Listen To The Eyes

A road trip from Washington to Whistler

Story by Vans global snow team rider Mary Rand // @bigairmare

Photos by Suzie Gotiz // @suziegotis

We were going to the final showing of our Vans’ Listen To The Eyes movie. It is a 16 mm film by Jake Price about backcountry snowboarding featuring Hana Beaman, Leanne Pelosi, and myself.  

My fur child Otis greeted photographer Suzie Gotis with hackles up, in full guard mode. Suzie walked up the muddy driveway with a friendly smile on. Thankfully she loves dogs and isn’t afraid of getting her shoes dirty. After Derrek Lever, my fiancé, and I introduced ourselves, we asked Otis to stop jumping on her. It wasn’t long before the three of us started philosophizing about the current state of the world. Realizing that these fireside chats may never end, we loaded up my truck, said goodbye to the boys, and hit the road.  

Our first stop was Bellingham to meet up with Hana. On the way out of town, we stopped to grab breakfast at Mount Bakery, home to arguably the best benedict in Washington. This kicked off our tour the right way as we indulged on benedicts, chocolate crepes, and coffee while talking about the Olympics, women in sports, and traveling. From there it was time to head to Vancouver. 

With an easy border crossing at Peace Arch, we made it to the city in no time. Our only agenda in Vancouver was to get a shop tee from Antisocial Skateboard Shop for my friend Cierra at Vans. Across from Antisocial is a hip, New York-style corner coffee shop called Gene. There were music show posters covering the walls. The ceiling-to-floor windows were drenched in sweaty condensation from the wet day outside. From there, we hopped to Whistler for the night. 

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The next morning, we leisurely left the hotel around 8:45 a.m. to get coffees and breakfast from Mount Currie Coffee in the village. There we ran into Jon Martin—Whistler’s snowboarding and skateboarding mascot, long time employee at The Circle snowboard shop, and one of the nicest guys around. After bullshitting with Jon and buying a few Christmas presents at the shop, we headed 30 minutes north to Pemberton for a little hike.  

The sun hadn’t yet hit the valley floor, so we could see fresh, snow-covered mountaintops while driving in and out of fog. We stopped at One Mile Lake and walked around a bit. It was looking very moody socked in with fog. Next, we parked in front of the Pemberton General Store to go on our hike and figured we ought to have a look inside for some local color. The store is a labyrinth with countless amounts of Canadian-made moccasins, leather pieces, Carhartt, Dickies, howling wolf T-shirts, wool socks, vintage Levi jeans, work boots, and pretty much anything else quintessentially Canadian packed in amongst opened boxes full of more stuff. A grumpy older man working there answered, “What do you think?” when I asked him how he was doing. I think he warmed up to us gals a little bit after we made a purchase and said our goodbyes.  

The sun started to break and we headed up onto the unmarked Pemberton Creek waterfall hike. I had done this hike once before with Leanne and her fiancé on one of our down days while filming Listen to the Eyes. We ran into the same black-and-white border collie I had seen before lying outside of a house by the trailhead. This time he ended up joining us for the whole hike. 

About 45 minutes in, Hana, who has the best sense of direction of the three of us, stated blankly that we were hiking away from the waterfall. We backtracked, got on the right trail, and eventually made it to the falls, which are absolutely stunning. Mike, our dog for the day, waited above patiently as we peered over the edge and felt the cold misty wind of the falls hit our faces. After trekking back down to the trailhead, we said goodbye to Mike, made sure he took the correct turn back to his house, parted ways, and reflected on how that was the best dog experience ever. He was such a good boy!

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We went back to the hotel for a siesta before the movie premiere. At Sushi Village, we sat down with Bridget (the Vans Canada Head Bitch In Charge) and friends. It was a feeding frenzy with sake served every which way—hot, cold, and in a blended margarita. The premiere was held right below Sushi Village at Showcase, another Whistler skate and snowboard shop. They had a mini ramp, a silent auction with work from photographer Oli Gagnon with proceeds going to the Dillon Ojo Lifeline Foundation, and bottomless Coors Light cans, aka cold Colorado piss. The film screening was a success with a great turnout and tons of good vibes. A few whiskey sours later at Earl’s, and next thing you know it’s 1:30 a.m. and time to hit the sheets. Phew! 

This story was made with help from our friends at VANS @vanssnow // vans.com

Blackrock Bound

In Search of Thermal Warmth

Story & Photos by Randy P. Martin // @randypmartin

Northern Nevada 

It’s late autumn and it’s getting cold out. The garden is brown and crispy, my backyard chickens have stopped laying for the year, and all of the trees are nearly bare. Weeks ago, we found out our truck would need a new engine, the estimate twice the price of the vehicle itself, but we push on. 

