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Crescent moon setting, South Park, Jackson Hole, Wyoming, October 8th, 7 pm
Crescent moon setting, South Park, Jackson Hole, Wyoming, October 8th, 7 pm
about 2 hours ago
Check out this sweet edit from the Beans and Rice crew as they tele the west side of the Tetons. Episode 1/3 (2013) – Beans and Rice Freeride from BeansandRiceFreeride on Vimeo. Winter is knocking on the door. Nothing will get yo...
Check out this sweet edit from the Beans and Rice crew as they tele the west side of the Tetons. Episode 1/3 (2013) – Beans and Rice Freeride from BeansandRiceFreeride on Vimeo. Winter is knocking on the door. Nothing will get you more stoked than this webisode trilogy from the Deepside (of the Tetons). Pro telewackers, Paul Kimbrough and Jake Sakson joined forces last season to capture some great backcountry skiing. This first installment will take you deep into the psychology of the ski bum. Don’t take these guys too seriously, they participate in a sport that usually involves falling on your face. Share this:
about 2 hours ago
Have you ever crapped your pants at a national park? A few years ago, I was hiking down from the top of Angels Landing in Zion National Park with my pal Mick and I glanced down a gully dropping off the south side of the formation and sa...
Have you ever crapped your pants at a national park? A few years ago, I was hiking down from the top of Angels Landing in Zion National Park with my pal Mick and I glanced down a gully dropping off the south side of the formation and saw a discarded plastic water bottle. Wanting to be a good steward of public lands, I scrambled down into the brush to grab the bottle so I could take it out to a trash can. Mick held my daypack open and I handed him the bottle so he could stuff it in. In the brush below that bottle was another plastic water bottle, so I handed that up to Mick, too. Then another bottle. Then another one. By the time I got to the seventh bottle, I made some comment to Mick like, "Holy shit, I guess this is where everyone throws their used water bottles." I was sure I’d get to number 25 before I was done, and my pack was getting full. Then, WHOA I stepped up and away from the bushes, and Mick said, “What’s up?” “There’s a pair of underwear down here. Whitey-tighties.” “Oh man,” Mick said. “Yeah. I’m gonna leave them down here.” Stewardship only goes so far. I recoiled and scrambled out of the gully and Mick and I discussed the logistics of someone planting a pair of underwear in the bushes there. Although I didn’t inspect them, it goes without question that a pair of underwear discarded in the bushes on top of a 1,500-foot-high fin of sandstone are 99 percent likely to be soiled. I mean, you just don’t remove a piece of clothing that you wear under your pants and throw them away unless something serious has happened to them. Seriously brown. No national park website ever mentions what you should do if you poop in the least desirable place: the inside of your pants. Maybe the guy got scared on the really exposed section of the chains over there, pooed his pants and snuck down here to clean up, we theorized. Maybe there was a huge line at the vault toilet a few hundred feet away and he thought he’d just hold it, but somehow didn’t. Maybe this, maybe that, whatever the case, somebody had a bad day up here. It was like playing a game of Clue — “Colonel Mustard with the underwear in the bushes after the hangover and huevos rancheros,” et cetera. One of the duties that falls on the desks of land managers across the country is managing human waste — blue bags on Mount Rainier, emptying the vault toilets on the Bright Angel Trail and transporting the contents out of the canyon on mules, deciding on a “pack it out” policy in Canyonlands. No national park website ever mentions what you should do if you poop in the least desirable place: the inside of your pants. My girlfriend and I were at the end of a spur trail in the Devils Garden section of Arches National Park a few weeks ago, and we both stepped away to find places to pee away from some of the crowds. The trail signs had said this section of trail led to something called the “Dark Angel,” whatever that was (the rest of the trail led from magnificent sandstone arch to magnificent sandstone arch). This trail stopped at a black monolith that, while impressive, was less amazing than the collection of arches we had seen. "Do you suppose that’s the Dark Angel?" I asked as I walked over to a wash behind a juniper to do my business. Walking back to the trail from behind a boulder, Hilary said she had noticed something in the dirt behind the boulder and upon double-taking realized it was a pair of men’s underwear, describing it as quite weathered and sandy, with an obvious non-underwear-esque volume inside. Like a sandbag with a waistband. We laughed a little, and discussed possible scenarios: She imagined a poor guy on one of his first-ever hikes having a worst-case scenario, then running off behind the boulder to hide the evidence. I put forth a couple theories, more so imagining the pants-pooper as an unlikable character so we could feel better making some jokes about the situation. As we headed back down the trail toward more impressive scenery, I asked Hila
about 3 hours ago
Swedish architect Torsten Ottesjö thinks squares are boring, that they counter nature, so when he designed seedpod-shaped Hus-1 on the west coast of Sweden for a Gotenberg couple, he wanted to make it curvy and have it blend in with the ...
