The Goodland Journal: Volume One

The Goodland 

Volume One 

February 2021 

Volume One 2

The Goodland Basecamp 

– Seekers of Swell, Snow, and Stoke – 

Oliver Ambros • Micah Shanks 

Mitch Bender • Evan Ruderman 

And special thanks to Alben Osaki. 

G L 

3 The Goodland Journal Volume One 4

07 

Letter from Basecamp 

Welcome to The Goodland’s next 

creative chapter. 

The Stories 

09 

The Goodlist 

The musical accompaniment to 

best experience the journal. 

Inside 

11 

When it all Boils Down 

The unlikely connection between modern 

photography and making maple syrup. 

By: Evan Ruderman 

23 

Top Notch Patience 

Thoughts on a vagabond lifestyle and the 

process of building a winter home on wheels. 

By: Mitch Bender 

33 

A Philosopher’s Perspective 

on the Outdoors 

The existential consequences of a life spent 

in the outdoors. 

By: Oliver Ambros 

41 

California: Exploration 

and the Redwoods 

Self-exploration in the northern-most 

stretch of California’s coastline. 

By: Micah Shanks 


Letter From Basecamp 

Where we’ve been, where we’re going, and how 

you can join us on our new journey 

The Goodland journey began in November, 2016 as 

a way for a group of friends to unite adventure and 

creativity inspired by our time outdoors. We all came 

from different outdoor backgrounds; some backpackers, skiers 

or snowboarders, others surfers, climbers, or a combination 

of them all. The common denominator among us was an 

unanswerable call to discover our personal connection with 

creativity inspired by our time outside. We began writing 

narratives and poetry, while capturing our adventures through 

film, digital photography, and video. The goal was to be 

active and creative: Seekers of Swell, Snow, and Stoke. 

Soon we found ourselves inspired by fellow outdoor 

enthusiasts just like us. This, paired with us frequently seeing 

outdoor companies profile the same professional athletes 

and seemingly unattainable treks for the common outdoors 

person, made us aware of how many authentic and real stories 

go untold. 

We realized we were immersed in an inspiring community of 

people discovering for themselves what it means to love the 

outdoors and the creativity that comes with it. So, we focused 

on becoming a medium that gave a voice to up-and-coming 

athletes, photographers, and adventure seekers worldwide. 

The goal was to search for untold stories and works inspired 

by the outdoors, while celebrating communal creativity and 

raw adventure. Through this period of The Goodland we like 

to call “Chapter 1,” we were honored and grateful to work 

with some incredible people and creatives across the globe. 

However, 2020 was an unanticipated year like no other. A 

massive shift in all our lives put the side project that was The 

Goodland on the back burner. We had to focus on our day 

jobs, our families, our friends, and ourselves, thereby closing 

Chapter 1 of The Goodland indefinitely. 

As the year wore on, we reflected on the absence in our 

lives left by The Goodland. We felt as though there was 

unfinished business, something calling us back to it beyond 

just its presence. While we were proud of what we created, 

we sensed something was missing in its original blueprint. 

With social media seemingly saturating the powerful creative 

gift that is outdoor creative content, we felt a burning desire 

to do something more to creatively express our love of the 

outdoors. Something more timeless and powerful than an onagain, 

off-again website blog. 

With that, we’d like to build off of Chapter 1 and formally 

introduce the new direction of The Goodland: A biannual 

digital journal focused on providing readers with an 

experience rooted in outdoor adventure that is reflective, 

inspiring, and timeless. 

For our readers, the digital format gives us the freedom to 

create an experience beyond a two dimensional page, while 

still providing a unique, artistic, and curated experience. 

Likewise, pushing our design abilities into journal form gives 

our contributors a true publication medium that elevates 

artistic expression beyond a blog or Instagram page. 

Most importantly, as we head down this uncharted path, 

the Basecamp team sincerely wants to thank all of you for your 

support since 2016. We are a small, independent team that 

does this for passion purposes. It is a “net negative” project 

that truly exists due to the inspiration you all provide to us 

daily. While we are not sure precisley what the trail ahead 

looks like, we believe creativity inspired by the outdoors 

deserves a medium that is both beautiful to look at and 

inspiring to experience. 

