuff, and get zipped to the little coral beach there. You can just walk along either through the island or right up the little motu’s shoreline, and then just post up in these gorgeous little coconut leaf surf shacks right there for shade.
Then, basically, for the following four to five days or so, we surfed our brains out, for a total of eight hours a day sometimes. The right was really good. The left was actually a little bit bigger and a little gnarlier, and we’d kind of go between the two. At the right, there was a couple sessions where it was just me and Jeff surfing on our own, because it was the middle of the day, and maybe some of the people that were around surfing didn’t want to be out in the heat.
So that was pretty special, unforgettable moment, and when we went to go surf the left, which no one was surfing, either somwhow. It was just me, Nate, Harrison, and Tereva on the lefthander, and it was a little bit bigger, a little more powerful, and a little shallower, but tubing better than the right. The right had some tubes, too, but that wave was longer, and kind of a slingshot-y type of a point break feel. It was probably two days of really good waves, and then, on the end of the second day or so, LJ appeared.
He showed up, and he got to surf a couple great sessions, even though the next couple days were a little smaller. He did get some good waves on the left, though, and we explored the island, the motu right there, and went swimming, and surfed some more, and kind of went around the island, did a little bit of fishing. We were running out of beer, so I did a beer run where I basically just caught a ride with a local fisherman to go across the lagoon, and got some slabs of Hinano.
They’re pretty expensive, and it was like a three or four-hour affair for me to get them, because the guy I went with, he was selling fish he had caught, just kind of going door to door to sell what he caught. Then, if someone wanted to buy it, he had to fillet it all right there. It was a whole thing, but it was pretty classic, because I definitely got to see a real local slice of life on Tikehau, which was really, really cool.
Then we actually didn’t even sail back to Tahiti island because we wanted to maximize surf time before all of us had to go home, so we just flew back, and had a night, and then left the following morning, from Tahiti to fly home.
We did go back to this one Italian restaurant and it was very delicious and very boozy. Meanwhile, Harrison had gone home a little bit earlier after LJ came, and he, Drew, and the two runners went over to Mo’orea, the neighboring island to Tahiti, and they went hiking, trail running around there, and cruised and stuff. Mo’orea’s super gorgeous, with barely anybody, and you can take a little fast ferry over within an hour. And that’s about it. That was the Mystic Motu. Three motus which were particularly mystic: Ahe, Makatea and Tikehau.
“I think that, normally, people create these dreamy, sunny images of Tahiti with lagoons and clear skies, perfect weather…but I actually love the misty, foggier, darker places in the valleys and mountains,” says Yiling Changues, one of Tahiti’s most promising young artists, describing her work and point of view to us from her small bedroom/studio in the lush mountains outside of Papeete city. “So, that’s what I was trying to evoke on some of the pieces. These places and mistier sides of the island are our home, too, and very special.”
It'd been a few days here on Tahiti island, the most populous and largest island in all of French Polynesia, and we were certainly getting to know the “darker, misty” version of this paradise. While the seas and weather in the atolls of Tuamotu would be sunny and bright — most of our time on Tahiti island would be between breaks in storms or pregnant rainclouds, most which gave birth to violent squalls at night that would shake the roof on our mountain villa into the wee hours of the morning.
We’d met up with our Tahitian surf guide, Tereva David, an extremely talented Tahitian pro-surfer, introduced to us through Hinatea Boosie, a former Miss Tahiti who was guiding Roark women on their adventure elsewhere on the island. Tereva took us to a few different places that were getting waves on the north side of Tahiti — specifically, Papenoo — as it wasn’t the south shore swell season yet. Papenoo is an extremely fun Lower Trestles-like rivermouth, but was definitely loaded with bodyboarders and a grip of other famished local surfers.
Regardless, everyone was really nice, and we went to some cool restaurants in Papeete at night and ate some damn good food. We also made our way through the colorful fruit stands of the capital’s Sunday Market. The raw fish at Vini Vini Snack Shop never lets you down, though. Tereva even took us to a couple places that were these downhome style food-truck spots, which were pretty cheap, offering huge portions. Picture 5 lb. plates of chicken curry over mountains of sticky white rice…
One surf session, when the wind looked optimal, Tereva led us out to a shallow outer reef righthand slab near Point Venus that was alllmost working. Still a fun paddle-out and we caught a few growers that didn’t really let us exit the tube.
At the moment, though, our attention was on Yiling, a young woman who designed a really fascinating capsule with Roark for the campaign. She showed us her process, and told us some stories and legends about what inspired her work. She’s fairly young, but was studying in Paris for the last ten years, recently moving back home to be a part of the art scene on the island. Extremely talented and thoughtful, Yiling’s a really cool chick.
She continues. “So, back in the day, it was mostly people from the outside doing art here. Like, they’d come and they loved the light so they wanted to paint landscapes and fruits and girls.” She laughs and shrugs. “Personally, I really love to bring human-like shapes to nature because in Tahiti we are always surrounded by nature and we belong to it — not the other way around.”
“That’s something I realized when I was living in Paris because we were always wondering where in nature we’d want to visit on holidays outside of the city. Where are we going, which place, which forest? It was like we were always just waiting to leave the city to go into nature. But living here, in Tahiti, it feels like this is the way it should be.”
“So, in my work, I’m trying to say that we are almost becoming nature — and nature is becoming us. There’s a constant blending.”
We stare down at her sketches, the same ones that made it onto a number of pieces which, ironically, we’d wear in the very same nature she was describing now. Collectively, we let that sink in and in our silence we could hear thunder booming somewhere in the distance, in dark forgotten valleys that don’t make it onto postcards, the smell of rain potent in the air, a shower quickly making its way above us, the white noise of the torrents cutting through the silence.
“I love the presence of animals in my designs because they were here before us,” she says. “We are coming into their space. Maybe in an eel’s space, we should live like an eel, and not try to separate it from our space because we’re afraid of it. You know what I mean?”
We do.
She rises with the sun, tiny fragments of light sifting through the trees into her kitchen window. She pulls her favorite beanie over her tangled hair and pours a hot cup of coffee. She takes a sip and jots down a lyric in her journal that she thought of on the spot. She loads her surfboard and wetsuit into her car and drives straight to the beach. When she strides into the water, the cold pacific somehow finds a way to bite at her skin through her thick neoprene wetsuit and gloves. As she catches wave after wave she unravels an entire song in her head, each turn in the wave a new lyric. She dances on the water as she plays with the melody. Later that morning, she sits on her porch steps with her guitar. As her wetsuit hangs to dry, she begins strumming and piecing together the notes that the ocean sang to her. Before she knows it, she has fragments of a song.
Meet our Muse — Julianna Laine
We got to sit down with Julianna in Tofino, British Columbia on our latest expedition. She serenaded us at our campfire where her voice painted the perfect backdrop to the fire embers dancing and twirling amongst each other. We did manage to ask her a few questions along the way, but really, we just wanted to listen.
