I’m very grateful to have discovered this from a young age. First was the thrill of flying down mountain roads on a road bike, the grip of tiny rubber tires the only thing holding me up safely. Then it was climbing peaks in high school with my nordic team, scrambling along ridgelines and feeling the altitude in my lungs. Soon I found myself climbing some of those same mountains, but during the winter, and on skis. These experiences, for better or for worse, have shaped me.

And perhaps my favorite way to scratch this itch is through very long bike rides. Multi-day, self-supported adventures that are often competitive, where I get to exist in the euphoria of a very simple—and at the same time complex—state of being: forward motion; covering great distances in part ultra-endurance challenge, part spirit quest.

It’s fucking hard, though. I’ve finished just over half of the races I’ve started, and at one point or another probably wanted to quit the other ones, too. Illness, injury, fear, deep discomfort. It’s a lot to ask of the body and more critically, the mind, and yet I keep coming back for some unhinged reason. It’s probably that unexplainable drive within me—within many of us—to try hard things. To see what happens when we inch closer and closer to our capabilities. It’s also just a damn beautiful world out there, and from the seat of a bicycle is a pretty neat way to see it.

Alas, I could go on. But this essay is not a philosophical one. It’s one about my bike, my gear, my approach to my next event which starts tomorrow as of this writing. A race that is near and dear to my heart, because it takes place in my home, on some of my favorite gravel roads and mountain bike trails on the planet. It’s the Smoke ‘n’ Fire: a 435-ish mile lap around the Central Idaho mountains, a wonderful and demanding mix of terrain and weather. The route starts and ends in downtown Boise, first heading east into my hometown valley of Ketchum, then north over Galena Pass and into the Sawtooth Basin, before looping around Banner Summit, Deadwood Reservoir, and back through the Boise National Forest into the city.

The first time I attempted this race, back in 2023, I didn’t even make it halfway. Awful knee pain stopped me in my tracks near Stanley. I came back and won in 2024, so I’m curious to see what kind of experience lies in store this year.

The weather looks gnarly. Rain and cold guaranteed. Chance of snow in the high places. But at least it’s not 100 degrees, and at least we’ve avoided wildfires for the most part this year. It will be a perfect little dress rehearsal for my last big objective of the season, the inaugural Taurus Mountain Race in Türkiye, which is twice as long, with 100% more uncertainty.

This summer I’ve been tweaking and tinkering with my bike setup in anticipation of these two fall events, and the general framework will look quite similar between the two. But here goes the rough breakdown of what I’m taking on a lap around my backyard.

Bike

The raddest bike I’ve ever ridden is my Alliance titanium hardtail hand built in my hometown of Hailey, Idaho by Erik Rolf. We set out to make the ultimate off-road bikepacking rig with custom geometry designed for terrain just like I’ll be experiencing this week and in Türkiye.

It’s built around a FOX 34 120mm Factory fork, a HUNT Proven XC dynamo wheelset, and a Shimano XTR mechanical drivetrain. Much to the chagrin of my riding buddies, it has a beautiful matching rigid seatpost (one day I will get a dropper…one day). Cut-down carbon bars with Ergon grips and inner bar ends, plus short aerobars for comfort and a little speed, and an Ergon saddle make up the contact points. Oh, and my new favorite tires, the Continental Dubnital in 2.4 and trail casing will provide a nice blend of speed and grip for the rough stuff.

Bags

Self-supported races like this, particularly when off-road and during shoulder seasons, means bringing a lot of stuff. I’m stoked to be supported by Tailfin for these late races, who kindly provided their new Journey rear rack and Speedpack, which are perfectly suited for my needs. The rear rack holds my sleep kit and warm layers.

Tailfin’s 3L top tube bag holds all the stuff I need quick access to during the day, like sunscreen & chapstick, food, chain lube, and my battery bank. A partial framebag from Rockgeist will hold a few extra layers that will be on and off during the day like arm/leg warmers and gloves, plus more food storage, my headlamp, mini pump, spare gear cable, and a spare tube.

Lastly, a small seatpack holds my repair kit, with things like another tube, patch kit, multitool, chain pliers, needle and thread, and spare derailleur hanger.

Food & Hydration

I’ll be carrying ~4L of water capacity plus a filter flask. There is plenty of water available for filtering on this route, and it won’t be too hot, so I won't be maxing that out too frequently. I’ll start with a mishmash of food to make it through the first chunk, and then rely on resupply points in a few of the towns. Major goal for this ride is to make it to Stanley for breakfast at the bakery. IYKYK.

My nutrition strategy for these things is not that scientific, despite having a master’s degree in nutrition. But here’s my two cents: I’ve learned that the best laid plans often go sideways out there, and the best approach (for me, at least) is one of flexibility, intuition, and opportunism. Meaning: be able to eat a lot, of almost anything, when there’s an opportunity for it. And listen to the body. It’s pretty smart. There are often big gaps between resupply points, so it’s definitely a good idea to plan ahead and think about how much to carry, and always carry extra. Try to eat real food when you can, but be able to pound gas station junk food for quick calories. It’s also worth the stopped time to sit for a big, hot meal on occasion.

