Some intense and heavy rain hit on Thursday but luckily the upper trails quickly dried in the mid winter sun. Nicky’s bike was like an extension of his body beneath him—he clearly has spent his fair share of time on a bike.

Hannah didn’t blink once at the steep entry to a massive jump line beneath us. Most impressively, Jainie pushed herself to improve dramatically and by the end of our expression session was boosting through the biggest gap with ease and a goofy grin.

A few things I loved were the sun peeking through the early morning clouds, the color of the dirt on the jumps contrasted with the jet black burn forest and the green growth that survived the forest fire of 2020.

Nicky loved Santa Cruz and although life, racing and riding, had brought him to various parts of the world he wanted to settle back here, his home. To hear him talk about Santa Cruz was like hearing him talk about love.

Nicky’s love for his home reminded me of a message from Sarah Jaquette Ray's research and book, A Field Guide to Climate Anxiety. She writes that somewhere along the way, environmentalism forgot to celebrate the things we love about the earth and the things we are working so hard to save. 

Environmentalists since the early 80’s have used the “scare to care” technique, triggering fear to enact a response to the very big problem of climate change and our ailing planet.

Anyone who spends time outdoors today is quite familiar with the cocktail of despair and hopelessness that creeps in when we face the scale of these problems. Those feelings permeate our lives, and our bike community, eventually leading to the very common feeling of burnout, fatigue, and defeat. 

As we popped over the hill to nearby Felton to overindulge in burritos and street tacos, I remained focused on celebrating what it is these riders loved about their lives, the earth, riding bikes.

It’s hard not to feel some cognitive dissonance while doing these things together that we love, while living through a period of time that feels hard most days.

Between bites, Hannah and Jainie exchanged stories of mountain lion sightings, hard to imagine sitting on such a noisy and busy restaurant patio. The thought of these great predators stalking through backyards, pissing in trailhead parking lots, and eating a small dog or two quite honestly thrilled me. An example of great mammals living together, somewhat in harmony.

I thought about the origin story of Curious Creatures and how each of us has a great creature inside of us that comes out when we are playing in these forests.

Our own Curious Creature is a part of the landscape and a part of nature, not above it, and Santa Cruz proves this true—even we could one day be mountain lion food.

Our Curious Creature reminds us that we are just a small part of this complex ecosystem, and that our choices do matter, we can make a difference with the way we act, or ride, or choose to make clothes.

At times I’ve felt the despair of our sick planet become the main event in my life. Now, it is more something to deal with; the despair mixed with the beauty, grace, and awe of our planet and all its creatures.

I know the reason why we feel these intense feelings of despair is because there is something we really truly love that is under threat, and that in and of itself is a beautiful thing to love so much and so strongly. Without that love we would have no action.

 Anyone with a heartbeat can feel these opposing feelings of awe and anguish standing in the giant redwood forests, the wonderment at the old growth trees around us and the sadness at the skeletal stumps left behind. I try to embrace this "both/and" thinking and resist the urge for doom and gloom binary thought.

Humans are both terrible and beautiful. We are living in a moment where it feels like the world is ending, but we also might have time to fix it.

Biking with your friends is fun as hell and hedonistic and also perhaps a bit selfish or indulgent, but we have got to keep doing the things we love in the places we want to protect.

We found ourselves pulled to the coast as the sun began to set, the clean straight line of the horizon on the ocean incredibly calming. I am not sure there are many better ways to watch the sun disappear than behind the Pacific swell.

The dramatic cliffs and breathtaking colors were punctuated by a handful of tiny black dots bobbing up and down in the surf. A pod of sea otters floating on their backs, being tossed around yet unfazed by the swell. A group of sea otters resting in the water together is called a “raft” and honestly I think that is the best thing I have ever googled. 

The next morning boasted a new crew, more sunshine, hawks and angsty surfers jockeying for parking lot positions before sunrise.

Grant shows off the Men's Ramble Scramble 11.5" with secure zipper pocket for a phone, plus a drop-in quick access pocket for a handful of loose cashews.

The trail wound through massive mossy stumps, meadows of clovers the size of my palm, and ferns curling and bending in the misty forest air.

Grant’s 3-year-old reminded us at dinner the night before that “after it rains it’s loamers” and he was not wrong.

We began our meadow descent, the Pacific Ocean always below us, with its king tides and unpredictable swell.  As we headed towards lunch the landscape opened up, hawks circling in the thermals, hunting tiny mice and rodents in the tall grass.  We each called out names “sharp shinned!” and “kestrel!” in an effort to impress but also really seal the deal on our inevitable creep towards middle age.

Leslie and I brought our families on this trip, in an effort to “both/and” our own busy working mom existences.

Can we bring the babies and Dads so we don’t miss them while we are away? Can we get our work done during the day and then also be there to snuggle our little ones at night?

 I would say we mostly did it - but maybe my partner has a different opinion as he spent the last 12 hours of the trip chasing our toddler around the beach while also nursing food poisoning from Chinese food.

In this time of environmental defeat and crisis it feels like starting a family and raising a child might be its own little protest of joy against the despair.

To show a child the world is to focus on the good, a commitment to not let the darkness in, and to put your money (literally and figuratively) on a lifelong bet that the future will be better, the world will be brighter.

Creating a tiny human does create more impact into the world, yes, and yet the act also brings so much joy, so much love. It is the ultimate both/and.

It's true that things in the world are worse and its true that things are also better. Starting a family is both selfish and yet I have never known such pure selflessness. It is both the hardest thing I have ever done and somehow also the easiest.

Next month Leslie will travel to the Tordrillo Range to shoot a Big Mountain ski competition in Alaska. I hope she knows that although her heart may be hurting she's setting an inspiring example for her own daughter and that little girl will grow up so proud and grateful that Leslie is her mom.

Being both an adventure photographer and a new mom must be hard but I can see what is also so incredible about what she’s doing. I hope when she is high on that glacier she feels happy to be there, sad to be away, and lucky to feel both.

As the sun set on another Lookbook weekend, I tried to hold the both/and in my heart and clenched in my fists. I am both a human that’s going to leave these wild forests and seas and go back to writing emails and looking at bank statements and I am also a creature, that craves the wind in my hair, the dirt in my teeth, and the collective knowing of my place among the moss.