SOME THOUGHTS ON LOCALISM

After returning from my regular summer stint in Tasmania, I was looking forward to a month at home prior to heading off on my bike trip. As it turned out, the month was filled with great waves. At home, there's one place in particular that has a special place in my heart. It's kinda out of the way, and as teenagers we used to surf it regularly. You had to walk down a steep track to the beach, the adjacent gullies littered with pandanus trees clinging to the hillsides. It's a truly beautiful spot and it makes you feel a long way from anywhere, even though you aren't really.

Owing to the remarkable natural beauty of the place, it slowly started to appear in travel magazines and those annoying "Ten best beaches in the world" type lists. It's part of an inevitable process that is impossible to fight against. All the old boys have their stories of how their local spot was forty years ago. Some dwell too much in those days, and end up grumpy and bitter about special spots being overrun by weekend (or even weekday) crowds. And it's understandable. My mum pointed out, at the heart of it all, that these are feelings of grief. Feelings of loss at what we once had. Humans are good at clinging to the past like a barnacle to a rock, resisting the waves of change that flow over us.

But for every one of those grumpy old suckers, there's plenty who take the present sitatution for what it is, accept it, and go out and have fun anyway. Sure, there's plenty more people in the water, but look how happy they are. Look at the surfing community — the relationships it helps to form, the shared happiness of seeing a fellow surfer get shacked out of his or her mind when it's pumping. It ain't all bad.

Who remembers that graffiti that faced the lineup at the Pass for so many years, scrawled in white across the rock:

LOCALS ONLY

Until the day it was eventually changed: BK Rules and Love Only. BK was in reference to Ben King, a local surfing legend who died tragically and suddenly, and I think the change was reflective of a change in attitudes — or at least a reluctant admission to the futile nature of fighting the ever-increasing crowds.

It's safe to say I'm no stranger to localism. I've seen things happen at Lennox Point that are better not retold. I've been punched in the face (twice) in Maroubra —  funnily enough on my birthday. I've seen aggro in many places, and I've heard all the stories about tyres being slashed and cars being waxed at various secret spots up and down the east coast of Australia. So when, after considering the plight of my favourite little beach and the full carpark I'd rock up to after lunch during midweek, I was hardly surprised when one day I jogged down the path and noticed a new sign scrawled across the beach sign in wax. The all too recognisable threat:

LOCALS ONLY

And a part of me thought, "Hell yeah! Stay the fuck away." But what right does a local have to a place? The beach and the lineup cannot be owned, although in places it is still fiercely defended. The interaction between locals and 'blow-ins' can be fraught with violence and plenty of vulgarity, especially if the relationship strays away from the basic pillars of respect and etiquette.

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I'd been riding all day, faster than my knees really wanted me to, in order to get to a surf spot on the Oregon coast that I'd been told about. I arrived mid-afternoon and the waves looked good. So after suiting up (hood, gloves, booties —  the works!) I paddled out. I was quickly greeted by a local.

"Keep paddling, buddy", the man in the hood said, motioning south.

He was insinuating I paddled away from the best peak, down the beach to a spot that was significantly worse. I obliged, not wishing to cause any trouble. As fate would have it, as I paddled south a wide set came through, straight to me, and my first wave was a good one. Instant karma? I wasn't sure, but it definitely felt like it.

I sat wide for the rest of the surf, picking up scraps and wide sets and still had a really enjoyable time. There were no further encounters, apart from a few stares from the group of local guys.

The following morning, as the crisp offshores blew, I headed down for another surf. The swell had doubled in size and the crowd had thinned to three people. After another fun surf, I sat on a picnic bench, trying in vain to defrost my frozen, crab-claw fingers. The same guy who'd given me a hard time the day before walked by. As he passed, I caught him doing a double-take out of the corner of my eye. He was eyeing the bike-surfboard-trailer setup. Eventually he came over.

"Hey man. Sorry about giving you shit yesterday. I didn't realise you were here by yourself."