Sleep Kit & Cold Weather Stuff

Sleep is another tricky part of bikepack racing. These ~400 mile long events live right on the tricky edge of pushing the sleep deprivation game. Earlier this year I rode a similar length race in Southern California, the Stagecoach 400, and slept only 15min in the 37ish hours it took me to complete it. It wasn’t fun there at the end. I hallucinated a skunk taking my photo in the last couple of hours. I’m not willing or interested to push this—it’s risky, it’s not fun, and it actually makes you go slower. Many psychos can ride for days without sleeping and still maintain a decent average pace, but I’d rather take an hour or two to get a little bit of sleep to refresh the body and brain in order to ride faster and feel better.

I’ll still have a pretty minimal sleep kit, which will get bolstered for Türkiye. A lightweight bivy bag, a pad, and a pillow, combined with some warm layers will be enough for a glorified power nap.

Because the weather is looking quite iffy, with below freezing temperatures at night, rain, and even snow in the forecast, this means I’m also packing extra layers to stay warm on top of my normal riding kit. This system has been refined over multiple races where I’ve also encountered heavy rain, cold temps, and even snow (like at the Tour Divide in 2024 and this year’s Atlas Mountain Race in Morocco).

• Full rain gear: Goretex jacket and pants

• Hardware store insulated/waterproof work gloves (I don’t like skimping on gloves)

• Lightweight down puffy jacket

• Merino base layer & long sleeve insulated layer

• Arm and leg warmers

• Gore-tex shoes

• Fleece-lined buff

• Emergency hand and toe warmers

Lights & Electronics

My bike is equipped with a dynamo hub, which is a very nifty invention that uses a magnet in the front hub connected to a wire loom that generates electricity while I pedal. This powers my front light and also connects to a power bank for on the go charging. It’s a nice system that takes a lot of thinking out of the equation, and means less charging necessity.

My bike computer and navigation device is a COROS Dura, which has just insane battery life. It will easily last the entirety of the race. I’ll carry a Garmin InReach device for emergencies and for live tracking (you can follow the race dots here). Plus, I have mechanical shifting instead of electronic, so I really have a simple setup. I’m taking a backup light in the form of a powerful headlamp, which will come in handy for the technical sections.

Misc.

I’ll have a few key pieces of first aid supplies, toothbrush and toothpaste, and skin repair cream for the sensitive bits if the need arises. Critically, I’ll have some audiobooks downloaded as well as a handful of DJ mixes from a few of my favorite artists like Tame Impala, Four Tet, and Fred Again..

The race begins at 6 AM local Idaho time in downtown Boise on Thursday, September 3rd. You can follow along on Trackleaders if you’d like, and I plan on sharing some live stories from the trail on the Mountain Athlete Journal Instagram page. Look out for a post-race reflection after the fact.

It’s a privilege to spend my time doing these things, and I can’t wait to experience the beauty and challenge of this odyssey, plus the inevitable creativity that will emerge from the solitude and inspiration from the landscape.

See you on the other side.

-jackson

P.S.—

A reminder that the first issue of my print magazine, Mountain Athlete Journal, is shipping now. 120 pages of beautiful paper translating movement in the mountains into creative form. Issue 02 is in production and will print early winter 2027. Submissions for Issue 02 are open through October 1, and you can learn everything you need to know at mountainathletejournal.com.

We started early, in the dark, our bike lights illuminating the haze and dust as we began our odyssey. We hope the winds will shift and move the smoke away, and it does, a little. It’s not the best idea to breathe the thick air, but neither is our plan for this day. I’m known for making questionable athletic decisions, and today is yet another. My friend Tucker wanted to ride 100 miles around our home valley, starting and ending at his house. The Western as Fuck (WAF), he called it. So I did what I do, and made what might be the hardest possible 100 mile bike route in the Wood River Valley.

But for a couple short stretches of pavement, it’s all dirt. Mostly rugged, backcountry singletrack. The loop circles east from Hailey, then north around the edge of the Pioneer Mountains into Ketchum, then heads West, under the Boulders, before a grueling slog south through the Eastern Smoky Mountains back into Hailey.

Over the next 15 hours, the three of us would get Western. Hands aching from braking. Legs caked in a paste made of sweat and dust. We’d pedal, hike, and descend 112 miles and nearly 14,000 feet of elevation gain in the smoky heat of an August day in Idaho. Beats brunch.

While I’m well aware of my psychotic behavior, I do think there’s something to going on a spirit quest on occasion. To push ourselves deep into discomfort, to see and feel things most people don’t. I’m not sure why I’m drawn to such things, but I never regret it. Bikes provide the ultimate freedom to move through these places. It’s not about competition or Strava bragging rights. It’s about the purity of me and my bike, fully engaged. Singletrack and wildflowers. The trees and creeks. Stillness broken by whizzing freehubs. Sweat and breath reminding me of my body’s wondrous capabilities.

It’s Western out there. Pull on your boots.

In this case, the DOMS is from running and scrambling for 10 hours in the Boulder mountains here in Idaho. An exceptional young athlete whom I’ve coached the past two years in skimo asked me to join him in an attempt of the Three Kings Challenge1, which is a linkup of three prominent peaks in the Sun Valley area: Glassford, Ryan, and Kent. My friend Ren joined in the mission as a final big training run for an ultra she’s running in a few weeks.

