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Island Hoppers

Stay Wild

Our friends at OluKai love bringing different people together to share aloha.

They recently brought some kind folks from different islands together to explore Kaua‘i.

Bobbie Hanohano, a Hawaiian native with roots traceable to the ancient Tahitian celestial navigators, met Hinatea Boosie, a Tahitian visiting Hawaii for the very first time. They hiked rocky trails, swam in tucked-away coves, and shared their experience of a life surrounded by water. Though some 2,700 miles of blue ocean separate their island homes, they instantly felt connected—like family from faraway lands.

Mark Healey, a world-renowned waterman and big wave surfer, makes his home on O‘ahu met up with Miguel Rodriguez, who hails from Peru, an island in the same ocean as Mark, but in the much colder Pacific Northwest. As they explored the more secluded spots of Kaua‘i, they found that a life surrounded by water has deeply shaped them both.

Learn more about these awesome people and what's new with OluKai HERE >>>

Mountain-Sized Art

Stay Wild

Snowshoeing with Simon Beck

Story by Marshall Birnbaum

The journey to complete a half-mile wide snow mandala begins with one step and pockets stuffed with bananas and chocolate chip cookies. 

In the high-altitude snowfields of Powder Mountain, Utah, the world-renowned snowshoe artist Simon Beck demonstrated just how far the limits of human creativity can be taken. Equipped with nothing but snowshoes, waterproof gear, and a compass, Simon took to the fields of the mighty Wasatch mountain range and traversed well over the equivalent of a marathon to “draw” his large-scale ephemeral snow art.

Simon’s process begins with a drawing or printed image on a regular sheet of printer paper. Once the design is finalized, Simon carefully measures and calculates the steps necessary to enlarge the image for use in the field. Shapes like the Koch triangle or repeating hexagons, which happen to be the basic structural patterns for snowflakes, often make the most successful patterns in Beck’s eyes.

Once in the field, Simon begins by walking the perimeter of the design with the aid of a lensatic compass to accurately calculate his angles. Occasionally, the path of the sun influences the orientation and placement of the drawing, since shadows play a vital role in the visual success of each mural. After he finishes the outlines, Simon then begins retracing his steps, in militant fashion, to “shade” the drawings. This process requires less planning and is occasionally carried out by volunteers looking for some quality exercise or artistic inspiration.

Simon has been creating these large-scale ephemeral snow murals for roughly six years, traveling around the world to share his talents with art lovers, outdoor enthusiasts, and powder hounds alike. The photos you see here mark the second time he has worked in the United States. Invited through the Summit AIR program, he plans to return to Power Mountain to create more mind-blowingly intricate snow patterns that perfectly capture the human journey through natural terrains, only to be eventually swept away by the wind or covered with a fresh blanket of snow. 

Assholes of the Tundra

Stay Wild

Story by Charlotte Austin 

Photos by Bryan Aulick


Brooks Range, Alaska

Caribou are assholes. That’s the first thing I learned while bowhunting in the Brooks Range. Before I joined the hunting expedition — which required flying from my home in Seattle to meet friends in Anchorage, Alaska, loading 16 duffel bags into two pickup trucks, driving due north for more than 800 miles along a hurl-inducing highway, and camping in sub-zero temperatures on tundra for a week — I had been feeling confident. Very confident. 

“They’re basically reindeer,” I boasted to my next door neighbor before the trip. “The herds are well managed. We’ll be responsible hunters, culling the herd. Our chances of bagging an animal are great.” She nodded sagely, scooping her apricot-colored Labradoodle’s poop into a biodegradable plastic bag, and we walked together back into our LEED-certified condo building. I offered to bring back some caribou meat. We’d have a potluck, I said. Everybody was welcome! She promised to provide organic salad greens and a bottle of vino verde. Maybe some good mustard. 

Later, somewhere in the Arctic Circle, I related that story to my Native Alaskan hunting partner. The herd, a small cluster of six or eight caribou, we were stalking knew goddamn well that we were there. They seemed to be meandering toward the horizon at a relaxed, amiable pace as we crawled on our bellies through a semi-frozen mixture of mud and musk-ox poo. Dusk was falling. “I just really wanted a caribou burger,” I said, watching the last of the animals disappear over the horizon. He looked at me, his bow slung over his back, and smiled. “Most people have no idea what’s involved in hunting for your own food.”

I nodded, humbled. I’m an inexperienced hunter — greener than a tree frog, if we’re being honest — and so, trying to be conscientious, I’d done lots of soul-searching before agreeing to join the hunting party. How would it feel to kill and butcher a mammal? I’d only ever hunt an animal with the intention of eating the meat, and I was looking forward to the opportunity to be more consciously involved in sourcing my food. Accountability, honesty, respect — those are big in my world, and I thought I’d done my mental homework. Somewhere along the way, I’d come to view bringing home a caribou as a tangible landmark in my ever-present journey to be more aware. I’d eat that smug bastard with whole-grain mustard, I’d thought, and I’d be more connected to my food sources, and therefore to the world. I’d be a thoughtful carnivore, an enlightened consumer. Namaste, bitch.     

But it clearly wasn’t going to happen. I shivered grumpily, assessing how much usable light remained in the day. Caribou are assholes. Hunting is hard. We trudged back to our pickup truck, which was parked less than a hundred yards from the Alyeska Pipeline. The pipeline transports 520,000 barrels of oil per day. It’s one of the biggest oil transport systems in the world, and it’s the state’s only reason for maintaining the gravel road we’d taken to penetrate the Arctic wilderness. We headed back to a camp that we’d set up less than a hundred feet from the pipe itself.     

We dumped our shit in the bed of the truck, then crawled into the cab. My hunting partner opened a package of gummy bears. We cranked the heat. My nose started to run. Together we watched the golden glow of the sunset over tundra, and it started to sink in. There were no caribou in sight, but the pipeline stretched as far as we could see in either direction. I thought: I hear you, Universe. Accountability is complicated, and I’ve got a long way to go. But I see what you did here, and I’m grateful.