While cutting lazy circles in the teal waters near ’s Scorpion Anchorage during my second-ever sea-kayaking experience, I made a rookie mistake. “What are some of the most memorable wildlife encounters you’ve had at the park?” I asked , a writer, photographer, and paddler who’s been guiding here for almost 20 years. He didn’t miss a beat. “Well, probably the two encounters I’ve had with great white sharks.”

It’s a testament to the stunning beauty of these islands and the Pacific waters surrounding them that I only ruminated on his response for a moment. The idea of killer sharks existing in a place like this was akin to a villain in a Disney film to me; even they took on an unthreatening feeling. On this perfect spring day, fingers of feather boaĚýand giant bladder kelp swayed beneath my kayak. A squadron of California brown pelicans perched nearby on craggy Scorpion Rock, while peregrine falcons swooped down to ruffle their feathers. Fleshy harbor seals sunbathed on craggyĚýoutcroppings as a bald eagle cruised a thermal above. Beyond it all, the yawning mouths of barnacle-crusted sea caves beckoned like geologic sirens. You better bet I answered the call.

Channel Islands National Park, located off the coast of Southern California, provides visitors countlessĚýpinch-me moments, but despite a fellow touristĚýblurting out that she felt like she was living in a movie, I can assure you that everything here is quite real. Four of the park’s five islands (Anacapa, San Miguel, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Santa Rosa) once existed as a single volcanic landmass that was partially submerged during a post-ice-age period of glacial melt, creating the chain we see today. Over time, the Chumash and Tongva people came to inhabit the islands, and their descendants remain connected to them over 10,000 years later.

Because the islands are isolated from the mainland, nearly 150 of the more than 2,000 species of plants and animals existingĚýacross themĚýare found nowhere else in the world. The most famous of these is the island fox, an adorableĚýfloof that’s roughly the size of a well-fed house cat. I’ve never not seen one on Santa Cruz, where they roam Scorpion Anchorage and the nearby campground looking for discardedĚýsnacks—that is, if the massive (and surprisingly dexterous) ravens don’t get to them first.

When I asked GrahamĚýwhy he’d spent almost two decades of his life connected to this place of tiny foxes and outsizeĚýscenery, he responded that it was because he could experience the land and the ocean as theyĚýonce were—before the 1980 creation of the national park, and before Spanish missionaries arrived in the 16th century and nearly decimated both the landscape and the Chumash and Tongva ways of life. I could tell that the Channel Islands had burrowed deep within his heart,Ěýand I suspect thatĚýafter a visit, you might feel the same.

What You Need to Know Before Visiting

Get your logistical ducks in order. Unlike most national parks, this one is car-free—well, except for the main visitor center, which is located in the harbor area of the park’s gateway town, Ventura, California—so you’ll need to arrive via sea or sky. Most folks cruise over on the ferry (more on this shortly), and I recommend taking the earliest one you can schedule to maximize your island time. It’s not as crucial to strike out early if you’re camping, but you will need to coordinate carefully and book earlyĚýto ensure that campsites and boats are available on the same dates. Weekends fill upĚýquickly for both, especially in the warmer months. And I do recommend camping, especially if you’re visiting the two biggest islands, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, since there’s so much to see.

Pack everything you need—yes, everything. Infrastructure is minimal across the islands. Unlike many other marquee parks, there are no restaurants, hotels, stores, and traffic… which is actually a huge plus. With the exception of the Scorpion Canyon Campground on Santa Cruz andĚýthe Water Canyon Campground on Santa Rosa, there’s also no potable water.ĚýPlan to carry a gallon per dayĚýper person if you’re traveling outside those areas. In addition, visitors should pack plenty of layers, a personal first aid kit, and food for the day. If you forget the latter, or if you want to supplement your stash, the Island Packers ferryĚýsell snacks and libations (including the adult variety) on board.

It’s wild out there. The islands sit on the southern side of the Santa Barbara Channel, and the shortest ferry crossing takes roughly an hour. It can get mighty windy out here, which creates chop, so anyone prone to seasickness might consider popping Dramamine before boarding. If you’re scanning for seabirds or marine life, the bow (or front) of the boat is the place to be—but hang on tight, because it’s a wild (and often wet) ride. Once on shore, the weather varies from island to island, with the outer isles (San Miguel and Santa Rosa) most likely to be hammered by the wind. There’s not a lot of shade available, save for scattered stands that include oaks and rare Torrey pines, so good sun protection is a must. Finally, keep your distance from cliff edges (there are many), which are subject to erosion.

How to Get There

It’s about a 90-minute drive fromĚýLos Angeles InternationalĚýnorthwest to Ventura Harbor, where boats depart for the islands. Alternatively, Ěýoffers service between LAX andĚýthe Four Points by Sheraton hotel, located at the harbor front.

While runs private (and pricey) flights toĚýSanta RosaĚýand San Miguel, most people travel via ferry. Island Packers, the official park concessionaire, runs frequent trips to Santa Cruz and Anacapa year-round (one hour each way)Ěýand to the other three islands spring through fall (roughly three to fourĚýhours each way, depending on conditions). The crew does a fantastic job of whipping up excitement about the national parkĚýand its surrounding waters, and they often have a guest naturalist or ranger on board to answer any questions. In addition, they will often stop for wildlife sightings and may even pilot the boat into Santa Cruz’sĚýPainted Cave, one of the longest sea caves in the world, if you’re in thatĚýarea. During a recent trip, we spotted a pair of humpback whales, along with a colossal pod of dolphins who were in cahoots with the pelicans, staging an elaborate routine to roundĚýup fish for one another. Be sure to drop a few bucks in the tip jar (for the humans) on your return voyage.

Traveling between islands isn’t impossible, but it does require some logistical gymnastics. Island Packers offers occasional service between Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz, but otherwiseĚýyou’re rolling solo. Experienced boaters and kayakers who are equipped with proper safety and navigation gear can island-hop if the weather cooperates, but research landing and camping options ahead of time. There aren’t many,Ěýand with the exception of Scorpion Cove and its nearby campground, few are convenient. It’s also possible to pilot your own craft from the mainland to the islands, although you’ll be traveling across major shipping lanes—not an endeavor for the faint of heart.

WhenĚýIs the Best Time of Year to Visit Channel Islands?

Winter

Come December, it’s not just colder, hovering in the low sixtiesĚýduring the day and the high thirtiesĚýat night, but also stormier, with the likelihood of rain and high winds increasing through March. The upside to a late-winter visit is that the islands practically glow with chlorophyll, and wildflowers add even more color—my favorite is the giant coreopsis, whose daisylike yellow blooms and feathery foliage cluster at the end of twisted, woody branches, giving itĚýa somewhat Seussian appearance. Mid-December also marks the beginning of the annual gray whale migration; scan the channel as you cross to see if you can spot their misty spouts.

Spring

As daytime temperatures rise to the high sixtiesĚýandĚýrain decreases in frequency, the greenery fades. But luckily, flowers continue to dot the landscape, and whales keep on swimming in the vicinity. Come April, seabirds—including western gulls and California brown pelicans—begin nesting in earnest. This is especially obvious on the tiny island of Anacapa, where they usually kick back en masse until mid-August. Plan your visit to this miniĚýchain of three islets for any other time of year, unless you enjoy dodging poop missiles while accompanied by the dulcet tones of incessant squawking.

Summer

This is the most popular time to visit the islands, when air and water temperatures climb to their warmest, in the seventies,Ěýand childrenĚýare out of school.ĚýWeather conditions—and thusĚýocean conditions—are also typically at their calmest, creating excellent underwater visibility for swimmers, snorkelers, and divers. The odds also increase for marine-wildlife sightings, since blue and humpback whales are migrating past the Channel Islands duringĚýtheseĚýmonths.

Fall

Water temperatures reach their peak in early fall, which makes this the best season to take a dip if you’re so inclined. Autumn is also prime time to witness seabirds and elephant seals settling into their nests and rookeries around the park; just remember to give these island residents their privacy. By October, the infamous Santa Ana winds begin to pick up, blowing hard through January.

Where to Stay near Channel Islands

Campgrounds

A single walk-in campground is available on each of the islands, with the exception of Santa Cruz, which has two. To reach them, plan to hike anywhere from a quarter-mile to a full mile (and up a steep flight of stairs on Anacapa) with your gear. Reservations are required and can be made up to six months in advance via ($15). It’s also possible to reserve space on several of Santa Rosa’s remote beaches from mid-August to December ($10). No matter where you intendĚýto snooze, book your ferry ticket first, since those get snapped up quickly.

