Borneo, Not Bali

Going Beyond the Reach of Bali’s Scooter-Choked Streets and Spiritual Journeymen.
Story by Madeline Weinfield // @madolionw

Like so many others before me, I came to Bali with a mind full of promises. I could almost smell the frangipani trees as I leap-frogged from New York to Tokyo to Jakarta and then by skipper plane to Bali. But upon landing in Bali—the first day of my three-week trip—I was diagnosed with pneumonia. I shivered while my boyfriend swam in an infinity pool perched high in the jungle before falling asleep for 48 hours in a cold, cave-like guest house, waking once to eat a plate of nasi goreng. Less Eat, Pray, Love, I was on the journey of Sleep, Medicate, Survive. 

I tried to stay awake through an evening of mesmerizing gamelan music and traditional Balinese dance, ignoring a medicine-induced high and the relentless humidity. The Bali I had dreamt about was fuzzy, but not just from my sickness. Everywhere around me were party-ready people escaping their lives. Less spiritual retreat than high-octane party. Bali, with its over-developed, resort-heavy landscape was more like the Hamptons than the jungle, yet I had traveled so much further than three hours on the Long Island Rail Road to get here. Had I come around the world just to lie on a lumpy bed surrounded by holiday-mad Europeans, Australians, and worse, Americans? 

We had already altered our trip significantly due to my health. The infamous sulfur-dense Mount Rinjani remained unclimbed, and exploring Bali’s more remote rice fields was tabled for another trip. I hardly felt like doing anything, but I couldn’t let Indonesia pass me by. With just a few days left, we boarded a flight to Kalimantan, the infamous island home of Borneo, with the intention of sleeping on a rickety boat and trekking through the jungle in search of the country’s most sought after residents: orangutans. Maybe the jungle air would cure me.

Beyond the reach of Bali’s scooter-choked streets and spiritual journeymen and women, and far outside the earthly calls of the Gili Islands and Lombok, everything started to look a little clearer. In Kalimantan, we were met by a small crew who would run the boat, cook our simple meals, and presumably prevent us from being bitten by deadly tarantulas. We sailed from Kumai, a village of tall concrete swallow coops that exist to feed China’s appetite for bird nest soup, into the heart of Borneo, a land existing precariously between the ravages of the world’s wants. Here the waterways are wide and polluted, the rainforest along the banks thin and sparse, the effects of human civilization clearly scarred into the banks. 

Borneo is a vast and complex web of depleting tropical rainforest, ever-growing palm oil plantations, illegal logging, and gold mining operations. Yet Borneo is also home to Tanjung Puting National Park—and in it one of the most significant orangutan sanctuaries on earth. Despite the significant odds working against it, Tanjung Puting thrives because of Camp Leaky, a research site established in 1971 by a Dr. Biruté Galdikas who, after years of studying the orangutans, dedicated a base of study to provide a permanent place for scientists, staff, students, and park rangers to study these remarkable, endangered creatures. Despite the work of Galdikas and all who pass through Camp Leaky, the orangutan sanctuary tilts on the perilous edge of fragility. Tanjung Puting is a registered national park, yet over 65 percent of the jungle forest has been depleted, ripped out, and hauled away, a percentage that is likely to grow due to the almost nonexistent regulation of the government.

Our guide Jen Subaru is a legend on the water. He captains our small boat with authority, guides us through the jungle with expertise, and together with his brother uses whatever extra money he can to buy up the water-facing jungle in an effort to keep it standing for a few more years. For Jen and his fellow guides, this is their way of life, their livelihoods, their raison d’être. Many of the guides are ex-miners and former loggers, who, on the water, have found another life—a new life—and a new freedom. They casually go back and forth between English, Spanish, Italian, and French—the languages of their passengers—as well as the language of the rainforest, the most indecipherable of them all. They know the flap of the kingfisher, the swoosh of the swing of the gibbon monkey, the profile of each orangutan and their babies, and the call of the rare storm stork. 

From the water the jungle bears the tell-tale sign of deforestation—it is strangely stunted and lets in the light of the rain-heavy sky. When we step off the boat to go into the forest, we find a largely unmarked jungle save for a few trails that the park rangers and scientists use to observe the orangutans. In an effort to keep the creatures fed and happy in the forest and to keep them from wandering outside their shrinking habitats, park rangers lay out huge swaths of bananas twice each day on feeding platforms in the forest. On a good day, when the forest is naturally full of vegetation, none of the orangutans might turn up, but in the dry season, they rely on it. But they’re there every day we are and it’s hard to imagine them ever thriving on their own. Feeding them is the only way to keep these creatures in the forest, the only way to ward against the risk of them wandering into a farmers field or gold miners land—a fate met more often than not with a single fatal shot.

