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News

Deep Roots

Stay Wild

The past and present come together to forge the future.

Story and photos by Sera Lindsey // @portablesera

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On the Big Island of Hawai’i at the peak of Mauna Kea, a woman lives. She tends to her home peacefully, unless disturbed. Sleeping with one eye open, she sees the blessings and injustices alike that are rendered to her land. A goddess of the fire, the wind, of lightning, and of dance, she is a daughter of the earth, and an eternal witness. She will defend it as she always has. Her name is Pele, Ka wahine `ai honua, “Woman who Devours the Land.” 

Legend says that when Pele arrived to Hawai’i on her canoe, she became entangled in the many strong roots of the Hala tree. In anger and frustration, she tore them from the ground and tossed them far and wide. Each piece rooted itself throughout the islands. Hala has been honored as one of the most important parts of Hawaiian ecology, gifting the people with fruit to eat, branches to build with, and draping lau. The lauhala (leaves of the hala tree) are long enough to weave canoe sails and malleable enough to wear. 

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Women have worked with Hala for countless generations. In the practice of lauhala weaving, they touch down to the first place Pele encountered when meeting her new home. In honoring this tradition, the weavers root themselves with ancestors, and with the spirit of the land itself. 

These are craftspeople working within a lineage that has existed for thousands of years. Yet today, fewer than 10 percent of Hawaiian families now practice lauhala weaving, and many of the techniques and designs have been forever lost to time. Master weavers crafted their own braiding and knots, distinguishing themselves and their families—simultaneously honoring one another while also standing independent in their craft. 

The women of Hilo-based shop Hana Hou have been doing their part in holding the heartbeat of this tradition, practicing and preserving it by offering lauhala workshops, woven lauhala hats, bangles, bags and earrings. For over 25 years, Michele Zane-Faridi and her daughter Shadi Faridi have worked together to keep their business thriving, as well as the culture that serves as its foundation. 

Beyond lauhala, they also provide formal pieces made from momi and kahelelani shells, some of the most valuable shells in the world, sizing somewhere between a grain of rice to a watermelon seed. These are harvested from Ni’ihau (known as The Forbidden Island, as it is not open to visitors), and are protected by law, keeping the ecology and authenticity intact. These lei pūpū ‘o Ni’ihau (traditional shell-crafted lei from Ni’ihau) are painstakingly made. From harvesting to threading, they must be handled with the most precise touch, as one mistake could cost a shell, or an entire lei. Traditionally made for royalty, these are now reserved for wear during weddings or other special occasions. The cost of each piece reflects the great effort made in their creation, often selling for over $5000.

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I asked Shadi of Hana Hou why they decided on this particular phrase as the name of their shop, she said, “It means ‘one more time,’ or ‘so good you want to do it again.’ Starting out as a vintage Hawaiian collectibles shop, we focused on our favorite Hawaiian clothing, home goods, and crafts. The design and quality were so good that we needed to give it another run, another life. Often heard at the end of concerts, or events, the crowd can be heard screaming HANAHOU! HANAHOU! confirming that the music, the art, the mana, is so good, that it must be called out, once again.” 

From the selection of vintage they carry—ultra-rare Hawaiian shirts, elegantly draping kimono, or the magnificent woven Hala pieces — all are recognizable cross sections of various cultures that now make Hawai’i what it is today. Echoes of times past, and times to come. 

The Big Island of Hawai’i is dormant and active all at once. It expresses a fierce energy that cannot be contained, but rather beckons for respectful collaboration. It teaches us that what we give is what we get. Aloha ʻĀina “love of the land,” is a central part of the way of life in Hawai’i. There is an understanding that what you give to the land, you give to yourself, your home, and all that live upon it as well. 

Just as the roots of the Hala tree reach from island to island, the old teachings trace the same path. In working with the land, you honor the land. You honor ancestors. To teach those today breathes life into the future of this craft, and ensures a new generation of understanding and stewardship. With one eye open, Pele smiles. 


