To be surrounded by people and places that inspire is the essence of what everyone’s looking for in their lives. To live creatively through this true inspiration is what everyone strives for within their lives, jobs, and ultimately their careers. As an artist and photographer, I constantly find myself surrounded by people and places that inspire not only me personally, but my work as well. Adventure and the outdoors collectively drive my creative philosophy, which is energized and inspired through landscapes and being able to show the contrast between humans and nature.
There is a striking contradiction in a simple scene from nature versus the emotion and feeling you get with the imposition of the human association. To be in a place that makes you feel small and see what tiny place you hold in the world really leaves a humble and grateful feeling for every moment spent outdoors.
We are all visitors here. This earth will be here long after we are gone. With so little time we must experience all that it has to offer, whether it’s a hike, a simple walk in your local park, a day trip to the beach, or a grand expedition. There’s something about sitting in nature and enjoying every moment. There is a simple beauty that can be found in the connection between people and nature that is so obvious and is often taken for granted. For it’s never enough to just observe through a phone or computer, we must get out there, be involved, and fulfill that inspiration with memories with the people and places that matter the most.
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Stephen Krawiec is a New Jersey-based adventure photographer. For more of his work, visit www.stephenkrawiec.com
Ma Moehl insisted consistency was the biggest lesson to teach her two daughters, and the message carries through in many aspects of my life. I feel physically my best when I go to sleep around 10pm and wake up around 6-7am. I feel connected to friends when I interact with them on a regular basis. I feel well fed when I cook in my kitchen, three meals and two snacks a day… often dessert too. I feel the most grounded as a person when I cover a few or many miles, human powered, preferably on my own two feet and on dirt. There are so many pulls and distractions that infiltrate our day that I find having consistency in as many aspects of life as I can is the thread that keeps me centered through it all.
When travel, work, social engagements, emails, have to’s, to do’s, and other obligations challenge my ability to maintain my l routine, it seems running is the mainstay, the core of the list, the one thing I will always do. I can and do run anywhere and everywhere. The simplicity of shoes and a sports bra enables a dependable interaction with wherever life takes me. It is a way to connect with the land, the people, and the community. It is a way to understand where I am physically – I love a morning run in a new town to find the coffee shop and grocery store – and a way to understand and process the thoughts in my head. “There are not many issues in life that a long run cannot solve. Sometimes the run has to be a bit longer.” Running is one thing I have and will count on for years to come. Running, my parents’ consistent presence, and Ma’s helpful life lesson.
Living on the road full time brings up grand visions in most people’s minds—open desert roads, unlimited free time, illuminated tent photos plastered with trending hashtags, and adventures on demand. I’d be amiss to say there haven’t been periods of all of that through my nomadic lifestyle, but the road life more commonly presents crunched timeframes with adventure buddies all over the world; a quick stop between photo shoots is the typical stage that my adventures are set upon.
Contrary to the perception built by sponsored expeditions to countries nobody has heard of, its unexpected flexibility is where the outdoor lifestyle truly shines. At first glance, the outdoor life seems committing, time consuming, and unapproachable. Outdoor adventures don’t need to be multi-week long summit attempts, first descents of unnamed creeks, or a statewide mountain bike traverse. Instead, they can be 30-minute cruises on a mountain bike around urban trails, a quick trail run in the park, or a quick playboat session. There are zero rules stating adventures have to be time consuming.
Cruising into town, calling an old friend and saying, “hey let’s grab coffee” is the standard, easy route of brief and rushed social interaction. Of course, it has its place with those who don’t recreate outside. But making meaningful connections in the outdoors always wins. I’ve had my share of memorable coffees with friends as I swing through a town, but they are far more forgotten than mini-adventures. It’s no mistake that some of our best companions in life are folks we meet through our outdoor pursuits. The threads that create the mesh of relationships, outdoors or not, is built off the trials and tribulations, the successes and failures.
So next time you only have an evening to catch up with a friend or a few hours, go hit up your local trails, rivers, or anything else you can get your hands on.
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Tommy Penick is a commercial photographer and filmmaker who lives out of his van. For more of Tommy’s work, check out www.tommypenickphoto.com
First light fluttered from darkness, glowing on the horizon like baseline fires across the curve of the earth. We barely spoke. I racked the gear, checked my knot. Nearly a vertical mile of climbing towered overhead.
Deep breath.
It was my first trip to the storied Chaltén Massif of southern Patagonia, where spires jut into space like parallel rows of sharpened teeth. For decades, climbing legends have risen and fallen here with the ferocious winds. For sixty-five million years, these granite spires have reached toward the sky like temples of the gods.
Our trip had started like so many others: long on ambition, short on action. Cloudbanks of fury obscured the mountains and the wind so scoured the earth that on some days even approaching the glacier was unthinkable. We’d retreat to the forest and pass time with our friends.