Hotels

While there isn’t any brick-and-mortar lodging on the islands, you’ll find a pair of chain hotels at the Ventura harbor, located only a mile from the ferry, with more scattered along the coast. I can vouch for the Ěý(from $170), which features serene landscaped grounds and what I can only describe as a hot-tub terrarium (trust me, that’s a good thing). Closer to downtown and its popular pier, the almostĚýbeachside Ěý(campsites from $59; trailers from $175) features over a dozen quirky vintage trailers for rent, along with even more space to park your own (BYOT, if you will). For a more refined aesthetic, splash out for a stay at one of the two century-old Craftsman-styleĚýcottages at theĚýĚý(from $127), a property built in 1910 that has long hosted Hollywood luminaries and others who appreciate historic architecture (and ocean views).

What to Do While You’re There

Hiking

Santa Cruz (LimuwĚýin the Chumash language) is the park’s most popular destination and its largest at 62,000 acres. Only 24 percentĚýof the island is accessible to visitors, however, since the Nature Conservancy manages the remaining acreage. There’s still too much to see in a day (or even two), so spend a night if you can. My favorite day hike is the 7.5-mile roundĚýtrip from Scorpion Anchorage to Smuggler’s Cove, climbing to the fox-filled grasslands atop the island before dropping down to a pebble-strewn beach littered with tide pools. On the north side of the island, it’s only a five-mileĚýroundĚýtrip to score an eagle’s-eye view of the rugged coastline and brilliant blue waters at Potato Harbor; if you’re short on time, the two-mile Cavern Point Loop keeps you closer to Scorpion Anchorage while still offering a bluff-top vantage. For something less traveled, stroll the 4.5-mile Scorpion Canyon Loop, which serves as prime habitat for the bright blue island scrub jay, a species endemic to Santa Cruz.

The second-largest island, Santa Rosa (Wima), is also flush with trails. It might be tempting to park yourself on the pristine white sands that curl around Bechers Bay near the landing dock, but make time toĚýsoak in the landscape. Day-trippers will be able to complete the 3.5-mile Cherry Canyon Loop, which follows a thin singletrack through its namesake gorge before depositing you atop a bluff with exceptional views of the coastline and rugged interior. If you’re staying longer, extend the route for a total of eight miles to tag 1,298-footĚýBlack Mountain and enjoy the 360-degree panoramas atĚýits summit. From the dock, it’s about 4.5 miles one-way to the mouth of Lobo Canyon, a winding slot of wind- and water-carved sandstone that travels roughly 1.5 miles before spilling out onto what feels like your own private beach.

San Miguel (Tuqan) is the park’s westernmost island, which means it’s susceptible to the gnarliest weather; windbreakers are all but mandatory. Due to possible unexploded ordinance (the Navy once committed the sacrilege of holding bombing practice here), unaccompanied visitors are restricted to a relatively small chunk of island’s northeastern quadrant near the ranger station. That’s why it’s worth it to call ahead andĚýensure that a ranger is available to guide the 16-mile out-and-back traverse to Point Bennett, where you can gawk at a gaggle of chatty seals and sea lions living their best lives at one of the most densely populated rookeries in the world.

Hiking opportunities are slim on tiny Anacapa (Anyapax) and Santa Barbara (Siwot). On the former, a 1.5-mile roundĚýtrip drops you at Instagram-worthy Inspiration Point, while a 2.5-mile out-and-back to Elephant Seal Cove on the latter treats you to a sweeping view of its namesake pinnipeds in beachy repose.

Backpacking

Limited campsites and potable water make backpacking a little tricky. On Santa Rosa, reserve a backcountry beach-camping permit, then strike out from the dock to hike 12.4 miles along the unpaved former ranch road that traces Water Canyon before reaching prime spots near the mouth of La Jolla Vieja Canyon. Dispersed camping is available along the beach; be sure to pitch your tent above the high-water mark. On Santa Cruz, book a spot at the remote, oak-dappled Del Norte backcountry camp. This lofty perch, with only four designated sites, is a short 3.5 miles from Prisoner’s Harbor, but it feels more deliciously remote if you use it as a waypoint during a 24-mile loop from Scorpion Anchorage.

Kayaking

Listen, ±ő’m a hiker throughĚýandĚýthrough, but the best experience I’ve ever had at the park was sea-kayaking near Scorpion Anchorage. Unless you’re an experienced paddler, book a tour through Ěý(from $118), which provides knowledgeable guides like Graham, along with all the equipment you’ll need for a few hours or a halfĚýday on the water. If you are already one with the ocean, rent a kayak from Ěý(from $12.50 per hour) at least one day before your trip, or bring your own (contact Island Packers to make sure they have room on board; kayak transport isĚý$20 to $28 on top of your ferry-ticket price, depending on its size). Scorpion Anchorage features the friendliest waters, followed by Anacapa, where you’ll find incredible tide pools at isolated Frenchy’s Cove. Due to their more unpredictable weather and waters, touring the outer islands is only recommended for the most experienced paddlers.

Snorkeling and Diving

Roughly half of Channel Islands National Park is underwater, with its boundary stretching a nautical mile out from shore;Ěýa zone six nautical miles beyond that is protected as a national marine sanctuary. This makes the park’s waters an extraordinary place to view marine life. Channel Islands şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Company also leads beginner-friendly snorkel tours at Scorpion Anchorage, where you’ll marvel at sunlit kelp forests brimming with sea life, including the neon orange garibaldi, California’s state marine fish. Experienced snorkelers and divers will also enjoy the biodiversity in the waters surrounding Anacapa and Santa Barbara Islands. Wetsuits are recommended year-round. Snorkeling gear rentals are available viaĚýChannel Islands şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Company (reserve equipmentĚýbefore arriving on the island); divers can rent their gearĚýback on the mainland at , located in the harbor.

The Best Places to Eat and Drink Around Ventura

Nearly every time IĚýtakeĚýan early ferry to the islands, I make a quick pit stop at the , justĚýa short walkĚýfrom the Island Packers office. ItĚýserves a thick-as-your-arm Hawaiian-inspired burrito stuffed with pineapple and Spam. And ask about its lunch boxes to go. After your return, linger awhile at the harbor to replenish your carb stash at (start with the yuca mojo de ajo), nosh on seafood classics at , or cool off with the frosty Technicolor concoctions dished up at .

Slightly farther afield, even carnivores will find plentyĚýto sink their teeth into at the punk-inspired , which serves up hearty, meatless riffs on all-American classics. Opt for theĚýMr. BBQ jackfruit sammy with a side of Nardcorn, a loose-kernel versionĚýon elote. The same unassuming strip mall features the , a brunch joint whose bold claim to “The Best Homemade Chorizo in Ventura” I cannot deny. There’s even more to choose from in the heart of downtown. A local pal of mine is a fan of the curries at , another friend makes a habit ofĚýstopping for a few island potions at , and I personally can’t wait to sample more of the fareĚýat tucked-away , the seafood-heavy California outpost of a Belizean gastropub. For a more casual experience, grab some local craft brews (more on this in a moment) and head to nearby San Buenaventura State Beach, where you can tuck into briny bivalves at theĚý.

If You Have Time for a Detour

Immortalized in song (press play on the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ U.S.A.” if you don’t believe me), Ventura is one of the world’s most iconic surfing locations. Grab your board and head to—wait for it—Surfer’s Point, a popular break near the downtown pier; tamer waters roll inĚýa few minutes up the coast at Mondo’s Beach. Less than 15 miles north of downtown Ventura, , home to the annual Rincon Classic, draws experienced surfers to a trio of good breaks. If you don’t have a board, rent one from the old-timers at , which has been catering toĚýwave hounds since the sixties. If you don’t have the skills, learn from the crew at ;Ěýthey teach groms of all ages.

For a short stroll or run, check out pastoral , which slices through the mountainous foothills perched at the city’s northern edge. For something a little more adventurous, the rugged fans out to the north, with the rising from the Pacific just a half-hour to the southeast. Cyclists will find plenty to enjoy in both of these areas, but there’s also great cruising right in town along several paved routes, including the 12-mile Ventura Pacific Coast Bikeway and the 16.5-mile Ventura River Parkway. Rent your wheels (or schedule a tour) at .

Finally, book an extra night in your hotel (and secureĚýa designated driver) so that you can partake in samples offered byĚýthe region’s many purveyors of adult liquid delights. While the central coast’s famed wine country isn’t all that far away, Ventura is better known for its craft-brew scene, which includes (which keeps several gluten-reduced beers in rotation), (whose Donlon Double IPA snagged a World Beer Cup award in 2018), and brand-new (whose Peelin’ Out incorporates locally grown tangerines). That said, I truly can’t wait until I can once again kick back and sip a dreamy, creamy Tux Nitro Milk Stout in the perfectly chill beer garden at ’s Colt Street headquarters, located just east of the harbor. Save room to visit the tasting room at , a distillery that uses overstock and lessĚýthanĚýperfect produce from area farms (and in the case of its agave spirit, plants that people no longer want in their yards) to conjure up a host of aromatic elixirs. Try itsĚýWilder Gin, which tastes like all of my favorite California plants decided to get boozy together.