Julianna was gifted her first guitar when she was just twelve-years-old. Music seemed to come as naturally to her as breathing, her father being a musician since childhood. “I remember being so captivated by how music can create an environment, how music has the power to make people feel comfortable and present.” Growing up in the countryside of land-locked Calgary, Julianna dreamt of the sea her entire childhood. With a wonderment towards water, and the stark differences between the ocean and the landscape of her upbringing, she found a way to the ocean in young adulthood. “When I was 18 I moved to Byron Bay, Australia, and this is where I learned to surf and crossed paths with a couple important people that encouraged me to start taking music seriously.” Splitting her time between the local bar she worked at for cash, and busking on the main street, Julianna unknowingly kickstarted her musical career living in Byron. When her work visa ran out, she moved back home and got her degree in Graphic Design. “I was studying abroad in Austria and I started booking shows that I could play on the days between my university classes, or more accurately, instead of going to my university classes. I would sneak my guitar on the plane (it IS small enough to be a carry on- I swear!) and book a last minute ticket to whatever venue could speak enough broken English and agreed to let me near a microphone.” After graduating university, she moved to Tofino, a rainy cold-water surf town nestled in the cedar trees at the end of the road. “It is a town that has always had a special place in my heart since I was a kid and it finally felt like the timing was right to make the move. The foggy, peaceful morning surfs, the lively creative community, and strong female surf presence in the lineup captured my heart once again. Out of all the places I have lived, this one feels most like home.”
“Recently my mom gave me a book that is called How to Make a Living Living. I guess that is what I am doing - trying to make a living by living a life I love.”
“Tofino’ is my first single and it actually has an interesting story of how it came to be. I had been wanting to write a song about Tofino for quite some time and had so many notes in my phone about observations of the town, the people I was meeting and experiences I was having. I was sitting on this idea for awhile and had gotten a message from two writers in LA, Thomas and JP, wanting to schedule a co-write (this was during COVID, so virtual writing rooms had become quite common) I had never met them before and we hopped on a call for our first co-write together (I almost bailed on this call to go surfing but I am SO glad I didn’t). I started to tell them about Tofino and how it can be difficult living in a tourist town because it can be so transient with people coming and going. You have to learn to say goodbye to people you thought would always be around. We started digging deeper on my experiences in this town and put all these thoughts together, trying our best to capture this nostalgic, fleeting feeling.”
“I once had a friend tell me that songwriting is like playing the lottery. Each time you sit down and start to write, you could be writing the next hit.”
“While I was writing lyrics, Thomas and JP were playing a beautiful melody on piano and the words just seemed to find their way into this melody. ‘Tofino’ was written right then and there and hasn’t been changed since this initial call. It always amazes me what you can create out of thin air.
I once had a friend tell me that songwriting is like playing the lottery. Each time you sit down and start to write, you could be writing the next hit. Sure, the chances are slim but you never know how a song is going to turn out and where it might take you… I think that mystery and excitement is why I love it so much.”
ROARK: If you could pick a favorite song you’ve written, which would you pick? And why?
Julianna: This question is like asking a parent to choose their favorite kid haha… But ‘Tofino’! This song has such a special place in my heart because it was the first time I felt like I had created something that truly represented myself as an artist and captured a feeling I had spent so long trying to figure out how to put into words.
This song is my love letter to Tofino, and I wrote it for all the people who have come and gone and have special memories, moments and relationships in this (or any!) magical little town.
“My ‘notes’ on my phone are out of control, with little sentences or conversations I overheard that feel like they have a spark to them - I always am looking for pieces of inspiration.”
ROARK: How do you write a song? Is there a specific creative process that you follow?
Julianna: Each song tends to have a different process, depending on my creative headspace and flow of the music. I am first and foremost a songwriter - so the words and lyrics have a lot of weight in creating my music. My ‘notes’ on my phone are out of control, with little sentences or conversations I overheard that feel like they have a spark to them - I always am looking for pieces of inspiration. When I am in the water, I have a lot of time to think without distraction so often, I will think of new concepts and ideas while waiting for waves. Most of my songs start with an idea or concept and then I play around with chords on the guitar until I find something that sounds like it could match the concept or words. From there, I hum the words over it until something interesting happens.
Currently, I am experimenting with a free flow way of writing where I will play one chord and sing over it for about 10 or 15 minutes and just try to zone out, turn off my logical brain and judgment and see what comes from just being creative and free. I will then listen back to my recording and sometimes there will be something that sticks out to me & I will build off that.
ROARK: What is the most gratifying aspect of writing music?
Julianna: Having people connect with your music and messages. Since releasing music, I have gotten so many messages from random people who have connected with different songs and that makes me feel like I am doing something right.
“If where I am going is like anywhere I have been, I am already living my dream life.”
Julianna: As an artist, I feel that it is our job to take emotions & feelings and translate those into something that anyone can relate to. I aim for my music to capture those feelings that are sometimes difficult to put into words and my greatest hope is that these songs are a soundtrack for important moments and memories that people are making.
ROARK: Where do you want to go from here?
Julianna: If where I am going is like anywhere I have been, I am already living my dream life.
Words by Beau Flemister
From the bow of our catamaran in the soft light of dawn, the chalky white cliffs of Makatea rising from the sea look like a distant rushing wave, frozen in place. As we sail closer into view, approaching from the southwest, this lonely landmass is certainly like none other in the region. An island technically part of the vast Tuamotu archipelago of French Polynesia, the largest chain of atolls on the planet sprawling over a 350sq mile swath of the Pacific, Makatea sits 250 feet higher than its sea-level siblings. While most atolls on earth are low-lying broken bracelets of dead coral motus that surround lagoons, Makatea is a raised atoll, courtesy of a tectonic shift 2 million years ago during the creation of Tahiti 130 miles away. This geological event depressed the seafloor, lifting Makatea atoll skyward, eventually revealing its sheer ocean cliffs in the aftermath.
I've arrived with a group of professional climbers and surfers (atolls sometimes hide particularly good waves) but it’s those very cliffs that brought us here, seeing that Makatea’s recently become a rock climber’s bucket list destination. Those high-quality limestone walls seen from the bow are rife with holds, crags, dimples, crimps, and cracks the stuff of climbers’ dreams — in a place most couldn’t imagine exists. With nothing quite like this for climbers in all of the Pacific Islands — most rock in the region is too “chossy” or brittle — Makatea is a complete anomaly.
Having sailed half of yesterday, through the night, and now into some of the morning, it's taken us nearly 20 hours to arrive, smooth sailing as far as timing goes from Tahiti, as it can take up to 30 hours if the weather and swells aren’t cooperating. Although Makatea is becoming repute rock climbing, an eco-tourism endeavor that’s really only been a thing for five years now, the tiny island was most renown for being a global producer and hub of the phosphate mining industry from 1906 to 1966.
We motor up to the remains of Temao harbor, once a bustling port that took away the 11.5 million tons of phosphate extracted from Makatea, most used for the production of fertilizer to replenish Old World nations’ depleted agricultural soil and eventually Japan’s rice fields, ravaged by World War II. With only three moorings and a channel too narrow and shallow to fit our boat at the dock, we are forced to anchor outside of the harbor, staring at the eerie ruins of an empire. Steel turret-like structures, consumed by the ocean and salt air rot away next to other ambiguous machinery deteriorating in time, streaked in rust the color of coagulated blood. Old wounds that somehow still feel fresh. There is certainly a war-torn look and vibe but we spot a couple men next to a Hilux pickup truck parked by a pavilion with breeze-block walls.