In the jungle are some of the earth’s largest wild creatures who shimmy down trees with the silent grace of ballerinas. Surrounding them are countless species of birds, monkeys, and reptiles. Primates in these woods are found nowhere else on earth. Yet there are also miners and farmers and desperate people plowing the land for their own money, survival, and greed. There’s also us, lying on sleeping mats trying the stay awake in the darkest night we’ve ever seen, thousands of fireflies glittering like the lights of the brightest Christmas tree—alive, vibrant, glowing despite it all. How naive to think I was immune to sickness, and how ridiculous to think I would find something remotely related to enlightenment in Bali, a place with wifi and cocktails and parties till dawn. It’s there in the darkness that the true meaning of travel and the understanding that comes with it seemed so full. 

When we’re done taking and taking and taking, will there be anything left to give?

For a moment this floating wilderness is just ours, not to be found, not to be touched, not to be destroyed. I try not to let my cough pierce through the silence. Bali didn’t change me, but Borneo did. 

Arizona Trippers

Transformed by the Past

Story and photos by Laura Goldenberger @lauragoldenberger and Kayla Ramirez @kaylalilli

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We left Los Angeles in the afternoon and drove south, breathing a sigh of relief as we hit the long stretch of highway to Arizona, watching the city fade away in the rearview of our van. The feeling of the American Southwest always hits us right in the soul; maybe it’s the pastel colors stretching as far as the eye can see, or the way the horizon melts into the sky at dusk. We were happy to be back on the road. The Three Amigos, our little ragtag fam on yet another adventure. Two traveling photographer cousins and Adrian the skilled chef and knife maker—we make a good team. 

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We found our way to our first stop, South Yavapai County, across Navajo land, down the winding dusty roads of the Verde Valley to the bluff that looks over Beaver Creek river basin where Montezuma Castle lies. Someone was playing a Native flute in the distance as we wandered down the quiet trail, making us feel transported to a time long ago. We looked up at the well preserved homestead carved high into the cliff for a while—a relic from the once-thriving hunter gathering Sinagua People. No one knows why the Sinaguan left, but many believe it was due to overpopulation and the depletion of resources. Just as we lifted our cameras to take another photo, a herd of selfie-taking tourists arrived, signaling us that it was time to head out. 

The rest of the day was spent exploring Sedona, and we saved our hike to Devil’s Bridge for last. It’s only 4.2 miles round trip and we had our fingers crossed for a good sunset. We pulled up to the trailhead in the van, grabbed our packs, and hit the dirt. We were in awe of the stunning beauty in every direction, stopping every few minutes to shoot photos and videos. Time seemed to stand still in the evening glow, but a big, dark cloud grew in the horizon and we realized we were cutting it close to not only sunset but a potential storm approaching. We picked up the pace on the now-empty trail. Little drops of rain started to hit our faces as the sun dipped beneath the mountains. We considered turning back but we pressed on, a little high off a good challenge. When we finally reached the bridge, we were out of breath from the hustle up and tried to protect our cameras from the sudden onslaught of pouring rain. Despite all this, to be the only souls at such an iconic location was a treasure. With the solitude enhancing the striking scene, we sat in silence and then let out wolf howls at the top of our lungs. We had earned the moment and let ourselves have it. Soon we were reluctantly pulled away by good sense. It was nearly dark by then and we were already cold and wet. Carefully, we maneuvered the slick rocks and started a jog back. It was pitch black when we made it back to the van and we were relieved to put on dry clothes. Over a round of beers and questionable dive bar grub, we celebrated our small victory and made fun of ourselves for cutting it so close. Another favorite memory for us to share together, a future old story. Our fathers raised us with wild tales of their adventures together. Maybe that is why we didn’t turn back.

It was biting cold when we reached our next stop after a solid night’s sleep in the van: the Petrified Forest National Park. Wind was howling across the high desert prairie as we found ourselves in a strange and mystical land called the Crystal Forest, a stark landscape dotted with thousands of technicolor petrified logs that once held amethyst and quartz crystals, surrounded by deep blue badlands. We tried to imagine the many centuries of people who have also marveled at this strange place—pioneer homesteaders, Navajo and Apache alike. We traced our fingers along the smooth, ancient fossilized trees and ran around the dreamlike landscape of the Blue Mesa like wild animals until we were kicked out by park rangers at closing time. 

