IN PRAISE OF FIATS

No, FIAT does not refer to a micro-Italian car nor the snarky, auto-related acronym, “Fix it again, Tony!”

FIAT = fuck-it-all-tour. It’s a method of decompression we rediscovered last year on an extended walkabout in Central America. In short, a FIAT is a much-needed getaway from work and life. It’s a cleansing breath travel experience to regain one’s existential bearings. As such, it’s a non-pharmaceutical (nevertheless habit-forming) treatment that may well fit into your grander scheme. Ask your doctor if a FIAT might be right for you.

Though we didn’t dub it as such, we launched on our first FIAT back in 2001. Winding down a 15-year run with Patagonia, I was glum and off balance when my sexy, ski product line gig got relocated from snow-choked Montana to sand-intensive SoCal. Choosing not to get on the bus, I licked my wounds of job and income loss by bailing with my family to spend a year of healing on Hawaii’s Big Island (which morphed into two years). In the rearview mirror of life, that decision – to leave our cozy Bozeman hamlet, to go cold turkey on the outdoor/snowsports biz, and immerse ourselves in the middle of the steel blue Pacific – was damn powerful tonic.

So, a little over a year ago, my gal and I found ourselves growing weary of our long-burn jobs as well as all the attendant hoopla of being responsible adults. Dosed on nonstop digital noise and our self-imposed blur of busyness (can you relate?), all we knew for certain was we needed way more renewal than any two-week vacation, 100 sun salutations or juice cleanse could provide. So, we started plotting.

Part of our impetus came from our younger boy who’d just returned from a year of studying apex-fruits (durian) in Malaysia & Thailand. Additionally, he swung ice tools in Nepal and tapped into some thumpy Indonesian waves. We figured if this gap year trend was good for youngsters – trying to gain perspective and sort out a direction in life – it might also have therapeutic benefits for us post-middle agers. (Meeting all the AARP requirements, we began billing our decision to unplug as pretirement.)

Whether a FIAT, “adult gap year” or pretirement, the point is to guzzle a bottle of carpe diem. Line out a plan in pencil, with an eraser at the ready to modify on the fly. Initially, we planned to winter in Puerto Rico, but decided – mid-travels – to take volunteer work in Panama where we could trade labor for room & board. While I never anticipated gaining ninja machete skills, I was put to the task of pruning the monkey jungle into a feng shui’ed Zen garden. And, in my downtime, I surfed my brains out.

So, here’s my counsel, kids - take semi-regular respites throughout your life. Ideally these sojourns will be more lengthy and illuminating than your average, umbrella drink vacation. We studied Spanish in a semi-remote, fishing village in Nicaragua. In addition to seeking hammock consciousness and fine-tuning my bottom turn, it was satisfying to scribe fresh grooves in our brains while living lower on the food chain.

Surely you know the rejuvenating power of a wild hare road trip – loaded for bear to go shred in some faraway place. Go with your instincts, grasshopper, and delay not thy gratification. Save up a few ducats, button down your logistics, sell off your chaff and go off into the wild blue yonder. Every few years, rinse & repeat…

No doubt, we’re captive on a carousel of time, riding our painted ponies up & down. That is, unless you decide to step off this merry-go-round of madness.

#minivanlife - an alternative to the "perfect camper" conundrum

You may have noticed – amongst our tribe of shredders, paddlers, surfers and such – there’s a shared quest to score, outfit and live out of the “perfect camper.” Perhaps you’ve seen the increasingly familiar #vanlife hash tag, promoting this nouveau-Jack-Kerouac-notion of kicking it all and hitting the open road. So alternative… so latter-day gypsy, bro.