As it turned out, earlier that same day a crew of Canadian surfers had arrived — a group of ten or so, and preceded to paddle out and heckle for waves straight on the peak without giving any thought to the locals. To make matters worse, they had a camera setup. I soon discovered the spot I'd been surfing wasn't too well known:

"This coast isn't filled to the brim with spots. This is really all we've got"

After politely asking the Canadian crew to cease filming, they refused. Then the local crew had to resort to threats in order to see any action occur. The spot has a few recognisable landmarks, and in the age of Instagram and Google Earth, a local secret can turn into a busy spot with the click of a few buttons. I knew that fact all too well.

Given the context of the whole situation, it was understandable how I'd been treated. The guys thought I was part of the crew from Canada — the crew that had blatantly disrespected the basic rules of respect and etiquette in surfing lineups. There are times when locals are at fault, but in this case I found it hard to see where they'd gone wrong. They were trying to hold onto their special place in a way that seemed fair and people had come in and trampled over all their efforts.

As fate would have it, the guy who gave me stick ended up putting me up at his place for two nights, driving me sixty miles south, giving me a ding repair kit and a t-shirt, showing me some of the local waves, and letting me use his single fin (even after I almost lost his favourite board after leaving it on the roof of the car). So cheers to Kyle for all the hospitality. He didn't have to apologise, and he certainly didn't have to invite me into his home, but he did and for that I am very grateful. If you ever need a board shaped —  be it a single fin, log or performance shortboard —  he's your man. Just check out Eggnog surfboards.

Oh, and there's no waves in Oregon. Don't bother coming here.

ANY DAY'S A GOOD DAY TO BE A SURFER

I woke to a crisp, clear morning in Newport, Oregon before devouring four scrambled eggs and three cups of deliciously weak drip coffee. The turquoise steel frames of the Newport bridge gleamed brightly in the morning light as I navigated the narrow sidewalk with my bike and surfboard, forcing myself to muster up more concentration than I really wanted to. I wasn't complaining though — at least there was a sidewalk, this wasn't going to be a repeat of the scary four miles of riding across the notorious Astoria bridge (notorious for bikers, at least).

After a mile and a half I leaned into a swift right turn to enter South Beach State Park. Home to huge sand dune systems, South Beach belies it's size until you see the tiny humans walking the seashore which give it some sense of scale.

The chilly breeze blew lightly offshore, and I dabbled with the prospect of adding yet more weight to my bike by buying a hood for my wetsuit — a fairly small addition, but I'm already way overloaded.

After a good few hours in the ocean, the numbness of my hands gauging the culmination of the morning's surf, I decided to head in. While wrestling with my 4mm neoprene straitjacket, a man walked past with his two dogs. The smaller of the two began to sniff my leg, before giving me a thorough once over.

"Good day to be a surfer today?" the man asked jovially and probably rhetorically

"Yeah. It's not too bad. A few out there if you're in the right place at the right time. And it's such a beautiful morning"

The man smiled before continuing on his morning walk.

"Wait. Can I change my answer?"

"Sure."

"Any day's a good day to be a surfer. That's my answer."

The man simply smiled, turned on his heels and walked off. I stood there like I'd just had some kind of epiphany.For me it articulates in the simplest terms how surfing has changed my life.

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A surfer once said something that has never left me. He said that he surfed because he was always a better person when he came in.

Those words were actually spoken in a Billabong marketing video, but I don't think it lessens their importance. And the man who spoke those words was the great Andy Irons — a man who many know had his fair share of demons

The fact is, I just feel incredibly lucky to have found an activity that allows me to meditate, that rejuvenates and invigorates me, and just makes me really bloody happy. To froth out, essentially.

I don't really know how my surfing looks — as photos and videos are few and far between — but at this point I don't really care. But I am slowly becoming more aware of how it has become an expression of me, of how I'm feeling, and (maybe) of my soul. I can tell I'm in the right place because even though the waves aren't as good as home, my surfing feels better than it ever has. It feels freer, less self conscious, and more open to whatever feels good — because that's how my life feels at the moment.

A lot of people have asked me why I chose to do this trip and I think I just found the answer: to try and understand the wonder and ecstasy of what it is to ride a wave, and how we humans can harness that profound power to make the world just a little bit sweeter.