We are extremely excited for this next chapter and would 

love for you to continue the journey with us. To keep up 

to date with our journal releases and good vibes, please 

subscribe to our email newsletter and follow us on Instagram. 

Keep trekking, 

The Goodland Basecamp 


The Goodlist: 

Music as Inspiration 

Volume 

The Goodland has always paused to 

make room for music in our adventures 

and in our stories. Just as nature is a gift, 

music also gives to us without reciprocity 

or expectation. 

In this new chapter of the Goodland, 

expect a constant musical companion in 

the form of “The Goodlist,” while leafing 

through the adventures of each journal. 

One 

Scan or click our Spotify code to listen to 

The Goodlist: Volume One while you read. 


When it 

All Boils 

Down 

By: Evan Ruderman 

The unlikely connection between modern 

photography and making maple syrup. 


I 

grew up in the countryside of New Hampshire, 

where boiling sap and making maple syrup is 

a common activity in the late spring. For those 

who aren’t familiar, you have to boil down a huge 

amount of sap for a really small amount of syrup. 

The ratio is about 40 gallons of sap for every one 

gallon of syrup to be exact. Today, my work as a 

photographer can feel similar in this regard, but the 

end result isn’t nearly as satisfying as the delicious 

taste of maple syrup. Let me explain… 

As the days in California got 

shorter and the temperatures 

began to drop, me and my friends’ 

minds wandered elsewhere. After 

an exceedingly slow summer 

without much more than knee 

high waves, we dreamed of longer 

days, hotter sun, bigger swell, and 

empty lineups to help us get our 

fill. Without much discussion, we all 

knew we needed to head towards 

the equator. We had heard rumors 

of a fabled beach break with huge, 

empty barrels far down South and 

a couple weeks later when the 

charts lined up it was time to check 

it out for ourselves. Texts were 

sent, calls were made, buoys were 

studied, and last minute flights 

were purchased. After many hours 

of planning, we were headed to 

Southern Mexico. 

We knew where this fabled 

beach break was on a map, 

but there wasn’t much more 

information to gather. The top 

result on Google was a U.S. 

Department of State Level 4 Travel 

Advisory, the highest warning 

level and a firm “do not travel” 

message. My first thought was that 

I’d have to tell my parents I was 

headed somewhere else, and my 

second thought was wondering 

why the travel advisory existed. I 

figured if we kept to ourselves and 


the wave we’d be alright, although 

I didn’t have much basis for this 

rationalization. Other than this, 

we found a spot to sleep and not 

much more, but we knew where the 

wave was and had a place to crash 

so what else did we really need? 

Gear was meticulously packed, 

every random assortment of 

battery charged, external hard 

drives wiped clean, fresh SD cards 

put in the cameras. I’d equate 

this to tapping the trees back in 

New Hampshire - the process of 

setting up spickets and buckets for 

collecting sap for when the time 

is right and the maple trees start 

producing it. 

A week later, we got off a tiny 

plane and filed through a single 

room airport, where we walked 

past men armed to the teeth with 

machine guns to grab our board 

bags. After a quick luggage search 

we strapped the bags onto a 

truck, hopped in the bed (always 

a refreshing token that you’re out 

of the U.S.) and drove seemingly 

further and further away from 

civilization until we could hear the 

thunder of waves hitting sand. 

Our driver, who confidently told 

us his name was Chaser (short for 

Wave Chaser he later confirmed) 

told us we had arrived as we made 

our way down a dirt road with 

nothing ahead of us except one 

small building that appeared to be 

made of leftover materials nailed 

together, our “hotel.” 

Before dealing with the boards 

or our room, we jumped out of 

the back of the truck, Tecate’s 

in hand, and raced towards the 

ocean. As soon as we got our first 

sight of the water we realized the 

legends were right; we had found 

a heaving, hollow wave that was 

big enough to fit inside of standing 

up. Tired, jetlagged, and stiff, the 

guys scrambled to get their boards 

out and fins screwed on, while I 

fumbled around to get my camera 

gear ready to go. SD card loaded 

and fresh battery in it just as I 

packed for 48 hours prior. 