But there’s a serious hitch in this #vanlife deal being fed to us by mainstream media and their frothing accomplice’s in crime – the marketeers. To partake in this nomadic road show, we’re led to believe we must throw down for a trendy Mercedes Sprinter box. Or – if your compass is pointed towards Baja arroyos or B.C. - high center - backroads, perhaps we’ll need a manly Sportsmobile, all puffy, lifted, ARB-bumpered out, and shit. Should you find these $40k-$100k+, tricked-out rigs to exceed the means of your monthly trust fund stipend, perhaps you’ll downshift and go retro with a VW Eurovan or Vanagon. So ultimately groovy if you have a German-car mechanic (on retainer) who doesn’t mind following your around on all of your free-range adventures.

Enter stage left, the lowly minivan. The humble (ok, laughing stock), it'll-be-a-cold-day-in-hell-before-I-drive-a-minivan! Soccer mom certified, emasculation-on-wheels, the epithets go on & on. Or, that’s a least that’s how I felt before I caved and wrote a modest check for our first Chrysler Town & Country mini over a decade ago. Never would I have thought I’d become a born-again believer in the low-gloss functionality, undercover steeze of a stock minivan.

Ah, but on my very first road trip - camping kit, bikes, various and sundry climbing hardware and fishing tackle chucked semi-randomly in back - I began to appreciate the gear gobbling capacity of our T&C. Hidden behind not-too-gangster-tint, privacy package windows, no one paid any attention to us: not thieves, not the po-po, not anyone. It was on that trip I first realized -- driving around in a minivan made me invisible. Want to sip a “road soda” while heading home from your next epic pow day? There’s simply no better rig to evade law enforcement’s watchful eye than a dirty minivan.

And, that remarkable invisibility goes a long way towards opening up discreet bivi options. Want to camp in front of anyone’s house, on any street USA? No worries.  How about at the base of your favorite ski mountain, or in any grocery store parking lot? Not the first hassle. Church parking lots? Check. Anywhere? Check. Now try that in your fancy Sprinter, puffy Sportsmobile, tragically hip Vanagon, and I can assure you the tap on the window will soon follow your settling in for slumber.

Forgoing campground and hotel fees will buy you more tortillas for longer stints on Highway 1, Route 66 or your byways of choice. And, beyond the insta-bivi prerogative, one should also factor the low-cost-of-entry, reasonable fuel efficiency, long-haul serviceability and smooth ride of these homely toasters on wheels.

So, assuming you can get past your vehicular ego, I encourage you to consider a mini. And, when you’re out there snapping self-congratulatory selfies in the alpenglow sunset, don’t forget to include the all-important hashtag: #minivanlife, bro.

Come Heck or High Water

One residual bonus of a mega winter -- chock full of nostril plugging powder -- is a biblical runoff. With snowpack percentages pushing 170 percent of average in our local mountains, whitewater zealots quickly transition from skis to kayaks (or river craft of choice). As the sun heads higher into the sky each passing day and daylight stretches into the evening hours, it's time to heed David Byrne's (Talking Heads) seminal call to action -- "Take me to the river... drop me in the water."

Last Wednesday we did just that. Doing a cursory inventory of my boating gear that has sat idle since last summer: helmet, paddle, spray skirt, life jacket, dry top, wetsuit, and so forth, I go through my pre-launch mantra to make sure I've not spaced a critical piece of my kit. Loading boats atop the truck, cam-buckles cinched snug, we head for the Gallatin.

Mid-May is generally the time of year when our regional rivers go from gurgle to gush. But, with snow still stacking up in the high country, our maiden voyage was a bit of a slalom dodge, with only 800 cubic feet per/second (CFS) coursing down the gut of the Gally. Nevertheless, it was good to see her bones, to revisit the stones that would -- over the coming weeks -- transition from calm, catch-your-breath eddies, to sucking hydraulics, to plump, glassy surf waves.

Despite the mellow flow of our maiden voyage, it's always good hydrotherapy to get out for a post-work lap on one of our nearby rivers. Within days the Gallatin has surged (x3+) to a mildly thumping 2500 CFS. Ah, but with deep snow still caking the headwaters, the likelihood of a banner year is virtually a sure thing. Will it get over 10,000 CFS? Likely. Will that put House Rock completely underwater? Yep. Will our bellies be full of butterflies at the put in? You betcha.

