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Outsiders // Episode 02: Jason Lytle

Stay Wild

We asked Jason Lytle of the band Grandaddy for an interview, and he took us trail running on a secret route he named The Edward T. Knobhover Mechanical Engineering Educational Trade Air Conditioning School Trail.

Photo by Daniel Cronin

Photo by Daniel Cronin

“There’s almost like this spiritual quest level to it, where you go through all these ups and downs, these journeys from the beginning of the trip to the end of the trip.

Running in the woods… it’s pretty wild, literally. It’s as ‘back to caveman’ as you can get.

Keeping steady, keeping at it. You get different magical results than you would from the ‘flash-in-the-pan’  sort of thing.

I think I’ve adopted this trail running thing because it’s teaching me to slow things down, to not be aware of the clock, and to go into some other realm. It’s really similar to why people are drawn to meditation, why people become really dependent on meditation to survive in the modern world.

The only reason I’m making another record is because I’m pretty convinced I’ve got a cool thing to offer in the name of Grandaddy. I’ve got one last project up my sleeve. 

I love recording as an art form. The recording is like the beautiful painting, and playing live is just like this hasty sketch. Every night you’re just doing this sloppy fucking sketch of the painting you already perfected.

I don’t know what’s next. I’m just going to try to spend more time outdoors. My mom is getting old. She lives outside of Carson City, NV, and—I really like the high desert and the Sierras—so I’m thinking of going to help her out for a little while. 

My home town, Modesto, CA, was kind of world famous there for a while. It had this tire fire that had been burring for months and months and months, and they couldn’t put it out. They just had to let it put itself out.

It’s not like the music is going to go anywhere. I’d just like to play the piano and spend time outdoors. 

Photo by Daniel Cronin

Photo by Daniel Cronin

The Joy of being in nature

Stay Wild

Artwork by Kozyndan Words by Dan

At home in Los Angeles, I feel the pressure. The looming dread of impending everything. The rat race is pointless. You ponder all the things you want to acquire, and the rest of the time thinking about how to acquire them. Maybe this makes some people happy, but it drags me down. If we have a soul, urban life does not fulfill it. We walk around with something gnawing at us, with no clue how to resolve that uneasy feeling. We try to fill the hole with consumption. (I have the latest iPhone! How did I ever live without it?) By next week, that feeling returns.
The cycle is endless.  

When we wander away from the city, away from the asphalt, away from cell reception, the POINT of it all changes. Time slows down. Time flies. Out there, life has a rhythm determined not by alarms, not by bill due dates, not by the need to fill parking meters, or make it to dinner reservations, but by the movement of the sun across the sky. In nature, in the wilderness, the backcountry, the sea—we call it being “out in the wilds”—we calm down. We smile and feel wonder again, like a child. 

Kozy and I are not avid outdoorsmen by any means. We have not done the PCT or the JMT, and we rarely get the chance to take extended camping trips, but for us, there is an allure to the wilderness. We are chasing a happy feeling, the sensation of nature filling a hole in our soul. It makes us whole again and returns us to the real world—the world we humans evolved to explore, to survive and thrive in.

It’s not hard to escape the city—to stand at the base of a roaring waterfall, or mere meters from a shy brown bear, or among the rocks and trees without another person in earshot—where things are perfect and gorgeous and terrifying. This is what it’s like to be alive, to feel amazed and perhaps frightened at the same time. It’s the stuff that leaves you breathless and buzzing. After a hike, our minds are smiling, even if our limbs are dragging like stones. Just a little taste of moving quietly through less-spoiled lands does us good, that hole filled just a bit with an honest day’s exploration.   

Locals in the Amazon region believe river dolphins to be magical, that they live in a paradise city under the river called Encante. At night they transform into beautiful human beings, leave the river to enter village parties, seduce people, and imp…

Locals in the Amazon region believe river dolphins to be magical, that they live in a paradise city under the river called Encante. At night they transform into beautiful human beings, leave the river to enter village parties, seduce people, and impregnate them. Some people claim to be part river dolphin to this day.

This is the joy of the natural: the feeling of the primal. Alone out there, we want to rip our clothes off to move quietly through the landscape like the rest of the animals. If the elements don’t constrain us, why not just be in our bodies, even for a few minutes? Shame slips away. Aside from the immediate enjoyment, it’s also symbolic. Not exactly rebellion, but a feeling that all people should move back toward a more primitive, natural way of living. How far back do we need to go? Pre-industrial? Live like native people? Live like neanderthals? Who knows, but somewhere back there is something real, tactile, and uncertain. 

This idea has crept into our artwork over the years. Human figures in our work have shrunk to express how big the natural world is compared to us. Standing at the base of a giant coast redwood and straining to see the top, it makes more sense to render ourselves small as squirrels. The figures have been stripped of their clothes to fit into that world. They are pursuing joyful activities—dancing, skating, drinking, fucking, hiking, eating, yoga, playing music, peeing. (Oh, the joys of peeing in nature!) Our works are made to be amusing, but the idea that everyone should get out there in the wilds from time to time has become pretty serious to us. How much better off might we be, if we all got out there? Is it some miraculous cure for the dark death that is modernity? Who knows, but I bet you won’t feel worse. 