NATURAL BORN STORYTELLERS

Before I left Australia, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I wanted this trip to be about. I decided that the most important things were the following; that I would try to never feel like I was rushing (unless I was trying to escape the impending rains in Oregon), and more importantly that I would listen to anyone and everyone -  because we all have a story to tell. I believe humans are natural-born storytellers and this trip has only confirmed that belief for me. I mean, it makes a lot of sense. If we look at many of the oldest cultures — Australia being a great example —  we see that life revolved around story. It helped us make sense of the world in what I believe to be the most beautiful and sincere way. Stories are always didactic, regardless of their initial purpose, and I can't think of a more engaging way to learn. 

A very generous guest of mine in the last bushwalk guiding season sent me a number of books in April of this year. Among them was a book that we'd talked about over the six days. Marion had told me that Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West by Dee Brown had fundamentally shifted the axis on which she lived her life. And I could tell by the way she spoke those words that it had profoundly impacted her life. Now I must confess that I actually only read half the book. The reason I stopped was because every chapter, which told the story of a different clan in the American West, followed the same disastrous formula as two conflicting cultures clashed. It was not an uplifting book, but it is a book that needs to be read (and I need to finish it). Turning the first pages of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, i began the introduction and was suddenly aware of an overwhelming sensation as goose bumps appeared across my body — a feeling that's incredibly hard to put into words. It was these words from Brown that had caused the reaction:

"This is not a cheerful book, but history has a way of intruding upon the present, and perhaps those who read it will have a clearer understanding of what the American Indian is, by knowing what he was. They may be surprised to hear words of gentle reasonableness coming from the mouths of Indians stereotyped in the American myth as ruthless savages. They may learn something about their own relationship to the earth from a people who were true conservationists. The Indians knew that life was a paradise, and they could not comprehend why the intruders from the East were determined to destroy all that was Indian as well as America itself.

And if the readers of this book should ever chance to see the poverty, hopelessness, and the squalor of a modern Indian reservation, they may find it possible to truly understand the reasons why."

The book was written in 1970, but I don't believe it has lost much significance in the course of the forty or so years since its publication. The reason the book is not cheerful is because it is only a small fraction of a very rich history. It is a horrific history that needs to be told and, most importantly, to be genuinely acknowledged. The same applies back home.

In my preparation time before the trip, I'd also given a lot of thought to undertaking a project where I'd try to look at Indigenous cultures across the entire Americas and the ways in which they were surviving and thriving in the present day. After much consideration, I decided that if I was to undertake an endeavour of this magnitude, it made more sense to do it in the place where I felt most strongly connected to place and country: Australia. That's not to say I haven't been learning magnitudes about the Indigenous cultures of the area, because I have, but after wrangling with the idea I concluded that my voice may not have been the most suitable.  

A few weeks ago I was in the museum of Northern British Colombia in Prince Rupert looking at an exhibition that celebrated Canada 150. Much like Australia Day and the Bicentennial of Captain Cook's arrival in Botany Bay, celebrating one hundred and fifty years of Canada's history can deliver mixed feelings depending on who you are. In a gallery exhibiting art from of Haida, Tlingit, Tsimshian and Kwakwakawakw peoples there stood a small placard on a blank white wall. This is what it said:

"As we begin the next 150 years, let's learn to acknowledge the suffering inflicted on First Nations during Canada's 150 years, and to honour and respect the wisdom of peoples who have sustained themselves and their land for millennia."

I took a photo of that phrase because I'd never seen anything like it in a publicly funded institution in Australia. The words struck me. It was such a simple acknowledgement, but I think it means so much. I believe that the best way to address issues like these is to focus on a shared understanding of our modern nations, because as they say, sharing is caring. 

One of the many great luxuries of this trip for me has been the ability to draw parallels from the experiences of Indigenous people where I've been, and consider these experiences in light of what I have been lucky enough to learn from Indigenous brothers and sisters in Australia. These parallels stand at both ends of the spectrum; on one hand I've seen the beauty and wisdom of creation stories and the intimate knowing of one's environment. On the other side, there's an uneasy familiarity that accompanies accounts of despair and hopelessness during the colonial eras. Our histories are vastly different, but there is much that is the same.