Models Lauren Kapono, Shadi Faridi, Talace Pai // Clothing, Bags, and Accessories Hana Hou // Hilo, HI // hanahouhilo.com // Kimonos KD’s Gifts & Craft // Hilo, HI

Side By Side

Stay Wild

Two Love Stories by Two Mountain Climbers

By Charlotte Austin and Patrick Mauro

@charlotteaustin // @patrick.mauro

 

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HER SIDE

Our first date was stupidly romantic — a luscious sunset, crisp cocktails, freshly cracked saltwater crab — right up until the moment I gave him explosive liquid diarrhea.

We’d been in touch months before, and there’d been loose correspondence while I traveled for my work as a mountain guide. We traded emails while I was on Alaskan mountains, Russia’s highest peak, and a Mongolian expedition. It was late August when my plane landed in Seattle, and less than 24 hours later, I looked at him through sunglasses still covered in dust from the steppe.

He leaned toward me. I put my hand on his chest, my flat warm palm firm against the open v-shaped slice of skin at the top of his button-up shirt. “Maybe we shouldn’t kiss,” I said. “I’m shitting my brains out. We visited a yurt. A Mongolian family offered me fermented camel milk. Now I’m peeing out my ass. I’ve been on a diet of Gatorade and Imodium.”

He shrugged. “That stuff isn’t transmittable by mouth,” he said. “I like you. Kiss me.”

I did. He tasted like sunshine and saltwater and honesty. I remember how it started. I don’t remember stopping.

Two days later I got a text from Chicago, where he’d flown for a business meeting. “I’m at a walk-in clinic,” he wrote. “Just tell me which antibiotics I need.”

I texted him the details: ask for the strongest Z-pack imaginable. Then I immediately texted all of my friends, too. “You’re not going to believe this,” I wrote. “Remember that dude I went on a date with? He’s got the shits, too.”

My best friend wrote back immediately. “If he’s still calling you after this fiasco, you should marry him.” I started to write her a sassy response, then stopped typing to pick up his call. We talked for three hours that night, each sipping electrolytes and chewing dry crackers.

He moved in three weeks later, slowly unloading his belongings from the Rubbermaid tubs he kept in the back of his car. It was rash, a little impractical. I cleaned out a drawer in my bathroom. He left a pair of shoes. The sex was fun, but what I remember most is that we couldn’t stop talking. Late at night, while we were running errands and buying milk and sliced turkey and too much nice cheese, we told each other the truth — the kind of truth that’s hard to even admit to yourself, where it just spills out of you before you’ve even realized what you’re going to say. The kind of truth that makes you realize you’ve just admitted your deepest soul, the things that matter, the points on the scatter plot of life that connect to tell your most real stories. 

I told him about my dreams. He told me about his ideas. We laughed. I cried, sobbing into his chest until I dry-heaved on the bathroom floor. Every time I work up the courage to admit my weakness, he teaches me that every quirk is a strength too. 

We fight. Sweet Christ, we fight. But there has never — not for one single instant — been a moment where I’ve doubted that he’s the one. In past relationships, I’ve been ready to torch the fuckers and leave in a cloud of righteousness, but in this one — well, it’s the first time that I’ve truly felt like part of a team. 

Six months after our first date, we drove together from Salt Lake City to Seattle. We stayed in a cheap casino, ate greasy take-out, followed signs to the annual cowboy poetry convention. It was a romantic road trip, but I remember feeling grumpy because I was scared of that nebulous in-between state that happens after you’ve cleared space for somebody you love but before they’ve fully moved in. I didn’t tell him that, but he knew. 

He found a hot springs in the mountains, and we drove too far out of our way to soak at sunset under the big desert sky. I stripped off my clothes, feeling the bathtub-warmth move up my thighs as I stepped into the pool. Then the sandy bottom fell away, and I slid, off-kilter, into the depth. I choked, sputtering a mouthful of water before finding my balance as I swam. But then I kept swimming, lap after lap of that tiny green pond, and I thought: Maybe I do know how to do this after all. 