Just before our flights home, the skies cleared. A perfect window.
It’s funny how time passes. Two days can go slowly, without recollection. Passing normally, placidly, mundane days like any other.
So often, I recall only fleeting moments. Sometimes, when standing in line at the bank or sipping coffee or driving to the store, the molecules in my brain that hold the memories of my mind flash before me, transporting me to a dreamlike world that I know is real. On Cerro Torre I remember my heartbeat pounding in my ears as we raced up thin ice that would disappear the very next day, melted by the fierce southern sun when we were higher on the route. I remember shivering away the night without sleeping bags in a snow cave three pitches below the top, drifting between sleep and hypothermia. Waking and climbing through rime-ice mushrooms, gargoyles, and house-sized sculptures jutting outward in gravity-defying forms like images pulled from a fantasyland. And, of course, tunnels. Tunnels? Yes, tunnels. Treasure-hunt tunnels carved by the wind, allowing passage through the impossible seeming mushrooms, until we sat on the summit under perfect skies, almost unbelievingly, knowing we’d been lucky.
Exactly two days after we left, we staggered back to our tent as silhouettes of giants towered overhead. Before crawling inside and collapsing into a dreamless sleep, I remember staring once more at the stars while the wind calmed to a whisper, as if the gods themselves were pausing between breaths.
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Kelly Cordes is author of The Tower: A Chronicle of Climbing and Controversy on Cerro Torre. For more on Kelly and his work, visit www.kellycordes.com
We supplant the word with terms like doing work, the hustle, max effort, the grind, making moves, and so forth. However we dress it up, the essence boils down to momentum—mass and velocity. When we dream of undertakings that seem impossible and decide to overcome mountains, real or imagined, we give life to it. We make plans, prepare ourselves, and gather equipment as needed. In doing so, we give the dream mass. However, without the added component of motivation, our internal compass has no direction of travel. By focusing this accumulated mass, and applying a bit of motivation, we gain velocity to propel us forward.
The 30th Marathon des Sables, a 156-mile footrace through the Saharan Desert region of Morocco, was an opportunity to be exposed to a multitude of intangible lessons learned in between the points of accomplishment: diligence to small tasks, persistence in the face of adversity, and the ability to learn and move beyond failures. In my childhood, competition used to relate to my personal performance with respect to others. It has grown far beyond that view to encompass others, myself, and the gifts of Mother Nature. Regardless of how we perform with respect to ourselves and each other, Mother Nature has always been the biggest facilitator of adversity in our paths. Through the struggle, we realize undiscovered weaknesses and levels of untapped strength in reserves.
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Mosi D. Smith is a former Marine Captain who is also known as The Running Smith after finishing races such as the Boston Marathon, Virginia Triple Ironman, Western States 100, Badwater Ultramarathon and the Marathon des Sables. For more Mosi, check out runningsmith.com.
My idea of a lucrative lifestyle is gathering as much outdoor experience and adventure as possible. I’ve never been one for the accumulation of “things”, and I don’t believe a person’s worth is measured by their materials.
This world offers amazing playgrounds that charge you nothing more than your will and desire to explore. When you are in the wild, you are free to experience whatever your heart desires. You are able to think what you want, listen to what you want, see what you want.
The exploration of nature is a gateway to the understanding and discovery of one’s self. Getting lost in the trees deep within the mountains is where I feel most vulnerable and most alive. I’m at the mercy of Mother Nature’s challenges, and it is here where I uncover my true mental and physical capabilities.
With every mountain, desert and forest explored, learn something new. Leave the trailhead feeling satisfied and bathed in the richness of life (this will resemble mud and sweat). Blend back with the societal “rat race, “ but stand out in happiness and fulfillment.
My hope is for more people to embrace the outdoors while learning about themselves and their potential. The value of recognizing your true self is priceless and the opportunities for exploration are endless.
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Gina Lucrezi is a professional ultra-trail runner who recently completed her first 100-mile race at the 2015 Western States 100. Learn more about Gina at www.ginalucrezi.com
Death. A bone jarring occurrence that can cause us to take stock in our lives, shake things up, and live for that day. Several of these came in close succession including some people our own age. The realization that you are starting to be susceptible to older age diseases was just another reason pushing us out the door while still physically fit enough to truly explore the landscapes of the world. To escape the beaten path. To climb, hike, run, and camp. Using the diversity of the lands to teach us about the diversity, but also the sameness of people around the world. Climbing sand dunes in the Namib desert, mountaineering and trekking across the Great Himalaya Trail through Nepal, trekking the coastline of Turkey or across the top of the island of Corsica, running around Mont Blanc through three countries, and camping amongst the Lesotho tribesman across the Drackensberg escarpment. These places taught us that despite the vastly different cultures of these places, some things were the same. That a smile, a laugh, and a thumbs up are cross cultural. That everyone hopes for a better life for their children. That people are overwhelmingly good. Not all, but most. Seeing sights and landmarks of the world, doing scattered veterinary relief work along the way, and being outdoors as much as possible. From death comes an incredible life.
