On the phone with one of my biggest inspirations in the print magazine industry, Summit Journal editor Michael Levy, I was so graciously reminded that Hey, it’s a good thing I’m not beaming with pride after my first stab at creating a magazine, ‘cause anyone can make one, but not everyone can or ever would make another…

The day I learned how to drive stick shift along a German highway void of speed limits was the same overcast, late August afternoon that my Dutch friend and I were hours deep into our 15-hour journey from her apartment in The Hague to Italy and the country’s most revered Dolomites…

It’s 5:36 p.m. at the Stawamus Chief Lot in Squamish, British Columbia. The sun beats down, though the manageable upper-70 degree weather feels cleansing in the shade of the pine trees I find myself under. There is a lull at camp this time of day; I’ve been frequently off climbing, still high on the wall at this hour or in the thick of the slime-green, mossy forest somewhere on a descent, but today I’ve slowed down and let my achy body follow suit…

After a long work week, I heeded the call of the mountains, shoving gear and food into the car and steering the wheel to the east side. Heading through Lost Hills, I passed the dystopian oilfield that has become a landmark of this all-too familiar jaunt that I’ve embarked on to go climb with friends year after year, along the 46 from San Luis Obispo, through Kern County to Tehachapi and up the 395 to the Eastern Sierras…

In lieu of taking time to craft something tangible, more everlasting, Owen over at OSLAR California—a lifestyle brand crafting high quality, California-made products inspired by the timeless spirit of vintage culture and design—and I created a silly, one-minute film titled Paperboy. We walked the neighborhood streets of Shell Beach one warm afternoon, gawking at any old van or truck we could find, waving at the real postman as he made his rounds, and getting told off by ornery homeowners for lingering suspiciously about!…

Six o’clock and there was a nip in the air. It was the evening before the fall equinox, the telltale sign one season was folding in on itself and another would soon unfurl and take its spot. Folks stood congregated along Cambria’s Main Street on a corner that feels like the center of the world and the gathering place of outcasts, of dreamers and artists, and those that live off the grid or live to subtly rebel against the chaos of the times…

Last night, we stood face to face, May Pang and I. Her soft eyes–– that still to this day, more than 40 years later, tear up like clockwork at the thought of the love she and John Lennon shared––rested on me, and my youth. Here I was, this 22-year-old girl (same age as she, when she waded so deeply into life with him and the happenings of the rock ‘n’ roll scene of the ‘70s) standing in a sea of silver-haired folk, telling her how utterly touched she felt learning her story…

Mouth open, eyes wide as a wild animal, hands gripping my papery brainchild made tangible, head shaking a bit in disbelief, they ask: “Just how long did this thing take you?”

“Ohhh, you know,” I reply, shrugging off their inquiries. “Too long!” I announce in a half-joking, half-alarmed tone, as to undermine my past ten months of devotion…