nick pabst is back, bitches . . .

Currently, I'm layed up under my 40 x 12 tarp with a busted back from paddling 150 miles in three days on the middle fork of the salmon river, but in a couple of days I'll be back on top, working for Cascade Raft outa Banks Idaho, home of the notorious Banks Mag and the constantly frightening North Fork of the Payette. No photos this time, as my camera is buried along the depths of six-mile creek in southern AK, but I'll fix that soon enough.
From my summer home, i.e., the farm (i.e. my tarp), I can catch a glimpse of otter slide rapid, a beastly warmup rapid of the north fork. A few miles downstream and we come to the confluence of the north and south forks, creating the main payette. Looks like its gonna be a good season, as there's 120% snow-pack and plenty of spring rain.

teamscum x the chattooga conservancy

As part of our SUPPORT SOUL program we are stoked to be donating 10% of sales from the 2011 'support soulful kayaking' T towards The Chattooga Conservancy's Stekoa Creek City Park and Stream Buffer Restoration Project.



Available in 2 mens/womens colourways, the 2011 SSK Tshirt is printed using non-toxic waterbased inks on a %100 organic cotton Tshirt with a seasonally dated neck label. You can pick one of these up for $25 at our online shop .

feelin' the flow

march has provided some fantastic flow in the southeast. I managed to get twenty days on the water this month alone, not half bad for a kid without a car. Check out some pictures of our recent trip to Overflow. I'm sticking around the southeast this summer and I'm fired up about it!

mark miller droppin' singley's

jonathan dale doin his thing at marginal

see you on the river this summer.

arlyn-

seasonal affective disorder

Work slowed down mid-February and it was time to move on.

So with hundreds of pesos we took the overnight bus to Buenos Aires to indulge our last few days in Argentina. We spent one day at the US Embassy (Note here: when traveling, make a photocopy of your passport.) and the rest of the week was spent on seafood empanadas, wine, and the tango. Buenos Aires is a dazzling city with countless corridors of street musicians and dancers. It is one of the largest cities on earth with nearly 13 million people (that’s almost twice the size of NYC).

We bused back to Potrerillos and spent our final afternoon closing down the cabana and finding a new sucker to feed the Huevo and Remo. We flew out of Mendoza on the 27^th of February and landed in Atlanta the following afternoon.

We had arrived in Argentina as spring gave way to summer and left as summer was fading into fall. I was four days in Georgia as the first Bradford pears christened the Spring and then we were off again, this time to ride the final snowfalls of winter in Colorado.

It was dark and rainy when we left Atlanta and it didn’t clear up till after Little Rock. There was 900 miles on I40 and the intergalactic adventures of the lawless desert planet Dune before we reached the foothills of the Rockies. As we passed through Santa Fe the first traces of snow littered the highway and there were snow flurries on the road ahead. By the time we entered Colorado the storm was in full effect and didn’t let up our first three days in Pagosa. Nick and I started working in time for the spring break madness at Wolf Creek, and are shredding the gnar on our days off. No plans to head back east any time soon.

pasaportes, patagonia y perdidas

The water's high and work is rocking. Nick is kayaking everyday and I have a full time gig waiting tables and serving drinks at the riverside restaurant. It's been busy on Los Condores Ave with wayward travelers passing through-- Joe Numbers and Shannon both stayed a week, my brother was here for two, and there's an Irishman camped out back we can't get rid of. And we have another dog. Remolina Andina (Remo for short) showed up one morning with the Huevo and decided to stay.

My brother came down for the first two weeks of January. It was a two day trip from Homer, Alaska with a bit of bad water in Mexico and lost baggage in LA. After a weekend in town Tony and I took off for Patagonia on an overnight bus trip from Mendoza to Bariloche. We arrived without a plan, bought a map and supplies, and camped around nightfall well within Nahuel Huapi National Parque.