We start early, flowing along the sole stretch of trail before the bushwhacking begins, up and up fields of scree and thousands of feet of elevation gain to reach the summit ridge of Glassford. The wind is howling as we navigate the characteristically unstable rock of this range. There’s a haze from distant wildfires in the distance, creating a painterly backdrop of endless ridges and valleys. I’m comfortable in this terrain, finding my rhythm between quick steps and breaths.

I sit down amidst the rubbly summit to let my heart rate settle. We’re above 11,000 feet here and I take in the view. I feel that gratitude for my legs, my heart, my mind. Without their teamwork, it wouldn’t be possible to experience a moment like this.

I don’t have a lot to say about the rest of the run. It was a long day, and the fact that I’d only run twice this year before this came back to bite me later, and as I write this I’m suffering the consequences. We didn’t make the other two summits after some poor route finding choices on my part. Regardless of the outcome, though, spending all day in this zone is a gift. One I never regret, even when I’m struggling up and down the stairs the day after.

In my running vest I brought along a copy of Issue 01 of Mountain Athlete Journal. It felt like a full-circle moment. I spent over a year building this idea into a physical reality, so to bring this object made of paper, ink, and mountains into the place which inspired it felt surreal. To be with two friends, both creative and inspired by the mountains themselves, and move together is what this project is all about.

I’m still working out the words to describe what it all means to me. Like the wind on the summit of Glassford my brain swirls with mixed emotions. Elation, relief, excitement, pride. But also fear, stress, worry, self-doubt. As I talk about in my editor’s letter of this first issue, creative expression mirrors athletic expression in that we must face vulnerability and resistance of the easy path to access fulfilling experiences. Both sets of those emotions are prerequisite for standing atop a summit or creating a piece of art. There are no guarantees, and very little certainty. It might not work out. But the process of doing it is honorable, and amidst the current state of the world I believe we need more art, more creative expression, more vulnerability and discomfort.

I’ll spare you from my usual tirade against quick-fix media, influencer culture, and AI slop. I’m going to take a wild guess that if you’re reading this, you’re probably with me on these points. The moral of this story is that I’m incredibly proud to be contributing in my own little way, in my own little niche, to preserving print media and human-made art. To do my part in carving out a space for my fellow mountain athletes to share their creative sides in tactile form.

I’m grateful for my legs, for they have accompanied me on each step, each pedal stroke, each skin track that led to this moment. I’m grateful for those who have believed in my crazy ideas, and are willing to support them. For brands like Stio and Ocean & San for choosing to put their money into projects like this over another batch of Instagram ads. And I’m grateful for the creatives of this world who still believe in taking the hard path.

Issue 01 of Mountain Athlete Journal is available now. Pre-orders are landing in mailboxes around the world. If these words resonate, I think you’ll really like what’s inside. I’m already working on the early stages of Issue 02, which will print early winter, and submissions will open very soon.

And if you’re in the Sun Valley area, we’re hosting a launch party to celebrate this moment and the beauty of print, creativity in the mountains, and in-person community next Wednesday, August 12th. You can find more details and RSVP here. We’ll have free drinks, snacks, and swag from our partners, and you’ll be able to pick up a copy of the magazine. I’d love to see you there!

Thanks for reading, for moving, for creating. Let’s keep living the dream.

-jackson

I’m what the kids might call a chopped unc, which, if I understand the slang correctly, means someone who is old, uncool, and out of touch with the current trends. Apparently millennials now fit into this category. Born in the early nineties, I remember loading the Backstreet Boys’ Millennium onto my Sony portable CD player, sliding those incredibly (then) cool behind-the-ear headphones with the foam ear pads over my bowl cut. Dial up internet. The debut of the first iPhone. The day Instagram launched.

Technology’s evolution over the past twenty years is pretty wild.

Entering my unc era, I’ve found myself drawn to more traditional forms of media and tech. I essentially started blogging1 again here on Substack, something I used to do a lot of in high school and college. I swapped the electronic drivetrain on my bike to a mechanical one. I fell in love with film photography and the development process, and now have started a print magazine.

I’m not anti-tech. I’ve always been a tech and gear nerd. But recently I’ve felt increasingly overwhelmed by the noise and nonstop growth of new and shiny products and apps, and the underlying pressure to have the latest and greatest stuff. And perhaps most concerning to me: the forcing of artificial intelligence into every nook and cranny of the internet. All of it makes my brain hurt, and for whatever reason my instinct is to backpedal towards a simpler existence. For someone who grew up through the emergence of social media to where it is today, with all of its positives and negatives alike, I’m constantly conflicted about how I feel about it all. It’s become inextricably woven into our lives, for better or for worse. The rise of AI feels like the next inflection point.

As an unc, I understand very little about how AI works, so I won’t pretend to be an expert on the topic. I’m not convinced that even the experts and CEOs of these companies truly understand the potential downstream effects of the hype. From the data that I’ve seen, companies like OpenAI, Anthropic, and others have raised truly insane amounts of money to pour into building data centers, yet are struggling to actually turn a profit. Perhaps they see a utopian future I can’t comprehend. Like any burgeoning technology, I think it’s important to look at AI through a skeptical lens, while remaining open to accepting evidence for its positive utility.