So here I am, 2,200 miles 

from home after a few weeks of 

planning, standing on a beach after 

driving six hours to an airport in 


Tijuana, jumping on a five 

hour flight, and driving two 

more hours to the coast. 

Happy as a clam, shooting 

thousands of photos as my 

friends traded barrels and 

hooted and hollered out in 

the ocean until the sun went 

down. 

Some celebratory beers 

ensured, having made it 

one piece and finding the 

wave we were looking for. 

The beers ran us $0.72 each, 

cheaper than the drinking 

water. The room had running 

water that worked about 

15% of the time and we 

shared it with some of the 

biggest hornets I’ve ever 

seen, nests behind some of 

the headboards and all, but 

we didn’t mind. 

We were happy to be far 

from home and monotonous 

day to day life back in the 

States. Comfort is nice, but it 

is also boring. 

“Comfort is nice, but it is also boring.” 

We were all on the beach 

with boards in hand before 

the sun was up that next 

morning. We couldn’t see 

the waves but we could 

certainly hear them. As the 

sky began to glow, sun still 

hidden behind the horizon, 

outlines of waves began 

to reveal themselves. Big, 

glassy, A-frames that ran a 

few hundred yards before 

spitting water from their 

hollow tubes and finally 

breaking on themselves. 

Jaws on the ground, we all 

looked at each other, not 

sure what to do other than 

laugh, scratch our heads, 

and paddle out. 

We surfed everyday 

until our arms could no 

longer keep up, swapping 

barrels and smiles amongst 

ourselves and the locals. 

When the sun went down 

we’d eat chicken and rice, 

buy copious amounts of 

cheap, cold beers, go to 

bed, and do it all over again 

- a great reminder of how 

simple life really can be. 


I’d liken this point of the trip 

to the end of the sap harvest 

- when you have thousands 

of gallons of sap to turn into 

syrup. Harddrives tucked away 

with thousands of photos on 

them, we repacked, drove to 

the airport, flew north, and 

drove further north until finally 

reaching home. 

Now, the editing process 

lay ahead - the equivalent 

of boiling down sap until it 

turns to syrup. Narrowing 

down thousands of photos to 

hundreds to edit, and then 

selecting just tens of those 

as “finals.” Here is where you 

should have “syrup” - sweet, 

satisfying, and delicious. But 

really, in today’s world, it’s just 

a couple more photos to post 

on Instagram. 

All that time, effort, and 

travel for a three inch wide 

photo that people might 

look at for a second or two 

before scrolling on. Where 

is the satisfaction in that? 

What part of that ending is 

sweet? This is why I said the 


end results of these two activities aren’t the same, 

and this something I continue to struggle with as a 

photographer. 

It seems like the final product of shooting images 

often comes down solely to social media - whether 

personal images or commercial images. Maybe 

they’re thrown up on a brand’s website or in their 

most recent clothing catalog - but shouldn’t there be 

more to it than that? For a long time I have wanted 

to do more with my images. To push away from 

social media, from endless scrolling news feeds. 

About two years ago I began working with The 

Goodland in an attempt to change that, originally for 

myself and then for others as well. 

The Goodland is a place to showcase photos or 

other creative endeavours in a more meaningful way 

- something a little more satisfying, closer to the end 

product of syrup. The process of writing an article, 

like this one, helps you to spend time and energy 

on your work in a way that posting to Instagram 

doesn’t; the ultimate goal of The Goodland and our 

new journal medium is that there will be a place to 

post this work that can be seen and shared. This 

final product, a piece in a real biannual journal, is a 

whole lot sweeter than social media and hopefully 

The Goodland can help bring the process of making 

syrup and the life of being a photographer a little 

closer together when all is said and done. 


Top Notch 

Patience 

By: Mitch Bender 

Thoughts on a vagabond lifestyle 

and the process of building a 

winter home on wheels. 


If you asked, I really wouldn’t be 

able to tell you why I found myself 

infected with the idea to get a van. 

It’s not like I’m a pioneer or anything. 

Odds are I discovered the entire concept 

either via social media, or perhaps 

through a friendly face who gave me a 

tour of their tiny home at Old Man’s. 

