Parking Lot Enlightenment

Rest day journal thoughts on how bringing ass to the pavement in the Chief Lot showed me all I need to know

Written by Angie Stevens | October 16

Aug. 21, earlier that day:

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.

Others are resting at their sites, lounging on crash pads and slumped in chairs, or bent over computers in their sprinter van and old, rigged-out emergency ambulance trucks. A pair of dirtbags just walked past my seat at site 86, feet crunching on the gravel before me, having just come from the nearby watering hole that’s become the closest thing to a shower for me the last ten days.

The mountains across the Squamish Harbour are covered in deep green trees, and take on different shades of blue-green depending on their proximity. Most evenings, all the climbers reconvene in the lot and mingle under a sky of orange and pink, reflected magically in the nearby water. Base jumpers and paragliders take flight and float, and the steam from giant pots of pasta boiling or veggies cooking trends upward to them.

As the addicting sun bows its head, and the stars appear, one can follow the voices of distinct friends—fixtures in the climbing circuit that travel together year after year,— and the harmonizing voices of a circle of dreamers singing tunes criss cross on the ground, with one draped over a cajon, tip tapping away as the muffled percussion sounds guide the group.

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For the last eight or so months, I’ve slowly but diligently worked to create the foundations of Wayward, in hopes it could simultaneously grow alongside and capture the growth of the eclectic community of outdoor dwellers in places like Squamish or Yosemite Valley, or deep in the forest along a bike packing route through New Zealand’s thick forests, out at some surf break in AUS, or above a wide, yawning canyon on a high line.

With only one volume published, my work has proven to be successful in this feat. One mid-afternoon day, my ass was pressed to the pavement among beautiful friends. Hands were thumbing through my battered copy of Wayward, and soon others were peering over in curiosity.

You should check this out John, one friend said to another.

What is it? John replied.

Wayward Mag. Angie made it, it’s got a ton of the Valley crew in it. I bet even you might be in it.

I listened silently to this interaction, knowing this recent stranger-turned-friend was surely not among the pages I’d scanned a million times over. But seconds later, as the magazine rested in John’s hands, he flipped to a page and pointed with his battered, chalked-up finger to a group photograph he recognized.

There I am, he said giggling.

And there it was, I thought. In that random interaction, my goal of this publication crystallized. To embody this interwoven network, this braided mosaic of young and old, this spunky, counter-culture crew of the times, and work it into a printed creation while allowing it space to become what it becomes.

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I’ve come to many forks in the road that made me skeptical of my growing creation and my skills to see it through to its physical form, though I’ve held on to the steadfast notion that movement is the thing both keeping all of us together and connecting us to our bodies. I knew that remaining stagnant while figuring out every odd and end of the print publication process and learning as I go would be a shame.

Out here, in the forest among rocks scaled and studied for years and years, I’ve fully come into myself as a young, fresh-out-of-college spirit, hungry for experiences and the stories that come from them. I’ve connected with new faces—clothed in dirtied, raggedy outfits and swathed in layers of chalk, sweat, blood, and mud—and got to the bottom of who we are, why we’re here, and what makes us feel the most alive very quickly, skipping all the conventional formalities we so abundantly fall back on when conversing with people in ‘real life.’

I’ve screamed taking whips on a hard crack pitch with new friends who hugged me tight as I reached the ground, and cried out in childish laughter in a flurry of pure innocence with those same folks hours later, as all six of us cradled a giant log floating in the middle of a lake and paddled it 20 minutes all the way to shore, pretending we were pirates out at sea. I’ve opened up my campsite to over ten people searching for a patch of dirt to lay their tired body on at the end of their long days, and received a similar level of kindness getting cooked meals, or climbing beta, or loving hugs that calm the soul.

I’ve gotten to witness people trying at maximum effort to reach the goals that root them in this place in this season, and learned from them on and off the wall that the process is a beautiful, vulnerable mess that must be cherished as dearly as the sends.

The goal of my journey northwards was to show up, figure it out, push myself, and learn. When I chalk up and begin my waltz up a taxing route, I do the same. And with this magazine, I’ve returned to my computer for countless hours, workshopping mistakes, pinning notes all over my desk, and printing out mood boards to plaster my white walls in boundless ideas. I took risks and ultimately created something I can place in people’s two palms, that months prior was just a germ of an idea.

A website followed, and then an Instagram account, and countless texts about addresses and payments. I chose to revel, above all, in the priceless look on people’s faces when they got to thumb through the thick, heavyweight pages and find themselves in it, or discover pockets of inspiring wisdom from friends they already deemed to know by heart. They got to dive deeper into others’ feats and thoughts and adventures, powered ultimately by the drive to follow the wayward spirit resting within.

These dozens upon dozens of forest dwellers spend day in and day out in the elements to get themselves close to their deepest passions. The exact reasoning of why each one of us finds ourselves here, in this moment, with stinky bodies, unwashed, disheveled hair, tired limbs and hungry bellies, is nuanced and uniquely our own. But at the core, we are one in the same, and what a joy it is to remember this and nurture it, and fall back on it when we’re in need.

These moments can never be erased, just moved through in unison with the natural progression of time. In a similar fashion, something equally tangible as a print magazine can never be deleted off the internet or consumed and regurgitated by AI. The stories embedded in Volume 001 have thus been forever recorded, to be enjoyed, and moved through.

And what a pleasure it is to say we’re slowly but surely on to the next. Stay tuned for more details.

Angie xx