Highlining Moab

This year I found myself celebrating Thanksgiving in a different way; with a group of highliners in Moab, Utah. Little did I know that this pursuit of my favorite pastime, slacklining, would unfold to be a transformational experience.

For the dwindling number of you who have not heard of slacklining: This is a fast growing sport that originated in the 1970's, a group of climbers in Yosemite started tensioning their 1" tubular webbing horizontally. Learning to walk the line, they developed their core strength and balance as a rest day activity. A basic setup requires two strong anchor points like a tree or a rock, a length of webbing, and a pulley system. The sport requires that you hone both your physical balance, as well as your mental balance to be able to walk or "send" the full length of the line.

My buddy Andrew and I set off on our journey from San Francisco to Moab full of anticipation for a weeks worth of camping, highlining, and all around play (I also brought my mountain bike, for Moab is fruitful).

The ride was long, split over two days. Here Andrew stands... eating the famously reliable PB&J.

This was the first sight upon arrival. Before me stood a large canyon, with multiple lines strapped across it. The highliners nicknamed this outcrop "The Fruitbowl" because of its many glorious slackline possibilities, from 22ft to 420ft.

I had been slacklining in grassy parks for several months and seen many great videos of highliners walking across the sky... But I realized immediately that there is no substitute for seeing it in person. Furthermore, I quickly came to the conclusion that I had vastly underestimated how hard this was going to be.

For those of you wondering: despite how it looks, this is actually incredibly safe.

Some of the longer lines are designed to be tightly tensioned. One of the longest lines we had set up that week was 420ft, and was tensioned at 3000 lbs, less than a third of its breaking strength.

Although some experts will occasionally walk the line without any safety protection, most of us opted to be harnessed into the line. Being leashed to the line meant that if one were to fall, the drop would be only 6-8 ft instead of 400ft. But believe me, falling is never fun. I took many "whips" off the line that week, and it never got any easier.

It took me days to be able to do what Christian is doing here. The shortest line was 22ft, and although I could walk that length without difficulty in a city park... I quickly discovered that when exposed above 400ft of air, my mind felt contrary to the task. This was a pretty tough, yet glorious way to cut my teeth as a highliner. Breathing steadily and focusing perfectly is the only way to do this. After days of internal struggle, and many falls later, it was on my fourth day that I found the willpower to ignore the fearful thoughts in my head, I managed to push through and walk the line.

While I was learning to walk all over again, I was continually amazed, inspired, and encouraged by the amazing community of slackliners that surrounded me. Everybody was there to do this one amazing thing, highlining was the foundation of our camaraderie. It turns out that we could all be described as funambulists, carrying on the long tradition of the balancing arts.

As an added bonus, the engineers of this overwhelming experience also had the great wisdom to set up a 250 ft rope swing. Here Andrew is being looked over by his good friend Andy before taking a really big plunge.

Unlike highlining, the rope swing requires no effort at all. Just count down from three (a popular tactic) and step off the ledge. The rope which is attached to the middle of one of the highlines, catches and softly swings the rider out into the canyon.

As you free fall, the cliff walls seem to shoot above you and the bottom becomes magnified, but soon the rope catches and the swing begins. When you finally stop swinging, the view from the bottom is amazing, a whole new perspective of the lines above. A rope on the side of the canyon is your ticket home as you ascend with the climbing equipment you jumped down with.

Another highlight of the trip was the food and the company. I brought along my EcoZoom rocket stove which cooked my rice and beans with great speed using only a few twigs. I had my new German friend  Lukas sit down and have a bite as I captured this shot at sunset.

At night, the camp convened around a roaring bonfire. Delicious libations, tremendous music, and enlightening conversation were the norm.

And in closing, not to be forgotten, was the natural beauty and the perfect weather that was our backdrop for the week of Thanksgiving. We were all in awe of this sublime experience.

Homage to Alaska

Earlier this summer, I spent six weeks living with a friend and her family in Alaska. With me I brought my Mamiya 645, along with around 30 rolls of Kodak Portra 400 film.  My multi-dimensional experience in Alaska obviously extends far beyond these pictures; I am not attempting to convey my entire experience photographically. Instead, through this medium I hope that you may be able relate to my travels through the feelings these images evoke. The vast landscapes, bountiful wildlife, and equally wild people are what truly inspired these photographs.    

This is Julia, we traveled the West Coast of Australia together last year. At the end of our time there, she offered me an invitation to Alaska the following summer which I heartily excepted.

Julia's friend was also an essential part of the trip. I arrived by plane, but Jenni chose to embark to Anchorage via a five day ferry trip up the coast from Washington. Jenni is a wonderful writer, poet, and out-loud reader; it was always a wonderful occasion to hear her written words.