We motor up to the remains of Temao harbor, once a bustling port that took away the 11.5 million tons of phosphate extracted from Makatea, most used for the production of fertilizer to replenish Old World nations’ depleted agricultural soil and eventually Japan’s rice fields, ravaged by World War II. With only three moorings and a channel too narrow and shallow to fit our boat at the dock, we are forced to anchor outside of the harbor, staring at the eerie ruins of an empire. Steel turret-like structures, consumed by the ocean and salt air rot away next to other ambiguous machinery deteriorating in time, streaked in rust the color of coagulated blood. Old wounds that somehow still feel fresh. There is certainly a war-torn look and vibe but we spot a couple men next to a Hilux pickup truck parked by a pavilion with breeze-block walls.
A few of us pile into a four-person dinghy with a couple duffel bags of climbing gear and attempt the approach — but double-back in a panic. The current swell is creating waves that close-out the keyhole, so we wait uneasily for an opening, charging in dangerously a second time. With no available airfield and either an expensive 4-hour speedboat from the nearest atoll Rangiroa north, or a day’s sail from Tahiti like us, Makatea surely doesn't make it easy on people getting to it. But perhaps that's the part of the allure.
Heitapu Mai, a local Makatean and head guide of Club Makatea Escalade (Makatea Climbing Club), the island’s rock climbing outfit, greets our small group, already in his helmet and harness. Handsome and smiley, Heitapu has an athlete's frame and introduces himself, his brother Tarariki, and two foreigners, James and Ally, Americans that have been staying on the island for the last two weeks to climb. Heitapu asks me and the other surfers if we’d be climbing — it’d be some of our first times — and we shrug yes like, “That’s an option?” He points to the array of protective gear, helmets, lines, gloves, carabiners, harnesses, and shoes hanging neatly from the trucks racks and replies with that typical matter-of-fact French accent, “Oui, Oui, of course it is possible. There are routes for every level here.”
We follow Heitapu, along the shoreline toward sections of the cliff shaded from the harsh sun on this side of the island until noon. Walking along the exposed reef and tidepools en route I reach down to pick up a particularly stunning sea shell and it scurries away from my fingertips, the creature within sensing my presence.
While there are many more climbing routes left on the island to discover and establish in these cliffs, much of the pre-existing ones are thanks to the efforts of Heitapu’s climbing club, and subsequently, a group of a dozen international professional climbers that came here in 2019 to bolt hangers and build the solid foundation for the sport. Having never climbed in his life before 2018, Heitapu had a friend visit from Tahiti who worked for Acropol, a work-at-height company on Tahiti made up of rope specialists and mountaineers. His friend saw the epic potential for climbing (and visiting climbers) and helped Heitapu jumpstart the scene.
Later that year, Heitapu and the team from Acropol bolted 40 climbing routes on 3 different sectors of cliffs. Around the same time, Erwan Lelann, president of the French scientific and educational NGO boat “Maewan,” passed through Makatea on his way to the Marquesas. Lelann, who was traveling with a couple professional climbers, also saw the potential for the sport and told Heitapu he’d assemble a team to return and help bolt more routes. The following year, during the summer of 2019, the Maewan came with 10 professional climbers for 3 weeks and bolted 60 more routes with Club Makatea Escalade and Acropol. The development culminated in an event called “Makatea Vertical Adventure” and hosted 150 locals from the island and nearby atolls to partake in this sustainable tourist endeavor. A film was made about the event that was released in 2020 and suddenly everyone in the climbing world was looking for the speck on Google Maps called Makatea.
“I think when we started here,” says Heitapu, “local people thought that I was crazy. Rock climbing looks like a crazy thing. But it’s a crazy thing that you can share with people, you know?
Drew Smith and Jeff Johnson, the two accomplished professional climbers that I’d arrived with get right to work, asking Heitapu for the most difficult, high-grade routes on offer. With decades of experience, I watch the two of them belay for one other, while one spidered up the steep rock faces.
Heitapu sets us newbies up at the base of a cliff section that appears to have fairly large and abundant hand-holds, foot divots and grippy, textured rock — basically, rock climbing with training wheels. He wanders over to check on the pros and leaves us in the hands of James and Ally who have been staying at Heitapu’s family-run guest house (one of two that exist on Makatea). We sniff our helmets, tighten harnesses, squeeze into our climbing shoes, and James scales 100 feet up, while Ally waits with us to belay.
She seems a little green and has a waist belt on with what looks like 50 different carabiners jangling around like a school janitor's key ring. She unclips one, looks at it and frowns, clips it back on and pauses momentarily.
That can’t be good, I ponder.
But I make my way up the rock face trying not to look down, focusing on the array of holds and indents in the rock. I get to the top of the route and James helps me up, guiding me into a shallow cave with a five-star view of the coastline and ocean while I wait for the others to join. We unclip and breathe it in. It’s magnificent, and we watch, slack-jawed, as birds soar at eye level in and out of valleys and narrow canyons. Heitapu appears and leads us on a mini hike around a portion of the cliff, threw another cave to behold a prehistoric looking gorge teaming with gargantuan palms and ferns. Makatea is one of the only atolls in French Polynesia with primary forests still left intact and has some of the richest flora in the archipelago. The island’s home to 77 native species and 13 endemic species to French Polynesia, 4 of them endemic to the Makatea.
We take a quick dip to cool off in small tidal gully of electric blue water, then stroll over to a section of the cliff where Drew and Jeff are still climbing. Drew repels down grinning ear to ear.
But I make my way up the rock face trying not to look down, focusing on the array of holds and indents in the rock. I get to the top of the route and James helps me up, guiding me into a shallow cave with a five-star view of the coastline and ocean while I wait for the others to join. We unclip and breathe it in. It’s magnificent, and we watch, slack-jawed, as birds soar at eye level in and out of valleys and narrow canyons. Heitapu appears and leads us on a mini hike around a portion of the cliff, threw another cave to behold a prehistoric looking gorge teaming with gargantuan palms and ferns. Makatea is one of the only atolls in French Polynesia with primary forests still left intact and has some of the richest flora in the archipelago. The island’s home to 77 native species and 13 endemic species to French Polynesia, 4 of them endemic to the Makatea.
We take a quick dip to cool off in small tidal gully of electric blue water, then stroll over to a section of the cliff where Drew and Jeff are still climbing. Drew repels down grinning ear to ear.
“It’s really good rock,” says Drew. “It’s bullet-hard limestone. And when it comes to limestone, what you’re looking for are the blue streaks like they have here. Typically, beautiful blue limestone means: good quality rock. I think any climber would be impressed by this place. So far, I sure am.”
From the bed of Heitapu’s pickup truck the scene while riding up the hill to the other side and through the sleepy community of Moumu, the only settlement in Makatea of about 50 people, is bizarre. All around us, on either side of the weather-worn concrete one-lane road, corroded, burnt umber machinery, structures, water towers, tools, gears, cogs, axels, engines and other relics lie frozen in the brush, most completely swallowed by vines and ferns, feeding the jungle’s insatiable appetite. Giant hooks from some kind of contraption claw at us from the forest, broken crane arms stretch out from the jungle like limbs reaching for help. The ruins of an empire are evident, and Moumu, which has two guest houses, a small primary school and one restaurant — if you could call it that — feels fairly ghost towny. But not completely.