Redwood Orphans

Stay Wild

LEAVING IS THE HARDEST PART

No more planning or worrying I hadn’t packed an essential item. All I really needed was my bike, tent, and sleeping bag—as Ray Jardine would say, “If you don’t have it, you don’t need it.”

With a belly full of Portland’s finest burrito, it was time to pedal out of the city and into the hills, toward the coast. Out of the trees, down to the ocean, the mist rolled in and the Oregon Coast started to take shape, revealing damp roads surrounded by moss and rusty trucks. 

I decided to take a scenic turnoff called “7 Devils Road.” Expecting a leisurely cruise with ocean vistas, I found the steepest climb of my entire ride. After a painful 20 minutes to the top, there was a hand-painted sign on the road that read “Devil #1,” and suddenly it clicked… there were going to be 6 more of these brutal ascents. By Devil #6, it was time for a scenic coffee break—a perfect opportunity to watch broken bikers trudge by. This place seemed to be every traveler’s traumatic zenith. Everyone I met from here on had a story to tell about battling the 7 Devils.

The first storm hit just north of the California border, and my soaked gear was a precursor to the rest of the trip. I eventually landed at a timeless motel just off the highway, where I discovered a slew of sodden bikers looking for shelter. While resting in the motel bakery, I heard rumors of a church that hosted bike tourers.

NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

I rolled up to a local supermarket at the same time as a group of dirtbag folks who could only be seasoned bike tourers. A burly Australian, with a wilier beard than my own, started chatting with me (as bearded folk usually do), and we quickly made plans to cook dinner and drink beer back at the church. Over bowls of pasta, we compared horror stories of the previous night’s storm, only to move on to the lighter topic of how much food we could consume… our hunger obviously some sort of superpower.

The church held a hoi polloi of bike-loving folk, and about 20 of us could sleep on the floor, the only rule being we had to be out on Friday mornings for Katie’s knitting group. There was a German scientist sleeping in his tent, a French couple who were touring with their Rottweiler in a trailer, and a guy from Portland who introduced me to his daily diet of “peanut butter soup” (trail mix poured into an industrial-sized peanut butter jar, and eaten with a spork).

The comforts of this place lulled weary travelers, retaining most longer than they had planned. Eventually, after laundry, showers, and beer-fueled night rides, a group of us decided to ride south together through the Redwoods and down to Arcata. There were rumors of a killer burrito shop there, and it seemed like there we would part ways. 

Our group included Ben, the bearded Australian, who always carried a six-pack in his basket; Evie, from Bellingham, the coolest sci-fi writer I’ve ever met; Richard, the peanut butter soup creator from Portland, who quickly earned the nickname “Portland”; Tommy, a well-equipped bike mechanic with killer pancake-making skills; and myself. Richard and Ben pulled trailers, and Ben had a surfboard on his. We were clearly a rowdier bunch than your average bike-touring group. The Redwood Orphans were born.

THE ORPHANS

The trees became giants as we rode into the saturated air of the Redwoods, hooting and hollering at each other like a pack of wolves, carving lines on the damp asphalt and red-mulched shoulder. We passed tourist haunts and parked luxury RV trailers, lined up for designated photo spots along the highway, and played catch-up with the tourist vans. We were keen to know what the must-sees were. We got to see the whole picture… we were in it, absorbing everything the landscape had to offer. The macro moments that the bikes allowed were the biggest distraction from our ride than anything else… from the magnificence of an ancient redwood, to nearly microscopic moss on the side of the road. 

We ate pancake and coffee breakfasts, slept in piles like wild dogs, and lounged under tarps strung together with bungees and old ropes. We fought off gangs of raccoons, while eating s’mores around campfires, and waited out downpours in diners, while our dripping jackets and gloves hung from every available space. We shared everything—we were cycle siblings—and always ended the day with a hoppy brew. The Orphans rolled into camp late and left early before the rangers started their daily rounds. Hiding a group of five took a bit of planning, but we always managed to create shanty camps wherever we ran out of steam. Other bike tourers heard of our clan, as well as our reputation for coffee breaks, beards, peanut butter soup, and how we road-raged the miles away. Word obviously traveled fast in the biker community.

As the days warmed up and we ditched the merino layers, the tailwinds blew us south on shoulder-less Highway 1 toward San Francisco. We held our own as we picked tight lines, inches between speeding trucks and the cliff edge. Angry motorists raised their fingers, pissed that we’d chosen two wheels over four. 

The Orphans scattered in different directions before we reached the Golden Gate Bridge, and while we parted without so much as a “so long” or “farewell,” we were certain we’d cross paths again. A flat tire or stop at a burrito shop could mean you wouldn’t see someone again for weeks. Tommy and I awoke to the sunrise over the Golden Gate one morning, and crossed the bridge in the busy bike lane with Alcatraz in the hazy distance.

