I’m primed: Line is laid neatly on the deck, fly pinched between fingers in my left hand, cork in right, fingers gently gripping the fly line.
Salted and Boiled
Sweat and salty tears, indistinguishable from each other, trickle down my face as I struggle to find sleep, or even a small bit of comfort. A thousand mosquitoes are biting my ass through the hammock braid. Thick, wet, tropical heat makes breathing a chore. My homemade mosquito net—a clammy bed sheet—isn’t helping.
Three minutes into our float, the v-wakes of submerged rocks in the tailout begin to move, creasing the glassy surface as they peel away from the approaching raft. Skyla and Weston lean forward, scouting ahead.
Defined by the Line
If you’re a climber, chances are you’ve dreamt of climbing here or, better yet, you actually have. It’s a region that includes some of the most perfect (and the most crumbly) climbing on earth: Cedar Mesa, Valley of the Gods, the Abajo Mountains and, dear to climbers, Indian Creek. As threats to these public lands in southeastern Utah accumulate, local people—climbers among them—are joining forces to protect the area that they call the Bears Ears region. But the fight isn’t finished.
First Comes Love
I was a teenager when I started rock climbing. Sixteen years old with bony shoulders and a precious, brand-new pair of Boreal Aces, I threw myself into climbing blindly, like the teenage romance it was. I swam in it, soaked it up, absorbed it—and blew it.
The New Localism
I have a dream. Actually, it’s more of a nightmare. It’s a vision of coastal communities filled with pavement—but no parking. Where humans who don’t own an oceanfront home can’t reach the ocean. And where industry and development have left the world’s seas and waterways so polluted that people stop trying to do anything about it. It’s a vision I hope won’t come true, but all signs show that, with time, it will. And we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.
Growing up on Maui, Kimi had the seemingly infinite Pacific not far from her front step. But throughout her childhood, she was taught something Hawaiians have always known: You should never take more than you need.
Punta de Lobos, Ramón’s home spot, is a long and powerful left point that holds almost any size, from a few feet to huge. Testing himself on giant winter paddle-in days, his bravery and ease in the ocean soon earned him a place amongst big-wave surfing’s rarified elite. There were sponsorships and pioneering sessions at other Chilean big-wave spots; a perfect 100-point wave at the Eddie at Waimea Bay; and an impossibly deep barrel on one of the biggest days ever surfed at Cloudbreak in Fiji.