I spot a few old men and women having midday coffee outside of their simple homes around plastic tables covered in the floral clothes universal to Oceania. They wave at us as we pass, offering warm Ia Orana’s (alohas) in our wake.
Heitapu stops at his family’s guesthouse where a handful of visiting climbers stay and picks up a couple Canadians. He shows us his relatively robust and well-stocked climbing equipment cellar, thanks to the hundreds of climbers that have come and left gear, like we would, over the last few years.
Halfway across the island, which is only about five miles long by three miles wide, Heitapu pulls the Hilux over, and we follow him through the bush, into a vast expanse of sunbaked, jagged limestone holes, many dangerously hidden by a thin layer of foliage. This clearing, which seen from above looks pockmarked as if shelled viciously in a long and bitter war, is where for nearly 60 years his grandfathers, great-uncles, and many other “diggers” unearthed phosphate rock from the natural limestone tubes with only a shovel, pick axe and wheelbarrow.
It was backbreaking work, men often working barefoot, but it paid by the barrow, not by the day — a curious incentive to dig more. A bizarre, open-air mine, there was no respite from the South Pacific sun and workers were lowered into holes ranging from 80 to 200 feet deep.
We follow Heitapu, walking cautiously along the precarious edges of the toppled Connect Four rack landscape, which was once covered in a complex maze of wooden planks to walk the wheelbarrows, eventually leading to conveyor belts and railway systems to get the phosphate directly to the harbor and off to wealthy, developed nations around the world.
Once upon a time in Makatea, there was a Golden Age. Through half of the 20th century, it was “the place to be,” as Heitapu puts it. Previously a sleepy, typical Tuamotuan island of around 250 inhabitants living a subsistence existence, once phosphate rock was discovered in 1906, with actual extraction beginning in 1911, La Compagnie Française des Phosphates de l’Océanie (CFPO) transformed the main village of Moumu into a certified company town, replete with industry-aiding infrastructure that dwarfed far larger Tahiti island. Islanders, immigrants, and other laborers from all over the Pacific Rim came for work opportunities and the population ballooned to nearly 4,000. Narrow roads were paved, railway systems for phosphate transportation were built. There were churches, shops, a boulangerie, a hospital, a library, nightclub, tennis courts, restaurants, and two cinemas.
“Two of them,” Heitapu repeats, raising a thumb and pointer finger for emphasis.
Then in 1966, as the phosphate industry was beginning to dry up in the Pacific, the French government decided to switch efforts to their nuclear program, yet another endeavor that transformed (even more destructively) another small atoll called Moruroa in the far eastern corner of Tuamotu for the next 30 years. The CFPO shut down operations in a matter of days, literally cutting the lights off when the power plant was closed, leaving the mining industry’s remains to rust and rot in its place. Many of the workers were given the option to be transferred to work on Moruroa for the French Centre d'Experimentation du Pacifique (CEP). Many simply went home to neighboring atolls like Tikehau, Rangiroa, Fakarava, Kaukura, or south to Tahiti to start over. The CFPO paid their way to wherever they wanted to get dropped off and in a matter of weeks, Makatea's population shrank to less than 50 souls.
“It was definitely a really, really sad moment for the people on Makatea,” laments Heitapu.
“What did they do once everyone left?” I ask, completely dumbfounded.
“They just returned back to nature,” Heitapu shrugs. “Back to the natural life. They hunted for coconut crabs, they fished, and they bagged up copra for when the boat would come and collect the sacks for money. Fifty years, they did like this. 1966 until almost today, really.”
“Since promoting climbing on the island, though, it’s been a boom. Like a big tank of oxygen for the community, and now Makatea is somehow known all around the world. That was my goal.”
We asked our friend LJ O'Leary to join in on a last minute adventure across the Pacific.
How could one say no?
Here's the journal of his Tahitian journey:
Waiting on standby for a swell to pop up in Tahiti during the middle of the winter seems somewhat counter intuitive. “Are there even waves there this time of year?” said anyone and everyone who heard we may be heading to surf Tahiti late January. It’s not commonly considered a winter destination for surfers. I guess.
Probably for one, because of the nature of its remote location. Which may seem off putting any time of year for the lesser traveled. Maybe two because it is mostly recognized for its monstrous below sea level barrels that occur when a large south is headed for Teahupo. Those events occur most often during the late spring and summer months. So why now? Why last minute? Why in the middle of the winter?
We were never searching for anything “common” and there are some magically positioned little motus surrounding the main island of Tahiti who have never even for a moment considered themselves to have “an off season.” They are happy to not have the masses ascending upon them year long. That doesn't mean that there is a right time or a wrong time to go there. It just means there is a more quiet, intimate and personal time.
That's exactly what we are headed for.
The Roark Woman’s crew were off on a Tahitian adventure while simultaneously the Climbing crew and Run Amok crew were finding new places to test their limits and run wild through. Just a few days before I departed, those guys were all headed to a pearl farm to work and learn how to grow and harvest pearl’s while we were waiting for a swell to show up on the charts.
Anticipation grows steadily. Clocks swing slow as I await the call from Corey and Vez about the potential swell popping up. Days feel like weeks. I haven’t been to Tahiti. We have dreamt of each other since I was a kid though. I could feel her calling. Any little day now…
I have to say, getting a phone call from Roark about setting off on a journey with a handful of your friends anywhere on this lovely planet feels real dang special.
I have to say, getting a phone call from Roark about setting off on a journey with a handful of your friends anywhere on this lovely planet feels real dang special. Especially Tahiti! In the last eight years working with them the energy shift and smile that bursts out onto my face when that kind of a call comes through has not faded one little bit. “Will our swell show up? Will I actually have enough time to get over there to meet her? Are the French fries better in French Polynesia? Do they Have the same name?” Leading up to the trip I couldn't stop thinking these kinds of thoughts.
“Pack your boards there is a mystical reef pass and a catamaran waiting for you out in the middle of the Polynesian Triangle and we need you to leave in less than a week.”
She called. Looks like the swell is on the way and I better get moving!
Finally! Here comes that glowing feeling.
Gratefully, I accept.
Anticipating the trip was likely popping up sometime late in January / early Feb I had already been working with my friend Blake Peters (Panda Surfboards.) We came up with a few boards that would compliment the tropical reef passes. Blake made me three twinzers and a modern take on a shortboard silhouette from the late 80’s all ranging from 5’8” through 6’2”. TI have been staring at them for weeks in my garage eagerly waiting to be ridden. They turned out beautifully.
“How the heck are you supposed to warm up for Tahiti when the waves have been so small and cold at home, in Southern California?” I thought to myself. No sooner than the thought completed a heavily loaded winter swell showed her first lines here in Newport. Looks like I’ll have my chance to test one of these boards before just jumping in at whatever awaits us in Tahiti.
Identifying right away that one glided really well in the barrel, was super responsive and playful in all the right places, I packed them early and with extra care. Now I’m beyond hyped.
Time to make this 6:45a flight in L.A. 9 hours from LAX to Papeete. Easy.