How to Be Conscious

There are no trash receptacles anywhere on the islands, so pack out everything you brought along for the adventure, including fruit peels and pits. I carry a reusable zip-top bag along for this purpose, just as I do when traveling anywhere in the backcountry.

Wildlife is one of the major draws of a visit to the Channel Islands, and it’s important to give our furry, finned, and feathery friends ample space to live their lives in peace while we gawk in wonder. This is especially important when seabirds and pinnipeds are caring for their young, which is why beach camping is not allowed on Santa Rosa from January through mid-August. The park suggests giving a 100-yard berth to any nesting or pupping wildlife, since our presence can spook away the parent, leaving their eggs or young unattended and vulnerable. For this same reason, tamper your squeals of joy and avoid shining lights if you enter sea caves while kayaking, since animals enjoy cozying up inside.

You can also protect the park’s wildlife by storing food in critter-proof containers, such as hard-sided coolers or the lockers provided at campsites and picnic tables. The ravens, mice, and foxes here are bold and skilled, especially on heavily touristed Santa Cruz, where they’ve evolved to learn how to open (and close—so stealthy!) zippers. GrahamĚýshared that a cunning avian thief once swiped his car keys, which he later discovered dangling from a dock halfway around the island.

The post The Ultimate Channel Islands National Park Travel Guide appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

“The problem with giant tortoises is that they really love my papayas,” said David SolĂ­s as he looked past me towardĚýhis orchard, shifting his weight to get a better look in case one of the mega-reptiles was helping itself to lunch at that very moment.Ěý

It was OctoberĚý2020,Ěýand we were standing on SolĂ­s’s farmstead outside the tourist center of Puerto Ayora, on the GalápagosĚýIsland of Santa Cruz. Clouds were rolling down from volcanic peaks above; below, only a few Ecuadorean visitors wandered around town. Earlier in the year, in March, as the virus caused havoc on mainland Ecuador, the islands went into strict lockdown.ĚýWhen theyĚýofficially at the start of July, fewĚýactually made the journey in the months to follow. Around 300,000 visitors had been expected in 2020, though by year’s endĚýjust 75,519 had been registered. With around of the islands’ $800 million annual income coming from tourism, their absence was a disaster.Ěý

Yet, for SolĂ­s, things didn’t seem exactly catastrophic—throughout 2020, cash had lost a lot of its power on the islands, and farmers like him, able to provide for themselves and their communities, felt newly enriched. “When I was younger, we traded everything and money wasn’t so important,” he said as we walked past his papaya trees. Farther up the slope, he grew sugarcane, while neighboring farms specializedĚýin coffee. “We’ve gone back to that now, and I have more time for everything,” he said. “Before, I felt like I was running to make money, so maybe I prefer things to stay like this.”

While individual mayors oversee the archipelago’s five inhabited islands, various local government departments—from public health to tourism to environment—are in charge of protecting and managing some 97 percent of the islands’ land as the , as well as the Galapagos Marine Reserve that encircles the islands. With so many involved parties, even without input from the central government in the capital of Quito, the islands can be a Frankensteinian monster of bureaucracy. As traffic and then goods started to slow from the continent, Galápageños turned to each other and a simpler way of life to take care of themselves.Ěý

During the strict 11-week lockdown that began in March, the majority of the 30,000 residents entered into a barter system. Fruit was traded for meat; milk for English lessons. Clothes were handed down,Ěýnot just within families but through the community. At one point, SolĂ­s swapped 50 oranges for some dental work. Elsewhere, Brett and Maria Peters, the affable owners of Galápagos Deli in Puerto Ayora, traded produce they couldn’t use in their restaurant for houseplants to decorate their new home. Nature guide Lola Villacreses, realizing she wasn’t going to be aboard any cruise ships for the foreseeable future, did a crash course online and began growing fruits and vegetables on her smallholding in the fertile Santa Cruz Highlands. During my two-month stay, whenever I bumped into her around Puerto Ayora, she gave me a bucket of tomatoes.Ěý

“Things have been changing very fast. All the money used to be in the town,” said Matias Espinosa, a dive master and naturalist on Santa Cruz whose businesses had been crippled by the pandemic. “Covid froze all our enterprise. Instead, we have this trading now, so these farmers are the kings of the island.”

Cash wasn’t abandoned entirely—even during the strictest lockdown measures from March to June, locals had to use it to pay for fuel for fishing boats that brought in catch on behalf of the community (there was no shortage of fuel, due to an excess created from the lack of ship, taxi, and tour bus usage), among other transactions. Upon returning, the day’s bounty was announced over megaphones, and fish that would ordinarily be exported to Miami at great expense was taken door to door and simply given away, with the understanding that the fisherman and their families would be taken care of with other goods and services in return.Ěý

At times, I thought this sounded Edenic: travesty bonding a community at the very edge of the world, allowing them to eschew money in favor of organic trade and kindness. Inevitably, it was more complicated than that. Many shops and restaurants around Puerto Ayora had been shuttered, and there was no respite from crippling interest on business loans. Of the fleet of around 100 tourist boats and ships that would ordinarily cruise the islands, just three were in service when I visited. Owners were concerned that if tourist dollars didn’t return and revive at least some of these businesses, things would grow desperate and residents may have to resort to fishing in sanctioned areas or hunting endemic species, both of which were common practice before tourism spurred conservation designations in the late 1960s.Ěý

“The Galápagos has shown that tourism can directly support conservation,” said Espinosa, who had spent years training divers on Isabela Island to become nature guides. Before, some of those divers made a living by scouring the ocean floor for sea cucumber and lobster to sell to Chinese exporters. He felt as though the eyes of the world were watching to see how the islands managed ecology and tourism, especially in the COVID-19 era. While the pandemic has forced the islands to adapt in some ways, the longer-term effects remain unclear as the government focuses on its immediate financial crises. But Espinosa has hope that this period will have a lingering effect, at least in the way it’s proven how adaptable the islands and its people are. “I think we need to go back to Mister Charles Darwin,” said Espinosa, referring to the British scientist, whose theories on evolution were partly formed by a five-week visit to the Galápagos in 1835. “The tourism industry needs its own kind of Darwinism. How can we shrink and survive and reset?”

Two hours west from Santa Cruz via a bumpy speedboat ride is Isabela, the largest and wildest of the Galpagos Islands. Comprising five volcanoes fused together by eruptions and time, Isabela is the most remote of the archipelago’s islands; west of it is nothing but the Pacific OceanĚýuntil you hit the Papuan island of Biak, while heading south will eventually get you to Antarctica’s Ross Ice Shelf.Ěý

Despite having more land massĚýthan all the other islands combined, Isabela is home to just 2,200 people, who inhabit a tiny sliver between the volcanoes and sea. It’s also the only stretch of land in the Galápagos not designated as a national park. Consequently, it doesn’t have much infrastructure. Even in an ordinary year, the rudimentary airstrip took only a few light aircraft from other islands, but in 2020, it had barely been used. San Cristobal, home to the islands’ largest medical facility and its only ventilators, is at least four hours away by boat. This remoteness was often sold as Isabela’s great appeal—the end of the line, away from the mass tourism on Santa Cruz—but COVID-19 rendered that wildness a potentially fatal liability for tourists and residents alike.

When I met guide Pablo Valladares by the island’s main dock, Isabela had only just opened up to outsiders. Valladares, who leads hiking and nature tours across the island, explained that I was his first guest since February, and that after our days together in late October, he didn’t have anything else booked for the rest of 2020.Ěý

Valladares’s availability was unheard of—the last time Sir David Attenborough and his BBC crew came to Isabela, he was their local fixer. His day rate was high, his availability low, and then the world shut down. For several months, he’d been spending his time surfing and tending to a small farm, grateful he had some savings. It wasn’t ideal, but he was nonetheless relieved to have been able to make ends meet.Ěý

The previous spring, Valladares had been on a trip of his own, to Nicaragua’s Corn Islands, when the pandemic broke and heĚýfound himself in a frantic dash home to beat Ecuador’s national lockdown. With his wife and son, Valladares made it as far as his sister’s apartment in the plague-ridden city of Guayaquil before the planes stopped. After a grueling three-month lockdown there, the family returned to Isabela, where they quarantined. On arriving, Valladares found that his neighbor had dropped off a basket of fruit from his garden. These care packages continued to arrive every day until he could finally cross the street and shake the man’s hand. He repaid this debt by teaching the neighbor’sĚýson how to surf.

As of March 2021, Santa Cruz has seen a slight improvement in tourist numbers, reducing its dependency on bartering. Though many local businesses remain closed, supply lines from the mainland are no longer an issue, and with the arrival of vaccines, hope for more of a revival later this year is growing. The same cannot be said on remote Isabela, where the reliance on trading has continued in lieu of visitor dollars.ĚýThe internet connection on the island is notoriously unreliable, but there is enough bandwidth to coordinate through a huge and sometimes unruly WhatsApp group of 256 members, the maximum allowed by the app.