"Washing me down, washing me down."

the tale of seven faceshots

Just a random lap at the local hill.

Nica-Take 2.

October trips to central america have become quite addictive. And - ten-years later - my Bushy yellow snapper is still going strong. Need to do a lot more surf junkets before heading off for the dirt nap.

Viva Sandino!

Making History w/ Bob Allen

Day tripping with Bob.​

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​For every heelside turn there's an equal, opposite toeside.

Montana's Best Singletrack?

Montana’s Best Singletrack?

By the time Indian summer rolls around here at the 45th parallel, avid mountain bikers are looking to tick a few big, definitive rides before the snow flies. Definitive, in our circle, equals a full-day outing with lots of mileage and vertical relief. The climb(s) must be sustained, nearly anaerobic lung busters, and yet just barely do-able.  The switchbacks should be tight, yet ride-able without a dab. Not seeing another soul (outside of your carefully chosen posse) accentuates the remote, must-be-self-reliant space we seek. Add an element of primal fear, like the possibility encountering a large toothed, sharp clawed predator, and the allure bumps higher still. Finally, the singletrack must be narrow and buttery. We’re not talking trammeled, double track; we’re talking artfully engineered, sustainably built serpentine trail that flows with the natural landscape. In short, welcome to Mile Creek.

Located just north of Raynolds Pass in the Henry Mountains – on the Montana/Idaho border – Mile Creek begins in a lonely grass parking lot at 6800 feet. Built in 1995 by artisan trail builder, Terry Johnson, this section of the iconic Continental Divide Trail heads for a notch in the mountains where the serious ascent begins. Switchback after switchback (50-some in all) winds you upward from the muffled roar of the creek bottom (“here bear, coming through Mr. Bear!”) to an eventual alpine plateau where the altimeter strikes 10 grand.  Assuming you have the juice, you can scramble still higher to tag the summit of Targhee Peak (10,300’). Granted, the ride up is taxing and not for everyone. But the views and the wild, head-clearing alone-ness make it worth it for some of us. Oh, and the ride down is pretty sweet too. 

Not squemish about Squamish

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Buttery concrete in the woods behind the elementary school.​

Pater noster, qui est in caelis, santificatur nomem tuem. And that, mi hermano, is no dummy copy.Pater noster, qui est in caelis, santificatur nomem tuem. And that, mi hermano, is no dummy copy. Pater noster, qui est in caelis, santificatur nomem tuem. And that, mi hermano, is no dummy copy.Pater noster, qui est in caelis, santificatur nomem tuem. And that, mi hermano, is no dummy copy. 

Paradise is NOT for Sale

On a recent surf trip to Costa Rica I was reminded of an important lesson… if you really want a feral experience you’re going to have to travel a bit further than most. Perhaps not a further distance, simply a different compass bearing. When the guidebook says, “go right” I’ve learned I’m better off going left… or, perhaps, splitting the difference.

El paraiso no se vende!​

Just north of Malpais, Costa Rica, the coastal town of Santa Teresa smells of ripe mangos. It’s a clean little beach community with a dank, jungly rainforest backing up to la playa. And yet, it’s a bit too discovered for my taste. Just a few too many dudes strutting in their skull & crossbones trunks, stylee-branded sunglasses and rooster attitudes. Santa Teresa’s once dusty thoroughfare is now paved.

But, despite my quips, this zone on the southern Nicoya peninsula catches a spectrum of swell angles and the sandbars are known to produce hollow waves when the wind blows offshore. Sure I wanted culture, but I really wanted surf.

Doing our best to settle into an “insta-local” groove, we ‘d gotten word of a farmer’s market held every Saturday afternoon under a sprawling banyan tree. Rolling in search of fresh veggies on my rusty rental cruiser bike, I came upon a real estate sign that distilled my conflicted thoughts. “Want to own a piece of paradise?” it read in a bold, sales-guy font. Below, the spray-painted tag — El paraiso no se vende!!

Travel serves up those aha moments.