On the last day of 2017, at a trailhead deep in the Black Mountains, the temperature hovers right around 20 degrees. We have a big crew - 10 people bundled up in all the warm clothing they own. Armed with snacks, hand warmers, a thermos of tea, and a flask of bourbon, we're preparing to do a nine mile hike with over 6,000 feet of elevation change in temperatures that will only decrease as we climb higher.
Read More
Thanks to collaborative conservation efforts, fish and coral populations at Laughing Bird Caye remain abundant.
We're heading to Laughing Bird Caye, the only marine area in Belize designated as a national park. When it comes to coral reef conservation, death and despair tend to dominate the headlines. But Laughing Bird is a success story, thanks in part to the hard-working folks at Fragments of Hope and other local people who care deeply about preserving the Belize Barrier Reef. In the 10 days we've spent here, one thing has been made abundantly clear - the locals have great pride (and concern) for the natural environment.
Read More
Mariko Wallen prepares a fragment of massive starlet coral for transplant.
The Belize coastline extends roughly 240 miles and includes hundreds of small islands and cayes, but our journey today is short. Twenty minutes after leaving the dock, we arrive at False Caye.
The water here is shallow - no more than 15 feet at the deepest part. We leave our scuba gear in the boat and jump in with snorkels and plastic bins. I am immediately blown away by the abundance of life - the color and variety of shapes and sizes of organisms here is unlike anything I've seen underwater.
Read More
A large symmetrical brain coral starts to show signs of stress at False Caye, about one mile off the coast of Placencia, Belize.
Weighing in at just 8,867 square miles, one might consider Belize a light-weight country. It is roughly the size of Massachusetts - or one sixth the size of North Carolina. Yet this small, coastal nation boasts some of the most striking biological diversity in this part of the world, including 80% of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef - the largest reef in the northern hemisphere.
I'm not aware of any of these facts as I cram myself and my camera bags into a van outside the Belize City airport.
Read More
T Money laughs her way up Mizzen Mast (V1) at Stone Fort Boulders in Chattanooga, TN.
As we make our way down the trail from the parking lot into the main area at Stone Fort, the crunch of twigs snapping under our approach shoes and the soft thump of our crash pads hitting the ground generate the only sounds in the still morning. This crag - one of the most renown in the southeast - is blissfully empty. After navigating through crowds of people here yesterday, it is a welcome sight to look around and see only clean rock and empty trails. More people will come later, but for now, Theresa, Joy, and I bask in the small glory of having an epic boulder field all to ourselves.
Read More
Kicking our feet up on the west rim of Crater Lake.
When Haas and I inquire about backcountry camping, the male park ranger raises his eyebrows with a quizzical expression. His partner tuts disapprovingly. "No way," she says. "There is way too much snow up there."
"Do you have snowshoes?" he asks.
Jon shakes his head. We patiently listen as the rangers explain how we can try to make our way up towards Watchman Overlook, but we probably won't get far without snowshoes.
Jon and I are feeling fairly confident in our abilities on snowy terrain - at this time yesterday morning we were drinking celebratory beers in the parking lot of Timberline Lodge, having reached the summit of Mt. Hood about three hours earlier. We convince the rangers to issue us a backcountry camping permit, and they reluctantly hand it over.
Read More
Jon on the summit of Mt. Shasta at 7:25am on Monday, June 5, 2017.
“So that’s the summit up there,” Jon says, pointing past the top of the ice wall. “This can’t be right.”
While Mt. Shasta is a big, long climb, it is not supposed to be technical. We went the wrong way, and now our only option is to climb down what we just climbed up. I steel my mind. I hate going down. Whether it’s a steep trail or a wall of plastic holds at the climbing gym—going down is my least favorite part.
Breathe through it, I tell myself. Every time I kick in with my crampons, I’m sure that the loose terrain is going to give out below me. My ice axe feels like the only thing holding me to the mountain, and every time I lift it, my stomach muscles clench with fear.
Read More
Setting up camp at Lake Helen, elevation 10,400 feet.
When I look up, Jon is crouched over his pack, staring at me.
“I’m okay." I sound pathetic.
His expression is so intense, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I look down at the snow.
“Look at me Marley.”
It is the most serious tone I have ever heard him use. I look up and meet his gaze.
I have known Jon Haas for the better part of a decade. He is one of my favorite people to do anything with: engage in a long, reflective conversation. Collapse into a debilitating giggle fit. Climb a massive mountain. During all our years of friendship I have seen Jon full of joy, frustrated, stressed out, celebratory, sleep-deprived, and stricken by heartbreak.
But I have never seen him like this.
Read More
Scoping out the scene at Lake Helen (not actually a lake.)
In the ten days that we’ve spent climbing together, Jon and I have learned a lot about each other—how we eat and sleep, how we deal with problems, how we relax, and how each of us approaches climbing a mountain. I love going up the steep stuff. It makes my legs and lungs work hard, and reminds me of the training I’ve done. It makes me feel strong. Jon, on the other hand, likes going down.
Read More
After hiking a little over 4,000 feet, Jon gazes up at the remaining 1,000 feet of steep, snowy terrain that stands between us and Camp Muir.
I start out in front, well aware that Jon's pace is faster than mine. We hiked ten miles yesterday and I fought to keep up with him the whole time. While I've spent the past three months training for this trip - running hill repeats and stadium stairs, doing circuit workouts, and busting out more pull-ups and push-ups than I've ever done in my life - Jon hasn't trained at all. And he doesn't need to, of course. He's a Haas.
Read More
My best friends in my favorite place.
With a mountain house full of friends, I'm halfway through proposing a toast when I hear a tapping sound. I turn around to see Austin's face pressed against the glass door. For what feels like the hundredth time, I scream. I fling open the door, and my heart is in my throat as I squeeze him - I can't believe it.