Above all else, what continues to amaze me is the willingness of the first peoples to share their wisdom and culture. The humility and dignity with which people carry themselves during this process usually leaves me scrambling for words to describe it. It takes a lot of strength and courage to offer to share your culture with the descendants of the people who tried to systematically destroy it.

We are seeing a resurgence in the presence and importance of Indigenous story across the globe, through visual arts, literature, theatre, film, the list goes on... I'm currently reading Richard Wagamese's Medicine Walk. The book gives subtle insights into Indigenous knowledge and belief systems (Wagamese is an Ojibwe from Northwestern Ontario) through a modern father-son relationship. It is but one example of Indigenous culture and knowledge existing, and thriving, in the modern multicultural settings that we find ourselves in. 

The point I keep coming back to over and over again is simply this: what have we, as a collective and diverse group of human beings, got to lose from sharing with each other?

And I believe the answer is nothing. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Dee Brown mentions that the First Peoples of the American West could not comprehend why these newcomers to their land wanted to destroy everything they knew. It seems as though even today, a lot of us are still grappling with that question. 

Back when I was in Victoria, I was watching a video at the Royal BC Museum called Our Living Language. It was a short feature that captured some insights into Indigenous people who are resurrecting, or continuing, the practice of speaking their native language. Cindy, who was in the process of learning an old language of the land from her aunty Barbara, touched on the profound complexity and subtle nuance involved in translating between English and this ancient language. The definition of a single word could take her mentor five minutes to explain, and often English was not sufficient to capture the essence or true meaning. 

In the same video, Clyde Tallio tells us that in his language there is a vitally important word: putl'lt

putl'lt translates in English to "everything belongs to those not yet born".

I think it's one of the most beautiful sentiments I've ever come across. Maybe, if we considered putl'lt every day, and in everything we did, we as humans would live a little differently, and think hard about the way we treat each other and the planet that sustains us.

THE COMMON THEME

I remember something Richard Flanagan, the Tasmanian writer, said in an interview with Richard Fidler some years ago. He was speaking about the nature of writing novels and that when a book is written, the writer leaves a part of themselves in those words forever. I think it’s a beautiful idea, and it relates well to how I feel about this trip so far.

I haven’t written any books, but I do feel as though I’ve left small parts of myself scattered across North America. I’ve left pieces with people who have been generous and gracious beyond belief and I’m richer for it. This generosity and kindness has come in many forms. People have fed me, housed me and gone very far out of their way to provide help or assistance when I’ve needed it (and even when I haven’t). For this I am indebted to them.

Most importantly, the people I’ve met on this trip have allowed me a window into their diverse lives. They have trusted me enough to allow me into their world. They have provided me with a wealth of insight, wisdom and knowledge of the kind you won’t find in any book or other medium. At times they’ve confided in me, and me in them. Some have allowed themselves to feel vulnerable in front of some strange guy they met only a few days earlier. I only hope that at these times, I was able to be someone they could depend on.

I realise in writing this that there’s a common theme to all these acts of kindness. And the common theme is love. All the people I’ve met have showered me with love and have not asked for anything in return. I’ve done my best to try and repay this love with love of my own, and maybe that’s why I feel like there’s pieces of me across the continent. Little pieces of love that I’ve tried my very best to provide. And hopefully I’ve contributed some insight and knowledge that has been of some use to them. I’d like to think so, at least.

The love I've received is an unconditional love. It’s a unique kind of love that is hard to define, which makes sense because I find that the things that are hardest to define are usually the most important facets of what it is to be human. To give and receive love is to partake in one of the most basic human interactions. It renders you truly humble and always richer for having had that experience. It reminds us that we're not that different after all, and that love — when given unconditionally and sincerely — has the power to transcend all of our politics, gender, race or any other characteristics by which we choose to define ourselves. It gives us hope that things can be better, and sometimes it bestows upon us an ability to trust in the fact that the world really isn't all bad. So I guess what I'm saying is that it's pretty bloody important, ya know?

To anyone who happens to read this, for there are many of you and you all know who you are, I would like to express my gratitude from the bottom of my heart. I hope, some day in the future, to repay all this love to all of you. That might be setting somewhat of a challenge, but I’ll give it a red-hot go.