Valladares explained that this ramshackle marketplace was also being supplemented by hunting feral animals. In the 1800s, buccaneers brought animals like pigs, goats, donkeys, and cattle to the islands, where they quickly broke loose, settled, and started causing havoc for endemic species, trampling on bird nests, eating young tortoises, and spreading seeds of invasive flora.Ěý

For decades, the progeny of these original invaders have been reduced, though they still inhabitĚýthe park and roaming freely on Isabela. At the start of the pandemic, residents revived a form of hunting, heading out of town on horseback and returning with feral cattle or pigs.Ěý

“Hunting has been happening on the Galápagos since the first settlers were here,” Valladares told me the following day as we hiked towardĚýthe Sierra Negra volcano, a blasted, blackened peak that rises above Puerto Villamil, the only real settlement on Isabela. “Of course, back then they were going after the giant tortoises, too, but it wasn’t really a hunt, more like a collection.”

With more wild mammalsĚýabundant, no one seriously looks at the reptiles in that light anymore. Besides, tourists are unlikely to come back if the locals are eating the emblem of the islands, Valladares added. In any case, he expects it will take at least two years for tourism to fully recover here. In the meantime, trading among the islanders will need to continue. “We have to adapt,” he said. “It’s one of the golden rules here on Galápagos.”

The post How the Galápagos Adapted to the Pandemic appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

In the early-morning hours ofĚýSunday, August 16,Ěýa thunderstorm unleashed more than 12,000 dry lightning strikes across central and Northern California. These strikes caused dozens of fires from Santa Cruz to Half Moon Bay, a forested, mountainous expanse, and came to be known as the . At press time, thisĚýfireĚýhad consumed more than 85,000 acres and destroyed nearlyĚý1,500 structures. Justin Robinson, 44, a lifelong resident of Bonny Doon, an unincorporated community in the hillsĚýabove Santa Cruz, got an order to evacuate on Tuesday, August 18. Robinson operates his family’s well-service business and maintains the water systems on nearly every local property. Knowing he had intimate familiarityĚýof the local terrain, and that the California Department of Forestry and Fire ProtectionĚý(Cal Fire) was understaffed, Robinson defied the evacuation notice and stayed to protect the homes in his community. The following is a firsthandĚýaccount of his experience, as told to his friend, Dain Zaffke.

The morning after we were evacuated, I left my wife, Jenny, and our two daughters, who areĚý15 and 17,Ěýin Santa Cruz and went back to my house in Bonny Doon with my friendĚýJosh. The first thing I did was get on my dirt bike and ride out to the highest point. I was the first one in my area to get eyes on the fire. That’s when I saw how slowly it was moving—it was just creeping through the forest. (Later we’d learn that it was moving at about a foot an hour.)ĚýI jammed back and said to Josh, “Dude, we can save our neighbors’ houses.”

I know my woods better than anyone. I was born on that mountain, and I’ve spent most of my 44 years riding these trails on my mountain bike and my dirt bike, trail-running, and exploring with my wife and daughters. As a mountain-bikeĚýtrail builder and rider, I have an intimate knowledge of the contours of the forest, of each ridge and each drainage. Managing the area’s well service, I alsoĚýknow most of the properties and their water sources. Although I don’t have any history fighting fires, I had a pretty good idea right away on how we could divert this slow-moving fire.

Initially there were just four of us with hand tools (chainsaws, shovels, and mcleods) cuttingĚýsix-foot-wide fire breaks—clearing leaves and vegetation down to bare dirt. By midafternoon we had neighbors’ bulldozers and tractors, and over the next few days our little brigade grew to 20 people. Right away we could see that what we were doing was working; the fire was burning right up to the line that we cut, then it followed our line down the canyon instead of engulfing the homes.

Many residents up here don’t have fire insurance. After Napa’s Tubbs fire in 2017, insurance companies started dropping us. That was a big part of why we wanted to defend our side of the mountain. And with the size of this CZU Lightning Complex fire, not to mention the other fires burning across Northern California, we knew Cal Fire was really understaffed. We were on our own without any Cal Fire support until the fourth day, with one exception: toward the end of the second day, two Cal Fire battalion chiefs came out with two Santa Cruz County sheriff’s deputies. Cal Fire drove up in a pickup truck with no equipment—they were just there to tell us to leave. We showed them the progress we’d made, and they were like, “That’s cool, but you have to get out of here.” The two sheriffs were more supportive. Although one of the majorĚýproblems theyĚýhaveĚýto deal with is rescuing people who refuseĚýto evacuate,Ěýunder their breath they thanked us for saving these homes. Right in the middle of this exchange, their radios started blowing up about Feather Lane (about 7.5 miles away)Ěýbeing at risk. One sheriff burst into tears. She was like, “That’s where I live, I have to go!”

I was on the phone and texting with Jenny and my daughters throughout each day. I made it clear that we’d get out of there the first moment we felt like we were in danger. We kept getting reports from friends in town that were almost always erroneous. It was like the social-media and satellite images that people were obsessed with were completely off. With every warning, I’d get on the dirt bike and checkĚýon the fire. We spent a ton of time doing that—going out to check new areas after getting reports from town. I think it was crucial that we had three dirt bikes and spottersĚýconstantly. We couldn’tĚýget proper information unless we saw it ourselves.

There were certainly scary moments. The closest we got to losing a home was my neighbor John Peck’s house. The fire had made its way into the steep canyon below. We’d built a fire line the day before and went back to check it at 6 A.M. We saw 300-foot flames in the redwood canopy and thought, Oh, this place is gone.ĚýBut somehow the structure wasn’t catching on fire. Then his propane tank ignited. It was a 40-to-50-foot flame that burned about 20 feet wide for an hour and a half straight, until the whole 500-gallon propane tank was done. He had a cinder-block wall around the tank, so the heat wasn’t blowing toward his house, but the eaves of the roof caught on fire in the last five minutes before the tank stopped burning. We had a water truck on it by that point, so as soon as it went out, we hit the eaves with water and saved the house. It was so hot that his vinyl windows melted, but the structure didn’t burn. It was incredible.

To be honest, there was something addicting about fighting this fire. There’s so much adrenaline, so much of an endorphin rush. I was completely in the moment for six days straight. I was digging fire breaks, dropping trees and bucking them up, snuffing out spot fires, and every couple of hours scouting on my dirt bike. I spent so much time wearing my Dakine BuilderĚýbackpack—loaded withĚýmy electric chainsaw, two extra batteries, and my CamelBak bladder—that my shoulders are still raw. I got rocked by 20 yellow jackets in my pants, I burned my hands from grabbing hot things. But there was no slowing down. I didn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time, and I didn’t need an alarm to get up.

There were definitely spiritual moments. Being in the redwoods and watching them burn, it’s amazing how peaceful it could be at times. It was like the forest was saying thank you. The destruction is devastating, but the cleansing has its place. And it can be mesmerizing. When the chinquapin trees burn, they sound like jet engines taking off. It’s so incredibly loud for 10 to 15 seconds, and then the trees are still standing, but they’re just skeletons. We watched about 30 of these go up, one after another. A couple of them had paper wasps’ nests in them, so the tree would flare up and burn out, and all that would be left were these little fireballs with the wasp nests burning.

The butterflies were the craziest and most surreal experience. They were just coming out of the forest, leading the fire. They’d land on me, land on my tools, like they just wanted to be around humans. That must have happened a hundredĚýtimes.

On day four, Cal Fire sent in a crew. It seemed like they finally had confidence that our area was worth defending. The guy in charge of the whole fire—of everybody and all operations—came up and showed us maps. My house was always outside the fire line, but one area we likely saved was surrounded on three sides. He said, “Well, I can see that you guys have created an island in this fire, and we’re here to help you protect it.” Another fire captain saw our fire break down into the canyon and said, “Who the fuck cut that fire line?” Josh pointed at me, and the captain said, “That guy just taught a fucking clinic on how to cut a fire line on a steep hillside!” But I didn’t know what I was doing. I went in there first to drag the line and scratch in the fire break, but I had friends helping me buff it out: Alex Werk, Kalen Waterman (a San Francisco city firefighter), my neighbor Kaethe Hostetter. Side note on Kaethe: She lives and works in clogs,Ěýthese super nice, German leather clogs. She was on this steep hillside in her clogs, wailing away on the fire line.

We had a few old-timers, guys in their seventies—a classic carpenter, an arborist, and a Vietnam vet—and these guys just wouldn’t back down. We also had help from my friend Nick Weighall, who actually works for Cal FireĚýbut took time off from fighting the fire in San JoseĚýto work off the clock with us in Bonny Doon. The people here are just hearty and skilled in so many ways, with tractors, chainsaws, grading, knowing flora and fauna. We really tried to be conscious of our environment. We have Santa Cruz cypress trees, they’re federally endangered trees that only grow right here. So we made our fire breaks around these big old cypresses because we wanted to save them.