Our last day was one for the books. The Wukoki Pueblo caught our eye in the distance as we rolled into Wupatki National Monument. The pueblo is reminiscent of castle ruins, built on top of elevated sandstone, towering above vast prairie land. We wandered in and explored the roofless dwelling, ducking through the short doorways that led to a room with tall walls and a small window. We laid our backs on the cool, dirt floor and looked up towards the moon that was now visible against the blue sky. In the quiet of that moment, we could hear birds singing and wind whipping through the little window as rain clouds moved towards us in the distance. Maybe that electric feeling was just as it had been long ago—connecting us to the past, but everything else had changed. 

Perhaps the room used to be someone’s bedroom and they looked out that same window, saw the same unchanging prairie with the same sensation of wind on their face and a growing storm in the air. Now there were three strangers in their home, taking pictures for a shoe company and a magazine. Photos destined for social media and hashtags. Life is strange. We weren’t sure how to feel. We took our time appreciating the pueblo and wondered about the lives of the people of Wukoki. When the rain finally reached us again, we headed back to the van in thoughtful silence. We ended the trip the best way we knew how—with an extra large pizza box on our laps, blaring Zeppelin as we headed back to the city, this time with a few more stories to tell.

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Life is in constant flux. It ebbs and it flows, but one thing for sure is that preservation is a practice. Without it, we wouldn’t have protected landscapes to renew our connection to these reminders of life in the past. Reminders that reveal a delicate balance of the fragility and resilience of life. Today, society is built on convenience no matter the cost. We consume, we pollute, and we lose touch with nature, humanity, and the lessons we can learn from those before us. Throughout the trip, we found ourselves leaving our phones in the van, wanting to disconnect from modern day life. Each sacred place we visited reminded us to slow down and remember to have reverence for this earth and life itself. 

Our return to L.A. was met with traffic, smog, and the usual chaotic energy of the city. Our renewed perspectives and peaceful moods were quickly challenged, reminding us that creating balance in our modern world will only happen with intention and a collective awareness. 

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This adventure was made with help from Keen // keenfootwear.com

The Fire’s All Around Us

A Smokey Love Story

Story by Rose Thomas

Artwork by David Antonio Perezcassar // @dave_draws

Somehow you found the last fire lookout tower available in all of the western United States, if not the world. So we went. Drove from Portland to Montana and back over a three-day weekend. Of course the AC went out. And we had to bring your big dopey, ferocious dog Bear with us. Oh, and there was the fact that we had to go in secret. 

First we stayed in a tiny cabin in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. At Safeway, I managed to spend $200 on cheese and hummus and crackers and fruit and wine. Only to find out you didn’t like picnics. And then in the hot summer sun on our next stint of driving, it all went bad in the cooler. Then we stayed in a teepee run by a french man named Jacques. In the teepee, we slept in individual cots that we pulled together as close as we could. We got drunk on our red wine and whispered stories in the light of the lantern, and cursed our separate beds. Along the way we stopped at Glacier National Park, which was stunning—“Glacier National Park’s got nothing on you, baby,” you said, but sadly forest fires obscured most of the views and Bear wasn’t allowed on the trails. 

Our final stop was the lookout tower. We got lost on the way there. I remained skeptical we’d ever find it, until you did. The view was smoky but beautiful. You threw a plastic mattress down from the tower to the ground below and we fucked on it in the open air, the sun on our skin, like wild animals. We set up shop on the top of our very own mountain and enjoyed the view, which was growing more and more smoky. But we didn’t care—we were finally alone, together. We watched the sun set from the balcony of the tower. We took pictures, embraced. 

As night closed in we turned on the solar-powered lanterns I had brought and you put on a Spotify playlist of love songs. We made love on the sleeping bag as Prince came through the speaker—”Purple Rain.” For dinner, we only had crisps and chocolate. So we sat on a bare mattress and ate our junk food to our hearts’ content. I don’t remember what we talked about. Probably were in amazement of our love, how far we’d come and all that there was to experience yet. We were like kids then. So fucking innocent in our sin. Thought we had felt pain, but so much pain was still to come. But in that moment it was absolutely perfect. The saddest dinner was the most romantic either of us had ever had. 

In the background, the fires grew closer. We were actually watching fire in the distance from the fire lookout tower. We called the hotline every so often to check the danger of our zone. Googled how fast fire moves. I wasn’t once scared. I put my trust completely in your hands. Before we went to sleep you decided to set an alarm for every two hours. 

At 2:00 a.m. the alarm went off. I sat up, groggy. You were already standing. I looked up at you and then all around us. Smoke surrounded the lookout tower. “Let’s go,” you said. We gathered what we had brought quickly without speaking. Then we were in the truck driving as fast as we could on the rough dirt road. The fires followed us in Idaho, and when we were finally back to Portland, we just made it before they closed the highway to the Eagle Creek fire. 

