If Not You, Who?

48,861 Acres of Recovery

Story by Brooke Jackson

Photo by Alin Dragulin // @alindragulindotcom

Graceful trees shade the dirt trail leading to a tranquil local swimming hole. An ideal outing for hot days, hikers are rewarded with waterfall views and chilly creek swims. Many consider the hike more of a stroll and therefore choose to endure the journey with minimal necessities such as flip-flops and sunscreen, unaware that today is going to be unlike any other. In a flash, an ignorant flick of the wrist, the burst of a childish firecracker, thirsty brush ignites the Eagle Creek Fire. 

The Eagle Creek Fire, which began September 2nd, 2017, is still causing heated discussion (pardon the pun). Ignited by a 15-year-old boy and his friends, the fire eventually conjoined with the Indian Creek Fire to ultimately affect 48,861 acres of the Columbia River Gorge area. Flames engulfed the area for roughly three months before the fire was declared contained. Yet as any hard-to-learn lesson in life, a silver lining does exist. Do not begin singing a eulogy for the Gorge, for it is alive and growing.

The carcasses of fallen trees play tribute in an inevitable life cycle, providing necessary nutrients to the surrounding community. Mushroom hunters are gleeful in the spread of morel shrooms booming unlike before. Bird watchers may rejoice, as new neighborhood friends are attracted to the area because of the burn. Woodpeckers drill out new homes while olive-sided flycatchers feast amongst the growing bug population. In his article “Rebirth of a Forest,” Cory Eldridge writes, “This is why scientists call large snags and logs legacy trees. They are an inheritance for the young forest from the old. The fire in the Columbia River Gorge didn’t take away that inheritance. The fire gave it.” 

However, the work to rebuild does not lie solely on the shoulders of the Gorge inhabitant species. Many volunteer organizations have come together in an effort to continue the Gorge recovery process as the Gorge Trails Recovery Team. The team consists of the Trailkeepers of Oregon, Washington Trails Association, Friends of the Columbia Gorge, and the Pacific Crest Trail Association. They welcome volunteers to assist with the vital restoration process. 

While some may read about the fire and quickly jump aboard the “not my Gorge, not my problem” mentality, there is a most important lesson to be learned here: Leave No Trace matters. The rules and regulations put into effect within natural, protected areas are there for a reason. Believe it or not, park rangers and land management bureaus do want you to enjoy the natural spaces they protect. They also want those areas to be around for future visitors to enjoy. 

Volunteer for Recovery

Trailkeepers of Oregon: trailkeepersoforegon.org

Pacific Crest Trail Association pcta.org

Friends of the Columbia Gorge: gorgefriends.org

Washington Trails Association: wta.org

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This story was made with help from our friends at Danner Boots @dannerboots // danner.com

Fish We’ve Yet to Catch

Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club 

Story by Madeline Weinfield // @madolionw
Photos by Peter Crosby // @pbcrosby

It’s raining quite hard among the wild lilac bushes and incessantly growing Japanese Knotweed of Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, but a dozen or so of us are trekking along the Willowemoc River clad in the club’s set of Stutterheim raincoats, looking for medicinal herbs and other wonders of the property.

This is a sort of summer camp for adults—a self-selecting group of mostly city residents who are seeking adventure, escape, and fly fishing in the Catskill Mountains. At breakfast—an exuberant spread of Swedish-style essentials—most of the weekend’s 17 guests have already conquered a good part of what they came here to do. More active before 9 am than most adults are in an entire weekend, some have gone running or fly fishing, stopped at the farmers’ market, or baked in the wood-fired sauna on the river. All this despite the previous night’s meal—fire roasted mountain trout and root vegetables with copious amounts of Catskill Brewery beer, wine, and the summer’s first rosé, served on the riverfront under the stars. Even in the morning, everything is still coated in a magic that seems to have sprung from this air.

But behind the facade of this perfectly curated adventure in the woods, is the ardent effort of the owners, Mikael Larsson, Tom Roberts and Anna Åberg, friends transplanted from NYC by way of Britain and Sweden,  who’ve poured their wilderness and aesthetic passion and know-how into Livingston Manor Fly Fishing Club, which is in its first full season this summer. The intoxication of their dream hangs over the five acre wooded and river-front property. Based on the old-school fly fishing clubs historically ubiquitous in this part of the Catskills, LMFFC is their realization of that tradition but with a modern edge. Despite being far from the old guard of a predominantly male fishing club, LMFFC retains an air of exclusivity in that their weekend spots disappear within days of opening.

The skill level varies with some weekenders already adept in the art and physics of fly fishing, while others are tying their first fly. The majority of guests are couples, but a pair of brothers, a set of friends, and a life-wise solo traveling woman round it off. Together we have the feeling that we’ve all met before—a feeling that intensifies with the hours, and in the evening with drinks around the campfire. We’re encouraged to unplug, to wander, sleep, relax, and connect. For the most part cellphones are left behind, out of charge and out of range.