It was gratifying when we earned the respect of the Cal Fire crews. I actually just saw both sheriff’s deputies again today, six days after the fire started, and they were just beaming, so stoked that both of their homes survived. We literally cut a fire line around one of the sheriff’s homes. He was like, “You guys were awesome.”

±ő’m sure there will be some people who blame Cal Fire or threaten lawsuits. But there were so many fires across California, their hands were tied. They just didn’t have enough personnel. ±ő’m certain, without question, that some of our other neighbors would not have homes if we weren’t there. ±ő’m not trying to make it sound heroic, our neighborhood is just a small part of the Bonny Doon community. I know others who did similar things to save their homes and neighbors’ homes, and unfortunately, I know a number of people who lost everything.

But I would never encourage others to do what I did.ĚýIt was so circumstantial. For one, the fire that approached my side of Bonny Doon was very different from the fire that leveled the homes on Braemoor Drive, about tenĚýmiles north. That was a firestorm; our fire was moving slowly and relatively easy to contain.ĚýWe also had a lot of luck, favorable weather, a capable crew, access to equipment, multiple escape routes, and an intimate knowledge of the terrain. That’s how we were able to defend the 25 homes in our neighborhood.

The post How We Saved Our Neighborhood from a Wildfire appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

AtĚýpress time, the trails and restaurants listed here were open, the latter for to-go orders. To check forĚýsafety protocols and news about openings and closings, visitĚýthe websites linked below.

Kate Courtney and mountain biking were born in the same place: Marin County, California. Courtney grew up riding the trails around Mount Tamalpais, where the sport literally got its start. In the 1970s, Gary Fisher,ĚýOtis Guy, Charlie Kelly, and Joe Breeze started the scene there.ĚýCourtney, 24, now lives near Palo Alto, but the trails around the North Bay areĚýstill some of her favorite places to train. Here, sheĚýcan ride year-round on endless miles of purpose-built trails with ample variety ofĚýups, downs, and cross-country routes. All that variability helped Courtney nab the 2019 UCI Mountain Bike World Cup overall title in cross-country and secured her a spot on the U.S. Olympic mountain bike team. We asked for her favorite places to ride in her home state—plus,ĚýintelĚýon : where to pick up post-ride tacos to-go.

Emma McCrary Trail
Santa Cruz, California

Why Go: Courtney likes Santa Cruz’s because it’s an ideal spot to work on skills. The trail can be challenging if you’re pushing the pace, but it’s also mellow enough for newbie riders. “Plus, there’s a great mountain bike community here,” she says.

Need to Know: Thanks to shade from the forest, it’sĚýnever too hot in this area, even in midsummer. “I usually combine riding this trailĚýwith time at the beach. There’sĚýan iconic surf spot at Steamer Lane, and it’s always fun to watch the surfers,” Courtney says.

What to Ride: The trail is a short, mellow out-and-back route, butĚýyou can connect to other trails to make itĚýa longer ride. It’s part of the multiuse trail system off Santa Cruz’s Golf Club Drive. The trail system is a good spot if you’re just getting into mountain biking and wantĚýsomething a little tamer than some of the area’s more technical rides.

After the Ride: “I go to in Santa Cruz for tacos,” Courtney says. “It’s close to the trailhead, then you can ride right to the ocean. GetĚýyour burrito and go eat it on the beach.”

Downieville Downhill
Downieville, California

Why Go: “This is one of the most fun and iconic trail networks in Northern California,” Courtney says. The 14-mile descent from the Pacific Crest TrailĚýdrops nearly 5,000 feet into the old gold-mining town of Downieville, but this remote area also has plenty of other rides, stellar camping, and stunning lakes and rivers.

Need to Know: This is the High Sierra, with deep midwinter snowfall that doesn’t melt out until July some years.ĚýVisit in mid- to late summer or early fall. “If you go in the summer, a river jump in the North Fork of the Yuba is absolutely necessary afterward,” Courtney says.

What to Ride: In Downieville, it’s all about the . The trail, a long descent with a few technical sections, requires a shuttle to get to. (If you can’t set one up yourself, book one at .)ĚýFor a nearbyĚýday trip, head to Quincy, where the Sierra Buttes Trail Stewardship has done an incredible job building trails. “TheĚý is a long, flowing singletrack that’s relatively smooth, scenic, and so much fun,” Courtney says.

After the Ride:ĚýDownieville doesn’t have a ton in the way of food offerings, but it does have tacos. Courtney’s pick? , which is currentlyĚýoffering takeoutĚýand is cash only.

Camp Tamarancho
Fairfax, California

Why Go: Camp Tamarancho is a well-maintained bike park with looping singletrack for nearly all abilities. You’ll find mellow, wide trails for newbies and, according to Courtney, one of the Bay Area’s finest downhill flow trails, the .Ěý“It’s really well built and super fun,” Courtney says. “AĚýlot of trails that used to be challenging when I was younger are now really fun for me to return to.”

Need to Know: The year-round bike park is located on private property operated by the Marin Council of the Boy Scouts of America. You’ll need a $5 day pass, or grab an annual pass for $45—either can be purchased or at Sunshine Bicycles in downtown Fairfax.

What to Ride: The main route here is anĚý, the majority of which is on singletrack, with a few connecting fire roads and about 1,400 feet of climbing. “The main loop is about an hour-long ride, but there are a lot of options to extend,” Courtney says. “For me, it’s usually the start or end of my ride.” There’s no parking at the trailhead, so ride to it from downtown Fairfax, about a mile and a half away.

After the Ride: Courtney likes the tacos at or , both in Fairfax and currently takeout only. In normal times, she’ll grabĚýa post-ride beer from the , a biker-friendly beer hall in Fairfax with racks to hang your bike on the interior walls, and stop by theĚý, located in town. “My bike and jersey from Worlds are there,” she says.

Skeggs Point
Woodside, California

Why Go: There are a few different loop trails in , also known as Skeggs Point, a 2,906-acre open space outside the small town of Woodside, just 30 miles south of San Francisco. Come for the 35 miles of multiuse trails, panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean, and old-growth redwoods. “There are good options for technical descending and climbing,” Courtney says. “It’s somewhere I train a good amount.”

Need to Know: Private property borders the park, and the only way to legally access this zone is via the parking areas off Skyline Boulevard. You can ride here year-round.

What to Ride: Courtney loves the Manzanita Trail, which you can link with Giant Salamander for a . For a longer option, ride , an 18-mile loop with a lot of climbing and long, flowy downhills.

After the Ride: “ is a great place for breakfast,” Courtney says. The eatery is currently open with limited outdoor seating.Ěý“It’s a cool old moto place.”

Tahoe Rim Trail
North Lake Tahoe, California

Why Go: “The Tahoe Rim Trail is one of the most beautiful places to ride and can be made into a very epic adventure on a bike,” says Courtney, who has done some altitude training in the Tahoe area during a few of her racing seasons.

Need to Know: Not all sections of the 165-mile trail are open to mountain bikers, so be sure to read the for the part you’re interested in before you go. TheĚýtrail leading from the top of Mount Rose, for example, is only open to bikers on even-numbered calendar days.

What to Ride: One of the area’s most classic rides is the 25-mile route from the Tahoe Meadows trailhead on Mount Rose to the Flume Trail, which has outstanding views of Lake Tahoe. But there are plenty of other great runs, including the 20-mile route from or, for newer riders, the .

After the Ride: looks like a hole-in-the-wall behind a 7-Eleven in nearby Truckee, but the place has the best tacos around—and it’s Courtney’s favorite in the area.

The post Kate Courtney’s Guide to Mountain Biking in NorCal appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Danny MacAskill is a wizard on wheels. He hops on, off, and between rooftops and walls, railings and rocks, benches and phone booths—you name it—with comical ease. While the 33-year-old Scotsman is known for his mind-blowing street-trials feats, he still finds time to hammer singletrack.

Born in Dunvegan, on the Isle of Skye,ĚýMacAskill hasĚýbeen riding bikes nearly his entire lifeĚýbut only came to fame at age 23,Ěýwhen he uploaded aĚý to YouTubeĚýthatĚýwent viral. He’s since starred in numerous films, such as ,Ěý,Ěýand ,Ěýwhich have all garnered tens of millions of onlineĚýviews apiece. His latest project:Ěý.

From a once submerged town in Argentina to theĚý in Beverly Hills, California, MacAskill’s ridden and been filmed across the globe. And yetĚýhe still calls home, Scotland, his all-time favorite place to ride. “We’re very lucky, almost spoiled, to have so many trails on our doorstep,” he says.

When MacAskill trades pavement for dirt, here’s where you areĚýlikely toĚýfind him.

Davos,ĚýSwitzerland

“ is a famous ski town, but it’s developed an amazingĚý. It’s got a real good mix of everythingĚýandĚýfast, flowyĚýfun stuff.”