Regardless, I found myself first 

rigorously studying the art of 

van conversions in Volkswagen 

antiques during high school, before 

the obsession grew broader into 

more modern attempts at van life. 

I think for me, it was all a matter 

of developing as a person in 

conjunction with looking at millions 

of vans. By the time I knew who I 

was, or at least thought I knew who 

I was, I knew what I wanted in my 

van. It was like I had been waiting 

to put paint on a canvas or words 

on a page. 

And years did eventually pass 

by as I assumed my role as a 

committed student, jumping 

over academic hurdles and 

taking small introductory courses 

in “the real world”, as if it was 

something students had yet to truly 

experience, let alone understand. 

But why did I feel as though I 

had already been there? I’d seen 

the commitment of regular life 

with mortgages, jobs, families, 

insurance, cars, college funds, and 

savings accounts. It was more like 

I knew, as a kid in environmental 

literature, that I was already 

headed for a fate I was all too 

familiar with. Not that it wasn’t 

beautiful, not that it wasn’t new or 

challenging, it just seemed familiar. 

So maybe that’s it then, to 

shake up the familiar timeline and 

progression, make the commitment 

of regular life move more slowly, at 

my pace for a change. Are we not 

encouraged to run away with new 

ideas? To seize every day you find 

yourself moving through? When 

else will I have this many miles left 

in my knees anyway? 

I still remember the day I signed 

for Gemma, or so we decided 

to call her. I sat in a very stuffy, 

stinky, and poorly decorated car 

lot office, signing paperwork with 

the gentlemen whom I harassed 

via phone from Salt Lake City for 

weeks on end. I think I had done 

such a good job researching, 

inspecting, haggling, and 

questioning both the manager of 

the lot and the van, that he was 

noticeably glad to see me sign on 

the dotted line and be done with 

me. 

I think in the world of car sales, 

that just means I’ve done a good 

job. But still, it scared the shit 

out of me. Working for a year in 


software sales to save the 

money for it scared the shit 

out of me. Why drain my first 

true chunk of savings on a used 

Ford? Is this really what’s going 

to make me happy? Make me 

feel like the version of myself 

I’ve always wanted to be? Is 

that even supposed to be the 

point? Gemma blankly stared 

back at me from her parking 

space at the lot, without a 

single opinion in the matter. 

Every time those questions 

run through my head, I usually 

take it as a sign that I’m 

headed in the right direction. 

I guess that’s the beauty of 

it: You never know until you 

know. Creating opportunities 

to question your motives, push 

yourself, and dig deeper than 

before. Maybe that’s the point. 

That feeling was what 

I chased as a grom in my 

youth, through high school 

and college as an avid 

outdoorsman, and what I want 

to continue to chase for the 

rest of my days. 

So, here I am, driving in 

105 degree heat through Las 

Vegas with my two girls, one 

in the passenger seat trying to 

milk the AC for everything it’s 


worth, and the other screaming down the highway 

toward her new home: Salt Lake City. 

Who doesn’t love a winter van, right? I think the 

major difference between the locals of Church and 

myself, is that I want to be rubbing noses with the 

lifts of Alta when the 50” blizzard finally calms. I want 

to make coffee next to Eagle lodge, snug as a bug 

under a rug, while the best day of my life continues 

to stack up right off 22. 

This means more insulation, a better heater, a top 

notch fan, top notch patience, and of course more 

money. But hey, you do something the first time, you 

do it right. Right? 

Lanie and I decided that August to August would 

be our allotted time to get this shit done. To take 

off in the van, chasing winter on the coast and in the 

mountains, is really the dream I’m chasing. No more, 

no less. Does it really have to be more complicated 

than that? Do I need to offer more explanation or 

reason to do so? 

Regardless, it’s a massive stroke of luck and 

blessings that I find myself surrounded by people 

ready to take steps in the journey with me, 

regardless of how complicated or intangible the 

dream. But laying down floors, cracking beers on 

the cut table, and spray glueing for hours on end is 

always a little better with a close friend or two. So 

maybe the community that results from all this will 

be the ultimate prize? I mean, no best day in the 

water or best line of the day feels better solo, at 

least not through my lens. 