WE'RE STRIPPING HER BARE

A patchwork of stars filled the night sky above us as waves slowly eased their way across the rocks on the shore of Masset Inlet. The fire crackled softly, our eyes all drawn to the flickering flames. I've always felt that when you look into a fire you're somehow connected to all those lives who've come before you — a human history through fire.

"If there's one thing I've learned from tree planting it's that it's incredibly easy to break something, but it's very difficult to fix it later on. It's kinda like a vase, you know. You can smash the thing into a million pieces pretty quickly and easily, but it will take you a real long time to super glue all those pieces back together."

Tdesi and Georgia were driving around BC after their seasonal work tree planting when we met on Haida Gwaii. Both veterans of a few seasons, they'd seen their fair share of "cutblocks" across Canada. In fact, I've met vast swathes of tree planters ever since I left Anchorage. It's a job that lures people from all walks of life, but there's a common trait among them that I can't quite put my finger on. From all I've heard tree planting can be damn hard work, but it pays well, you get to work outdoors and many people enjoy the flexibility of the seasonal employment.

They say you only get once chance at a first impression, and my first impression of Vancouver Island was tied up in an unflinching paradox; the sheer beauty of Pacific Northwestern forests was undeniable. But what was also undeniable was the utter decimation of huge areas of these old growth forests. From my vantage point on the Pearl Sea I was able to gaze upon the contours of the north-eastern end of the island with an intoxicating mix of horror and amazement. Horror at the destruction and amazement at the sheer scale of it all. River valleys without a single tree left standing. The sides of mountains stripped bare all the way to the top of the tree line. It was as if some giant was playing with a jigsaw puzzle, and there were still a whole lot of deep green pieces that hadn't been put into place.

I think a lot of us like to tell ourselves that the era of exploitation is over and that forestry practices are much more "sustainable" now. And I suppose there is a truth to that. Forestry will be sustainable if it continues the way it is, but the forests that we leave our children will be a shadow of their former selves. They will be devoid of life, of diversity and of any recognisable soul.

As I crossed the island from the more populated east coast to the less populated west, I passed through an area known as Cathedral Grove. Cars were lined along the highway as I approached the area, leapfrogging the traffic to park my bike close to the start of the trail. The air was notably cooler as goosebumps slowly appeared across my arms, the minute hairs mimicking the trees of the forest I was about to enter as they all stood on end. The sound of traffic was quickly absorbed by the thick layers of bark on tree trunks. With each step further away from the road, I was slowly stepping back in time.

Cathedral Grove, and other remnant stands of old growth forest across the world, are a window into the past. They show us the majesty and irrefutable beauty of our forest ecosystems as they once were. They allow us to feel humble by revealing our insignificance in the vast scheme of things. They have seen more than we will ever see in one lifetime. These trees have weathered fire, rain, storms, wind, and most crucially— for whatever reason — they have evaded the axes and chainsaws of our voracious hunger for timber. In the Grove there were some Douglas Fir that stood higher than eighty metres and have lived for over eight hundred years. The wisdom stored in those trunks is impossible to place value upon.

The next day Erin, Emily and I — having traversed the island to the western side —  spent some time wandering through Avatar Grove, another tract of old forest that had survived the onslaught of logging. This time we got to marvel at giants of a different kind —  majestic and towering Western Red Cedars. I've spent the last few months trying to become familiar with plants of the Pacific Northwest, and Red Cedar was one of the first I felt comfortable in being able to recognise. The bark is indented with lots of long vertical slits of bark, and the bark itself has an undeniable reddish tinge to it. The way the branches slope down before reaching back towards the sun at their extremities add a lot to their overall character. Tdesi even introduced me to a tea made from the leaves of the Western Red Cedar, a pungent brew that was apparently crucial for a healthy immune system in Indigenous communities. Unknowingly, Western Red Cedar had become the most important plant of my journey so far.