We spent the week backpacking a circuit of Refugios-- one room huts at backcountry camp sites that sell sandwiches and cerveza. Around day three we waited out a bout of cold rain and patagonian wind to attempt a secondary route of ridgelines and scrambling deemed impossible without good weather. The next morning was blue skies and sunshine. It was a full day of backpack bouldering, snowfield descents, and waterfall crossings. We traversed a pristine mountain valley and finished the day with a brutal climb to the shores of a high alpine lake. Johnny Walker was waiting for us up top.

We came out of the woods to more rain and full hostels in Bariloche so we headed north for Aconcagua. Note here-- if you want to spend a few days backpacking the tallest mountain in the Americas and aren´t Argentine be ready to shell out some cash. It was about $100 US dollars for a three day permit, $250 for a week and $1,000 for a shot at ascent. So it is expensive but damn purdy. The trail to basecamp is a straight shot into the mountain alongside a glacial creek and red rock walls.

After a few hours of hiking we arrived at Confluencia-- an international array of colored tents and mountaineers preparing for ascent. When I reached into my pack for our permit I realized my dry bag was gone. I felt my stomach drop- it was not only all of my cash and my passport, it was my brother's passport as well. I stashed my pack and ran back to the park entrance, searching the trail until dark. It was a horrible night- the unusually still mountain air amplified the sleepless silence between us. We broke camp early to retrace our steps and again found nothing.

So rather than backpacking the park Tony took a crosscountry bus trip to the U.S. Embassy in Buenos Aires while I returned to work. It was a three day binge of roadtripping and beer, and then Tony was back in Potre for a full moon rafting trip and all night river party. The next morning he headed back to darkness and cold and Alaska winter.

As for me, I am still passport-free and broke and happy with summer. C'est la vie.

Fajardo to La Parguera: Puerto Rico on the cheap

Aguadilla soul surfers

The same low pressure system that closed the ATL airport hours after our plane hit the skies proceeded to bombard the coast of Puerto Rico with decent/good surf for the first 10 days of our adventure. While we would rather have seen blue skies and calm, green Caribbean waters, it was nice to witness a fever comparable to 6" of rainfall in WNC. The surfers were going nuts. As part of the cultural detoxification process, we soaked in some ocean vibes and acclimatized to 3 weeks of living out of a Suzuki Aero.

First off, Puerto Rico is not third-world, monopoly money cheap. Prices are comparable to mainland US and some things are more expensive. If you're on a scumbag budget there are a couple of key tips for the essentials :

FOOD

- RESTAURANTS: stay out of sit down restaurants- any restaurant with a waitstaff is generally outside the range of a scumbag budget -

- LOOK FOR HEAT LAMPS: road food and street meat is the way to go, though be wary of any crusty looking fried items filled with hotdogs or seafood -



- PANADERIA: if you don't know this word learn it, and eat at them -



- GET A COOLER: eat groceries, buy fruit from vendors on the road, its cheaper, fresher, and local -

- BEER: warm Medalla from the grocery store is usually about half the price of cold beer from a bar, bag ice is about a buck -

- RUM: have your heard of Puerto Rican rum? yeah, they make it there - and its good and cheap


SHELTER

Hotels will drain your moneybelt faster than you can chug ice cold 10 oz. Medallas on an empty stomach. And the island isn't necessarily 'camping friendly.' This is where you need to be creative. Bring a small tent and be prepared to spend at least a few nights sleeping in your car.

I'm not gonna divulge too many secrets here, but lemme just say that when your illegally poaching some beachfront camping, safety is definitely a concern. Keep your wits about you and carry a big knife.




When your too sunburned to surf anymore, head to the center of the island. Most people think Puerto Rico is all about the beaches, but 40% of the island is covered in mountains and rainforest. We sampled Toro Negro with Acampa and, thanks to early Spanish settlers' scurvy concerns, plucked fresh oranges and grapefruit sagging from the litany of citrus trees scattered throughout the Cordillera Central. You can mindsurf the steep flashfood creeks that drop off both sides of the hills, but whitewater kayaking isn't really a practical endeavor here. However, if you skip every other tour on the island, at least sea kayak into the bioluminescent bay at Fajardo. On a dark night you will feel like you have slipped into a bizarre psychedelic trance as clicking crustaceans and laser beam fish leave you feeling a bit unsure as to the true nature of perceptual reality. It's trippy as hell.