Something that underpins the hype around AI—and before that, social media—is the promise of convenience. We’ve become accustomed to, and now expect, the instant gratification afforded to us by the rapid growth of industry and information. We now have instant access to unlimited information and social connection in our pockets. Much of this is good and useful. But more doesn’t always equal better, and convenience is rarely the path to meaning. We’ve seen the dark side of this promise through social media. Despite being more connected to others than ever, we’re experiencing high rates of loneliness and mental health impacts, particularly among younger generations.

I was disappointed to see that one of my heroes, Kilian Jornet, recently became an athlete-founder alongside Eliud Kipchoge at an AI coaching and training app startup, Kotcha. According to their press release, Kotcha “aims to make world-class running advice available to the masses via artificial intelligence” through “a robust coaching team of four AI coaches: a head coach, nutritionist, data analyst and a personal trainer.”

Analysis of metrics and data in high performance sport is nothing new, and perhaps AI will help to unlock a new level of elite performance. What bums me out is the widespread jump on the AI bandwagon money tree, without pausing to consider the long-term impacts. Kilian is known for his philosophical, intuitive approach to sport, an approach that resonates deeply with me. Endurance sport is not about convenience or instant gratification. It requires patience and intentional practice. Looking for the quick-fix solution to fitness and performance in the form of the latest tech, gear, or nutrition hack takes away from the depth of what makes riding, or running, or skiing in the mountains so rewarding and meaningful.

As a long time coach and trained sports nutritionist whose ethos revolves around the value of the human side of sport, and building a relationship with an athlete over metric focused outcomes, the shift towards AI coaching is disheartening to me. Paying an app $14.99 per month is much more convenient and a lot more affordable than paying an experienced coach $300 per month. The accelerated rise of social media, wearable tech, and AI shifts the focus from developing an intuition for listening to our bodies to relying on algorithms to measure our training and performance.

And then there’s the environmental impact. This is what surprised me most about Kilian’s backing and involvement in an AI app. Kilian is a very outspoken environmental activist, and he and his foundation do amazing work in helping to preserve mountain environments and public lands. The rush to slap AI tools into everything is in direct conflict with environmental preservation, though. According to a report recently published by the United Nations, data centers, which power the AI infrastructure, could consume 945 terawatt-hours of electricity annually by 2030. This is equivalent to nearly triple the combined electricity use of Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Nigeria, countries collectively home to more than 650 million people. AI-related water use is also staggering. The same report estimates that, by the end of the decade, the water consumption could equal the basic annual domestic needs of 1.3 billion people. I’d imagine the land use requirements to build these data centers is probably significant as demand increases.

I’m also concerned by AI’s impact on creativity and art. It’s getting harder and harder to differentiate between something made by a human and something generated by a computer. The only saving grace, as far as I understand the tech, is its nature to equilibrate towards perfecting the mediocre through analyzing existing data and not generating new thoughts or ideas. Yet as more and more is generated and consumed, I can’t help but wonder if this may erode our innate creativity over time. As we continue to be force-fed AI content, will the average-ification of our communication, our art, our ability to do hard things be too? I suppose like any tool, it must be used responsibly. Proponents of AI argue that it actually helps us focus on being creative by offloading a lot of the extraneous work to focus on the creativity part. I like to believe that AI will never be able to replace true human thinking and creativity. But how can we know for sure?

I’m still working out how I feel about AI. I’m mostly skeptical. It feels like it’s all happening so fast, and most of us haven’t even had time to think about its potential impacts before it’s been integrated into much of our online existence. For better or for worse, it seems the train has already left the station and this technology is here to stay.

I can only speak to my own unique experience in my small, occupied space of the universe connecting the dots of mountain athletics and creativity. But I want to believe there is a different path, that the pendulum will swing back as more of us question our digital lives. I don’t want to take the path of least resistance. I want to spend time making and doing challenging things, because that’s where I find the most fulfilling experiences. I know it’s mega cliche to say this, but when it comes to the intersecting worlds of athletics and art, comfort and convenience are the antithesis to growth and meaning.

As someone attempting to make a career in a creative field, I’m struggling to not be disheartened by this digital pressure to be on an endless content-generating treadmill. I want to believe there’s still a place for considered art that doesn’t fit into the box of social media influence and AI slop. That my meager Instagram follower count doesn’t reflect the success and impact I want to have on the world.

This week, I sent the final files of my 124 page print magazine to the printer. I’ve spent over a year and many hundreds of hours ideating this project, learning the ins and outs of print design, dozens of drafts of my own writing, photo editing, collaborating with the other contributors on their work, and now it’s close to being real. It will go through the proofing stage to catch any errors or necessary edits to the color profiles of the photos, and then it will be printed and ready to ship. It’s taken much longer than I anticipated. I’m incredibly proud of what I’ve made, but there’s also a part of me that is freaking out inside. Anxious it won’t be good enough, or that I’ve not put in enough work to pull it off.

Yet, at the same time, it feels like the most meaningful and the most aligned creative project I’ve ever started. I want to believe that in this new era of digital reliance there’s still a place for making tangible things that resist the pull of instant gratification and convenience. In the editor’s letter of the magazine, I share the story of how I took the cover photo, bootpacking up a couloir in the Sawtooth Mountains. I think about the journey from arriving in that moment to now having it living on the cover of a print magazine that I made. All the hours spent in the mountains, practicing the craft of photography, and how much it all means to me to be betting on myself and my love for print. It didn’t come through the path of least resistance. It came through choosing discomfort over convenience, slow over fast, and intention over reaction.