I spent most of that trip sweaty with my hair smelling like smoke and my eyes burning. It seemed that something managed to go wrong at every turn. But when I look back now, it’s not what I remember. That trip with anyone else would have been a disaster, but with you it was an adventure to be by your side. It’s amazing what love can do to transform your perspective. I will always remember what a blast we had—despite the fire in our wake. 

Eaten Alive

In the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest

Story and Photos by Matt Whelan // mattwhelan.ca

In moments like these, in the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest, it’s hard to feel anything at all, except sorry for a salmon.

All wild animals earn a hard living, but no other species in its life seems to endure such a diverse and unrelenting gauntlet as the salmon. From the time that a salmon is conceived, to the time that it dies, and for some time after that, something, wherever it may be, will be trying to eat it.

Let’s pretend, just briefly, that you’re a salmon egg, in the gravel of a river, somewhere in the rainforest, where somehow, for the last few months, you’ve survived torrential rains, a shifting riverbed, and the scavenging efforts of winter’s hunters. Snakes, at this stage, are particularly keen.

Let’s say that you hatch successfully into a little alevin, with a tiny little yolk sac to get you by for the next few weeks, and let’s say you survive long enough to become a fry. You’re an inch or two long now, a perfect little snack for herons, kingfishers, and loons.  

Let’s suppose you haven’t been eaten yet, and you’ve survived the months it takes, feeding on insects, to become a smolt, a male smolt, we’ll say, for this exercise. And let’s say that you, this male smolt, live long enough to get big enough to attempt a trip to the open ocean.

Right. Ready?

There’s safety in numbers, so you’ll be traveling in as large a posse as possible, hundreds of you at the same time, an en-masse seaward migration, and a ripe target for gulls, big squawking flocks of them, hunting you down in their ungainly but very efficient way.

Seeing as we’ve come this far, let’s imagine that you’ve been lucky, and you make it to the open ocean.

You’ll be spending the next few years out there, foraging endlessly for smaller fish, while a dizzying and comprehensive multitude of predators forage for you. Killer whales, sea lions, seals, dolphins, whales, and sharks; trollers, trawlers, long liners and jiggers. 

There are other problems too, fish farms and oil rigs, climate change, ocean acidification and pollution.

As unlikely as it seems, you survive all this, and now you’re about four or five years old, and something inside tells you it’s time to go home. Home to the very river, in fact, in which you were born. No one’s really sure how you do this. How do you find this single river mouth on a coastline tens of thousands of miles long? Some say that you steer by the earth’s magnetic fields, others say that the river you’re looking for has a distinct smell. Actually, no one’s at all sure why it’s so critical that it be the very same river in which you were born. But anyway, it’s obviously important to you, and you’ve been thousands of miles out at sea for many years, enduring all manner of struggle, so however you do it, and whatever your reasons, well done.

So, there you are, at the mouth of this river in which you were born, and let’s say that over the years you’ve been gone, that this river hasn’t been dammed, or destroyed by logging or landslides. Let’s assume too, that sufficient rain has fallen—not too much mind you, those waterfalls and rapids can get nasty—but just enough to swell the river to a navigable level.

Your chances of having survived this far are incredibly slim, but you’re not done yet. Not nearly. You’re going to want to swim up that river, past the gillnetters and the sea lions near the estuary, past the gaping mouths of bears at waterfalls, past eagles swooping from the cedars, and wolves prowling the banks.

It’s a lousy welcome home, but let’s suppose you survive it.

Oh, I almost forgot. You’ve gone through a bit of a change. The smooth blue-silver scales of your youth are now a green and burgundy battle swatch. Your svelte, bullet-like lines have gone too, and now there’s an ugly bump in your back and your jaw has extended forward, gnarled upwards, and a craggy set of dog-like teeth now protrude at uneven angles from your swollen gums. To boot, the trip up the river has left you battered and scarred, by rock and rival fish alike. You look like some sort of aquatic werewolf, suspended in transition. You are, quite frankly, grotesque.

You’re in the top percentile now, an elite group of survivors, and you’re ready, finally, to spawn.

You know what you’re looking for. She’ll be by her redd, a divot she’s carved out in the riverbed with her own tattered tail. With just a bit more luck, she’ll be leaving eggs in there for you to fertilize, and spending the very short remainder of her own life defending them. Her affections will not be easily won. You’ve other males to fight off first. You’ll be shredding each other up with those vicious little teeth you’ve all grown just for the job. 