Toro Negro


So we dropped into ATL and hit I-75 literally 1 hour before they closed the interstates and proceeded to cancel thousands of flights, shutting down most of the southeast for a few days, again. Sometimes you need to decompress from vacation mode, so being snowed in ATL was a welcomed extension. Now we're back in WNC and working on teamscum 2011. We've got a few tricks up our sleeve this year, so stay tuned for new Tshirt designs, some ridiculously sick custom headwear, as well as a revamped site and Homegrown 7 preparations. 2011 is gonna rock!

hasta el juevo

She just showed up one morning, hungry and skittish outside our doorstep. The fridge was empty, save a few onions and an egg. Nick fried up the egg and thus El Juevo she became. She scumbags the pueblo by day and comes home to howl at vegetable trucks and waning moons by night. So now we have a dog in Argentina.

I met David coming back from town, juggling two kilos of potatoes and three bottles of whiskey on a crowded bus. Nick and I had decided to host a Thanksgiving asada, so I went into Lujan to see what traditional foods I could find. Not so much, no turkey, no yams, not even good ketchup. Anyways I was coming home when I wound up sitting with David. It only took a minute to forgo our broken Spanish for some good ole red white and blue American. David was traveling alone after his failed attempt to rekindle a love story. He showed up on her doorstep unannounced after 5 years of silence. It was a luke warm reception followed shortly by the "I'm just not that into you" conversation. Thus he was wandering about with a backpack of river gear and a plan to head somewhere south. David came to the party and stayed awhile.


Our Thanksgiving celebration was whiskey wild. We served freedom fries and a couple of chickens to celebrate the greatness of America and its rich history of distracting folk with food and games while raping and pillaging their lands. Asadas are built on the communist mentality-- no plates for serving individual portions but rather chicken cooked whole and eaten with fingers. But similar to the pitfalls of the socialist agenda it encourages lazier folk to show up just as the chicken is ready and take more than their share. Argentine style, we ate around midnight and partied till dawn.


The first week of December Nick and I visited Aconcagua (that's Mexican for big 'ole mountain). It is the highest peak in the Americas at 22,834 feet, standing a few hundred feet taller than Denali. We spent the day hiking about the edge of the park with an old timer from Potre named Paco and two Slovenians passing through town. The five of us had lunch on long forgotten train tracks paralleling El Cueva, a busy creek carving through rock beds and land bridges atop natural hot springs. We ended our trekking excursion at Puenta del Inca, a popular display of iron colored rocks and bubbling pools, exemplifying the delicate balance of eroding rock formations and centuries of spring thaws.

Work is slow, money's tight, and so passes December. Feliz Navidad, y'all.

--nickiD

On location 12/1/2010

Seems like we had one good stompin rain in the fall of 2010, some parts of Western North Carolina received as much as 9 inches of rain. It was one of those occasions when everything was running and probably too high. I decided to hike down into the Narrows and see what a high water Green looks like, I knew it was going to be high but i didn't expect to see the notch under water. I'm down here in Key West layin low for the holidays, really diggin the beer drinkin and no shirt part.

Cheers

arlyn-

rat tails and man kisses

Expect a whole lot of both if you plan on visiting Argentina. A kiss on either cheek with a bit of tail in between.


We camped beside Lake Mendoza our first few days in Potrerillos. After a chilly evening we awoke to the harsh rays of desert sun against red rocks and crackling creek beds. We had expected an oasis of vibrant wine vineyards but as the sun burned through the mountain breeze we found ourselves in an arid valley similar to the canyons of Utah. Apparently the region's renowned wineries are not due to natural environment but rather to its system of irrigation canals dating back to the Incas.


That morning we walked along the lake to Rios Andinos (about five miles from town) to find no one had heard of any nicks. The owner, who had said there was work, and the head boatman, who actually doles out the work, hadn't spoken, so we were greeted by a somewhat polite 'who the fuck are you?' (en espanol). After a few minutes of awkward explanations we were informed they didn't need any guides but to come back in a week to see if Nick could check out as a safety kayaker. At this point I thought it wise not to mention I was looking for work as well.