Plenty of questions and plenty of 

time to find out. 

Still working hard to find out who I really am and why 

I’m really doing this. But I think we should revisit that 

question when I’m gliding down the line going right 

in Baja with my home on the bluffs waiting for me, or 

maybe when I’m cackling cups of pow down my neck 

warmer on the last run of the day with my home 

waiting for me at the base. 

So maybe to question motives, push yourself, and 

dig deeper while surfing the best swell and skiing 

the best stuff is a little closer to the point. 

Skiing and surfing is where I find out who I am 

anyway, where I truly feel the most. Why shouldn’t 

the van be that place for me as well? 

I suppose time will tell, but first Gemma needs 

to become more than van. She needs to become 

a home, and there’s no one else around to make it 

happen but me. 


A Philosopher’s 

Perspective on the 

Outdoors 

By: Oliver Ambros 

The existential consequences of 

a life spent in the outdoors. 


Oliver Ambros 

Excitement and athletic expression 

become surface sentiments in the 

outdoors, as something far deeper 

emerges from the roots of the Earth: 

Humility. 

This piece was pulled from our our Story Archive, a collection 

of works from previous contributors to The Goodland. Ever 

now and then, we will release a story from the Story Archives. 

Enjoy! — Basecamp Team 

The physicality of the 

outdoors easily grabs 

attention. Raw power, 

challenging demands, and 

constant failures. This is 

reality for those of us who find 

ourselves on the wrong side 

of a snow-ridden mountain, 

under the force of an 8-10 foot 

face, or dangling bloodied and 

battered off a multi-pitch route. 

We are defined by a home 

away from home in a 50 liter 

bag, stuffed to the brim with 

a life support system that can 

make or break the experience. 

Grit, grind, and determination 

separate those from the day 

hikes, the overnights, and the 

multi-weeks. 

As the outdoors becomes 

more accessible to individuals 

across the world, it becomes 

increasingly difficult to 

experience the profound 

realizations discovered within 

the outdoors. Not everyone 

desires the dirtbag existence, 

some not even for one night, a 

right that is the individual’s to 

decide. 

As an athlete, this makes me 

stoked for the empty trails and 

pitches that I get to enjoy. As 

an environmentalist, it concerns 

me to see a lack of respect 

from the “drive-through photo” 

visitor and how that mindset 

unavoidably will affect the 

success or failure of greater 

communal action and public 

policy in the face of drastic 

climate change. However, most 

of all, as a philosopher this 

out of touch reality with the 

outdoors beyond a day hike or 

Netflix special saddens me, as 

the chase for sentiment beyond 

the confines of humanity 

becomes nearly impossible. 

As we athletes and 

adventurers chase stoke, 

quiet meditation, danger, and 

accomplishment, one reflection 

continuously remains the most 

important virtue: We rely on 

the outdoors and the solitude 

it forces. Excitement and 


Philosophically 

this experience 

can only be 

described as 

a connection 

with the roots 

of nature: 

Symbiosis. 

athletic expression become surface sentiments in the 

outdoors, as something far deeper emerges from the 

roots of the Earth: Humility. 

It saddens me that some individuals never desire 

to experience the out-of-body moments that force 

a creeping smile upon the cracked and dehydrated, 

journeyed lips in the face of powerful breezes and 

massive snow capped peaks. These moments are 

few and far between, even for individuals who spend 

their entire lives in the fresh air with no one around 

for miles. This experience can only be described as a 

connection with the roots of nature: Symbiosis. 

Feeling in touch and in tune with the true 

movement and energy that can be seen throughout 

our beautiful blue planet. Without the distractions 

and ego, the smallest ants, the largest bears, and the 

swaying trees all begin to seem rhythmically drawn 

together. In these solo moments, having put in the 

grit and grind, the sweat and blood, we humans have 

a chance to feel in tune with this symbiotic rhythm. 

I’ve felt this deep feeling once before, and it is 

the source of tears. Tears contingent not on sadness 

or happiness but overwhelment. I love the sport. 

I love the endurance. I love the community. I love 

the solitude. I love the success. I love the failure. 