For those of us privileged enough to spend time in the mountains, or to create art, we can choose what we make and what we consume. And I believe how we make and consume is just as important as what we make and consume. As my friend and design mentor, Zack, told me early in the design phase of the magazine:

The medium is the message, and the message is the medium.

Thank you for reading. If you’d like to support the intersection of mountain athletics and creativity in print form and enjoy long-form storytelling, pre-orders for Issue 01 of Mountain Athlete Journal are open through Wednesday, July 1st, shipping late July.

Keep moving, keep thinking, keep creating.

-jackson

The last two summers were filled with athletic objectives and the training focus required. In 2024 I tackled the Tour Divide, a 2,700 mile race across the spine of the Continental Divide. Last summer was the Transcontinental odyssey, where I rode and raced my bike from Portugal to the edge of the Black Sea in Romania.

This summer is a step back, a balance in the force. The athletic side of Jackson is stepping aside to make more room for the creative side. The two work hand-in-hand in a symbiotic relationship, but the scales must be evened out to do both well.

My days are filled with more writing and InDesign problem solving than bike riding as I wrap up the final production on the debut issue of Mountain Athlete Journal in print. There’s less emphasis on training, and more on riding for the fun of it. Exploring with friends, seeking new link-ups of my favorite loops, and stopping to take some photos along the way. I have some big goals later in the year, but for now the balance is swinging towards the creative expression. This is the beauty, and the epitome, of the creative mountain athlete. The ebb and flow of athletic and artistic, dancing with each other as the seasons shift and the inspiration evolves. Both require energy and effort, of which we all have a limited supply. Listening to, and moving with, the current of creative and physical expression, rather than forcing it in one direction or another, is where I’ve found the greatest fulfillment.

So here are a few photos from the last couple of weeks here in my home in Idaho. It’s quite hard to believe, but Issue 01 of the magazine will head to the printer in the next week, and subscribers will have it in their hands a few weeks later. Pre-orders are open through July 1st.

If you enjoy stories and photographs of creative expression in mountain landscapes, consider supporting the launch of my forthcoming print-only magazine, Mountain Athlete Journal. Pre-orders are open, and I am sending the final 120+ page book to print within the week. It’s a place to bring together the athletes who are also poets, photographers, artists, and writers in a collaboration that translates movement into creative form. It’s intentionally slow and tactile, resisting the disposable, fleeting nature of digital consumption. You can subscribe here.

Ciao for now,

-jackson

As I look back at the path I’ve taken to arrive at this moment, writing this, it’s hard to believe and yet feels completely right. Launching a print magazine is nothing novel. When I grew up, I wanted to be a paleontologist. Then a pro cyclist. Then a sports nutritionist for a pro cycling team. Making a magazine was never a stop on the path I ever considered, until recently. But yet, as cliché as it sounds, it feels like the closest thing I’ve found to discovering my “purpose.” It feels like the culmination of everything that matters to me.

Growing up in Idaho as a lanky, young teenager, I was dead-set on that pro cycling dream. That dream wasn’t realized. And to be honest, I’m glad it wasn’t. There came a point where I felt like something was missing from my identity and my own relationship to sport. Like I was looking for something in all of that hard training and racing that I couldn’t quite figure out.

Slowly, over time, I started to find a new connection to movement. I started writing about the philosophical side of endurance sport in the mountains. I rekindled my photography hobby, bought a used film camera on eBay, and taught myself how to develop negatives in my bathroom. I was still training and still racing, but I found a much deeper fulfillment when my camera started living in the pockets of my ski pants and cycling jersey.

Somewhere in all of that writing and riding, and seeing and skiing, I was finding a creative voice I didn’t know I had. I believe creativity is something inherent to all of us, in our own ways. I was discovering a deeper meaning in my identity as an athlete—a side of myself that found movement to be a place where I felt most creative; a partnership between athletics and art. I suspect I’m not alone in this feeling.

This all eventually led me to the idea of starting a print magazine, an extension of the writing I’ve been doing here on Substack. It’s the physical product of discovering and still trying to understand what I think I was looking for. As this love for writing and photography, combined with riding my bike and skiing in the mountains, grew, so did my exhaustion of the social media slot machine and the grip of digital distraction. Print resists the instant gratification we’ve grown accustomed to in this digital age, dominated by scrolling through feeds, short-form “content”, and the hype of AI. Print’s tangibility shapes its slowness, creating a permanence we have started to lose. This slowness is something I’d argue we need more of.

My goal with this magazine is to bring together the athletes who are also poets, photographers, artists, and writers. A collaboration that translates movement into creative form.

After over a year of planning, designing, working with a fantastic group of contributors, learning about the printing process, and lots of trials and tribulations, I’m finally ready to bring it to life. The debut edition of Mountain Athlete Journal features over 100 pages that embody this partnership between athletics and art. Through the theme of Movement and Meaning, we’ll bikepack across New Zealand’s South Island with in a story of competitive exploration amid the gritty Tour Te Waipounamu. Question what perfection means as athletes and creatives with Sarah Groman. Chase daylight and elk in the mountains of Wyoming with the writer/photographer duo of Eli Isaac and Mitch Yadven. Traverse Idaho’s Boulder Mountains on skis with myself and two close friends. Plus many more stories, art, photography, and poetry inspired by the mountains. All made by real humans, not by AI.

