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The Spirit of Oaxaca

Stay Wild

Meet the Maestros of Mezcal

Story & Photos by Liz Devine // lizdevine.com

 

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Until recently, I was just a girl wandering through life thinking mezcal was some smoky liquor — the jury was still out on if I even liked mezcal. Two trips to Oaxaca and nine palenques (distilleries) later, I can tell you that mezcal production is something so unique and special to Mexico that all I want to do is spread the good word.

Mezcal is made from agave, the same plant tequila is made from. Tequila can only be made from one type of agave — the blue agave — but mezcal can be made from any species of agave that has fermentable sugars. So when you taste mezcal, be sure to ask what agave plant you are tasting. It’s like when you taste wine, you are essentially sampling the grape variety. Tasting mezcal is very similar, and each agave has its own distinct flavor. 

Agave is an amazing plant. Depending on the species, it can take anywhere from seven to 25 years to mature. Yes, I said 25 years (that would be the tepeztate species). 

The tradition of making mezcal started with farmers. Even though the demand has increased since then, most producers have not industrialized their process. This means it still requires a lot of man and animal power to produce. 

The center of the agave is called the “piña.” This is the part of the plant that is cooked and then later distilled. I saw agave piñas so big it took four full grown men to carry one. 

The agave are cooked in the ground in a giant earth oven. First they heat rocks over a fire until they are glowing red and then start loading the oven. It’s then covered with dirt and the piñas continue to bake for nearly a week. 

After they’re cooked, it’s time to mill the piñas. The most common way is with a giant stone wheel called a “tahona,” which is powered by a horse, cow, or donkey. The other method is to pound the piñas into the ground by hand with what looks like a Flintstones club. 

After the piñas are milled, everything is moved to a tank where water is added and the fermentation occurs over three or so days. 

Next, you distill (this is a story for another day) and then enjoy — “a besos!” This is short for “Mezcal se toma a besos,” which translates to “You kiss the mezcal, savor it slowly.” Sometimes the pour is very generous and sometimes there are 15 different types of mezcal to try. In four days of touring multiple palenques, two of those days had questionable endings. Like scream-singing “Africa” by Toto in the back of a van or hanging my head out the window like a dog for an hour drive back to the city. What can I say — it’s rude to refuse the maestros (distillers) if they offer you mezcal. 

Even though my Spanish is horrible, the pride and love these maestros have for their spirit easily translates, as well as the joy they take in sharing it. When you walk away from a mezcal palenque, you feel like you’ve met family who have welcomed you into their home and shared something with you that is truly dear to them. If you go to Oaxaca, do yourself a favor and don’t just go to a bar and taste mezcal. Go experience it. 

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Learn more // Experiencemezcal.com

8 Great Hawaiian Hotels

Stay Wild

How to Avoid the Housing Crisis

 

Story by Justin “Scrappers” Morrison // @scrappers

Photos by Sera Lindsey // @portablesera

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There are juniper berries in my pocket. 

Seeds crouched down like Olympic sprinters waiting to dig into dirt and grow.

I picked them on a hike recently because they smelled so good.

The aroma of blue clay, soft coyote paw, and the citrus sting of evergreen.

These berries have been burning a hole in my pocket for the last five hours. I’m flying through volcano smoke, above the deep blue Pacific ocean, to islands that have been invaded countless times. As a visitor to Hawai’i, it’s my responsibility to preserve what I came to experience. I won’t let these invasive seeds grow here, so I zip them up in my pocket till I get back home. 

Hawai’i is a good friend. Its big, warm hugs of true aloha wrap around my cold winter-bleached body. It never asked, “What did you bring me?” It only asks, “What can I share with you?” Whalers and rich hippies who look like me have colonized and abused Hawaiian kindness for over 100 years, yet bright, innocent smiles still light the runway for my landing.

The neon orange flowers outside the baggage claim are descendants of invasive seeds brought by past travelers like me. Plants and critters have been brought here by people who want these islands to be a specific type of paradise. As their paradise grows beyond their nose, it takes over native habitat. Local bugs, plants, birds, and people have been suffering a housing crisis on an island with serious growth boundaries. The housing crisis is the reason I’m writing a hotel story. I’d rather stay in a neighborhood and be part of the local scene, but I’d be taking housing away from locals if I did that.

When you visit Hawai’i, and I hope it’s soon, please stay at one of the hotels on this list. Trust me, you’ll love these places.

