Outpost - maine Year One

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Simplicity is the ultimate form of sophistication.

–Leonardo di Vinci

Occasionally adventure knocks more than once, sometimes over and over before you finally have the guts to open up. I learned this when kind friends, a young married couple, offered their cabin in southern Maine several times before I finally decided to take the time off, buy the ticket and just go.

I spent a summer living with this couple, who migrated to Florida along with a brother and a few close friends. I used to come home from work with salt under my fingernails and sandy ankles, sit on their porch and listen to the brothers talk about Maine summers. They laughed at each other like they were eleven years old. Stepping into their beloved summer home was like stepping into the unhindered wildness of childhood.

We had running water, but no shower. Power, but no heat. Our trip settled in late October, temperatures reaching below freezing on some nights. Seated in a deep hill among about a million golden trees, between the road and the lake, the cabin is barely two stories with painted wooden floors and mismatched dishes. There are fireworks in the kitchen drawers and kayaks by the dock.

We traded warm showers for sun-soaked canoe trips and central heating for a homemade honey pie. Although we managed one massive Wal-Mart run for hearty breakfast ingredients, electric blankets, and extra gloves, we were craving the privacy and freshness of simple cabin life. We stayed close to our temporary home playing heated card games and chatting about dreams and home-based loved ones. No major decisions were made, no deep life-changing moments. Instead, we simply became friends, hiked old traditions like the Appalachian Trail, and fell into an easy rhythm of staying warm, fed and breathing the same wild air as bears, elk, and a quiet culture.

It seems that when I get busy and overwhelmed, regrets tend to surface of adventures not taken and dreams not realized. But sometimes adventure really does wait for you. It could be a few days like our camp in Maine, a new person who’s safe to tell your stories to, or maybe it’s just intentional breathing of the same wild air.

Videos: Stringer Productions- www.stringerproductions.com

Photos: Photo by Betsy- www.photobybetsy.com

Author/Writing: Joanie Turner- www.kindergrey.com

new hampshire - part two

i'm looking back through my journal that i've kept for over a year now. a little leather bound notebook that holds everything from deep thoughts and things friends have said that stuck with me, to packing lists and recipes for camping trips.

i write to remember, i write to forget, i write because sometimes you just need to see your own thoughts in front of you to realize how true or silly they really are. 

everything you find written on this website starts out as scribbles in this tattered thing, but most of the ramblings it contains will never see the light of day. 

flipping through the smudged and dirty pages, it's always interesting to see what was going through my head a week, a month or even a year ago. sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes joyous, sometimes i wonder what the hell i was thinking when i wrote a passage, other times simply reading my words can be overwhelming.

turning back to november fifth two thousand and fourteen, the day lauren and i decided that after months of close friendship we should give this a shot. some words to myself about following my heart and taking chances regardless of what the outcome may be and a quote, "and i think good gets better".

learning and growing by each others side in the beginning, figuring out what it takes to go from being best friends to best friends in a relationship. to a distance of two thousand miles between us this summer, figuring out what it takes to be present in two places at once.

i wrote in my notebook near the end of lauren's time in montana, "i can't wait to get to know her again." 

because as i alluded to in my previous post, just as the seasons, we are always changing. we need to; we have to. and something i've learned this past year is that embracing that change, even when it might not feel great, is the only way to progress; both separately and together.

a year later, and good did get better. i like how we've changed. i like how we've grown. i like how this has undoubtedly evolved into something that is no just one anymore, but two. 

two to travel. two to inspire. two to write. two to photograph. it's good to have lauren by my side as a part of america y'all.

new hampshire - part one

"everybody, every person, has to leave, has to change like seasons; they have to or they die. the seasons remind me that i must keep changing." donald miller

there are few things in this world that are guaranteed, and as cliche as it may sound, change is at the top of that list.

new hampshire during the autumn months is one of the best visual representation of that change. the trees ablaze with color take over every hill and mountainside as far as the eye can see. orange, red and yellow hues overcome the greens of summer and usher in the long harsh winter.

for a few short weeks the landscape turns into an oil painting, almost as some sort of beautiful apology from mother nature for what she's bound to bring the next few months.

trips back to these childhood stomping grounds are few and far between at this point in my life, once a year at best. and if i'm lucky it lines up with the changing of the seasons, something we don't get to truly experience in texas.

transitioning into adulthood it seems like every year saw a change in what the word home meant.
even during my stint in pennsylvania i still referred to new hampshire as home, going home was going to see my mother, my sisters, my friends from high school. it wasn't until texas that the word transformed.

home now is texas and everything that goes along with the life that i've created for myself here. but being up north during this time of year was the best reminder of just how much has changed in my life. and more than just how much has changed, but how it has all changed for the better.