SAN FRANCISCO

San Francisco was as good as I imagined it would be. New York-style pizza served to a metal soundtrack, coffee, bakeries on every corner, bike lanes leading anywhere, and hillier hills than I rode the whole trip. It was the first time I nearly broke my “no stopping on hills” rule. It was Halloween, and the Orphans re-connected for a Halloween Critical Mass bike ride through the city. There were about 300 riders. We parted ways over cheap margaritas at a taco shop, and I headed south toward Santa Cruz. I stopped there for a week with a bearded coffee shop barista before riding into the epic landscape of Big Sur.

Riding obliviously into the coastal wilderness, I stopped at a burrito shop in Big Sur to demolish, I later discovered, my last hot meal for days. I’d made my way into California’s jewel. It was a 100-mile stretch of vast cliffs, canyons, and wild ocean roads that clung to sheer hills. There was no visible population, no park rangers, no stores with food supplies—not even any other bike tourers. It was just an endless fleet of touring RVs towing cars, boats, and motorcycles to every sign that promised a majestic photo-op. They were exploring the wilderness from the comfort of their home on wheels, which they would later reminisce about. 

My food supply was low after the first day, so I rationed the last of my nuts, dark chocolate, and tin of chickpeas, which I used as fuel to conquer the physically draining headwinds, peaks, and endless dips of unforgiving highway. It was hard pedaling and I needed presence for every rotation. The envious looks from the tourists in their cars had changed to pity, as I struggled like a dying mule through those last few punishing miles.

As Kerouac said about this place, “The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.” It would be a while before I could identify.

THE LESSON IN BIG SUR

As the hills eased and I left Big Sur behind, I celebrated with a beer in some long grass before setting up camp in a cluster of trees. I woke up in the early hours to a dull thudding pain in my right arm. After hurried self-inspection, I saw a tick and its bundle of legs sticking out of me. It was dark, and after a failed attempt at removal, all I could do was sleep and wait to find someone who knew how to extract the beast.

It was a 15-mile ride to Cambria, the nearest town, and I had nothing to eat, howling headwinds, and a dead tick under a bloody scab on my throbbing arm. I was so grateful to the chill guy in an outdoor store who pulled the tick out while laughing at me.

When I hit the Southern Californian highways of Malibu and Santa Barbara, the days were warm and I felt like the sun always set too soon, as I pitched my tent and itched for the next day’s ride. The northern tailwinds eased me from expanses of farmland, rich with Mexican farm workers and dry red mountains, to perfect Californian point breaks and deep golden sunsets over the Channel Islands. At one point, I found myself in scenery that looked like a Baywatch episode—the lifeguard towers, beach volleyball, flashy cars, little dogs, vineyards, and Howard and Nancy in their gated community. It felt like a new era—so far from the hazy days of the Redwoods of Northern Cali. My soundtrack of Neil Young and Bill Callahan didn’t feel right anymore. The trees were eucalyptus or cactus plants, and it smelled more like the Australian Outback than North America.

Without warning, my camping days were over. I left Leo Carrillo State Park and stole a shower at a beach vista in the morning sun. I rolled closer to LA through Santa Monica Boulevard, and meandered along the promenade, passing the freaks of Venice Beach. I pushed on to San Diego to meet some old travel buddies who had a bed for me in Ocean Beach and a plan for a Mexican surf trip.

My ride was nearly done, and the fun part was long gone. It was just sprawling suburbs down to the border. The last stretch of my journey was getting down to the border and signing this trip off. 

The Orphans were out there somewhere, and as I rolled up to the border gates and saw the Mexican flag blowing over Tijuana’s arch and its concrete sprawl, I knew it had all been worth it. I got one last burrito before heading back to San Diego, with dreams of learning some Spanish, taking on that border crossing, and anticipating the adventures that waited for me just beyond. 

Hello evrgrn

Stay Wild

Why do we love to camp so dang much? Because it keeps us wild. Sadly we're not really that wild, we're actually pretty domestic. When we go camping we don't just drink from the creek, eat from the dirt, and run around chasing animals with skin we want to wear. We bring our own drinks, we cook food we brought from the city, and we'd rather lazy around the campfire than hunt animals. Heck, sometimes we don't even leave the city to use our camp gear. Hammocks and folding chairs get a lot of action at the park and in the back yard.

So with that in mind, let's look at the new line of camp gear REI launched a couple months ago called evrgrn. Look at the bags, hammocks, seats, lights, little folding table, fancy ground tarp, wearable sleeping bags, tent, cooking stuff, and other stuff. It looks like gear you already know, love, and probably bought from REI, but with a playful cool new personality (See: Snow Peak, Poler Stuff, Alite Designs, Topo Designs, etc..). REI is a known and trusted source of camp gear, so this new evrgrn line has that same solid foundation.

Evrgrn is cool. Deal with it!

Keep an eye out for more to come from evrgrn throughout the next year. Hopefully a pop-up event near you?