 

HIS SIDE

I first wrote her from Everest Base Camp. I was busy climbing, getting ready to make a go at the mountain. Curled in a sleeping bag, my ungloved fingers darted through the cold air to peck out the words that would entice her. I wrote of things that had impressed other women: my bravado, my athleticism, my sensitivity. None of that worked, but I was persistent. Four months later and under the guise of asking her for business advice, we went on our first date. She asked me if we were flirting. I said yes. Maybe some of those things did work.

One month later, we drove to Hood River while forest fires smoldered on the banks of the Columbia. As sheets of rain draped across the river, we wrapped ourselves around each other in the back of her bean-shaped travel trailer. We discussed the color of love. The plush sensation of an excited heart wasn’t new to either of us, but we both had concerns. There was hesitation in our kisses. We were already naked, and as we pressed our emotions and dreams against each other, we began a more intimate process of stripping bare. The gray noise of droplets hitting the fiberglass roof filled the silence when we rebounded from each other’s revelations. The smoke cleared from the gorge. My love was orange. Hers was blue.

I intended to spend the fall and winter exploring the Rockies from the front seat of my SUV, but Seattle now had a gravity I didn’t want to escape. I changed my plans and lingered. She started to introduce me to her friends. They were climbers and writers and corporate types. I think they all liked me, but I felt isolated as I struggled to translate my decade in New York for a western audience. My adventures amid the cacophony of brick and steel in the Bowery didn’t seem to have value when the snow-felted slopes of the Cascades are your playground. But they did matter because they shaped me, and so I found connections. I was excited and encouraged because the more I knew the fixtures in her universe, the more I understood her. 

We had our first real argument on the eve of my departure for a month-long trip to Wyoming. After that, I cried some nights, cuddling myself under a scratchy wool blanket I had stolen from our closet in Seattle. I’d watch my tears sink into the waves of fabric as my fingers traced the edges of a polaroid she gave me before I left Washington. The blanket wasn’t comfortable, but it provided comfort. It was a physical connection to her. Though we talked every night, the distance was caustic. Skype messages and missed calls were misinterpreted in the worst possible ways. That was digital ersatz love. That was hell. Still, it mattered that each of us saw that the other was trying. We invested in the relationship in ways that we could, even if they weren’t what the other person needed. And we never stopped believing in us. In past relationships, I’ve rooted myself in my self-sufficiency during moments of tension: If the relationship blows up, I’ll drink a lot of bourbon, but I’ll be fine. We are different. During our moments of discord, I never imagine a universe where we aren’t “we.”

On the Rooms to be Made

Stay Wild

Prose by Erin Rose Belair // @roseblacque

Photo by Alexandre Furcolin Filho // @afurcolin

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I am relieved no one told me when I was young how shaken and shaped I would be by the people I choose to love in this lifetime. Writing that sentence I questioned, just now, the use of the word choose. Is to love a choice? I know to love well is a choice. To see love through, to take care of it, to commit to it are all choices. But can we choose in fact who we love as we choose how to love them? That I wish someone could tell me. 

For three years I have been learning this: You cannot love someone into loving you. I imagine when I look back on my twenties, when I look back on my life in Idaho, it will be one of the great lessons I learned. I always believed that if you loved someone, if someone loved you, and particularly if they took place at the same time, that nothing else would matter. It seemed to me almost like a science. 

Sometimes I am standing in a doorway or at the grocery store and we’re talking like nothing ever happened. And I am learning this is where I will leave us. I can love him and not want to be with him. I can love him and leave. I can leave and just leave. And none of it changes any part of what has been and what will be. For a while I was worried it made everything mean less. It does nothing of the sort. 

I am interested in the way we can build worlds with someone else, how quickly the roads are cleared and paved, the monuments built, the jokes on our tongue. I could have never imagined how quickly I would take to riding in your car, or the shape of your hands in mine, or how I might make room for loving in a new way entirely. I didn’t even know there was room to be made. There is always room to be made. 