Swedish architect Torsten Ottesjö thinks squares are boring, that they counter nature, so when he designed seedpod-shaped Hus-1 on the west coast of Sweden for a Gotenberg couple, he wanted to make it curvy and have it blend in with the land around it. It's definitely curvy. Blending in? Well... The couple uses the 270-square-foot dwelling on weekends and in the summer, but even with guests they say they don't feel cramped. The linear room starts as a living room, moves into a dining room and kitchen and ends in a screened-off bedroom. There’s an outside bathroom and shower, too. Photos: David Relan Weekend Cabin isn’t necessarily about the weekend, or cabins. It’s about the longing for a sense of place, for shelter set in a landscape…for something that speaks to refuge and distance from the everyday. Nostalgic and wistful, it’s about how people create structure in ways to consider the earth and sky and their place in them. It’s not concerned with ownership or real estate, but what people build to fulfill their dreams of escape. The very time-shortened notion of “weekend” reminds that it’s a temporary respite. To see more weekend cabins, visit the Weekend Cabin channel page.
about 4 hours ago
Jim Yoakum peers through a spotting scope across a broad sagebrush valley. Here at Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, a pronghorn doe has just squatted into a familiar position, about to give birth. As a legendary pronghorn biologis...
Jim Yoakum peers through a spotting scope across a broad sagebrush valley. Here at Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, a pronghorn doe has just squatted into a familiar position, about to give birth. As a legendary pronghorn biologist, Yoakum knows about these animals; he has spent more than seven decades roaming this fault-block range in southeastern Oregon. He understands the language of the pronghorn antelope, its flared nostrils, and the sleek curve of its haunches in flight. Soon, a tiny fawn plops from the doe's belly and lands on the ground. "Here comes another!" Yoakum exclaims. Within minutes, the twins rise on wobbly legs, shake off the afterbirth, and begin suckling. They must gain strength as quickly as they can and learn to run almost immediately to escape hungry coyotes, cougars, bobcats, and golden eagles. It's an instinct hard-wired into their genes. Yoakum, who is wearing loose jeans and a camouflage jacket, continues watching. Seven decades of riding horses on this mountain have left his legs bowed. Today, he uses a walking stick, wears hearing aids, and breathes oxygen from a respirator. Even as Yoakum observes the miracle of birth, he knows that his own life is waning. James Solomon Yoakum was born June 15, 1926, in Templeton, California, son of a hunter father. As a student at Oregon State, he would help his professor monitor pronghorn fawns on Hart Mountain. Yoakum's dog, a Labrador retriever named Tad, assisted by pinning them down and licking the sweet mother's milk off their muzzles. When Yoakum graduated in 1957 with a master's degree in wildlife management, the Bureau of Land Management hired him as the agency's very first wildlife biologist. During his 28-year career with the BLM, Yoakum was a steadfast advocate for wildlife conservation and habitat restoration. His book, Pronghorn: Ecology and Management, is a 903-page masterpiece containing nearly everything that's currently known about his beloved species. Antilocapra americana is the swiftest mammal in North America; it can run faster than 60 miles an hour. Its namesake refuge, the Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge, and its sister refuge just over the border in Nevada, the Sheldon Wildlife Refuge, are classic sagebrush-steppe Great Basin landscapes — perfect pronghorn habitat. "I still belong to the pronghorn family," he replies, his face ruddy in the leaping flames. "I talk to them every day, practically." I first heard about Yoakum when I volunteered to dismantle barbed wire fences with the Oregon Natural Desert Association on nearby Steens Mountain — the first designated "cow-free" wilderness in the United States. We were giving the land back to the pronghorn, without boundaries. In 2010, I traveled to Hart Mountain to meet up with Yoakum; Bill Marlett, the former executive director of the association; Marlett's wife, Terry Gloeckler; their friend Matt Holmes, and Yoakum's friend and colleague Jorge Cancino, a pronghorn biologist from La Paz, Mexico, who studies the endangered Sonoran pronghorn. It's May, and an unexpected snowstorm has dusted the hillsides white, burying our tents at Hot Springs Campground. A frigid wind rips through the valley. At dinnertime, we wrap Yoakum in sleeping bags before a blazing fire, and someone pours him a warming cup of bourbon. I ask Yoakum about his relationship with the pronghorn. "I still belong to the pronghorn family," he replies, his face ruddy in the leaping flames. "I talk to them every day, practically." "What do they tell you?" "They tell me what they like and don't like. They don't like fences. They don't like roads. They don't like railroads. They tell me what they like to eat. They tell me they want lots of water. They don't like to be too close to cattle, because sometimes they get diseases from them. They get diseases from domestic sheep, and they have problems with wild horses that eat the same food they like. The adult doe must provide enough food to maintain her health and
about 6 hours ago
[embed width=820 height=498]http://youtu.be/hR7aAfuAOOQ[/embed] The music in this video makes me burning mad because it implies some kind of heroism on the part of Aymar Navarro. In fact, the Spanish skier escaped this massive avalanche...