After a road trip out to Sacramento, we’re driving home in our newly-purchased 1990 Bronco II. It’s a stubby little SUV that’s built for the mountains and rutted dirt roads, a machine to get you off the highway and out to all the best hidden parts of the outdoors. We’re Black Rock bound, Feather River bound—in search of thermal warmth by way of bubbling, steaming hot springs. 

The Black Rock Desert is only a two-hour drive north from home in Reno. Three months ago if we’d gone, we’d have found 80,000 desert dwellers in the middle of the insanity that is Burning Man. But in mid-November, we’ve got a pretty good chance of having the place to ourselves. The truck is loaded up with all the essentials, including BB guns, a 30-rack of beer, and all of the wood for burning and blankets for layering that we can find. It’s going to be a cold one tonight. Fourteen degrees cold. Time to soak our bones and see how the new rig does out on the open playa. This should be fun.

We filled up our empty PBR cans with water so you could really see when you got a good hit. Turned them into little tin toothpicks after just a couple of minutes.

Bev’s Miner’s Club has been open since the mid 1930s at the southern base of the Black Rock.

Some good folks showed up with a wakeboard and a little Suzuki Samurai. Never seen anybody surf through a hot spring before, but Trego is pretty unique in that it runs for a few hundred feet from the main pool down a pretty wide channel until it ends in a big field of horsetail grass. 

More soaks! This time a half day’s drive away in Northeastern California in the Feather River Canyon. Two different options for your soaking pleasure in these perfectly steamy springs directly on the Feather River: Right side sulfur. Left side Lithium. 

The Fly Ranch Geyser is a geothermal spring covered in multi-colored algae and sprays water every which way all over the desert around it. You can’t get in it or anything but pretty fun to watch it spit everywhere for a while.

The Sundlaug Road

Getting Closer with Mom in Iceland 

Story & Photos by Alexandra Lev // @luckyalexandra

It didn’t take long for the busy winding roads to become empty as we left the south of Iceland. I found myself getting irritated with her comments about my driving and wanting space but not knowing how to get it. I was five days into a road trip of touring the Ring Road with my mom. The first four days blessed us with the warmth of the sun, but the sun was gone now and dark clouds loomed over us.

We hadn’t spent this much time alone together since I was a kid. Now we were in a campervan for eight days together. The two of us didn’t get along in my younger years—I’m not entirely sure why. When I moved away from home, it got better. And with age, we have tried to understand each other more, but we still fight at times. Taking the trip together was a chance to connect and, as cliche as it sounded, spend some quality mother-daughter time together while seeing a new part of the world. 

I had read that Iceland is rated as one of the happiest countries on earth. People in every village or town gather in the communal hot pools, or sundlaugs as they call them, and share stories and laughter with their neighbors, friends, and family. These steaming hot pools have brought the people of Iceland together for centuries, raising the question: Would Iceland bring my mom and I together?

Our first few days were perfect and felt effortless. On our first night, we explored the cobblestone streets of downtown Reykjavík, ending up at a bustling local dive bar with live jazz music. My mom has always enjoyed a good cocktail or two, and we seem to easily bond as if we were old girlfriends over booze. Towards the end of the night the band announced that the northern lights were making an appearance, so we rushed to the deck and looked up at the sky in awe. Streaks of light green danced across the dark Nordic sky as my mom grabbed my hand and said excitedly, “Can you believe we are seeing this on our first night here?” We walked home to our hotel that night arm in arm, the warmth of alcohol inside of us keeping the air from feeling freezing. 

From Reykjavík we drove south, counterclockwise around the country. The south of Iceland is touristy for a reason: It’s packed with incredible things to do and see. I’d easily call it the highlight of the trip. We visited a never-ending amount of cascading waterfalls, enjoyed champagne in the oldest natural hot pool in Iceland, and we even went ice climbing on the Sólheimajökull outlet glacier. A few little bickering moments here and there, but nothing worth remembering. 

As we drove north, it got colder and darker, and there seemed to be more moments of tension between the two of us. The rain and wind pounded on the car as I brought up questions about my childhood that had lingered in the back of my head off and on for years. Questions about my parents’ divorce, questions about the years that I lived with my dad during my mom’s two battles with breast cancer, questions about all the different schools they had put me in. Tears streamed down my face as I gripped the steering wheel. I had so many questions but she didn’t have all the answers and I knew it. 

Looking out the windows felt like looking out at another planet that was completely barren and unforgiving with no vegetation in sight. Every hour the landscape seemed to morph into a new country full of curious corners and random geological sightings. We both said aloud multiple times how strange the volcanic scenery was as if we’d run out of other things to say. She said she was sorry that it was so hard for me as a kid and I told her it was fine. As I said it I reminded myself how much I dislike it when people use the word “fine” to describe how they’re feeling because fine is not an emotion. Fine is just a way to end a conversation, and at that point, I was ready to end it. 