Touching down by myself in the lush green and glistening blue island of Tahiti was a brilliant moment for me. My smile wouldn’t stop. I’m here! Just another 24 hours before I hop a second small flight and a speed boat to link with Dyl, Nate, Jeff, Beau, Harry, Tereva, Killian and the boat crew on our Catamaran. With a day and a night to myself, I went and rented a car and planned to find out if the French fries were more delicious in French Polynesia.
Now I don't know if it is because of the people speaking French, or the beauty that surrounded me or just the sheer excitement of it all. But I will say, French Fries are better in Tahiti.
They just are.
I rented a car and cruised the main island with no plans other than to eat, surf and not get sidetracked before taking off the next day to meet everyone else. Found a little blue reef break with some boogie boarders that were willing to show me where to paddle and share their waves with me. They paddled straight up and gave me a five. Whoa! Never experienced that before. Felt like they were coming to tell me to get lost. Instead they were coming with smiles to introduce themselves and say “welcome.” Man, that made me smile. I like it here.
The waves grew three times the size while I surfed that little reef break. “7 waves only and I’m outta here” I say to myself. 14 later and I can't seem to wipe the happiness off of my face.
Without warning the boogies headed in and I figured maybe they knew something I didn’t. I decided I’d better just get on my way. Wondering what the waves in the surrounding Island passes must be like if it was this fun here… I’ll find out first thing tomorrow morning!
My flight was booked from Papeete to Rangiroa where they were going to sail to and meet me. From there we would cruise around, motu to motu finding whatever waves suited the day. Tereva David, Tahitian surf royalty and our guide for this trip made a last minute call that another little island would be better for this swell. A satellite cell phone call and a few friendly conversations with Air Tahiti Nui staff later and my flight was rerouted to meet them at another little island’s airport. They would have had to sail for hours and then hours on return to get back to where the best part of the swell would likely show up. I jumped a plane and landed into the smallest, most remote airport I have ever seen. Lined with palm trees, bright blue water and every brilliant shade of coral reef you can imagine, we touched down. Miako, the town (motu) boss man and local charger met me at the airport. We picked up four hundred Franks worth of Hinano and a few cases of water for the boat, fed Maiko’s dog and then jumped with our boards onto two separate speed boats, captained by local fisherman with great smiles and wet wetsuits. I was in a pair of pants and a button up I was asked to wear for the crossing. The captain of my speedboat laughed and tried his best to tell me in English that my outfit was going to get really wet. Only he said it without any English but wore a really big smile. Couldn't be that bad right? Thirty minutes later, he is soaked, still wearing that same smile. I just learned the hard way what it means. Without really being able to understand each other, soaking wet and heading for paradise on a speedboat we just laughed at each other and the situation. It was great. I will never forget that boat ride.
We pulled up to the boat, Harry, Jeff, Beau and Dylan were having fresh caught snapper with the Cap-ee-tan for lunch and Nate was out getting one hundred barrels on the right at the reef pass with Killan ( our Tahitian filmer who joined to film as much as he could.)
Harry pointed over his shoulder to a perfectly round empty left barreling into the channel just in the distance and said “that thing is all you my friend!” Trying to contain the excitement for what he just showed me and the fresh caught fish our chef prepared for lunch I was on stimulation high vibe overload. I had lunch with those guys and headed on the dinghy to find out what Nate was up to. The guys said he had been out for hours now. As soon as I pull around the corner I see a fun, very stylish right tube being toyed with by someone who obviously was no stranger to this particularly playful stretch of reef. I was blown away. It was the first wave I saw when we pulled up as I was paddling out. I was a little intimidated as the man in the tube was a big guy who really ripped and was paddling straight towards me after his wave. I was thinking, “oh no, did I somehow get in his way or mess him up?” He got a little closer and yelled out “LJeeeeeezy! Welcome to paradise my brotha, ah ah ahha ha ha ha !!” then shaked my hand and introduced himself as Tereva. I asked him how he knew to call me “LJeezy” as only my closest use that silly nickname and we had obviously never met. He told me Nate told him to say it and we both laughed so hard.
Truly, welcome to paradise.
We played on those rights and lefts, ate fresh fish, stared at the stars, told tall tales and drank about a thousand French bucks worth of Hinano between the 8 of us over the next few days.
If the wind was on at the right, the left would go off shore and vice versa. It felt unreal that this was our setup and that we pretty much had it all to ourselves. We surfed, ust us and maybe one or two other locals over the next several days. Everyone paddling straight up to each other whether we have ever met or not and warmly greeting each other was the feel for the trip. That's the way they do it in Tahiti and we loved it. What an amazing tradition.
We ran around the island which had little to no electricity and just took in the fact the this little piece of paradise exists. Deep in the middle of the Pollynesian Triangle she lives everyday. Most days with nobody there to play with. That is perfection. Not one of us took a moment of it for granted.
Harry was scheduled just to come along for the ride as he was dealing with a pretty major injury. Even with his shoulder as sore as it was, he was still truly contemplating which would be worse, risking further injury or not surfing this perfect setup with just out. He opted to borrow a board and surf through the pain because, as he said “I’d hate myself even more if I didn't surf this place with you guys.” He told me, if he were going to risk the injury it would be for that really hollow left just across the pass. We paddled the channel and he proceeded to ride just about every good wave that came our way. We didn't want him to get hurt of course, so we would see “THE GEM” rolling in from out back and just automatically say… “Harry!” Even though he was hurt, he was just coming off of his first world title win and looked in as fine form as ever. Ha ha if he wasn't hurt, that would be a pretty good trick to get all the good ones! “I might try that sometime” each of us thought to ourselves.
The right was a little more playful than the left. Nate and Tereva were really making it look amazing on their forehands. It looked like a dream to be regular footed on that little right hander. Jeff and Harry body surfed a few across the really shallow reef while the captain and Beau also traded some empty waves on the “wide peak” which was a dreamy second part of the wave that roped off into the channel.
Meteor showers without a streetlight for hundreds of nautical miles. The warmest greetings I’ve ever felt by any locals ever. Glistening clear water with living coral and flourishing sea life. Perfect nutella coffee all day every day. Fresh fish and coconut with just a few friends floating around in the middle of the Pacific. That is why we went there, in the middle of the winter, in the “off season.”
Words by Beau Flemister
Most of us hadn’t been to the vast archipelago of atolls (an expanse the size of Western Europe) known as Tuamotu — we just knew it was remote as hell and took over a day’s sail just to get to that first ring of broken coral. Our first lagoon-of-harbor was a sun-baked, northerly atoll called Ahe, known for scuba diving and Tahitian black pearls. We were going to Kamoka Pearl Farm there, a place that Jeff Johnson had been to, I believe with National Geographic and Yvon Chouinard of Patagonia, 20 years prior.
At Kamoka Pearl Farm they sustainably harvest black pearls and welcome people to come and work on their little farm. Josh Humbert, who is the son of the owner Patrick, basically manages Kamoka and he picks us up, no shoes, no shirt, just some boardshorts and a black pearl necklace. That his only look the entire time. He ushers us over to a little boat, and we load up all of our gear in his little tinnie.