Both athletics and art require vulnerability; we’re on the hook every time we ride through a stormy night, click into our skis at the top of a couloir, or share a piece of art we’ve made. I like to think this is where meaning is found. I also believe we, as individuals, have the power—and to a certain extent, a responsibility—to resist this digital dependency, and protect print and long-form storytelling. To support the artists who put themselves out there with vulnerability and creativity. This is all more important than ever, and it’s why I’m doing it. I’m also infinitely grateful to the partners who have joined in bringing this project to life and believe in its mission. More on this soon.

Pre-orders are officially open for Issue 01 of Mountain Athlete Journal through July 1st. It’s only available in print. I’m printing a one-time, finite run based on the demand from this window, so reserve your copy if any of this sounds up your alley.

Subscribe

A few specs and details:

1. I’m beyond stoked to be printing the magazine here in North America with the gold standard for quality and sustainable printing of Hemlock Printers in Vancouver, BC, on beautiful, uncoated, Forest Stewardship Council (FSC)-certified paper. I’ll be making a trip up to their factory soon to meet the team and see their process in action. The magazine will be full-size, A4 trim.

2. There are options for a one-time purchase, a recurring subscription for Issues 01 and 02 (printing in early winter 2027), as well as a “Founding Subscriber” option for readers who want to further support the mission of the MAJ through a greater level of support. Founding Subscribers receive high quality, large format prints of the cover photos for each Issue 01 and Issue 02, plus special recognition in Issue 02.

3. I will be sending the final files to print in the next couple of weeks, and I will ship them myself beginning in mid to late July. Then work begins on Issue 02.

4. I’m planning an in-person launch party here in Sun Valley, Idaho, later this summer, featuring a number of our contributors! Stay tuned for details.

5. I am offering domestic and international shipping, as well as hand delivery in the Wood River Valley. Shipping costs are unfortunately steep for international customers, but I promise it will be worth it :)

6. Mags will be available in a select number of stores later this summer. If you’re a shop or know of a shop that might be interested in stocking the magazine, please reach out to me directly: hello@mountainathletejournal.com

You can find all the info and place your order at mountainathletejournal.com/subscribe.

I can’t wait to hold this book in my hands, and for you to do the same. There’s just nothing like sitting with a cup of coffee and a print journal before your next bike ride or a beer while flipping through a photo essay afterward.

Wishing you all the best in your movement and your meaning.

-jackson

I wanted to share a few updates here on Substack to provide some fresh context on what I’ve been up to now that we’re into a new season. Plus, I need a break from margins and grids and paragraph spacing frustration. Oh, and share a few photos I’ve taken recently that make me happy.

Bikes and Such

My racing schedule has shifted a bit, primarily because of the behemoth of a project I’ve undertaken. The recognition of how much time, energy, and money it’s going to take to print this first issue this summer means I really have to make it the top priority this spring and early summer. At the end of 2025 I wanted to go for another crack at the 2026 Tour Divide—that crazy little race from Canada to Mexico—but it’s just not going to be possible. That beast requires 100% commitment and focus. It also takes a lot of time and cash that I don’t have. So no Divide this year.

I am registered for The Grand Loop, a really cool looking bikepacking race connecting the Kokopelli, Paradox, and Tabeguache Trails in Southwestern Colorado. It’s another one in the ~400 mile range, so a much smaller bite to chew than something like the 2,700 miles of the Divide. However, it starts in just a few weeks’ time, and I’m currently en route to a family reunion beach vacation, so it feels like a stretch. Training has certainly taken a bit of a back burner position since Stagecoach. I’m okay with this. The weather has been lovely in Idaho, and trails are starting to properly dry out. I’ve been riding my bike, but honestly not enough to be fully prepared for something like The Grand Loop. So that one might be a game time decision based on how I’m feeling in the final week beforehand.

That all being said, my primary goal for the season post-Atlas Mountain Race remains: the new Taurus Mountain Race in Turkey later this fall. There’s plenty of time to get ready for that one. I will probably do my local ultra, the Smoke ’n’ Fire, in September as a tuneup. So there’s still a carrot in the distance to help stay motivated.

I’ve also been coaching a select group of athletes, which is always rewarding. I would love to continue my coaching and nutrition consulting at a small scale alongside producing the MAJ. These two worlds are aligned, and feel they complement each other.

The Mag

Progress on the first issue is moving along well. There are a lot of moving pieces to the whole thing and, like I tend to do, perhaps got a little out over my skis on this. Meeting with printers, business development, communicating with contributors; working on my own writing, getting lost in the InDesign wormhole, updating the website. But the process of committing to this reflects the work it aims to cover: it’s imperfect, ambitious, and isn’t guaranteed to work. Art and athletics share in the vulnerability required to find success and meaning, which is exactly what this publication is trying to do. So I’m up for the challenge, and I’m actually feeling a lot more confident about it than I was in the fall. That’s a good sign, right?