[embed width=820 height=498]http://youtu.be/hR7aAfuAOOQ[/embed] The music in this video makes me burning mad because it implies some kind of heroism on the part of Aymar Navarro. In fact, the Spanish skier escaped this massive avalanche in the Pyrenees, filmed during the shooting of a car commercial, only because he deployed an airbag and because he was dumb lucky. Here's another way to view it: Getting caught in an avalanche is like being in a single-car accident. Are you then going to make a video showing the crash and praising your seat belts?
about 13 hours ago
The land between Salt Lake and the Sierra is filled with hundreds of distinct mountain ranges, and McPhee brings to life just how they came to be. Info/Buy
The land between Salt Lake and the Sierra is filled with hundreds of distinct mountain ranges, and McPhee brings to life just how they came to be. Info/Buy
about 13 hours ago
Our world had become connected to the flatlands again, after heroically fast work by our county and state officials to rebuild a road. In that regard, life has become "normal" again. However, regardless of how easy it is to get down to t...
Our world had become connected to the flatlands again, after heroically fast work by our county and state officials to rebuild a road. In that regard, life has become "normal" again. However, regardless of how easy it is to get down to town, my heart is in the mountains. The past week has brought some unexpected tumult to my life due to an illness in my family. I've been stressed out - more
about 21 hours ago
As summer turns to fall, some of us start to get this creeping feeling while trying to squeeze in bike rides after work: We notice that it’s getting dark earlier, day by day, and pretty soon we’re riding the last bit of trail into the pa...
As summer turns to fall, some of us start to get this creeping feeling while trying to squeeze in bike rides after work: We notice that it’s getting dark earlier, day by day, and pretty soon we’re riding the last bit of trail into the parking lot. It is not such a happy time. You have three options: 1. Retire to your garage to wax and tune your skis. 2. Get depressed and start streaming entire seasons of your favorite TV shows so you can watch them when it’s dark outside. 3. Get a better light for your bike. Light & Motion launched the Solite 250 this fall to help with option #3. I tested it on night rides on a couple of familiar trails. At 250 lumens, it’s bright enough to ride reasonably fast downhill on trails that don’t have huge drops. It has 2.5 hours of charge on the high setting, which is enough for a full ride starting in the dark and ending in the dark, covering you before work and after work as we make our way into the short days of winter. On lower settings, of course, it lasts way longer—up to 100 hours on its lowest “reading” setting. I used the bike/helmet mount kit (which Light & Motion sells separately for $15) and found it easy to put on two different helmets. The USB-recharged battery back is surprisingly lightweight (the entire headlamp weighs a little over five ounces), and the headlamp is designed to be used a number of different ways (strap-mounted headlamp, bike-mounted light, helmet-mounted light, handheld flashlight), but it’s fairly bulky for my personal general-use-headlamp needs — backpacking, a just-in-case light for long rock climbing days, trail running. That said, it’s a great light to mount on a helmet or handlebars or keep in my mountain bike pack for late nights and early mornings. It’s much less expensive than super-bright bike lights in the $300-$400 range, and while it won’t get you through all the night laps in a 24-hour race, for the motivated after-work and before-work rider, it’s a good deal. $149 LINK
about 24 hours ago
I had the main part of the ski area to myself, and made several more satisfying runs down steep tree lines that plunged in all directions, aiming always for the more northerly aspects. Though I had never been here, I knew there was more ...
I had the main part of the ski area to myself, and made several more satisfying runs down steep tree lines that plunged in all directions, aiming always for the more northerly aspects. Though I had never been here, I knew there was more out there, up there, an alpine siren taunting from behind billowing curtains. I could wait her out. During a break at a makeshift lodge, I sat by the window, staring deep into the storm as if I were still outside or trying to wrest a different perspective. How much of my life had I spent watching it snow like this? Marveling at the swirl and pulse of flakes against the trees, or watching waves curl from the eaves of an ancient stone building in some distant aerie? Not enough to tire of the enchantment, obviously. I decided I liked windows. They put you out there even when you weren’t. They made snowfalls paintings. And when the storm cleared, as it eventually would, they always framed a diorama of desire. Photo by Garrett Grove. See more at his Facebook page. For more deep snow epicness, check out the Daily Pow channel page.
1 day ago