And we do, in spite of all the other madness. We build entire rooms to make peace and love and to rage against each other. We build rooms where we keep our plans and our distant shores, rooms where we whisper what we like in bed. Rooms we lock and leave behind, lives we wanted, lives that were forgone by others, forsaken and left. Rooms for all the room and the different ways we can love in this life. I am taken by how large my heart is, surprised by my resilience, and pleased with the rooms I have built. 

Message Received

Stay Wild

Running to save Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments

Story by Brooke Jackson // @wandering_trails

Photos by: Johnie Gall // @dirtbagdarling

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As a desert sun blares across the unforgiving red-clay landscape, caving to exhaustion seems a welcomed option. Feet pounding against earth with a final destination unseen, the journey is not a simple task. Yet the runner knows: I am a messenger with a story which must be told. 

The tradition of using runners as conduits for communication has been a cultural practice for the Navajo people for centuries. Also known as Messengers, these individuals would sometimes cover hundreds of miles by foot to communicate with other tribes. Len Necefer of Natives Outdoors explains:

“The history of relay runners and messengers extends hundreds of years throughout this landscape. Prior to the introduction of horses by the Spanish, these runners served a critical role in carrying time-sensitive messages between communities and tribes. Today running still serves a critical role in rights-of-passage ceremonies.” 

To communicate their passion, a ragtag group of individuals from various walks of life came together to run 250 miles in two days across Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monuments. The reason was not for a race or for glory, but to educate and unite amidst a turbulent political climate. On December 4, 2017, Mr.Trump moved to drastically reduce two protected areas in Utah; Bears Ears will be reduced by about 85 percent or roughly 201,876 acres, while Grand Staircase-Escalante will be reduced from 1.9 million acres to only 1,003,863 acres. Mr. Trump passed these alterations without ever stepping foot into the protected monuments. 

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Andy Cochrane, Greg Balkin, and Johnie Gall were not ready to stand idly by as Mr. Trump reduced these lands so drastically. The idea for the Messengers relay originated as the three pondered ways to use their platforms to tell the tales of these threatened public lands. As avid runners and activists, the group quickly formed an adventure. Once the plan was born, the team roster quickly filled. Consisting of everyone from local Navajo tribal members, to data scientists, Olympic athletes, and dirtbags—the crew had their differences. However, they all shared at least one thing in common: a reason to run. 

On February 2nd, 2018, the modern Messengers set off to tell a story. Embodying cultural roots, Necefer explained the connection of the eagles as messengers between humans and the Diyin Dine’é (Navajo Holy People). Therefore, the runners carried a sage and eagle-plumed “baton” to be handed off at transition points to truly strengthen the connection they were trying to deliver. The route traversed through varying climates and geological wonders. From conifer forests to echoing canyon walls, petroglyphs and crumbling spires, the messengers experienced a glimpse into the 200-million-year-old staircase which connects the history of humans and environments which have previously existed there.

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The group learned about Navajo culture and experienced the importance of the land. Clare Gallagher reflects on the experience saying, “Without question, I learned more about the Native history of this land than I could ever have from a book or an article. This land is Native land. We are lucky to be able to share it as outdoor enthusiasts.”

As the group successfully finished their 250-mile journey, the message was delivered in bold. As Johnie Gall eloquently states:

 “What brought us together for the relay—some of us with a lifelong love for running, others who have a more ‘tumultuous’ relationship with it—was a collective love for public lands. Finding community through the run gave us a stronger voice than any one of us had on our own. You can accomplish a lot more by finding commonalities than you can by pointing out differences. Love means standing up for what you believe in. Even if that means struggling through a six-mile uphill slog in the desert heat.”

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February 2nd, 2018 was the first day which Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante was opened for business to the extractive industries. To learn more and support the Native American Rights Fund (NARF) as well as to see the Messengers documentary, visit MessengersRun.com.