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Surfjack Hotel & Swim Club

412 Lewers St, Honolulu (808) 923-8882 surfjack.com

Have you ever lived in an apartment with a shared swimming pool? 

It’s actually way cooler than it sounds. You end up making connections with people on a more personal level when you feel at home nearly naked.

The tile work in the Surfjack pool spells out: “Wish You Were Here.” You can see those words best from the cozy rooms above. They beckon you downstairs to the mid-century-inspired open living room scene. Neighborhood kids splash in the pool, beautiful strangers kiss new ideas together over fresh cocktails, I savor the crunch of fresh, locally-grown food, and visitors who came looking for aloha bask in its light shining from the faces who work here.


Kalani

12-6860 Kalapana-Kapoho Rd, Pahoa 1-800-800-6886 kalani.com

Love the chaos. 

Change is here.

Right now, up the highway from the Kalani, volcanic fissures are opening up and bleeding red-hot lava all over the neighborhood — destroying homes, streets, and parked cars. The Hawaiian goddess Pele is working on a redevelopment project. 

Staying in the Kalani’s treehouse, bungalows, or cottages will inspire you to live nicer with nature. Full walls are made of screen, so the wild ocean air engulfs you and lifts your spirits to the higher happiness known by manatees. People walk around fully blissed out and forgetting where they were even headed. I was headed to the communal dining patio, but got distracted by a wild boar family eating fallen fruit. I almost missed out on my own feast of local fish, organic grains, and fresh fruits and veggies. The food here will reset your guts like a good massage does to your muscles.  

The Kalani is a true community. Since 1975 outsiders have come seeking lifestyles beyond the limitations of mainstream society. All sorts of openness are exercised and honored here. People practice yoga, meditation, lucid dreaming, sustainable farming, shamanic rituals, and gender bending. I exercise my freedom at the clothing optional pool.

If you’re open and willing to experience a renewed outlook on yourself and others, we’ll bump into each other at the Kalani. 


Ka’anapali Beach Hotel

2525 Kaanapali Pkwy, Lahaina (808) 661-0011 kbhmaui.com

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Ka’anapali is the most tourist-friendly side of Maui. 

I used to avoid going there since I’m a cool teenager who would never be caught dancing in a cheesy luau dinnertainment show with his drunk auntie, but that all changed when I stayed at this classic beachside hotel. I experienced the authentic good intentions of old-school Hawaiian tourism. 

Truly rooted respect for Hawaiian culture is infused in all the touristy offerings. The taro ponds growing in the courtyard are part of the Cultural Garden, teaching guests about native and introduced flora and fauna. Locals teach classes about Hawaiian language, crafts, and how to cut a pineapple. 

The whale-shaped swimming pool will always remind me of the time I heard whales singing in front of the hotel. I held my breath as long as I could in the ocean. The sound went right past my ears and I could feel the whales voices in my bones. Staying here was not the superficial experience I thought it would be.


Kula Lodge

15200 Haleakala Hwy, Kula (808) 878-1535 kulalodge.com

Nuzzled on the side of a long-dormant volcano, right outside the entrance to Haleakala National Park, Kula Lodge floats in Maui’s mountain air

The upcountry lodge vibes are unlike anything you’ll experience beachside. Kiawe wood burns in the fireplace and tropical flowers of impossible shapes bloom. Horned chameleons hunt bees in avocado trees outside your room’s wooden walls.

If Teddy Roosevelt had a dropout hippy phase he would have spent it here. Old Teddy would have tripped out on the podhuts that cascade down the hill below the wood-fired pizza oven.

This place is special and will give you a view unlike any other.


Hawaiian Island Retreat

250 Lokahi Rd, Kapaau (808) 889-6336 hawaiiislandretreat.com

My first night in the yurt, the solar power ran out and the room went dark. 

The sounds of nature perked up outside, the breeze felt more alive, and I realized I found the getaway I hoped for.

This retreat center offers outdoor spa treatments designed by lead therapist and inn-keeper Jeanne Sunderland. Her healing energy skills are rooted in la‘au lapa‘au, the traditional Hawaiian art of healing with plants, and lomilomi, traditional Hawaiian massage.

The main building is designed to use sunlight and ocean breeze cooling, saving the solar electricity to use for reading in bed. Every detail from the organic shampoo to the refillable water bottles is a sustainable effort to stay self-sufficient within nature’s limits.