Arkansas

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there has always been this allure of arriving at a destination in the dark, especially a place i've never been to before. watching the morning sun illuminate what lay before me on this trip was astonishing. my eyes were greeted with an almost mystical fog cloaked ozark mountains range.

arkansas was new to me, never before had i spent anytime in "the natural state" so all day was spent exploring any back road i could find. by the time i finally reached where i wanted to camp that night i was hot, sweaty and probably a little dehydrated. 

the hike to the spot was not necessarily hard but i left my tent in my truck heeding the signs that advised against camping. much to the dismay of my weary feet as soon as i made the hike i saw a tent set up right near the edge of the cliff, so i turned around and headed back to get my gear. after making it back to the overlook the second time i saw a group of three people sitting there taking in the view. in a some what joking manner i walked up to them and said "hey you guys don't have any beer do you?" to which they responded "no but we have boxed wine if you want some."

i spent the rest of the night with these folks right there on the edge of the overlook. we shared stories about our lives and past travels. they taught me more than i'll ever need to know about rock climbing and all the technical terms that go along with the sport. we poked fun at my unnatural obsession for all things pumpkin spiced. one of them, justin, a fellow photographer, and i spent time trying our hand at astrophotography. we set up our tents and cooked dinner in the dark. and we spent hours laying on our backs marveling at the milky way stringing itself through the sky above us. 

the next morning justin and i woke up in the dark to watch the sun rise while the others stayed in their tent. we snapped photos of the yellow and purple hues as the landscape below us was slowly lit. after some coffee and breakfast i handed my phone to him so he could type in his number. he looked at me, "i'm going to be honest with you, i can't see your phone. i'm nearly blind, i can see your outline but that's about it."

i didn't believe him. i looked to his friends waiting for them to chuckle, but there was no laugh. justin lost most of his vision at the age of fourteen and is considered legally blind.

**justin took this photo of me**

i inquisitively started asking him a thousand questions. he explained to me all of the things he does to navigate this world created for the sighted. and i started to pick up on all of these tiny things he had been doing that only gave it away after he had mentioned it. i don't know if there has been a time in my life i have ever been more humbled.

think about that for a moment, justin is blind but he is still out there doing, enjoying, pushing himself and taking amazing photographs along the way. 

so here is to the people you meet out there in this big wide world if you allow yourself to. the people who can make a lasting impact on you. to the people who do so just by being themselves and nothing more. people like justin. 

"humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less."

 

you can check out justin's work by clicking here

camp cookery - buffalo chicken grilled cheese

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  1. canned chicken
  2. blue cheese (wedge or crumbles)
  3. pepperjack cheese (sliced)
  4. hot sauce
  5. green onions
  6. bread
  7. butter

this is a pretty simple recipe but will fill you right up. it's also one that can be hiked into camp rather than some of the meals i've done in the past which require big pots or pans and a hefty stove or fire. 

all you need for this one is a few ingredients, a small cooler bag, a pan and a small camp stove.

to start chop your green onions and mix them in with the canned chicken and hot sauce.

i opted for a whole loaf of bread so i could cut the slices a little thicker. once cut butter the side of the bread that'll be on the pan.

with the bread in the pan stack up the cheese and top with a dollop of the buffalo chicken. put the other piece of bread on that and then fire up the stove.

to help the cheese melt put a cover on the pan. check the grilled cheese after a minute or so, when the bottom side is golden brown flip the sandwich and put the cover back on.

that's really all there is to this one. super simple, but tasty, and more filling than a normal grilled cheese.

lessons learned: i could have saved some space in my pack by slicing the bread beforehand and only carrying in what i needed to make this recipe.

OUTPOST - HOLDEN WHATLEY

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i've kicked around the idea of having those who inspire me contribute their photos and words to the website for a while now. i hear so many stories filled with truth and see so many breathtaking photographs that if i'm any kind of position to share what influences me i need to do so. #outposts will be a way for me to do this, if you'd like to contribute shoot me an email. 

i haven't known @holdenwhatley for more than a year, but he has already become a very close friend; always willing to talk about cameras, dogs, life and everything in between. i'm excited to have him contribute his words and 35mm film snaps to the site.

I’m getting pretty deep into a sweltering Texas afternoon. No a/c and black leather seats means every small town, 30 mph speed limit, and stop light gets me closer to heat exhaustion, I take another swig from the gallon of water I bought at a gas station a few miles back, already halfway gone. Funny how long this 80 some odd mile drive is getting. Then it hits, a hint of destination, or destiny, I don’t know. I get the old Volvo wagon back up to about 75 outside of town, thing weighs a couple tons so once you hit a nice cruising speed you just sort ­of let go and let it carry you, keeps you in this zen state, starting to get a little loopy from the temperature so might as well just ride it out.