This is Richard, Julia's Dad. Recently retired from the mapping department of the forest service, he now has immense plans for the family cabin in Day Harbor. Richard and I spent a lot of time together working on the cabin, he taught me how to play cribbage, and he showed me the value of keeping a calm and patient pace in life.  Here Rich and the dog Ginger take point on the way to cabin, a three hour drive south of Anchorage and a two hour boat ride out of Seward Harbor and east into Day Harbor.

And this is Julia's Mom, Eleanor. Art teacher, mountain climber, painter... all out Alaskan. While at the cabin, Eleanor instigated the "work only every other day" policy. She always seemed to be there in a supportive way for me. She kept me safe from the thorny Devils Club by suggesting protective layers, in general she taught me about the many raw realities of living in the Alaskan wilderness, and she had a talented way of whipping up an amazing hot meal out of thin air.

Liam, the younger brother was a hoot. Unfortunately Liam had a pretty busy work schedule and was unable to go out with us to the cabin during my stay with them. But I valued his company whenever we returned to Anchorage. Liam taught me how to slackline, a balancing sport similar to tight rope walking. It's a gift that keeps on giving, thanks Liam!

The cabin was built in the early 80's using lumber that was hand milled with a chainsaw from the Spruce forest that surrounds it. He used a simple tool called an "Alaska Mill" which is essentially a guide that you set on the chainsaw bar that guides the cut at an exact depth. The original builder named Dave Firth, intended the property to be a peace center. Unfortunately he died at an early age and never saw his project completed. Through a series of connections, the McMahon family acquired the cabin and have been utilizing it in a way that would make old Dave Firth proud. In part, my job here was to help Richard build an extension off the back end which would greatly enhance the space and live-ability.  By the time I left, we had successfully built a large and beefy raised foundation that would soon be ready for floor joists, walls, a roof, ect ect.  

We were nestled in the spruces, right above the beach.

Eleanor's work in progress. The creek runs right by the cabin, the white noise of the rushing water was ever-present.

The cabin was completely functional, and loaded with artistic clutter that I loved. Many of the books on the shelf were left there by Dave Firth the original builder. Many genres were to be found including: Alaskan life, popular fiction, building how-to, as well as several Cold War Era academic reads.

A family of artists leaves art everywhere. Here a landscape painting of Day Harbor painted on a rock graced the trail down towards the beach.

Yes indeed... this was the common area. Beyond that wall is where the new extension will one day be.

My bed in the loft.

The Throne.

The Harbor's edge.

Our valiant steed the "Bonnie Lass."

Traffic in Seward Harbor.

The sea wasn't always calm enough for us to embark from Seward out to Day Harbor, or the reverse. We would have to be prepared to wait, sometimes days, before the weather would allow for a safe voyage.

Once, the water was too rough for traveling, and so we stayed with this man in Seward while we waited. Fred had some amazing stories, and he told them with a huge booming voice. In his youth he was once an adventurous cowboy. Things began to slow down for him once he got charged and rammed by a Buffalo. Now he lives a quiet life and collects things in the long term hope of profit.  When he's not overseeing this piece of land in Seward, he's squatting in Day Harbor.

Fred's junkyard dogs.

Fred had a lot of things.

Walking Ginger and killing time while we wait for better weather.

Fred had a couple of geese on the property. The male was not happy with me.

Fred has squatted in his cabin at the head of the Harbor for something like thirty years. He's tended wild horses there, as well as buffalo, pigs, goats, and chickens. Fred has a huge heart, and was always a hoot to talk with. We crossed paths with him here during a kayak outing.

These are a few more of the locals in the harbor. We were all saying our goodbyes after a diverse and enlightening Solstice party hosted at a nearby cabin.

Drunk as skunks on the way home. This was shot at around 1:30 in the morning on the Solstice.

Other activities included Halibut fishing!

Halibut are bottom feeders. They're flat fish, with two eyes on one side of the body. Here you can see Jenni has cut out the cheek meat on the underside of the fish, the most flavorful part. The McMahon family are all mastering the art of fillet. Jenni and I need some more practice.

The smug look of a artist at work.

These are big fish that can reach into the 100 lb range. Most of the ones we caught were mid size, 15-60 lbs.

Ginger's only motivation was food; always scrounging for leftovers.

I'd never seen so many glaciers until I made it to Alaska. We hiked to this one for a day trip while back home in Anchorage.

On a few occasions we brought glacial ice back to the cabin (to help keep food cool) or to the house in Anchorage (for fancy drinking ice).

The best Gin and Tonic I've ever had. Served chilled with glacial ice.

Some come to Alaska to work for the oil companies and the fishing industry, some only come as tourists, and some choose permanent establishment.  Amongst the wide spectrum of its inhabitants, visitors and locals alike all share one thing in common; a great appreciation for the humbling immensity of this place.