We made a stop at another hot spring in the north that was developed and had hot showers. I think we were both eager for a rest and a break from driving in less-than-ideal weather conditions. The air outside was frigid as we tiptoed our way over to the pool. As we slowly lowered our shivering bodies into the warm water, each of us took a deep breath and smiled at one another. I waved down an outdoor attendant and ordered us some sparkling wine. We deserved it. We sat quietly in the water together taking slow sips of bubbles while watching the pink sun descend into the valley below. 

Three more days of rain, wind, and Mountain House freeze-dried entrees for dinner, and we had reached the eastern peninsula of Iceland. It was less bleak than the north, but still not as lush and green as the south. Volcanic lava fields covered much of the landscape leading up to the palagonite tuff hills, and beyond the hills rose the Snæfellsjökull glacier. Those last three nights were the coldest yet. We huddled up in the van talking about our relationships with our partners and other places in the world we hoped to see one day. The sound of the rain drizzling on the windshield slowly put us to sleep as we were curled up in the fetal position in our sleeping bags. 

On our last day, I searched the map for another hot spring to stop at. I felt a sudden rush that we had to stop at one more. When mom noted the time and said we had to be back to drop off the van, I asked myself why—why did I feel the need to make it to one more sundlaug? Would one more make a difference in the trip? I realized that I didn’t need hot springs to bring myself closer to my mom, I already was closer. Through singalongs in the car to old ‘80s classics, through the mysterious labyrinth that is Iceland to disagreements and a few tears, I did become closer with her. We are interconnected, and when I look at my mom I am reminded that the woman who taught me how to ski and bake cookies is still teaching me about the world. 

Escape from the Kickflip

Expanding My Perception of Skateboarding

Story by Sam Sawyer // @samsawyer

Photos by Caleb Keller // @calebkellerphotos & Matt Smith // @matthewgsmithphoto

I can’t kickflip anymore, at least not in a way that looks cool. At 39, I can still do many of the skate tricks I’d fought so hard to learn in my youth, an undeniable victory in the inevitable loss that will come with the battle against time, age, decay, and death. When I was 30, I broke my flip ankle (skaters typically use their front foot to flick the board in directions that send it in controlled off-axis flips and spins) while skating and it didn’t heal properly. Now it just doesn’t work to do a proper kickflip. Undeniably middle-aged, I’ve learned to accept the deleterious changes that are unavoidable in my body. Skateboarding, the very thing that put me face to face with the downfall of my athletic prowess, is what has taught me to celebrate the amazing shifts in perception, attitude, and understanding that age brings. 

Skateboarding has always been a means of escape. Growing up in the suburbs, I was in a perpetual state of boredom with the feeling that I was out of place, which is a weird feeling for a 12-year-old because at that time, there was no way to know what else is out there; one just had the feeling that there must be more. I mean, my cultural awareness was limited to what I saw on basic cable and heard on Beastie Boys records. But one thing I knew for sure is that I wanted out. And it turned out I wasn’t alone. Elementary school would turn to junior high, and junior high to high school. And with those changes, bigger and bigger pools of like-minded misfits would converge and form bigger and bigger skate crews. Through a shared love of skateboarding and truancy, I found my people. And my escape from the suburbs to a new and exciting terrain: the city.

Like invading regattas of pimpled potty-mouths from the suburbs, we would cram into beat-up, hand-me-down Honda Civics and Toyota Tercels like clown cars and explore downtown’s vastly superior collection of concrete barriers, benches, curb-cuts, stairs, handrails, parking blocks, gaps, sidewalk bumps, and any number of tediously esoteric features that only a skateboard enthusiast would look at and feel the need to spend entire afternoons attempting one trick over and over again until they landed it. One thing people who aren’t skaters completely miss about skateboarding is that much of the beauty in this activity lies in the reimagining of urban spaces for something entirely new. Benches are no longer just for sitting. Handrails now offer an entirely new form of support. We are a troupe of improv dancers whose stage is the entire urban landscape. We just see the world differently and obsess about things that most people miss.

My idea of what skateboarding meant was fixed for most of my life. To my friends and I, skateboarding was very strictly boards shaped like popsicle sticks with an upturned nose and tail meant to ollie, flip, grind, and slide. It was most certainly not longboards, plastic boards, Ripsticks, electric skateboards, hoverboards, or scooters. Skateboarding meant exploring new, exciting urban areas full of challenging obstacles that we could freestyle through much like John Coltrane would wander through musical scales and found beautiful, unexpected new pathways to your ears. It was not pushing mongo (to push mongo is to push your skateboard with your front foot instead of your back—very unstylish) around a college campus on a board so big it barely fits in your trunk. Looking back, I’m ashamed as I see that restrictive attitude goes against the very thing that I loved about skateboarding: Skateboarding can be whatever you need it to be. And I needed it to be a cultural escape and a fixed personal identity.