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Kathleen Egan and husband John Fiddler are true grass-roots adventurers who have recently returned home after 2.5 years abroad.
One of the strange things about climbing is the number of climbers who want to write about it. I too felt the urge. I didn’t want the experience to disappear, but how to describe it? If I stayed with the facts, the page was clear, but cold. If I said how it really felt, the page ran hot with embarrassing confessions. I couldn’t get it right.
I combed the library shelves and read the mountaineering classics. In some of those books, I came across photographs that made me say to myself, “Yes, that’s it!” Towering, icy peaks, smooth walls with ant-like climbers on them, haggard faces after frosty bivouacs; those indelible images told the story as effectively as words could. I realized I could show what it was like, and not have to explain it.
So a camera strap was added to the clutter of slings around my shoulders. I started talking less and seeing more, watching conversations, parties, and gear sort-outs through my viewfinder, waiting for the images to appear. I caught some, but many got away.
Camp 4 was the launching pad for our adventures. Sometimes, it was a refuge from them. Here, plans were made, teams were formed, and the rest of life was lived. An odd kind of history was happening each day, and every night the quicksilver of our experience slipped through the cracks in the tabletops and disappeared into the grimy dust below.
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Born and raised in California, climber, photographer, and author, Glen Denny, was part of the first group of climbers to use the now-famous Camp 4 as a base for exploring the granite walls of Yosemite Valley. This is an edited expert from his book, Yosemite in the Sixties. For more of Glen’s work, check out www.glendenny.com
There is a magic in our open spaces, the wild places where each step further feels like one closer to home. They exist as a refuge, a place for stories told in paddle strokes or miles walked. Across the breadth of a continent, from ragged mountain ranges to coastal lowlands, the number of places to explore is only rivaled by the number of ways that you can do it. Woven into our national identity, they are a touchstone of beauty and freedom, handed down from one generation to the next.
In this country, we have just over a million square miles of public land, and that’s something that just thinking about, never fails to stir my imagination. With such a vast amount of acreage out there, it is easy to feel disconnected from what happens in a place you may never have seen or been to, but it is important to still realize that we all have a voice in how it is managed. I think the recent protests of Shell’s arctic oil exploration are a good example of that. Not very many people will ever visit that part of Alaska, but nevertheless, thousands have spoken up for what they would like to see done.
Closer to home, the Rogue River watershed, where I work as a guide, has been threatened by the looming specter of industrial-scale nickel strip mining. Raising public awareness of that is what inspired me to begin a career as a photographer, and has been a tremendous opportunity to view the strength of a community’s voice in determining how our land is managed. The recently introduced Southwest Oregon Watershed and Salmon Protection Act is a direct result of the public outcry to the proposed development of an iconic watershed and has been an inspiration to continue working to introduce people to the wanderland they did not know they had.
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Nate Wilson is a Northwest based river guide, photographer and writer primarily focused on projects in nature. For more of his work, check out www.natewilson.photo
When I’m moving through mountains on foot, I sometimes imagine that I’m knocking with my feet on the soil below, knock-knock-knocking with every foot strike like knuckles rapping on a padlocked portal made of earth and rock and gravity. With every knock, I imagine asking the dirt underfoot, “Am I worthy of returning yet?” Now I’m not wishing to die; it’s more that I wish fiercely to live.
Perhaps it’s because, with a regular practice of trail running, our soft animal bodies swing life and limb so intimately close to earth’s cadence. Perhaps it’s written calligraphically into respiration and lactic acid rise paired with a planet that roars past us and right through us, stinging our retinas as we dash along singletracks of the unasphalted, the unmodified, the untamed.
So I ask, as deep ecologist and poet Gary Snyder once did: How edible am I?
Am I giving back to the planet a body that’s been unused, atrophied from couches and cages, repressed with anger and narcissism and conformity? No, I wish that feast upon nobody. Instead, I aim to be as edible as possible, to be worthy of that inevitable return to earth. After all, gravity always wins.
With every wilderness outing, I attempt to discover more humility, more insight into the ways this planet revolves and evolves, churns and composts itself anew. I try and honor those who lived here before me, and to fight for protecting the last honest places for posterity. Because when it finally comes time for that stuff beneath the mountains to let me back in again, I aspire to return to the soil at least, mildly, palatable.
So I keep running. I keep knocking. I keep living.
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Nick Triolo is a writer, filmmaker, activist, and sponsored ultrarunner living in Missoula, Montana. He’s run across the Baja peninsula in a day, finished sub-19 hours at Western States 100, and has won the Oregon Trail Series. Learn more about Nick’s projects at the Jasmine Dialogues Blog.