For the next couple of days we walked around town and looked for a place to rent for the season. It was late on the fourth day when we stopped into a kiosco (think NYC bodega) and the owner offered to show us the two vacant houses next door. We decided on the smaller of the two- a one bedroom cabana with white washed brick walls and a slanted wooden roof. The senora seemed surprised we wanted to move in without gas or furniture but we assured her we didn't mind and settled into our summer home that evening. Just as we closed our front door the wind began to howl and the temperature dropped dramatically. The next morning we awoke to frosted windows and a crown of snow covered peaks outside of town.


Unwelcome but here none the less, we established our presence in Potre. The following week Nick went to check out for work, but after a bit of confusion the head boatman realized they were a guide short. Nick volunteered having never seen the river and was cleared to guide after the trip. We were invited to our first Argentine asado that evening.

Argentine time has little to do with hours and minutes. If they tell you 7:30, you're going to look like a schmuck if you get there before 9. And 9 o'clock is when they start burning wood for coals so don't expect the first piece of meat until 11. Anyways old man midget hands and I showed up just as people were waking up from their afternoon siesta, and already a bit silly from nipping the bottle of whiskey on the walk over.


Folk ain't so down with the brown here so our dinner contribution remained untouched while Nick and I became acquainted with the Argentine national drink, Fernet (thick and bitter, similar to Jagger, drank with Coca-Cola). We didn't make it to dinner that night. Just as they were heating up the brick oven outside we stumbled home a bit hungry and a bit drunk but better prepared for our next midnight meat feast.

--nickiD

los gringos nics

We met in Bogota on October 28'th after being sniffed down by drug dogs. This was coming into Colombia. Huh. The next morning we arrived in Santiago to a crowd of Chilean taxi drivers hustling their services in a cacophony of Spanglish shouts. It was cold, with a fresh halo of snow capped peaks encircling the city. After 20ish hours of travel our driver dropped us off at a dive hotel to rest before venturing into the full throttled metropolis outside.


Around lunch we headed into the heart of Santiago. The streets were busy with vendors of all varieties-- ice cream stands next to underwear tables smelling like the whole array of undefined street meat. Greasy teenagers and weathered city folk grouped beneath clouds of smoke, the bitter stench of tobacco clinging to hats and scarves. We ordered cigarettes with our cerveza in a late night cafe and set the alarm for the early bus out of town.

The first bus to Curico left at 7am. After three hours of driving south, we crossed town with our backpacks, kayaking gear and guitar to another bus terminal where we piled our luggage between the driver and captain's seat of a riggidy microbus. Within a few kilometers the pavement gave way to a gravel road heading into the Andes.


The bus dropped us off in front of the Hosteria (think bed and breakfast) just outside the small town of Los Quenes. It was Turbo's second season working for Todd, a fellow gringo who found his way to Chile 10 years ago from the rivers of Idaho. We set camp uphill of the Hosteria, nestled in a grove of trees opening into the mountains.


We were there a week. We spent three days on the water, kayaking the Rio Tano and Rio Claro. The glacial rivers were sharp and shallow with sections of class 5 rapids. Turbo introduced us to his Chilean caballeros, a dude from Patagonia who goes by Petey, and a local kayaker and his lady- Gonzo and Fran. Petey led us on a full day excursion for views of volcanoes and condors and spectacular tales of combustible plants.


Gonzo drove us through the fertile foothills of the Chilean coastal range. There were remnants of last year's earthquake everywhere. Most yards sported a government financed hut hastily constructed amongst the wreckage of homes-- the Chilean double wide for disaster victims.


The following weekend we left for Argentina. After two bus rides and a full morning of shuffling bags we were in Santiago to catch another bus across the Andes. Two hours outside of Mendoza the driver dropped us off on the main highway and told us this was Potrerillos. It was dark; we knew no one and had no place to go. We didn't have a phone or a number for the rafting company, nor the Argentine currency in a town too small for a bank or an internet cafe. Thus, los gringos nics started their adventure into summer yet again.

--nickiD