“All the hills there are pretty open. You feel like you’re in proper high Alpine. There’s beautiful ridgeline ridingĚýand fairly tight singletrack. AsĚýyou getĚýlower down, it becomes a bit more bermy, which is really fun to ride with friends—stuff you can race onĚýand try to undertake each other on at the corners. It’s all really good.”

“Because it’s a ski town, there’s great infrastructure, great hotels, and good food. There’s a goodĚý as well that’s right by the [Platz] train station. They’ll look after you. I’ve stayed at theĚý in the heart of town, which doesn’t necessarily haveĚýlocal flavor, but for me, it was something different, and it’sĚýnear the trails. I had a really good time there.”

Morzine, French Alps

“This is the go-to place in the Alps for downhill-orientated mountain bikers. The greater area between Morzine, Les Gets, and Châtel has an insane network of trails and chairlift access. It’s known for its pure downhill trails, like up on Super Morzine and Les Gets, but it’s not all gravity oriented. There’s a bit of everything. You can take the lift up and traverse, and there are cool enduro loops you can do there as well, so it’s definitely got it all. You can ride there for a week and not touch the same trail.”

“Morzine’s got quite good nightlife. The town is proper busy with mountain bikers—not quite as busy as it would be in the ski seasonĚýbut enough to give it a Whistler sort-of vibe. I recommendĚý, which is a bit legendary for its strong beer, called MĂĽtzig. A few pints of thatĚýmakes for anĚýinteresting ride home.”

Aviemore, Cairngorms National Park, Scottish Highlands

“±ő’m biased, because it’s home and where I ride the most, but I have to include Scotland. Scotland’s got a booming bike scene—it’s something the government has embraced for locals as well as tourists. Aviemore, about two and a half hours north ofĚý, is a hub right in the center of the Highlands, with easy access to the Cairngorms, one of our coolest national parks, which is a stunning placeĚýwith amazing trails, beautiful lochs, and Cairngorm Mountain.”

“I lived inĚý for a few years after I left school, and worked in a bike shop. Really recommend it. If you’re looking for a good bike shop there, there’s a place calledĚý. They do repairs, sell coffee, and give good trail recommendations as well.”

Torridon Hills, Scottish Highlands

“If you want something a bit wild, and maybe fancy bikepacking, go up into the Torridon Hills, on the northwest coast of Scotland. The landscape is very beautiful, open, and raw. It’s all heather, bog, and rock. That’s what I consider the best kind of mountain biking—where you feel like you’re the only person around. But it’s properĚýrural Scotland. You definitely have to make sure you have a hip flask of whisky on you. I recommend it.”

“There are some really cool loops through the mountains with bothies along the route, which are small mountain huts that are free to use. The descents are amazing—we’re talking 25-minute singletrack descents.Ěý is a notable one. It has a lot of stone, so wear tubeless tires and you canĚýhammer down it. We also have the freedom to roam in Scotland, so if you see a hill, you can bike it within reasonĚýas long as you’re being respectful. If you’re prepared to stick a bike on your back, then you can hike up to the top of some pretty spectacular sceneryĚýand get some amazing rewards with the descents.”

“Honestly, it will be some of the coolest biking you ever do. It’s proper adventure stuff. Scotland’s not famous for its incredible weather, so it’s best to pack for all four seasonsĚýin one day. But when you do get nice weather here, I don’t think there’s manyĚýbetter places.”

Santa Cruz, California

“For meĚýit’s quite a novelty getting to ride between the giant redwood trees. I feel like ±ő’m an Ewok in Star Wars. There’s so much space compared to the tighter stuff we have here in Scotland. And the trails around Santa Cruz are amazing—loamy, fast, jumpy, and just good fun. The whole network flows really well.”

“There’s loads of stuff to ride in the area, but I couldn’t tell you any specific trail names, because there just seems to be so manyĚýand new bits popping up all the time. I’ve ridden there probably six or seven times, and we’re always going on new trails. I never know where ±ő’m going anyway.”

“The scene is awesome. It seems like every local rips, and it’s easy to join up with different folks when you’re out. I always have a good time there—±ő’m talking about some of the best times I’ve had on a bike. The nightlife’s great as well. Loads of good places to eat.Ěý is always a good laugh, or some of the dive bars around the place. There’s also good surfingĚýif you’re into that. It never gets too hot in the summer. It’s a very hospitable climate, even for a Scotsman.”

The post Danny MacAskill’s Favorite Mountain-Biking Destinations appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Few serious climbers are lucky enough to go pro and make a comfortable living from sponsorships. The majority string together side jobs that barely cover rent but allow them to climb when they please. Then there are climbers like Eric “Rudy” Ruderman, who discovered the secret to building a career is to get more creative with what you climb.

Ruderman grew up surfing in Long Island, New York, and discovered climbing in his late twenties after moving to California, where he earned a BA at San Jose State University with an emphasis in photography. “I spent way too much time in the darkroom,” he says. “After I graduated, all I wanted to do was be outside.” After graduating, in 2004, Ruderman took his first belay class with a girl he was dating. The relationship didn’t last, but the climbing did. Ruderman started hitting the gym five days a week.

Then he discovered Yosemite. “I didn’t think anything could take me away from the ocean, but then I got into climbing and realized mecca was four hours away,” Ruderman says. “I needed to live there but didn’t want to be your typical dirtbag climber. I wanted to work and participate in the community.”

His solution was to join the Yosemite Search and Rescue crew, which required climbing, rope-rigging experience, and medical knowledge. He got his emergency medical technician and wilderness first responder certifications and volunteered with the organization from 2005 to 2009. The work was seasonal, and if he was lucky, Ruderman could make $12,000 in four months. He liked the lifestyle—climbing in Yosemite half the year, traveling the other half—but he wanted to start making and saving more money.

Ruderman, now 42, heard fellow climbers talking about jobs rigging stages for shows in Las Vegas. He was hired in 2009, just as the recession hit. “I thought, what is the next thing I can do to further progress my desirability to employers?” he says. A friend was teaching a weeklong rope-access technician course in Las Vegas, so Ruderman signed up and obtained his Society of Professional Rope Access Technicians certification, as well as the internationally recognized Industrial Rope Access Trade Association certification. Then he started sending his résumé to wind turbine maintenance companies.

A by the Department of Energy showed wind to be the fastest-growing energy source in the world. Wind energy technician was the in all sectors in 2016, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, and numbers are still expected to double over the next ten years. Wind energy technicians do most of their work in the turbine’s nacelle, the area on top of the tower that houses the main controls. But maintenance work on the actual blades, which are open to the elements, is handled by rope-access technicians, who need advanced climbing and rope-rigging skills. As the demand for wind turbines grows, so will the need for people to fix them.

, a wind turbine technician company based in Santa Cruz, California, offered Ruderman a job as gear manager. “This sounds cliché, but I was living out of my van, climbing in Bishop, and thinking about going to Europe when I got the call,” he says. “I thought, God, it would be responsible of me to say yes.” He lasted a year and a half in the office job and then jumped at the opportunity to move into the field to climb and help with repairs and maintenance.

Ruderman says 90 percent of what he fixes is lightning damage. Turbine towers are between 250 and 300 feet tall, on average. Technicians climb a ladder inside the tower and anchor ropes. Then they rappel off the nose cone and secure themselves to the blunt side of the wind turbine blade, taking precautions not to get in the way of the sharp side, which could cut the rope. They’re often working in high winds with power tools. “We’re basically doing construction work at height on ropes,” Ruderman says. “Safety is crucial.” Every job is performed by a team of two or more, with one person usually staying lower down to manipulate the blades and haul up supplies.

Today, after eight years with the company, Ruderman has worked his way up to a supervisor position. The job requires travel and long hours, but Ruderman likes that it also gives him chunks of time off, plus financial security. Work tends to be seasonal, May through October, and a typical job lasts four to five weeks. Companies generally startĚýtechnicians at around $17 an hour, with the possibility of advancing to $35 an hour depending on skills and certifications. “I’ve done the math in my head of what the annual hours would be for a full-time, 40-hour-a-week salary job, with vacation, holidays, and weekends factored in,” he says. “Mine are similar, but I just squeeze them all into a 70-to-80-hour workweek.”

As demand for rope-access technician work increases, more job opportunities can be found off-season, but Ruderman usually prefers taking winters off to travel. Once on a job, the company pays for everything, he says. “When I leave my place in Santa Cruz, my transportation to the airport, flight, rental car, gas, hotel or Airbnb are all taken care of,” he says. “We get a per diem for food and phone and computer usage. ±ő’m able to make money but also save money.”

It’s a good job for a person who wants a stable lifestyle and more outdoors time than desk time. But travel comes with its ups and downs. “Most wind farms are in the Midwest, where it’s super flat with corn and soy as far as the eye can see,” Ruderman says. “There isn’t much rock climbing to be done.” And an erratic travel schedule makes dating challenging, he says. But then there are farms in places like Maui, one of his favorite locations. “When the winds are high and we can’t work, I can go surf,” Ruderman says.