"This was all my idea," Austin says, with a huge smile.
Later that night we joke about how fortunate it is that I'm in such good cardiovascular shape - if I wasn't, I surely would have had a heart attack by now.
Read More
My favorite adventure books written by women.
The outdoor endeavors that I find myself most drawn to—rock climbing, scuba diving, white-water paddling, and mountaineering—are, and always have been, dominated by men. It's 2017, and there are more badass ladies in these scenes than ever before. But still, the vast majority of books on these topics are written by male authors. Even books about women crushing, like Lynn Hill's Climbing Free or Stacy Allison's Beyond the Limits, are co-authored by men.
Before I go on—I want to clarify that this post is not a diatribe against men or male authors. I've read everything that Jon Krakauer and John Steinbeck have ever written. Gregory David Roberts wrote my all-time favorite book. And my most reliable, go-to adventure buddy happens to be a man. But I think he, and lots of other men, would agree that we need more female voices in this realm. Without going down the rabbit hole of the current state of feminism, let's just say our world, in general, could use more feminine energy and perspective.
So here are my top five female-authored adventure books. I cannot recommend them highly enough.
Read More
Watching the sunrise from the port side of the Capricorn, the largest research vessel operated by the UNC Institute of Marine Sciences.
I've lost count of the number of times I've climbed aboard the Capricorn in the blue pre-dawn light of early morning. The 50-foot research vessel creeks against the dock behind the UNC Institute of Marine Sciences. The air hangs heavy, thick with salt and moisture, but without the heat of the sun, I'm not sweating yet.
Stacey, the first mate, gives me a kurt nod of recognition - he'll be more talkative later when the sun is up, and we're out in the middle of the open ocean.
"Good morning Captain Joe," I say, as I put my camera bag inside the main cabin. I pull my BCD and regulator out of my dive bag and walk back onto deck.
Read More
Celebrating the abundant sunshine on Ocean Beach during my last day in San Francisco in 2016.
Photo by my dear friend, Michael Juberg.
A few weeks ago, right after I got home from San Francisco, I went out to dinner with my dear friend and personal creative muse, Jon Haas. I have lots of incredible friends, but none of them inspire me and push me in the ways that Haas does. When I posed the question, "what should my intention for 2017 be?" he gave me an immediate, yet thoughtful, response.
"Expansion."
Read More
Armando Pineda (left) and Dylan Mikesell navigate the western face of Llaima.
I have no idea how different my life will be after this.
When I get home, I will spend a lot of time talking to a lot of people about volcanoes. One of my photos from Llaima will be published on the cover of a magazine. I will read thick books about plate tectonics and how the earth was formed. I will buy a pull-up bar and join a rock climbing gym. I'll run a half-marathon in the Smokey mountains. I will complete a week-long scuba diving course and get my open water diver certification. I'll film ultra marathon trail races in the southeast and run across ridge lines in the Canadian Rockies. Nine months from now my job will send me to South America again - to document a research expedition in the Galápagos Islands. I'll attend a professional science writing workshop and a photography symposium on wildlife conservation. I will document a high altitude balloon launch at a NASA base in New Mexico. I'll learn how to fly drones. I will swim, dive, run, hike, and climb as often as possible. I will challenge myself again and again - to the point of complete exhaustion. I will not stop.
Read More
The sun rises over Masonboro Island and Masonboro Sound in Wilmington, NC. On the other side of the marsh and barrier island is the Atlantic Ocean.
When Dave Johnston taught me how to fly my drone, he said, "If you want to get good at this, you need to fly as often as you can."
So I utilized those two days - 48 hours away from the typical daily grind - to fly as much as possible. I flew at sunrise and sunset both days. I flew the drone low over the water, and then 300 feet up. I took it to the beach and flew my little quadcopter through dunes and sea oats. I logged seven flights, and it felt good. I'm finally getting the hang of this, I thought.
Read More
Bogue Sound reflects a cotton candy sky just before the sun rises in Morehead City, NC.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
Read More
Our expedition trucks appear tiny at the base of Llaima.
As we head back to town in the late afternoon, Tim drives and entertains us with stories of his adventures in Idaho and across the west. He talks about wilderness EMT training and trad rock climbing. He tells us about the time he biked the entire west coast from LA to Oregon, and the time he almost died trying to kayak a class five rapid.
He's bragging, but his stories are captivating. I stare out the window, pretending not to listen. I wonder if he's full of shit.
That evening, over cheap Chilean beers, Tim and I talk for a long time. He mentions type 2 fun.
"What's that?"
Read More
A Galápagos sea lion naps on an overturned boat in Puerto Baquerizo Moreno on the island of San Cristóbal.
Everything happened all at once - but at least I was at the wedding. I missed the engagement party because I was working in Chile. I missed Gia's bachelorette party because I was filming a documentary in the Canadian Rockies. Photojournalists, as a general rule, are not the best at making it to social engagements. Our calendars tend to fill up with events happening in other parts of the state, country, and the world.
Read More
Jasmina completes a lead climb in Cochise, Arizona.
I focus on my hands - my chalky fingers gripping tiny indentations in sandy red rock - because that's easier than looking 60 feet down.
"Birdie!" I yell, refusing to look down at her.
"You're so strong Marley! You've got this." Jasmina's voice is confident and comforting. "There's a hold just above your left hand."
I stare at my left hand and will it to move. My right leg is trembling. I'm so afraid my foot is going to slip off the tiny sliver of protruding rock when I reach for the hold. I try to focus on what Jenny told me earlier in the day. Trust your feet. I reach for the hold and slide my foot up - the rubbery sole of my climbing shoe does not slip. A few minutes later I reach the anchor, and finally look down.
Read More