It is true that modern science is giving us a deeper understanding of the nature of forest ecosystems; of their interconnectivity and interdependence. We are now learning that trees communicate through vast underground networks of mycelium and that "mother" trees will support fledging trees by providing a transmission of nutrients to support them in their infancy. But I think we as humans already knew these things. Maybe we couldn't explain it in scientific terms, but walking through those majestic trees in Cathedral Grove, you can feel it. You can feel that unyielding strength of the forest community just as you can in strong human communities. You can't articulate it or explain it, but if you give yourself the chance you can most certainly feel it. Most Indigenous story and song is based on this understanding of the interconnectedness of all life, and what better place to see it in action than in an ancient forest?

But the forests keep disappearing.

Beth was kind enough to let me use her office to do some writing. As I write the sun is jutting in on an angle and illuminating a big chunk of bench to my left. The room smells sickly sweet, almost honey-like. The computer rests on a huge slab of red cedar that's probably at least five metres long and two metres wide. That's where the smell comes from. I tried counting the age rings from the outside in and lost count at fifty-something. My guess is the tree has to be at least five to six hundred years old. Aesthetically the bench is stunning. Brown and red hues intermingle with yellow and golden shades to create a inanimate object that is, in fact, full of life.

Western Red Cedar (Thuja Plicata) is a prized timber for many reasons. It is frequently used because of it's high natural resistance to decay which make it particularly prized for boat building, even more so considering the fact it is lighter than many of its counterparts like mahogany. It was also known to be crucially important for Indigenous groups that inhabited the Pacific Northwest as it was used for practical purposes like houses and canoes and similarly for cultural use in the creation of totem poles and ceremonial objects. Not only was the timber highly valued, but the roots and bark were also utilised. The tree was felled in ceremony and respect was given to the life of the tree and what it would provide to the community. Most importantly of all, little or nothing was wasted.

"It's salvaged timber."

"It's what?!"

"Yep, it's salvaged."

I looked up in disbelief, my fingers dragging slowly across the smooth surface of the bench. An ancient tree, carelessly felled by modern machinery, was left to rot in a 'slash pile'. Until someone came along and rescued it. The bench has a newfound beauty and purpose. It may not be as breathtaking as when it stood proudly as a wise old tree, but I take solace in the fact that it did not die in vain. Because many others have, and I'm sure as I sit here there are thousands of other old trees being left to rot on this very island, and millions more the world over. Cutting down old growth forest is irreversible. But then to brazenly waste this most precious resource, and to waste it on such a large scale, is an insult and an utter tragedy. We are stripping Mother Earth bare. And when she's most vulnerable, we're rubbing salt in her wounds.

There is no question — timber is one of our most important resources. As many woodworkers and loggers will tell you, each timber has its own characteristics. I've even chatted to people who seem to attribute human qualities to trees, as if different trees have their own personality. Our connection to timber is one of the oldest relationships in human history. We have used it for basic survival, burning it in fires to heat ourselves for millennia. We have made our homes from trees, or even in the trees. We have built wooden boats and dugout canoes. Timber is an inherent part of who we are.

Our relationship was based on balance. But it seems balance has taken a back-seat as the pervasiveness of greed extends out like the roots of an ancient tree, reaching ever further in search of more sustenance. Greed is why the Amazon rainforest is disappearing. Greed has meant that the tropical rainforests of Indonesia have been wiped from the face of the earth to satiate our desire for palm oil. Greed almost took what's left of Tasmania's tallest trees and turned them into paper.

Greed disrupted the balance and balance needs to be restored. If we are to preserve any old growth forests for our grandchildren to marvel at, we know things must change. And they must change now. Forestry is necessary. More importantly, forestry is an inherently human activity. But it must be carried out in moderation and with the utmost respect and care. To clearfell a forest seems akin to ripping out someone's heart. The body might still be there, but it lies motionless and devoid of life. We know that the status quo is not working and yet we keep doing it?

I keep looking at these ancient trees, these windows into the past, only to discover the whole framework of the house has collapsed around them. The stark cut blocks stare down from the surrounding hills, an ominous warning to the last remaining giants of Avatar Grove. Mountains upon mountains of timber lies lifeless in a biological wasteland. Those trees all died in vain, and it's on our conscience whether we like it or not.

We smashed the vase a long time ago, but now it feels like we're just treading all over the pieces on the ground, grinding them into ever smaller pieces. The time has come to pick them up, we've just gotta find that damned super glue.