But since experiencing that symbiotic feeling, my 

passion and drive in the outdoors is in pursuit of that 

emotional symbiotic tie. 

What the photographs and videos fail to capture is 

nature’s inexplicable ability to humble the human and 

reveal perhaps the largest elephant in the room of all: 

We need Earth, Earth does not need us. 

The sun shall continue shining down upon the 


Sierra pines no matter if weathered 

boots crunch along the paths 

below. The dolphins will always 

be found playing in the oncoming 

Northern swells no matter if 

schools of snorkelers tread nearby 

taking photos. The sunrise river 

system will continue flowing 

around Big Bend even without the 

herds of photographers there to 

capture it. 

This by no means is meant to 

depress, dissuade, or to dissolve 

the amazing feats of humankind. 

No. This right here is a reminder, a 

letter to our amazing capabilities 

and a call to action: We must 

appreciate the outdoors. 

While I am a hiker, a surfer, a 

climber… before anything I am 

a human. From one human to 

another, seek this symbiotic feeling 

I speak of. It will pressure you, it 

will change you, and it will scare 

you. But it will never make you 

worse off. 

Search for the peak, for the 

swells, and for the record book, 

but never forget the reason you 

fell in love with it all in the first 

place: Earth’s powerful mystique 

and beauty are fucking improbably 

marvellous. 


California 

– Exploration and the Redwoods – 

Words: Micah shanks 

Photography: Oliver Ambros 


Tom Petty, “California” 

“California’s treated me good 

I pray to God that the hills 

Don’t fall into the sea 

Sometimes you got to trust yourself 

It ain’t like anywhere else” 

Part I 


I 

take my first step into the 

cold Pacific, the great coastal 

redwoods watching over me 

on the bluff above. The water is 

frigid, and the air is even colder 

as the sun begins its daily 

journey through the sky. I am 

chilled to the bone and nervous 

for what lurks below me in 

the unknown waters beyond 

but feel energized and alive; 

ready to catch some waves in 

California’s true north. 

I begin to paddle out and 

dive beneath a few waves. The 

water feels similar to those I 

surf hundreds of miles south, 

until I am immediately hit with 

a freezing headache that is not 

so familiar. I push through the 

freeze and make it outside of 

where the waves are breaking. 

I turn back towards the beach 

and take a moment to soak 

in the landscape around me. 

A long, wide beach extends 

for miles in both directions, 

with the redwoods scattered 

on the bluff above. This area 

was named for the prospectors 

who came in search of gold 

over a century ago; however, 

the morning sun fills the 

bluff, beach and water with a 

golden light: the epitome of 

California. I wonder what those 

prospectors thought of this 

very place over a hundred years 

ago. 

I turn back towards the water 

and begin to focus on the task 

at hand: Scoring some waves. 

The faces are comfortable 3-4 

feet in size, but we must battle 

howling winds and the numbing 

waters. I turn to paddle into a 

right, but it soon washes under 

me and I realize I am going to 

have to paddle a bit harder 

to make it into these waves. 

I turn to go on another right, 

put my head down and paddle 

hard. I feel the wave’s energy 

take me as I pop to my feet 

and glide into the wave. It’s a 

short, uneventful wave, but I 

feel exhilarated and grateful to 

have successfully gotten one in 

these mysterious, yet incredibly 

beautiful waters. 


Oliver and I trade off waves for about 30 minutes 

before the cold becomes a bit too unbearable for 

me. If the waves were pumping, I probably would’ve 

felt a stronger urge to stay out, but since it was 

marginal, all I could think about were the warm, dry 

clothes and hot cup of coffee that awaited me back 

at camp. I yell to Oliver that I’m going to catch one 

in and ride one straight to the sand. I sprint up the 

beach to the bag we had stashed towels and Oliver’s 

camera in. I toss my board down and grab the 

camera, hoping I can get some proof of this wave 

and our success in surfing it. Just as I get the camera 

geared and ready, Oliver is surfing a wave right to 

the sand. No photo proof, so you’ll just have to take 

my word for it. 