Most of what one could want is here—home-cooked meals by incredibly talented friend and trained-chef up for the weekend, Georgina Morante-Galicia, campfires, a hammock, a canoe, and even a tipi with a disco ball. The weekend is peppered with friends and Catskill veterans—a yoga instructor who teaches us in a meadow, a fly fishing instructor with the patience of a saint, a conservationist who has been living off the grid since the ‘80s, and a naturalist who picks leaves of trees and implores us to taste. 

Tom and Anna have an almost child-like beauty and they float around the property visibly radiant in their creation. This is a dream fulfilled. After years in the city with the novelty of urban weekends wearing away, they came to the Catskills seeking a greater connection to the outdoors. What they’ve created—originally intended for their own weekend use—has blossomed organically and rustically to near perfection. 

A self-taught fly fisherman, Tom is now as involved in the sport as any fishing veteran. “To be a good fly fisherman,” he tells me, “you have to understand the dynamics of the river.” He fixes the line of someone knee-deep in the river. Lights hang in the trees. In the distance logs are added to the fire that fuels the sauna. How lucky they are to live and breathe this. How lucky they are to stay. 

The rest of us pack our bags, say our goodbyes, and start the drive back to the city. At night we’ll dream of all the fish we’ve yet to catch. 

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Learn More // livingstonmanorflyfishingclub.com

Fresh Pants

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Read more about Outerknown goods in our upcoming Water Issue!

New Orleans Exploration Society

Creative Explorers
 

Story by
Justin “Scrappers” Morrison // @scrappers

Photos by
Sera Lindsey // @portablesera
Gabrielle Steib // @honeysighs
Alex Smith // @blvxmth

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Old Mardi Gras beads
hang heavy
from tree branches
like faded fruit
 

There was a moment when jazz was born. 

At the bottom of the food chain. 

Some folks hit bottom and they bounce.

The bounce turned heads and heads are still spinning.

There was a moment when jazz was discovered. The scene is in a George Schmidt oil painting hanging a couple blocks from the Ace Hotel. Past the parking lot paved with broken clam shells, brick dust, and secrets. 

MC Brown died on the sidewalk in front of that painting. Drank himself to death in a cardboard box. He was the last to go before this skid row neighborhood was gently gentrified. The painter wants to mix MC’s ashes in with the cement of the new sidewalk and install a plaque: “MC Brown slept it off here.” The kind old lady sitting in the tiny market next door inherited the ashes. MC is in a purple velvet bag on the table. We went and paid our respects. She said he was a good egg and gave us boiled eggs for free. Long live southern hospitality.

It’s punk to be nice

Sera and I met Gabby and Alex poolside on the Ace roof. Gabby plays maracas, but not as well as her grandmother. She played a video to prove it. Alex works at a scrap yard and knows the value of the metal parts of his camera. Sera’s hair gulps up the humidity like a thirsty dog. Her shin blossoms into a tan. I peel an orange that drove from California to Oregon and flew all the way to Louisiana in my backpack. We are the adventure we seek.

I hear New Orleans is the only American city that saved its original town. If you’re really silent and sincere, you can see it between the jubilee of neon signs: Jello Shots, Po Boys, Barely Legal, Voodoux, and other desires. The sidewalk is cracked and ugly in ways only a skater could love. We walk in the road lit by car tail lights bouncing to a curbside brass band. 

Bourbon Street smells like someone barfed in a full baby diaper. It’s a weird dream; I don’t want to tell you about it. It’s a turtle without a shell. It creeps me out, but I have to see it. I have to feel myself in this place to know it better.

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Who Dat? 
A challenge.

I hear the future of New Orleans is Houston. Nah, it’s Alex, Gabby, and other locals who roll with the creative culture of this town. Drunken Texan tourists come to consume. They speak loud but have nothing to say. Chinua the DJ mixing juguetón beats in the Ace lobby has something to say. Freda, Defend New Orleans, Seaworthy, and the other shops next door have something to say. Slow Down. Loosen Up. Be Nice or Leave. 

Gabby took us to Norma’s for South American sweets and Williams Plum St. icy snowballs instead of gumbo, crawfish, and oysters. Alex took us to see the neutral ground. We stood on the track. Right in the middle. Snowballs melting down our throats. Waiting for the streetcar. We aren’t here to ride it. It’s too wild to ride. We just want to admire its jingle-jangle swagger.

A dove flies by with a broken eggshell in its beak.

A baby gator sunbathes in the city park pond.

A strand of old Mardi Gras beads falls from a tree and bounces in the gutter. 

I am a non-local standing on my tippy toes, looking over the shoulders of locals, howling for the brass band to never stop playing.

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This adventure was maDe with help from our friends at Nau clothing and Ace Hotel

nau.com // acehotel.com