He takes us across the lagoon, which is a good 45-minute, maybe an hour-long motorboat ride, and he prefers to go slowly, so as not to leave a carbon footprint. So, we could’ve probably done it in a faster boat in half the time, but he’s just kind of like that, which is really hilarious, because we were just kind of, like, puttering along across this huge lagoon to the other side, to where Kamoka Pearl Farm is.
About an hour later, we get there, and the farm is kind of an over-water bungalow setup with, like, a long, narrow, wooden pier that stretches to land on the motu. It looks a little bit like a setup from the movie Waterworld, back when people were apocalyptically living on the water. The pearl farm has been around since the early ‘90s. Before that, Josh’s dad Patrick, who’s kind of this, like, mad scientist-style French inventor, moved to California, met Josh’s mom, and then the plan was to sail across the Pacific, maybe all the way to New Zealand, or something like that.
Patrick had never even built a boat before, and he just looks in, like, “Wooden Boat” magazine in the mid 70s, gets some instructions on how to build a boat, and literally builds one over the course of the next few months, on his own, in a harbor in Marina del Rey, Southern California. And then Patrick and his pregnant wife — they might’ve had Josh just right before they left — literally just take a newborn baby with them, and sail all the way to the Marquesas, and then down to Ahe. They really fell in love with Ahe atoll and after a few years ended up creating Kamoka Pearl Farm, which definitely went through a full on heyday as far as the black pearls industry goes, back in the 90s.
They were supplying to many different celebrities and different fashion houses for a couple decades, and at the same time, they created some really amazing sustainable pearl farming practices. Josh makes their own extracting instruments and other tools, and they basically have these WWOOFer volunteers (World Wide Opportunity of Organic Farms) come over, who just stay as long as they want, and they earn their keep.
So these backpacking WWOOFers, they learn all the different ways that goes into harvesting the pearls, from diving for them, and changing the baskets, and removing certain oysters to put them in different waters, and there’s this whole, meticulous sustainable-farming approach to it. We stayed with them out on the bungalow, and just kind of found a place wherever we could sleep, and for the next few days spent the night there, and ate with them, and got to know their WWOOFer dynamic, with all the different transient people that come and want to visit this paradise.
The WWOOFers can stay there, get food and board by working on the farm, and everybody was really lovely. Josh’s dad Patrick is sort of a gruff Frenchman that doesn’t speak any English, but he’s awesome as well. We went spear-fishing, too, and Josh is an amazing diver, who caught us a lot of fish. We’d just go to the pass outside of the lagoon (away from the pearls) and he’d catch us dinner each night.
It’s like, you go out to the pass between two motus, and you pretty much just hop off and you’re guaranteed some fish. The place is just teeming with fish, and also reef sharks. There was sharks everywhere, literally circling the little over-water bungalow all hours of the day and night which was interesting, and pretty trippy, but that’s just normal there. I remember there was sort of a bird’s-nest perch on the house that has a little room up above the over-water bungalow, and Nate and Jeff went up there to sleep.
There wasn’t much room for more, but I went downstairs on the first night after the lights turned off, and was just going to set up my little mat to sleep down there. They cut the lights and I turned a head-lamp on, and instantly there were, like, a zillion roaches. So, I was like, NOPE, not sleeping with them, so I went upstairs, and went head to toe with two men, and that was fun. But it was just a really interesting experience, and Jeff got to meet a friend he hadn’t seen in 20 years, and sort of had a déjà vu working on this pearl farm 20 years later after so much, or, maybe so little had changed.
Ahe is just a gorgeous place, too. We did, like, a 200-dollar beer run (things are expensive in the atolls), and got basically, like, 48 beers for 200 bucks, something like that, and just partied real hard one night with everyone well into the late hours. Papa Patrick even sent it, too, which was great to see. And surprising. By the end of our stay, it felt like we learned the whole operation of pearl harvesting, even learned to dive a buoy down underwater and tie it off, and most of us went home with a handful of rare black pearls that Patrick sold us on the cheap.
Words by Travis Weller
Photos by Drew Smith
the lost and found collection
a ciele athletics x RUN AMOK joint adventure
They found themselves in Tahiti, deep in the jungle with barely an inkling of where they might be or where they should go. Perfectly lost on a long run with only the essentials and a few friends.
When nightfall descends upon you in the jungle, it’s the kind of darkness you fade into. It’s like a sensory deprivation tank filled with a tangle of growth you need to mentally stride through. As daylight disappeared below the remnants of the dissected shield volcano our ramble on the sheer, sweltering slopes between Mt. Mou’aroa and Mt. Tohi'e'a deviated from a spirited scamper along the knife-edge ridgeline to a tactile tiptoe amongst lunging roots and fronds.
We disembarked the ferry from Tahiti to Mo’orea with wide eyes as we took in the infinite beauty of the island with soaring towers of magmatic rock covered in a blanket of green. Our intention while guests on this vibrant Mā’ohi land was to lace our shoes and see where the path leads us. It would become the perfect setting to turn off, tune out and drop in.
Rolling out of our bunks to a melody of roosters and songbirds, sky just showing its first hints of color, we quickly stuffed our packs with the essentials and were out the door with the rising sun. The early miles provided us a brief respite from the scorching heat that would soon join us for the remainder of the day. Along the coastal road locals were setting up tables to sell fruit from their bountiful trees. We stopped by a small stand shaded under a hefty mango tree for some needed sustenance. Communicating through hand signals, smiles and laughter we eventually bought some bananas, avocado and mango for the day but not before our bellies were generously filled by the kindest of souls. Feeling revitalized we gave thanks and headed away from the coastline and upward towards the towering peaks.
Entering the jungle we were welcomed with steep paths snaking through a dense green labyrinth. Running in this environment requires a deeper physical and mental connection with the land that must be met with respect and gratitude. The jungle is not designed to be passed through quickly. It's like a downtempo dance with nature, and if the energies of the wanderer and nature are in sync, it’s deserving of a standing ovation. We continued skyward across cascading creeks and through fallen trees while inside a canopy of thick, dormant air. Approaching the saddle between the two sharp peaks we were momentarily granted open views of the lush Ōpūnohu Valley leading north towards Mt. Rotui. Proceeding higher the path dissolved under our soggy feet as we crawled over and under the final barriers of the maze. Reaching the vertical summit walls of Mt. Tohi'e'a it became apparent that our upward journey had concluded. There is very little information available on a summit route and it was clear why. With the spirit to continue and the awareness to descend we acknowledged the mountain and headed down.
With daylight waning the jungle began its twilight transformation. Night crawlers emerge and adorn the exaggerated morass of root, frond and rock. Once all shadows disappear spatial perceptions are rendered useless. Our rhythm with the mountain slows to a tempo set aside for the most poetic of dances. The energy of the jungle becomes more powerful with each passing minute, electrifying our senses. I feel the rush of a cold chill pass through my body and the hair on my arms standing tall. Maybe it's fear entering my psyche or an invisible shadow passing through. Drained from the hours spent moving within this complex ecosystem, our headlamps hurriedly shine light beams into the mystic forest looking for our exit. We eventually find our way back to where our adventure began and as we cheers the last of our Hinano's the same chill from the jungle revisits me and this time I can be certain it's not derived by fear. In this moment it became clear that this journey was not intended to follow an observable path, but instead an omen to patiently allow shadows to lead the way.