We walk back to our campsite dripping wet, but 

I feel ecstatic. We had accomplished our goal in 

getting some waves and did it in a venue that was 

truly one of the most wild and beautiful stretches 

of water I have ever laid my eyes on. As we strip 

out of our wetsuits, cook up some breakfast and 

enjoy the morning fire with a steaming cup of joe 

in hand, I feel entranced in the moment and in my 

surroundings, pure bliss. 


“We accomplished our goal in getting 

some waves and did it in a venue 

that was truly one of the most wild 

and beautiful stretches of water I 

have ever laid my eyes on.” 


Part II 

Joseph B. Strauss 

“The Redwoods” (1932) 

“This is their temple, vaulted high. 

And here we pause with reverent eye, 

With silent tongue and awe-struck soul; 

For here we sense life’s proper goal;” 


We enjoy the simple 

life of camp for a 

bit while we recover 

from our morning surf. I sit 

in my camping chair and 

read while Oliver explores 

the campground, camera in 

hand. It is turning out to be 

one stunning day, yet still 

cool enough that a couple 

of layers are required to stay 

comfortable. 

We get ready to continue 

our exploration of the area and 

remember reading about a 

nearby trail that is supposedly 

right out of Jurassic Park. We 

gather our cameras and some 

water and take a short drive to 

the trailhead. There are a few 

groups in the parking lot: some 

kids playing in the gravel, a 

few adults enjoying a cold beer 

together and a girl practicing 

some stunts with her hula hoop. 

These groups seemed to have 

finished the hike already, so 

we are hoping we may be able 

to witness this trail with little 

disturbance from anybody else. 

After walking a short distance 

through some pines and oak, 

we come upon a small creek 

laid within a wider canyon. The 

canyon ranges from about 30 

to 50 feet high and about 15 to 

30 feet wide. Redwoods grow 

high atop the canyon, making 

it feel even taller, while green 

ferns occupy every inch on 

the canyon walls. This space 

reminds me of the Narrows 

in Zion, but is so unique and 

different. 

We slowly trek through the 

canyon, completely absorbed 

in our surroundings and thus 

rarely speaking a word to each 

other. The creek provides a 

subtle soundtrack while nearby 

birds hit on the accenting 

notes. This stretch of green is 

unlike any place I have ever 

witnessed, or anything I could 

have imagined witnessing. 

I begin to wonder about this 

massive state and how just over 

a hundred years ago, this grand 

expanse we call the West was a 

much different place than it is 

today. 


Living and growing up 

in California towards 

the tail end of the 20th 

century, I am well versed in 

clogged freeways, crowded 

beaches and the hopeful 

life California has come 

to promise. This energy 

can be exhilarating and 

motivating, but most of the 

time I feel lost in a place I 

call my home. I yearn for 

landscapes I can explore 

that aren’t congested with 

others who are focused on 

everything but the view 

right in front of them. 


At this moment, I find myself hundreds of miles 

further north than I have ever been in my home 

state, and although I am discovering these hills and 

coastline for the first time, it feels like home. I am 

walking through this unusual yet stunning canyon, 

the only person in sight is Oliver and all is quiet. 

I breathe in the cold air and remind myself that 

although many of the outdoor spaces in the West 

are getting swamped with people, there are still 

remote landscapes to discover. It requires a bit more 

energy and time to find these places, but the feeling 

of gazing upon this beauty while being able to think 

deeply about one’s present and life, is priceless. 

We finish walking through the canyon and take 

a loop back to the parking lot. A young couple 

walks by as we return, and I smile knowing the 

unimaginable space they are about to discover. 

Oliver and I exchange few words as we head back 

to the campground; the canyon’s mystery and depth 

has us both high on life. We grab some towels and 

head down to the beach to watch the sun finish its 

daily journey. I have watched the sun set over the 

Pacific my entire life, but there is something different 

about this moment, about this place; something 

wild, something special. 


How to Stay in Touch: 

Thank you for reading the first volume 

of The Goodland Journal! To continue 

the journey with us, subscribe to our 

newsletter and follow us on Instagram. 

@tothegoodland 

basecamp@tothegoodland.com 

G L 


Volume One 

61 The Goodland Journal 

www.tothegoodland.com

The Goodland Journal: Volume One

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