The Modern Honolulu

1603, 1775 Ala Moana Blvd, Honolulu (808) 943-5800 themodernhonolulu.com

My little boy calls Waikiki “Hotel City.”

This city looks like Los Angeles but is right on the edge of a beach that was once private to Hawaiian royalty. Luxury hotels like The Modern have been built in a place full of natural luxury. The view and the extremely surfable waves are a taste of luxury that I will never get used to. 

The avocado toast made by local chefs, the artwork made by local muralists, and music piped into the underwater speakers within the pool are a luxury I can live with. 

While lounging poolside, I began to understand the yachtsmen. I smoothly sailed the imaginary ship “platinum poodle” and raised a champagne glass of local honey-infused kombucha to Hotel City.


The Laylow

2299 Kuhio Ave, Honolulu (808) 922-6600 laylowwaikiki.com

I’m swinging in a hanging wicker woven chair, surrounded by modern design sensibilities and the dreamy exoticism that WWII brought back to the suburbs. 

This is the Hawaiian vacation experience most folks come to Honolulu hoping for.

The Laylow rooms are spacious and minimally curated with lovely things. The Hideout is their open air chill zone. Classic tiki torches burn in the breeze, Stumptown coffee pours at the bar, amazing food is served fireside, and happy guests laugh about how dumb their stress back home is. 

The street below buzzes and thumps with the excitement of visitors running around an exotic city looking for what we’ve already found, a simple place to lay low. 


Iao Valley Inn

80 Iao Valley Rd, Wailuku (808) 633-6028 iaovalleyinn.com

There is a place on Maui where sacred drops of water gather together and run down a valley as a river. 

I have touched this water and it is the purest thing I have ever felt. Dipping into it cleaned my soul and brought me to tears. A crying baby man with his toes in the water, an innocence was rekindled.

The Iao Valley Inn was originally built at the river’s edge as a family house, but as the kids grew up and moved away, the parents opened the doors to visitors. It’s a very intimate bed and breakfast type setting.

I almost didn’t put this place in the story because I want to keep it a secret, but if you’re reading these words out of all the words in the Universe, it must be destiny that you’ll love this secret spot as much as I do.  


This story was made with help from our friends at the Hawaii Tourism Authority

gohawaii.com // #gohawaii

Sic Vita Est

Stay Wild

High Sierra Crossing (Mineral King to Whitney Portal)

Story by Tobias Hayduk // @tobias_indi // @juniperridge

Photo by Colin McCarthy // @colinnnnn

 

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My friend had been missing for three days and we didn’t know if he was alive or dead. I stood alone on the John Muir Trail, looking west toward Crabtree Meadow, back the way we had come. For the first time in three days I allowed myself to think about the possibilities. I pictured his drowned body, broken and battered, trapped against boulders in Big Arroyo. Maybe it washed down to the Kern River, and would be found by hikers weeks from now, trapped under a bridge. If he was alive, but injured, he would be cold and lost.

In reality, as I allowed the worst possibilities to flood my mind, he was okay. His body and ego were bruised, he had spent a few miserable nights wet, cold, and alone, and he had lost his phone (and with it his only maps) in Big Arroyo, but he was alive. He would be found, hobbling back towards the trailhead, by hikers that had been alerted to his disappearance. They in turn notified Park Rangers. We would be made aware of his safe discovery that evening, eight hours later.

Weeks prior I had imagined standing in this very spot, the massive wall of the Sierra at my back, Mount Whitney and Discovery Pinnacle towering over me. Guitar Lake was as I pictured it, a perfect mirror of the cloudless azure sky. I had thought I would look up at the highest peak in the lower forty-eight States and feel triumphant: weary and trail-lean, but ready to summit the world. Instead I felt complete and total failure. 

Three of our group had flown over 5,000 miles from Germany to write a story for their magazine and it looked like that idea had been shot to hell. Another team member had twisted his knee in the Kern River Valley the day before, and had wisely opted to be airlifted out by the response team that had flown in to interview me about our missing friend. 

We had foregone planned rest days in order to make it to Lone Pine in time to get the Germans to LAX for their international flight, and we still had to make it up and over Trail Crest in the next hour or risk hiking down the icy 99 Switchbacks in total darkness. My breath caught, and I felt cool tears on my sunburnt cheeks. I had never felt this utterly defeated in my life. And I had never felt more free.