Dierks Bentley is blasting on the country radio, only one station out here, but i don’t even hear it, I’m zoned out, lulled, no longer anxious, annoyed, or anything of that sort; just there in my daze, there in an honest Texas summer moment. A quick glance jolts me, a sign casually states “DIP” and the weight of the car follows the road down, along with the temperature. For a split second there, it was a wet cool riverbed, moss and fish nests and all the rest.

I floor it and pop out of that moment like I’m running from a storm on some forgotten plain out in Kansas, but really I’m running at something, I’m chasing that river.

Half an hour goes by and I’m close, it’s back I can smell it, but can’t quite see it yet. I guess this is where you should know that I’m not on a quest for enlightenment or trying to wrestle my soul into some form of purpose, I’m just going to Llano, TX to drink beer in a river with some good friends, and I’m a little bit more than ready to be there. Things get a little tricky because the address that I got sent in the group text invite was wrong, and my Sprint data had given up long ago, I was just kinda out there somewhere on the edge of the Llano uplift, which turns into New Mexico at some point I’m pretty sure. There was this old couple out working in their garden, and they waved me over. After a bit of casual conversation about all the rain we’d been getting, and how the heat is taking its toll on their summer garden, they eagerly point me in the direction of where I should be directed.

Turn into a field, drive a bit sideways around some Mesquite trees and Agarita bushes, put it in park next to some old army bunkers just in time for my dog and I to jump in a Jeep bouncy and two  minutes later I’m running for the waters edge. The sand is hot and the beer is not.

About 24 hours later it's time to get back on that road, time to hold onto every minute since I parked the car. I remember there was ice­ cream cake, blue stars, more laughter than I’ve heard in a while, a few games of threes, maybe a couple hours of sleep; but really it just all got wrapped up in that cool embrace that beckoned and always will.

I can still smell the river.

Montana

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"make yourself proud"

my friend uttered these words to me a while back in regards to making it through the summer and they've stuck with me for the past three months. acting as a guiding light, they've helped me take a step back and do my best to live intentionally, and more importantly own up to it when i haven't. 

i've spent hours trying to write more related to his quote, but there is so much power and beauty in the simplicity of those words that not much else needs to be said. 

developed - nine months

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shot on : kodak portra 160

Wyoming

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"traveling. this makes men wiser, but less happy. when men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge which they may apply usefully for their country, but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret, their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects, and they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, and its recollection poisons the residue of their lives." thomas jefferson 1787

the travelers curse is very real and something i've dealt with ever since returning from my cross country bicycle escapade in two thousand and seven; it hit me hard again coming home after this most recent road trip.

the problem lies with the ease, and often necessity, of only seeing the absolute best in both people and places when on the road. be it an hour, a day, a week, or even a month, it is almost effortless to enjoy every damn second of traveling. you get to see the sights you want to and interact with people who strike your interest.

i can look back at all the beauty i've set my eyes on; riding my bicycle up highway one in california, watching water barrel over the great falls in virginia, dolphins following beside our boat in florida, the endless palette of colors that covers the hillsides of new hampshire in fall, and the towering grand tetons in wyoming. 

i can think back to all the weird and exciting encounters i've shared with strangers. frank and sally, the farmer and his school teacher wife who invited me in for blt's when i was riding by their home in rural pennsylvania. arturo, the guy who was already at the top of emory peak in big bend when i made it to the summit and immediately tossed me a beer. spencer, the eighteen year old on the train in arizona who had just left everything to work at a wilderness camp. alan, the man in san diego who caught wind i was looking for a place to stay and offered up his house boat for the night. 

i get to cherry pick the memories i want to keep, travel and the people you meet on the road are not demanding and when i look back it all seems like some marvelous dream. and that's the difficulty, this uncomplicated feeling of wandering is just that, uncomplicated. i never see the mundane in and outs of day to day life in these places. i'm exploring, everything is new and fresh and exciting. and the people i meet leave a lasting impression because they offer me something when i need it most. i get to create the image i want of them because i only met them for a brief moment in time. i don't get to see how they handle sitting behind their desk for eight hours, just as they don't get to see me watch an entire netflix series in one night.  

wyoming camp camping road trip america yall vsco olympus pawlowski corn

but eventually you long for a home, a community, a routine, or you run out of cash for the month, maybe your vehicle is out of commission, or you have to get back to work on monday. 

and that's when the curse kicks in. your mind and heart are full of all these moments of grandeur; the sights, the sounds, the smells, the people. but no one place has them all.

but the one thing that travel will never fulfill for me, nor would i want it to, is that sense of community. a cradle, a place where people embrace your idiosyncrasies, where friends are there to hold you up even when you're falling hard. i think anyone who wanders can agree that the longing to experience new frontiers is something we'll never shake; nor should we. but when the curse rears its ugly head i've learned that turning to my community is the best thing for my soul and perhaps the only thing that gets me through it.