Ah, holiday weekends! They're like the ultimate adventure package—standstill traffic, bustling trails, sardine-packed surf breaks, and campsites that resemble a game of Tetris. When a holiday falls mid-summer, you can expect a few others with the idea to get out of the house and enjoy the outdoors. When you find that all your local campsites are booked out, you can thank the Bureau of Land Management for the option to get outside - for free.
We made a short list of a few of our favorite local spots to get outside and escape the mess of the masses.
LATITUDE/LONGITUDE:
35.312571, -118.050022
DIRECTIONS:
Jawbone Open Area is located off State Highway 14, approximately 20 miles north of the intersection of State Highway14 and 58 in the town of Mojave. A left turn from State Highway 14 onto Jawbone Canyon Rd., when traveling from the south. Traveling from the north, it is a right turn onto Jawbone Canyon Rd.
LATITUDE/LONGITUDE:
34.51764167, -116.7532
DIRECTIONS:
The riding area can be entered from Highway 247 at Old Woman Springs Road or Camp Rock Road, 55 miles southeast of Barstow. Most visitors access the area off Camp Rock Road by driving north off of Highway 247. Staging for many competitive events is at Anderson Dry Lake, 10 miles north of Highway 247 and east of Camp Rock Road. These are graded dirt roads.
LATITUDE/LONGITUDE:
35.07, -116.278
DIRECTIONS:
The riding area is between Interstate 15 and the Mojave National Preserve, about 25 miles southwest of Baker (CA). Access roads are Basin Road and Rasor Road east of the I-15. Both of these roads are graded dirt roads.
Jeff Johnson is a man of many adventures. From his upbringing in Northern California to being a Hawaiian lifeguard to being a flight attendant to adventuring with Roark: he seems to always ben on the move.
He recently sat down with Surf Splendor to talk about his path from a punk skateboarder to present day fatherhood and all the amazing anecdotes in between.
Listen to parts 1 & 2:
Flying to British Columbia was a strike mission born from a sudden and urgent necessity to escape our own worlds that were beginning to consume us. We were so comfortable in our monotonous routine that we could crack and scream at any moment from the lack of chaos. So we called up our friend Julianna, a musician born and raised in British Columbia. When she invited us to surf, hike, and camp on the oasis that is Vancouver Island, it felt like salvation—an offer too good to refuse. We tracked down some boards and camping gear and departed on the first flights that we could find. The place we found ourselves landing in was raw and real with dense and dark forests lining the cold Pacific. A place engulfed in mist with rays of sun peaking through to illuminate the entire coastline and somehow set it ablaze with light. Geographically close to us in California—but soulfully—in another world entirely.
Here’s what we had: 4 girls, 1 guitar, 2 skateboards, 4 gallon jugs of water, 2 pelican cases filled with camera equipment, surfboards, hiking gear, camping equipment, and fishing poles. Here’s what we didn’t have: A plan. Seemed like the right ingredients for an adventure to us.
We piled into a vintage Pontiac from the 60s, slammed the doors shut, and began traversing the dynamic coastline of British Columbia. As we began following our map, we decided to track down a boat to fish for the first night’s dinner. We drove until we found ourselves in a quaint oceanside town. We sought refuge on a dock to rest and dip our feet in the cool water and regroup. Julianna brought out her guitar and we swayed to the sound of music as we peered at the maps in front of us with furrowed brows. That’s when we heard someone leaning over the bow of a sailboat yell over to us, “HEY! If you girls want to take my boat out for a ride you are welcome to. I just filled her up.” It felt kismet. We had asked, and the universe had answered. We meandered over to the dock and met the man, his name was Henry. He guided us over to a small orange speedboat and gestured for us to climb aboard. Now I know what you’re thinking, who does that? Who climbs on a strangers boat with all of their gear and ride off into the sunset without first making sure they aren’t an ax-murderer? We chalked it up to gut feeling. Something we were trained by our mothers to trust since we were kids.
Henry was unlike most people, that's for sure. He had a genuine softness in his eyes and a voice that sounded like home. We asked him why he would offer his boat to a group of strangers. He said, “Seemed to me like you ladies were looking for something—I thought maybe I could help you find it.” We couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had offered so much of what they had in exchange for only memories and a bottle of Jack Daniels.
We began to cut through the water, laughing with excitement. The farther away from civilization we got, the more we reveled in the coastline. Henry began telling us about his best friend, Maya, that had just purchased her own Oyster farm not too far from where we were. We decided to meander there, dock, and check it out. The girls jumped off of the boat and lassoed the ropes to the dock with sheer elegance. We walked around, collecting shells and looking at the freshly caught oysters and clams. Maya told us to hold out our hands and she deposited huge clumps of clams into them saying, “For your campfire tonight, should cook up nicely.” We didn’t have a bag to toss them in so we piled them in a safe corner of the boat. We spent all morning on the water with Henry. He told us about his life, how he lived on his sailboat and worked at the local seafood restaurant nearby. How he made frequent trips to Maya’s Oyster farm where they’d drink beers as the sun went down on the emerald green water. How he pulled on his running shoes every morning at dawn and ran for miles until he couldn’t any longer. He lived a simple life, and in this way to us, he seemed to be the richest man we’d met in a long time. We stopped subscribing long ago to the notion that the amount of money in our bank account was indicative of wealth. True wealth to us felt like something far more substantial. It’s the relationships you have, the contentment you feel, the strength in your legs, and the sharpness of your mind. We waved goodbye to Henry from the shore of the dock, with hearts swollen full of admiration and hope to run into each other again one day.
At the car we came back to reality, dumping the fresh clams into one of our empty camera bags. With surfboards under arms, and a gallon of water clipped to each of our bags, we began our next adventure — a 45 minute descent to an undisclosed surf break that we had heard offered pristine coastline and an empty lineup. The trail hadn’t been maintained in decades, it had many muddy drop offs and chunks of it missing completely, so when we stepped foot on the sandy shore we felt utterly victorious. Luckily for us, the sun didn’t set here until 10PM, so with plenty of light in the sky we surfed with not a soul in the lineup for miles.
Once we managed to peel the thick, wet neoprene off of our bodies we began to cook dinner for the night. When the girls were done gutting and cleaning the fish, we stuck wood into the filets and set them up over the fire to cook for dinner. Thanks to our new friends Henry and Maya, we chucked the clams on some rocks in the fire to cook too. As we ate our fish with our hands, like corn on the cob, we looked around and saw miles fade into the distance on either side of us. No one in the world knew we were here, and no one ever would. We inhaled the aloneness and embraced the feeling. That cool air and those dark trees and that aloneness saved us. Every time we get sucked into our 9 to 5 jobs we feel like maybe we are losing ourselves bit by bit. The second we step feet to earth we are tethered again, thrown back into ourselves. We are renewed, so that we can survive until the next spontaneous adventure that will light our souls back on fire.