Surely, you’re too tired to fight. Seeing as we’ve come this far, let’s say you’re not. Let’s say that you fight, and let’s say that you win this final fight, and you’re preparing, just now, and for want, perhaps, of more erotic language, to release your milt. 

It would be unfair, don’t you think, if after such a long and hard existence, and just seconds before achieving life’s unifying and possibly solitary purpose of self-perpetuation, that you would be snatched from the water and eaten alive by a big white bear.

Most people will never see a spirit bear, but many of those that have, have seen them here, at Riordan Creek, on Gribbell Island, in British Columbia’s Great Bear Rainforest. 

One of Canada’s true treasures, the Great Bear stretches along the West Coast from the northern end of Vancouver Island to the Alaskan border. It’s twice the size of Belgium; a huge, sprawling fortress of old-growth forest, impenetrable shoreline, and rare wildlife.

It is one of the world’s magic places. On some moonless nights in the Great Bear Rainforest, the northern lights dance against the unhindered brilliance of the Milky Way while feeding fish kick up clouds of phosphorescence in the blackness of the still sea. In the distant darkness, it’s not uncommon to hear the blows of humpback whales and the howls of wolves.

By day, bears hunt salmon in the waterways of the forest.

It’s also Gitg’at territory, a people that have been around here for thousands of years. 

Marven Robinson, of the Gitg’at Nation, was born and raised in nearby Hartley Bay, and has been bringing people to Riordan Creek to watch bears for more than 20 years. 

We were talking, as strangers often do, about the weather, and strangers in the Great Bear Rainforest, often talk about rain.

“Lotta rain been fallin’,” said Marven.

“Yep,” I said, “and more coming I hear.”

“Yep,” said Marven.

“Yep,” I said.

And we stood like that for a while. Watching the river. In the rain.

As a matter of fact, there’d been a torrential downpour a couple of nights ago, and at Cameron Cove, not far from where we were, a landslide had taken out an entire river. The rubble, Marven was saying, was scattered with hundreds of dead fish, a complete run wiped out by heavy rain and shifting earth. 

“That’s a lot of dead fish,” said Marven.

“Yep,” I said.

“Yep,” said Marven.

The salmon, mostly pinks and some chum, were splashing about in golden brown pools. The grass on the banks had been laid out flat by the weight of dining bears, and flies buzzed around the dozens of fish carcasses strewn like rotten rags about the rocks. 

I was telling Marven that I’d never seen a spirit bear. 

“Never seen a spirit bear, eh?” said Marven.

“Nope,” I said.

“Huh,” said Marven.

This is the only place in the world where some black bears are white. White black bears are often called spirit bears, or Kermode bears, and of the roughly 150,000 black bears living in British Columbia, only a hundred or so wear white fur, and they all live here, in the Great Bear. 

Biologists will tell you that it’s just a genetic anomaly, that for some reason, eons ago, a gene mutated, and now about ten percent of the bears here are born white. In local legend (which is always a lot more fun) Raven, who had turned the world green after the age of ice, wanted a reminder of that erstwhile time, when all the world was silver, and it was Raven that decided that every tenth bear would be white.

In the old days, if you saw a spirit bear, you were to keep it to yourself. If you were lucky enough to see one, it was a sacred secret. These days an ecotourism industry exists (as do petty, corporate bickerings over the trademarking of the ‘Spirit Bear’ name) and it’s hard to keep a shared sighting secret. 

These days most experienced guides call spirit bears white bears. Marven calls them white bears. A voice crackled over the radio. A white bear was on its way up the river. 

Marven keyed his mic to talk. 

“Do up the suit real tight,” he said. “There’s a fella here never seen a white bear.”

In the distance, I could see the animal moving deftly up the river towards us, pausing every now and then to look into a pool. 

“That’s Boss!” whispered Marven.

“I know,” I whispered back. “So cool!”

“No,” whispered Marven. “The bear’s name is Boss.”

Boss’s name is Boss because he’s the boss about this part of the river. He took over about four years ago, displacing the dominant male at the time, Scarface, who, one assumes, got his name gaining and retaining this dominance. 

Until there was a new boss.

Boss came closer and closer, and paused on the opposite bank, about thirty feet away, and turned towards us.

And that’s when he saw you, this ragged, battered fish, already nearing your final throes.

What you might not want to know, is the ease with which he took you. The bear, already plump from gorging on so many of your kindred, just waddled along the bank, took a sharp turn, made a quick, effortless pounce into the river, and dragged you out before skulking back into the forest to eat its snatched snack like a bad dog leaving the scene of an unattended dinner table.

It was awesome, with all the weight that the word once carried, and I forgot, just for a second, to feel sorry for the salmon.