There’s just under two weeks left for contributor submissions, and I’ve received many already. More than I’ll be able to fit in this first issue, which I honestly didn’t expect with a brand new publication that’s untested. Stunning photography and painting, thoughtful poetry; wonderfully written philosophical essays, think pieces, and more. I’ve been honing some drafts of my own work to be included, as well. I’ll be notifying accepted contributors in late May, and working alongside them to polish their work and get it print-ready. I can’t wait to share more details and sneak peeks very soon.

The rough timeline we’re looking at:

• May 15: open submissions close

• May 15-31: final contributor list complete; edits and layout placement begins

• Early to mid-June: pre-orders open for Issue 01

• Late June to early July: final files sent to print, proofs reviewed, printing begins

• Mid July: launch party in Sun Valley, web purchase available, magazine in your mailboxes

This is all a bit of a moving target, but I’m committed and confident I can get this thing printed in July. I’ll do my best to continue providing updates here, Instagram, and the email signup on the website. Please sign up there if you haven’t already; mountainathletejournal.com is where you’ll be able to pre-order and buy the magazine first.

I’m also looking for founding sponsors whose brands I want to help define the publication’s identity for the first two issues. I’m in talks with a few, but if you have any connection to brands that might align with the vision of MAJ, please feel free to reach out. Having the financial support of the companies who are willing to bet on print media and support the independent editorial voice I’m committed to enables producing a high quality book with the best possible paper stock. It also helps me establish a budget to ensure fair pay for our contributors as soon as possible.

Where does Substack fit now?

As I shift my focus to print, this is a question I have been asking myself a lot recently. I love to write, and to take photos, and combine them here. But it’s generally a one-way conversation. The really awesome thing about the print journal is that it’s collaborative. It’s filled with work by other creative mountain athletes, a community that is creating an object greater than the sum of its parts. At least that’s the goal. Of course, some of my work will make its way in there, but really it’s not about me; it’s about the mission and the celebration of the craft made by all of us involved.

This means I will reserve most of my creative energy for the print magazine. Both with my own work, and on the editorial and design side, at least in the foreseeable future. Substack does have its place, though. I’d like to use it to share the behind the scenes of the magazine production and my athletic exploits. More experimental photography and writing with perhaps a little less polish than is expected in a print object. There’s no way I can fit everything I want to share in a biannual magazine.

It’s important to pause here for a second because this brings up a critical point: the magazine is print-only. All the stories and photos will, with some caveats*, only be available in the physical magazine. This is important to me, because a key part of the mission is to play a part in protecting the sacredness of print. When an issue of a print magazine I love and subscribe to gets delivered, I can’t wait to be surprised by it. It’s part of the magic to make a ritual of sitting with a cup coffee and settling in to a 5,000 word feature story. In the short-attention-span chaos and fragmentation of our digital-driven world right now, we can choose to resist, even in small ways. If you’ve made it this far in my ramblings it’s safe to assume you’re on board with that.

So, I have an ask of you. If you’re a paid subscriber to my Substack, thank you. Your generosity and trust has provided a trust in myself that I’m doing something right. All of you who subscribe—paid or free—have. It’s a big reason I’ve taken the leap to try and expand this to the tactile form.

But I’d actually ask you to reconsider your paid subscription here.

Instead of paying me via Substack’s profit sharing model, invest in print and those of us still trying to pull it off. Whether it’s mine or another like-minded publication, print doesn’t exist without its readers. There’s no denying that it’s a tough industry. I may be lost in the sauce, but I do feel an exciting energy brewing in the space. People are hungry for realness amidst the fakeness. There’s something special about holding and feeling a thoughtful, well-considered piece of art in your hands, made by people with obvious passion for the craft.

Substack is a great platform. But it has its limitations and isn’t immune to the fate that so frequently befalls digital media platforms. I’ve seen it shift, subtly, since I first started here a number of years ago: more focus on the social media-like Notes feed, the algorithm. These aren’t inherently bad, but I can’t help feeling like the writing might be on the wall with a platform like Substack to devolve into another social media platform faced with the conundrum of how to please stakeholders and generate profit, which inevitably hurts the artists and their audience in nontrivial ways. In a future post I will share a list of other creatives and publications that inspire me for you to check out.

I will keep sharing stuff like this here, as long as you keep reading. The magazine is where the deep work will live—both from myself and from the contributors who courageously step out into the void of uncertainty and vulnerability to share their work. I think I speak for both of us that we appreciate your support in what we’re trying to make. A space to slow down a little bit. To sit with depth over distraction. Movement and meaning, in print.

More to come!

Hugs and kisses,

-jackson

*Mountain Athlete Journal grants first print rights only; accepted contributors agree to running their feature for a certain amount of time before it can be republished elsewhere.

The sun’s been relentless all day, temperatures pushing above 90 degrees. By late afternoon, my throat is raw and inflamed from the constant stream of electrolytes and sugar. I’m 50 miles from the finish and ticking over 30 hours of riding.