Once the last embers of our fire had turned from orange to gray, and light in the sky had been replaced with darkness, we began to pack out. It took us over an hour, climbing over rocks to escape the rising tide to find the trail that had brought us down and climb our way back to the car. We were panting and covered in mud when we emerged from the dark forest close to midnight. None of us had ever done anything like that. We all let out a few hysterical laughs that we had made it out alive. The air was still and quiet, it seemed everyone on the island was asleep but us. We looked around at each other and thought—Where to next?
Roark is proud to present: Garden Variety
It's the hiccups on the open road that make a trip truly an adventure. Harrison Roach, Anthony Dodds and Andre Fauzi set off across Java on old motorbikes to find uncrowded waves, unexpected bike repairs and to experience the road less traveled.
"Three friends, three bikes and as much crap as we can carry"
Eight months ago I ran my first half marathon.
Four months ago I ran my first marathon.
A week ago I ran my first 100K.
My friends have asked me, why? Why am I running? Is there something I am running from? Towards?
For me, it’s really not as much about the running itself.
I don’t consider myself a runner.
Right now, running is serving as the vessel for me to live out the lessons that I want to learn. To pursue the higher version of myself that I crave. My runs are expressions of my truth, my belief that life is just an accumulation of experiences and my desire to have as many of those as I can.
In a way, it all comes back to death for me. I ask myself, what do I want to do, see and experience before I die? What lessons do I want to learn? My answer: the hard ones. The extremes. The ones you’re rewarded with by daring to jump with two feet in. The ones born from the perfect alchemy of fear, pain, trust, insanity, and a little bit of herb. It’s a balance. A constant test of self to seek out the extremes of life.There are lessons that are being lost in this world. Lessons that aren’t rewarded with immediate gratification. Our society doesn’t place value on these hard fought internal battles. Yet, that is where my hunger lies.
Before this 100K, I knew there was a lesson I was being called to learn. A journey I was meant to go on. A glimpse of enlightenment that I was meant to see that would impact me now and long after I leave this existence. I planned the Hill Country Hundred with the intention to heed the call. To live the experience. To prove to myself that I could. To meet my limit and make it watch as I ran past. To inspire. To move something from the conceptual to the actual by means of my own action.
And so I decided that 62 miles would be a solid way to do it. So a week before the run date, I threw together a crew, a route, and a loose-leaf plan to do just that. Saturday, April 15th, I would run through the heart of the Texas Hill Country, from my hometown of Dripping Springs to Fredricksberg. Past working ranches I watched get bought, sold, and rebought throughout my childhood. Past rolling fields of BlueBonnets and the road I grew up on. Down the route I used to speed at 5am headed to football practice. And past the lot I took a job shoveling rocks at all summer in the Texas heat to save up a little cash to start my company.
I planned a route straight through my childhood. What a trip.
And here's how it went:
Mile 1-30: ‘The Come-up’
The first thirty were just fun. I was riding the high of the excitement and the reality of the experience was looping in my head. I was elated to be really doing it. I kept reflecting on the fact that we threw it all together in a week, and how crazy that was.
Mile 30-38: ‘Fire.’
This is when shit got really hard. On the physical side, it got insanely hot. It was easily 100 degrees on the asphalt and I wore the Texas sun through the peak afternoon hours. Mentally, I was processing that I had already run a marathon (my longest run up until that point). Each stride I took added to the miles past the farthest point I’d ever pushed physically. Doubt decided to run these miles with me. Asking me questions and playing games. How is my body going to hold up? Pain also decided it was time to join in on the experience. Shit got real.
Lunch
Lunch was its own chapter entirely. In all honestly, a fucking low point.
I needed to bring my body temp down and decided to take a cool shower out of the back of our van. Immediately, my body went into shock and all the fears of failure manifested physically.
I was at a point where I felt like I couldn’t take another step and I knew I had twenty something miles left to go. A fucking trip.
Body convulsing, shivering, and rejecting nutrition, I was scared.
Surrender number one. Trust.
I had no choice. I had to rely on my friends to bring me back down. And through trust, I did. They helped me get to a point where I was able to continue on.
Together, WE were able to do that.
Mile 38 to 52(ish): ‘Somewhere Between Delusion & Enlightenment’
These were the post lunch to sunset miles.
The first few steps after lunch were a feeling I will never forget. A feeling so sweet because it is one I didn’t think I was going to get. I did not think I was going to be able to take those steps.
It was a surreal experience having my body go into shock, being nursed back from it, and fifteen minutes later having me be back under the sun. Back on my feet. Back running.
Pretty unreal.
Through this period, there was a lot of that “unrealness”. Feelings of bliss but also feelings of pure delusion.
And I was there, still running, as it all ran through me.
Surrender number two.
Roughly Mile 52 to 56: ‘Sunset’
The sunset brought a shifting tide. Like the ocean, it brings the best surf. You’re drawn in, entranced in its beauty, humbled by its might.
Euphoria.
And then the sun sets.
It’s as if the moment the last sliver of orange fire clears the horizon, everyone is gone. Surfers are out of the water. Watchers are back in their cars. And the ocean suddenly becomes a dark and scary place.
The Sunset over the rolling hills felt much the same. As she began to sink lower into the sky, I finally got some much needed relief from the six plus hours of the 95 degree weather and the harsh rays beating on my toasted back.
The sky was a painting. One I had seen many times before but never experienced quite like this. This time I was a part of the painting. Made up of the same paints as the sun, the sky, the cows, birds, and the hills.
We were one. I felt everything.
And then, darkness.
It really hit me. Putting on my headlamp for the second time that day was a mind fuck. There was something about the realization that I had been running since before the sun was up and I would be running well after it set… A huge mental barrier for me in and of itself.
Mile 57 onwards - ‘Pain’
In terms of a psychedelic journey, this was my ego death of the run.
Everything that I could hold onto for comfort just dissipated.
There was nothing for me to find relief in.
I lost full control over my bodily functions. I lost control of my mind.
I watched my headlight waver from side to side as I marched through these miles. I looked only down, watching the asphalt move like a conveyor belt under my legs.
The headlights of the van, my only reference point as to where I was at, what I was doing. Everything was shutting down and each step was an agonizing pain from the bottom of my foot, up my leg, and into my lower back.
The last three miles I was having to stop and piss every few minutes. I am still not really sure what that was about. Just my body shutting down.
And my ego dying.
Dead.
And then the finish line was bittersweet.
Bittersweet because I felt myself quit and give up a few miles before the finish. I knew that I didn’t make it to the finish line of my own accord. Ya, I was the runner, but it was only through the people that I surrounded myself with that day that I was able to finish the final few. The ego death came from knowing that I needed the people around me, whether I wanted them or not. I was only as strong as those around me.
And that was it. Bottomline. And the end of Part One. The Hill Country Hundred.
After the experience, the run, I am left to return to the lesson I set out to find. Did I find it? Learn what I wanted? I think so.
But it's a funny thing about these kinds of lessons. They don’t just come and go. They aren’t a box to be checked or something to add to a resume. The value comes in the lesson that shows itself to you next. The next experience nodding its head at you. The stream of opportunity, challenge, questions ionized. Catalyzed. By you, for you.
And so I am left after my run with fond memories, a new reference point of my own limit, and these questions running free in my head:
How much farther can I take this?
What are my limits?
Do I do a 100 mile race?
Do I do a 200 mile race?
Again, how far can I take this?