Since I was 18, I’ve spent every moment of my life living in a decidedly urban area. I can directly attribute skateboarding for being my ticket out of a place that was simply not a path to happiness or personal growth for me, and for finding a place in life that makes me feel inspired and fulfilled. Everyone should be so lucky. Throughout my adult life as a skater, my once-strict stance on what skateboarding is and is not has softened because of other people sharing their experience with skating. Because skateboarding is whatever a person needs it to be, I’ve learned to embrace alternative board shapes, styles, wheel hardnesses, and other esoteric things about skateboarding I once thought was lame. I’ve found so much satisfaction and personal growth in bringing a weird-shaped board to a skate spot that I thought I knew intimately on my “normal” board. I find new lines through skateparks and bowls on boards that 10 years ago, I would have turned my twice-broken nose (thanks again, skateboarding) up at. I have a board so small that it fits in my carry-on and I bring with me on every work trip so that I can explore the foreign city from a familiar position: on a board. Viewing the world as a skateboarder has taught me to appreciate, embrace, and love the change that life brings.

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A  crew of skaters from Arbor Skateboards invited me on this skate/camp trip to the desert at the base of Mount Whitney, about four hours north of my home in Los Angeles, to an area called the Alabama Hills. I didn’t know any of the people going on the trip very well, but I wasn’t worried about that. If you’re an adult and still skate, you will most certainly find common ground and a new friend with me. Near the Alabama Hills, there isn’t much going on outside of a lot of pride for the John Wayne westerns that were filmed there and a network of empty mountain roads. A skate trip to the desert? Sure, I guess—but what would we skate? There’s a tiny skatepark nearby, but not one worth traveling for. There was certainly no urban wasteland to shred through. But, just like all things through skateboarding, I would learn to repurpose my surroundings. The hills.

Our camp spot, nestled in a maze of massive sand-colored boulders, the smallest ones as big as my truck, became home base for the trip. Huddled around a fire, we got to know one another as well as we got to know the giant bottle of whiskey (and the giant joints that kept mysteriously appearing) that we shared over a couple of nights—very well. Topics of discussion were varied, but our experiences with skateboarding, the magical thing that brought us all together for this trip, was the topic we came back to over and over. A lot of talk of the golden years, unavoidable for people near-or-approaching middle age, but one thread that I found to be enlightening was the idea of having a skateboard quiver. Essentially, it’s a right tool for the job ethos that when applied to skateboarding, would amount to owning a variety of skateboards, each for different uses. A “normal” trick skateboard sure, but also setups that are better equipped for rough roads, short trips, long hills, travel, or any number of other considerations that would make a “normal” popsicle stick-shaped board a poor choice. Surfers figured out decades ago that by owning a variety of differently-shaped surfboards, they could tune any given surf session to their personal ability, style, preference, wave shape, or wave conditions through a quiver of different boards, maximizing their experience in the water. Why had this idea never occurred to me with regard to skating? This was the ideological explanation I didn’t even know I was looking for. 

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We had left Los Angeles to find a quick dose of nature and mountain roads steep enough to give ourselves over to gravity. We found ourselves in a classic two birds, one stone situation driving up to the Mount Whitney Trailhead. The roads were steeper than I’d ever skated down and more beautiful than any place I’d ever imagined where I’d have a skateboard under my feet. After dispatching all available adrenaline to all parts of our bodies with some classic hill bombs, we managed to make our way to the Mt. Whitney Trailhead for a “light” hike. We, a ragtag group of skaters not suitably prepared for the hike we were about to embark upon, headed up to Lone Pine Lake, mostly in holey skate shoes. Not all of us made it to the top, but those who did were rewarded with a lite Mexican lager, a handful of nuts, and the most beautiful high alpine lake I’ve ever seen. Our group’s most accomplished outdoorsman, Tom, is a fly fishing guide and brought two fly rigs. We didn’t catch anything worth eating or bragging about from the lake, but what fish we did catch were a perfect metaphor for this trip: unexpected and beautiful. There was plenty to reflect upon staring into the lake.

Bombing down empty desert mountain roads, while not technically challenging, was easily the most fun I’d had on a skateboard in years. I was reminded as to why I started skateboarding in the suburbs of Minneapolis over 30 years ago: as a means of escape. Escape from the banal realities of the suburbs and escape from the pre-assigned usage of the cities I’ve loved living in. Only this time, I was escaping from the sometimes-oppressive realities of being a real adult with real responsibility in a really big city. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the simple act of speeding down a hill on a skateboard, in a beautifully-desolate landscape, would provide me with such an emotional release and a much-needed escape from reality, but I was. Skateboarding has, once again, provided me with an outlet to find inner peace. Even with a bad ankle. 

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This story was made with help from our friends at Arbor Collective

@arborcollective // arborcollective.com