On our last morning together, we gathered at the Alabama Hills Cafe not as a group of dejected, sunburned failures, but in ecstatic, joyous reunion, brimming with love for each other. We had experienced what we would all agree were eight of the most mentally and physically exhausting days of our lives, and we wouldn’t change a moment of it. 

It was precisely because of those trials, the weariness, the fuckups and poor planning, that I was able to discover the freedom that exists just beneath the surface of our workaday lives. In the midst of that exhaustion, in the center of the most breathtakingly beautiful landscape I have ever seen, having done all we could do with no recourse to further help, the only option left to me was to surrender. Surrender to my own mortality and to the futility of worry. Surrender the false sense of control we fight so hard to maintain in our daily lives. Surrender the egocentric idea that this world, this planet and universe, this reality, life, is unfair. Because it is decidedly not unfair. But then again neither is it fair. It is not cold, nor cruel, and it doesn’t play favorites. It just is. Sic vita est.

Already, seven months since returning to my “normal” life, I find myself slipping into old routines. The chains of social convention aren’t dropped on our shoulders all at once. If that were the case, we would be crushed under the weight, or immediately rebel. Instead we build them ourselves, one link at a time, and fasten them around our own necks.

What can you do when you feel the oppressive weight? Travel. Set aside the shackles for a moment and open yourself up to possibility, to being uncomfortable, to being scared, to meeting a stranger on the road and recognizing that you are meeting yourself for the first time. And the more you travel, the less you will want to pick up those chains when you return. For every journey must have an end, but each end is only a new beginning. 

Petroleum Decay

Stay Wild

Motorcycle maintenance and moments of love

Story and photos by Scott Hathaway and Sharah Yaddaw

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On the Alaskan highway, by some act of fate or chance, our paths crossed. One path on a bicycle and the other on a motorcycle. We made a fire and drank coffee in a rainstorm watching the morning mist rise over the Wrangell-St. Elias mountains. Two years later with one refurbished XT 600 and one tried and true, we left our garden and home behind, stacked our motos to the sky with gear, kicked over our shiny re-built engines, and hit the road together.   

Motorcycle adventures are a love-hate experience. Riding these old single cylinder bikes destroys your body.  At the end of a day of riding, we have become lumps of jelly. Our heads are buzzing, our hands are numb from vibrations, and we are exhausted. All we do is eat, sleep, and ride. These days add up to what we like to call a state of “petroleum decay.” 

The bikes require constant attention but they tractor along like immortal machines carrying us down dirt roads, across streams, over winding mountain passes, and through forests of cactus and coffee alike. We care for them, and they save us when we pop a wheelie on a sketchy cobblestone hill or hit a pothole that descends to China. It is a symbiotic relationship and our motos are as much a part of our journey as we are, like good friends along for the ride and up for the challenge. 

In a state of decay and motorcycle maintenance, we have ridden the wild roads of Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and back. We have spent weeks living with local families and immersing ourselves in the cultures of different places. Simple places with rooster serenades and pigs wandering the streets. With wonderful people who have a healthy closeness to the land and the earth and strong families who embrace you and shower you with kindness, acceptance, and love. 

In Guatemala, we slept on the slopes overlooking Guatemala City and awoke to visions of the apocalypse. Volcán de Fuego was cracking and grumbling, sending up huge plumes of ash, and the night sky was illuminated red with the glow of lava. We rode down to the base of the volcano to witness our first eruption and stopped to talk to anybody standing around. One bicyclist who grew up in the city remembered the eruption in 1974 when pyroclastic and lava flow took out most of the agricultural land around the base. He reminisced, “When I was a boy, my father took me to see the lava flowing through the ‘Barranca Honda.’ It’s the volcanoes that make this land so fertile.” As he started to bike away, he kicked at some cans in the ditch and said, “I love my country, it’s so beautiful here. Now if we could only do something about all this damn trash!” 

A true adventure is not really romantic or easy or always fun. A true adventure will test you. You will sometimes want to quit. You will wonder why you are doing this. It is painful, it is hard, and it can bring you to tears that are born from the very depths of your heart in a multitude of emotions. But it is worth it. You will never be the same. A real adventure teaches you about yourself in a true way. There is no room to construct false ideas of who you are. We take this on, we embrace it, we change, and we see the world in a new way.  

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Read more at yamahammer.com