The post Climbers Wanted… on Wind Farms? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Which bike should I buy? It’s a dilemma all riders face. With hundreds of models to choose from and thousands of dollars on the line, how do you settle on the bike that’s right for you? Honestly, without doing what I do for a living—which involves testingĚý100 or so bikes every year—it would be impossible for me to decide.

I’ve long believed that a demo event or bike festival, where you can try out a slew of new bikes, is the best approach. şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř uses a similar system for selecting our top picks and Gear of the Year road and mountain bikes every year, bringing together as many as 80 models and riding them all one after the other. So when my in-laws, Don and Barb, said they were ready to buy something, I suggested we head to Arizona’sĚýĚýand try a bunch of bikes.

If youĚýopt for this route, a few pointers:

1. Do plenty of research in advance. Bikes are in high demand at these events, so you need to be focused.
2. Come withĚýquestions. The folks running the demo booths are some of the most knowledgeable people about their bikes anywhere. Think aboutĚýnitty-gritty details, and don’t be afraid to ask.
3. Avoid testing too many bikes. For one, you’llĚýend up standing in line a lot. More important, even if you manage to ride a dozen or more, you’ll beĚýconfounded by the choices you’re left with.
4. Spend time with each model. We rode two bikes per day, and that seemed about right. It gave usĚýplenty of opportunityĚýfor suspension and fit tweaks and to sample a wide variety of terrain.
5. RideĚýall the bikes on your list beforeĚýyou decide, even if the first one seems perfect. Trying a range of options canĚýopen your eyes to considerations you didn’t realize existed.
6. If you still can’t decide, narrowĚýyour listĚýto the topĚýtwoĚýperformersĚýand follow up with a visit to a bike shop. Sit on them again, test-ride them if possible,Ěýand ask more questions.

Ultimately, the bikes I thought would be right for Don and Barb—either a Spot Mayhem 29 or Santa Cruz Tallboy 29 for Don, based on the angles andĚýprogressive suspension, and a Yeti SB5 Beti or Juliana Joplin 27.5+ for Barb, because of her five-foot-three frame—weren’t what they decided on. In Sedona, they tried all those bikes and more. Here’s a breakdown of their experiences.Ěý Ěý

Spot

I chose the , with 130 millimetersĚýof travel front and rear, as DonĚýand Barb’s introduction to modern bikesĚýbecause I thought the firm suspension and moderate geometry would feel familiar and ease the transition. Barb found the big-wheel fit intimidating, because she was sitting so high, but liked how centered the bike felt. Don wasn’t as keen on it, calling the Mayhem “long and unruly,” though he later allowed that his misgivings had more to do with how he had the bike set upĚýthan with the bike itself. Both loved riding with a dropper post but wrestled with the extra controls and 1x drivetrain.

Yeti

Barb immediately liked the fit, smaller wheels, and more aggressive stance of the , which has 127 millimeters of travel in back and 150 millimeters up front. But on the trail she said the wheels “got hung up, sorta like my old bike.” Don absolutely adored the shorter-travel 29-inch , as it “climbed better than my Ibis, has really quick steering and handling, and gave me a lot of confidence.” I was prettyĚýthis would be the bike he’d end up choosing.

Santa Cruz

The 110-millimeter and complementary Ěýwere 2017ĚýGear of the YearĚýbikes, but they weren’t as popular here as I’d predicted. Neither Barb nor DonĚýwere keen on the 29er setup; when I swapped them to 27.5+, both praised the added traction and confidence. Again, fit was a big factor for Barb. She felt that the smallerĚýwheels and women-specific shock tuneĚýhelped. AfterĚýriding it, the Juliana jumped to the top of Barb’s list, while the Santa Cruz slotted into second place for Don.

Salsa

Don is a big guy, and I really wanted him to try the short-travel , as I had a feeling the 29+ wheel size would suit him, but some inconsiderate rider was three hours late in returning the size large.ĚýBarb, on the other hand, crushed it on the 120-millimeter 27.5+ . “The control of the three-inch tires was just awesome,” she raved. “I felt fearless.”

Evil

I wanted the team to have a chance at °żłÜłŮ˛őľ±»ĺ±đ’sĚý2018 Gear of the YearĚýbike, the , which rides bigger than its 120-millimeter shock and 130-millimeter fork suggest. Both were enamored with it. “It handles soĚýquick,Ěýyou don’t even know you’re on a 29er,” Don said. “And though it’s not the lightest bike, it doesn’t feel heavy on the trail.” Barb said the open feel of the Delta suspension made the Following feel like it had “a spring in its step.” Don was so in favor of it that he was ready to skip the last test ride. Barb liked it a lot but worried about the larger fit.

Pivot

With 135 millimetersĚýof rear travel and a 150-millimeterĚýfork, Ěýwas one of the most aggressive bikesĚýDon and Barb rode. Barb tried the 27.5+ version and again enjoyed the confidence it gave her. I watched her roll through some drops and slick-rock faces that would have been impossibleĚýon many of the other bikes she rode. On the 29er version, Don praised the climbing ability of the DW-Link suspension and the assertiveness of the Fox 36 fork. Both loved the ample tire clearance, which would give them access toĚýpretty much any wheel setup they might choose.

Conclusion

When theĚýdust settled, Barb loved the look and feel of the Salsa Pony Rustler, but she settled on the Pivot Switchblade—it rode just as well and was available in extra small, whichĚýfit her better. Don was torn between theĚýEvil,Ěýthe Yeti, and the PivotĚýbut also chose theĚýSwitchblade,Ěýbecause itĚýhad more tire clearance and the widest range of setup options.ĚýThe lesson in both cases is that, even when several bikes look and feel similar, taking the time to drill down on the detailsĚýreveals nuances that can help with decision-making. And, of course, while numbers, geo tables, and even my riding background are useful, there’s no substitute for experiencing firsthand and deciding for yourself.

The post How to Find Your Soul-Mate Bike appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

If you’re spending time in the woods, it’s smart to learn some basic survival skills, like how to start a fire from scratch, how to build an emergency shelter if you’re caught out overnight, and how to catch a fish with a spear. Survival schools tend to be rugged boot camp–like outings—and who wants to waste vacation time for that?—but a new crop of outfitters are offering guided trips that teach crucial wilderness skills in settings that also involve gourmet meals, comfortable accommodations, and fun adventures mixed in with the learning.

Oceania Expeditions

Kabakon Survivor, Papua New Guinea

On Oceania Expeditions’ five-day , you’ll be stranded for three days on an island in the Bismarck Archipelago, off the shores of Papua New Guinea. Instead of a Wilson volleyball to talk to, you’ll have a crew of locals who arrive each morning via canoe from the island next door to teach you basic outdoor living skills. Days are spent hiking through the bush, fishing from outrigger canoes, picking tropical fruits, weaving hats, and building fires. At night, you’ll sleep in a thatched bungalow. From $5,886, all-inclusive.

şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Out

Santa Cruz or Marin County, California

Start with ’s five-hour clinic, which covers the basics of wilderness survival: building shelter, starting a fire, and learning about edible plants. You can sign up for a class in either the Santa Cruz Mountains or Marin County, both of which allowĚýyou to be back in San Francisco by dinnertime. Ready for more advanced classes? The group offers clinics on everything from backpacking in the desert to making bows and helpful tools. From $125.

IceHotel

Jukkasjärvi, Sweden

At Sweden’s , 124 miles north of the Arctic Circle, you can sleep overnight in a suite made of ice and snow. (Heated rooms are also available.) If that’s not enough of a lesson in survival, sign up for the hotel’s three-hour wilderness survival course in the Lapish forest, where you’ll learn to start a fire from scratch—in case, well, you’re stuck out in the cold overnight. Rooms from $528; wilderness class is $147.

Rule of 5

Santa Fe, New Mexico

promises to teach you the five fundamental skills of wilderness survival: shelter, fire, edge (using a rock as a knife), vessel (making a water dish), and cordage (turning plants into ropes). You’ll learn those important skills while camped out in a safari-style tent village on 65 acres of private land in the Tusas Mountains. Three chef-prepared meals a day are included, along with access to propane-heated outdoor showers. On multiday trips, you’ll spend the first and last nights at Santa Fe’s upscale Drury Plaza Hotel. From $425.

Wild Norway

Trondelag, Norway

They call it but it’s really just a wilderness camp that changes locations in rural Norway based on the season. A field biologist and a veteran of the Norwegian Naval Special Forces will show you where to fish for arctic char, how to forage for mushrooms, and the best way to set up an emergency shelter. They also offer a winter version that’ll prep you for a polar expedition. From $1,516, all-inclusive.

