AIG, Lehman Bros., Citibank, Alpinist Magazine…

Although I’ve been indirectly witnessing the spiraling downfall of the global economy from the mouth of wolf blitzer through the lights and sounds of my 1980s Panasonic, I‘ve still felt close to the situation. It has been a rather frightening reality to be living in such fragile times, especially as I am in a country far removed from the securities of home. Even so, I haven’t felt the crisis really hit me until I this past Sunday when I received an email from my somber brother-in-law alerting me of the closing of Alpinist Magazine. “Holy crap,” I probably whispered to myself as the tears dammed up inside my eyes. I can’t be sure if any single tear escaped, but I’m sure that I do not regret it if it did. $2.4 trillion dollars of losses in two weeks? Swept to the side of my mind. Giant portfolio losses among the blue hairs? Sad, I guess. Loss of thousands of jobs worldwide? I do feel sorry for their families….but for some reason I’m most pissed (so far) about Alpinist. Alpinist has brought me so much joy the past couple years that has not been matched by any amount of Halo, Simpsons, Batman, ESPN, New York Times, JBU Advocate, Wes Anderson, Andrew Bird or any other media in the world. Why was it so important? First, it provided the one outlet for adventure dreaming without the corporate BS of other publications. There are other climbing magazines, but none so purely captivated the essence and purity of the mountain like Alpinist.

The other magazines are chock full of advertising, littering every other page and turning the beautiful, pure, simple sport into a greedy commercial enterprise. Alpinist stayed away from this bastardizing endeavor and gave their loyal readers exactly what they wanted - a pure magazine that felt tantalizingly close to the purity of the mountain. The publishing world has lost a beautiful piece of its tapestry, and it’s all your fault AIG. Not totally, just mostly. - Micah

Lusting Seasons

After almost 22 complete years, my psyche has grown accustomed to certain life staples. Indeed, every night I scrub my teeth, when my nails become obscene (or hopefully before), I trim them to desired length. I eat often; sometimes four times per day, and as I've become more of a man, I've had to shave the hairs on my chin with some regularity. One thing, however, of which I had not realized the cyclical importance, is the changing of the seasons. For almost 22 years I have witnessed the summer green slowly fade into the colors of the fiery fall and have felt the summer's gentle breeze take on a sharper, harsher nature. The evenings are punctuated by brilliant tapestries of deep reds, fading purples, and suprising oranges--both on the ground and in the heavens. People shed their short pants for more substantial clothing; a soft and durable hoodie becomes the desired choice for day after day of trodding under the falling leaves, which have lost their summer grip to the biting breeze. Sandals can still be worn, though one runs the risk of cold, wet toes, thus needing a spray to unattach the leave particles which will undoubtedly cling to the skin. Coffee at sunup, tea at sundown, Sigur Ros, a good book, and tossing the pigskin in between. I'm not sure if one can lust after a season, though I find myself desperately close to that reality. Indeed, the transient seasons (especially fall) have always given me something I didn't know I needed, an unknown cyclical necessity, providing inspiration in change. All for now.