Canyon Ranch

Tucson, Arizona

At ’s all-inclusive resort, the focus is on self-improvement. You can go hiking or biking through the Sonoran Desert, get a coconut-melt body wrap, or take advantage of some 40 fitness classes that are offered each day, covering topics like nutrition and life management skills. You can also learn survival techniques like animal tracking, archery, primitive fire-making, and building a knife from a stone flake and a yucca string. You’ll end your day with a healthy organic meal and a mocktail, since booze isn’t served here. From $1,987 per night, all-inclusive.

The post 6 Survival Schools That Don’t Require Roughing It appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I’ve got this theory that each of us is only the summation of our experiences. So to help put disadvantaged kids here in Los Angeles on more equal footing, I take them on outdoor adventures. For our latest trip, we sailed to the Channel Islands National Park, off the coast of California.

Partnering with the , ±ő’m able to help 17- to 21-year-old kids who are actively working to build successful lives. They’ve already gotten themselves off the streets and are holding down jobs and pursuing educations. That’s a huge step forward, but when I think about my own upbringing, it’s the experiences I had outdoors that stand out more than any of the crappy jobs I worked or the math classes I barely attended. Hopefully, by adding some of those experiences to their lives, we’re helping them gain both confidence and perspective. Most of these kids have never been outside the city, and none had ever been on a boat.

That boat ride was definitely a surprising experience for the group. The ride to Channel Islands, located 35 miles off the coast of Ventura, takes about two hours. operates the ferry and helped make this trip possible. This is typically a pleasure cruise, but conditions were rough on our way out to the island, and I overhead a crew member express surprise that they’d made the decision to run that day. Everyone got seasick, most of the kids got soaking wet while hanging over the sides to vomit, and by the time we reached the island, I think at least half the kids were regretting their decision to come.

BeingĚýa bunch of Los Angeles teens, the idea of spending a few days beyond phone reception, sleeping on the ground, and especially not showering wasn'tĚýthat appealing. At least not initially. Add a bunch of vomiting and soaked clothes, and it just wasn’t a good start.Ěý

But then you throw in some cute foxes…. The reason I picked Santa Cruz wasn’t just to give the kids that new experience on the ocean. It was because the entire island is lousy with these adorable little animals. They’re unique to this one island, and the current theory is that they were imported thousands of years ago by the Native Americans who lived out here to serve as pest control, and maybe even companions. Whatever the reason, the foxes have no fear of humans and scamper around your feet while you camp in an effort to steal your food. By the time we saw the first one, most of the misery was forgotten.

The sea had been so rough because a constant 30 to 40 mile-per-hour wind was blasting the channel. That made camping rough, especially when it was time to cook and go to sleep. MSR had been nice enough to send down some of its , which borrow heavily from their mountaineering designs, so those at least held up, even if sleeping was difficult with all the noise. We nearly blew away trying to watch the sunsets from the cliffs.

One way I try to make the outdoors as accessible for the kids as possible is by wearing silly hats and playing a cartoon outdoorsman. They’re always afraid there will be bears or mountain lions or serial killers in the woods, but they are also endearingly (and completely inaccurately) convinced that mountain man Wes will battle them with his bare hands if there are. Trying to stay nice and neutral and positive for three days straight can be really hard, especially when the kids start sharing some of the challenges they’ve faced. Fortunately, on this trip, the National Park Service had agreed to send us our very own ranger, and it turned out Ranger Spencer was exactly the kind of big, burly teddy bear most people think of when they picture the ideal park ranger. He was friendly, warm, and knowledgeable, even in the face of a bunch of city kids trying to challenge his comfort level. Ranger Spencer took over the Smokey the Bear duties and kept the kids entertained and involved throughout a nature hike and the half-day of service that came after it.

Santa Cruz was once an entirely isolated ecosystem—sort of a nearby Australia—with unique flora and fauna. But a century of sheep ranching introduced all manner of invasive species. The Park Service and the nature conservancy it shares the island with are hard at work trying to remove them all and return the ecosystem to its natural state. The kids learned all about this while pulling out invasive thistle and getting bloody hands in the process.

±ő’m enormously proud that the group earned the camping trip by putting in some hard work in benefit of the unique place they were able to enjoy. One of my other goals in all of this is to instill an appreciation for our nation’s wild places and an interest in conserving them in an audience who wouldn’t typically be exposed to either.

The ferry ride back to Ventura that final afternoon couldn’t have been smoother. The kids remembered to take their Dramamine, and nobody got seasick. It was a nice, rewarding payoff to a challenging trip and hopefully made the whole thing a positive experience for them.

Was it worth it? Watch the video and judge for yourself. I’ve previously spelled out how you can do something like this in your local community.

Special thanks to , , , , , , Virginia McQueen, the National Park Service, and Ranger Spencer.

The post How to Make Young People Fall in Love with the Outdoors appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

For the bulk of the 2,000 years of surf history, water temperatures placed strict limits on where surfers could go and how long they could surf. That meant the sport was largely confined to Hawaii and Polynesia, where it’s warm year-round. But for the past 60 years surfers have been expanding into the farthest and coldest reaches of the globe, due in large part to wetsuit manufacturing pioneer Jack O’Neill, who died in his home in Santa Cruz, California, on Friday at the age of 94.

Born in Denver in 1923 and raised in Southern California and Oregon, O’Neill began bodysurfing in the Pacific as a teenager. After moving to San Francisco in 1949 to pursue a liberal arts degree at San Francisco State, he continued, like others of his ilk, to adhere to established cold-water coping strategies. In the pre-wetsuit age, surfers were still essentially Stone Age technologists. They rode crafts hewn from timber, returned to shore frequently to huddle over driftwood fires, and, when not bare chested, wore wool sweaters into the water for some semblance of warmth.

But with synthetic rubber products widely available in the late 1940s and 50s, O’Neill saw an opportunity to upgrade to 20th century technology. His first forays into insulation began with a hand-sewn vest made from rubber and a two-piece, Navy surplus dry suit. Both were found lacking and by the early 1950s O’Neill began experimenting with neoprene, which had been developed by DuPont in 1930 for industrial applications. Far more flexible and supple than many other rubbers, neoprene proved to be a breakthrough material.

O’Neill refined his designs, developing a line of wetsuits that evolved though variations of cuts and zip entries. By the mid 1960s, his wetsuits, and those being sold by his rivals (most notably Bev Morgan, then Billy and Bob Meistrell of Body Glove Wetsuits), were a lynchpin of the nascent surf manufacturing industry, outselling even surfboards.

It was SCUBA divers, however, who seemed to be the earliest adopters. Ever image conscious, surfers initially considered wetsuits to be an affront to various codes of style and comportment. “When they were first introduced,” says Steve Pezman, founder and owner of The Surfer’s Journal, “I didn’t wear one for years as an act of purity.”

O’Neill, however, was an exuberant and crafty salesman and managed to gain traction with his target consumer. At expos, he would dress his adolescent children in his wetsuits and variously dunk them in a water tank, or send them scurrying across an ice block. As a pilot (he served in the Navy Air Corps after college) he was known to fly a hot air balloon emblazoned with his brand’s logo over crowds at surf contests.

Hugh Bradner, a physicist for the University of California, Berkeley, is officially credited as the wetsuit’s inventor, but O’Neill was the product’s most colorful and memorable purveyor. He lost his left eye while testing a surf leash prototype during the 1970s and wore an eye patch for the rest of his life. With a thick beard and a slew of swashbuckling proclivities (including stints as a long shore fisherman and a biplane pilot), he literally became the face of his products. For years, his countenance served as the logo on his merchandise.

“He was kind of this affable pirate,” says surf historian andĚýEncyclopedia of SurfingĚýauthor Matt Warshaw. “He made the wetsuit cool, just through pure force of his own charisma. The eye patch and beard took it next level—his face became fascinating, and the brand got even stronger.”

O’Neill’s relocation from San Francisco to Santa Cruz in 1959 was an additional factor in the success of his products. With its frigid waters, and dedicated surf community, he found both a base of operations and a population eager to adopt his product. O’Neill’s wetsuits allowed locals to maximize their water-time and access the best surf, which typically arrives in winter. Eventually, as the wetsuit spread south, even counterculture dogmatists like Malibu’s rebel icon, Miki Dora, began embracing the technology. “One by one,” says Pezman, “we came to our senses.”

Today, O’Neill’s wetsuit company remains a hub of the wider surf industry, while Santa Cruz has risen from a 1950s backwater to a global hotbed of surf talent. Beyond Northern California, millions of surfers around the world wear a variation of the wetsuit on a daily basis. As such, O’Neill’s contributions to that crucial and insulating piece of technology have played an incalculable role in the pollination of wave riding.

“Few people have more directly affected the lives of everyday surfers than Jack O’Neill,” says Surfer magazine editor, Todd Prodanovich. “To think that so many waves around the world were off limits, or only surfable during warmer seasons, seems quaint now. But through his relentless wetsuit innovations, O’Neill opened up the colder corners of the globe to the surfing world, and allowed us to seek waves and adventure along wilder coastlines.”

The post Obituary: Jack O’Neill (1923-2017) appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.