I’m nearing the end of the Stagecoach 400, California’s longest and hardest bikepacking race, covering a magical mix of singletrack, gravel roads, and pavement from Idyllwild down through the San Diego coast, up and over the Cuyamaca mountains into the desert, and back around again to the finish in Idyllwild. I’m quite sleep deprived at this point, over 300 miles ridden on one 30 minute nap in the dirt. As a rookie to this route, I’m completely naive to just how mentally and physically tough this section is. Ignorance is bliss, and soon my waterlogged shoes fill with sand for the next 5 hours, rationing water and trying to stay awake while I walk my bike through an endless sea of cactus and sand…so much sand.

I’m in the lead of the race, a select group of three of us all within reach. I don’t know how far ahead I am, but I’ve decided to go for it and push through the night to try and reach Idyllwild first.

This canyon is toying with my mind. No sane person should ride a bike here, I think to myself. Smooth, rideable dirt turns into rocky washes and loose creek beds. Then the deep, demoralizing sand. Soon I’d be in the thick of The Willows, pushing through a dense willow grove in an ankle deep, mucky creek. A brief moment of respite afterwards where I could ride gave me a false sense of hope - the worst was yet to come. I feel as though I’m making zero progress, my sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on me. I see animals that aren’t there, or hear the shifting of gears behind me as a phantom rider overtakes me. Another phantom has been following me, too. From one desert to another, my harrowing experience in Morocco still feels close.

I’m alone, no phone service, just me and my bike forging onward. It’s a brutal game. One of solitude, a chess match against yourself. This specific crucible - Coyote Canyon - is testing me. Physically I feel surprisingly good. But it requires a strong sense of calm determination to keep moving forward when I all I really want to do is sit down and take a nap.

But the only way out is through.

Idyllwild is a mountain village nestled on the other side of the mountains from Palm Springs. I’m staying with my friend Ben, who I met last year here in Sun Valley. He put the bug in my ear that I had to come out to take on Stagecoach. My teammate on the Old Man Mountain Experimental Bikepacking Team, Alex, is here for the race too. We shake out the nervous energy on the local trails and fire roads the day before the start, anxiously packing and repacking our gear.

I came to Stagecoach to finish the sentence left incomplete in Morocco. I was here to do what I love most: a really long bike ride.

After a quick word from the faithful leader of the annual Stagecoach event, Meg Knobel, and a donning of the official friendship bracelet, we were off. Beginning with some lovely and flowy singletrack out of Idyllwild, we’d be on the long but deceptively climbing-heavy descent down to the coast at Del Mar and San Diego. My teammate Alex is a skilled mountain biker, with many Colorado Trail Race finishes under his belt, and is a legend of the Arizona Trail Race. He sets a blistering pace on the fast singletrack. I miss a turn I swore I wouldn’t. Soon we’re climbing and we pull away from the rest of the field, him flying by me on the descents and me gapping on the climbs. We’d pretty much hold this lead until the finish.

For this 15th edition, Meg switched things up. Instead of the traditional race to the finish line format, it would be a points race - combining finish placing with optional ‘points of interest’ scattered on and off the route, proven by selfie. Finish first but skip the POI’s and you probably won’t win in the end.

After hours of yo-yo’ing, Alex and I reach the beach in Del Mar. I stop for a mega burrito. Alex stops at In N Out. A college bike racing buddy, Devon, is dot watching and surprises me near the UCSD campus. It’s a crazy evening - Friday night in the urban sprawl of San Diego, the bustling city life a lot to handle on such a spirit quest. I zip in and out of traffic, dodging pedestrians, navigating random bits of singletrack and trails, the overstimulation providing a strong energy boost heading into the first night.

Leaving the city, we begin a long ascent into the Cuyamaca mountains. Glorious singletrack and a long gravel climb up Viejas Grade blurs through the full moon night. A quick pit stop in the town of Alpine to top up water and calories before the last push onto the desert feels like a dream. I’m 230 miles in.

Descending towards the desert on the stunning gravel road of Oriflamme in the early morning hours I am overtaken by sleepiness. I’m in the lead, and decide to stop partway on the descent to rest until the sun comes up, banking a little bit of energy for the impending challenge to come. My sleep kit is comprised of a down jacket and inflatable pillow, not that glamorous. I set a timer for 30 minutes and somehow manage to actually fall asleep. Alex blasts past.

My timer shakes me awake. It’s cold. The sunrise recharges me, though, and the next objective is to collect the first few POI’s: a visit to a nearby hot springs. A historic cabin. An old stagecoach station. And then the desert would truly begin.

Seemingly instantly, the cool morning turned to a relentless heat. Just a couple hours ago I was bundled up, shivering on the descent. It would tick over 90 degrees later that day. The first obstacle would be the 25 mile passage through the Anza-Borrego desert, a beautifully stark landscape. This was the first taste of sand. Most was rideable, much was not, and progress was slow. There was essentially no resupply opportunities between the town of Alpine the night before and the small town of Ocotillo Wells, just past the desert.

Pulling into a small convenience store for a much needed ice cream sandwich and cold drinks, I run into Alex. With no cell phone service for the last 10 hours or so meant we couldn’t check the tracker to see where everyone was, until now.

“Dude, I think we just lost the race.” Alex says. “David went to the petroglyphs. He’s going to get enough points to overtake us.”

Bummer. Knowing I’d “lost” the race while it was still far from over didn’t phase me. I was focused on the personal challenge of moving through the route quickly and efficiently, so my strategy remained. Keep moving forward, keep pushing. The next stop would be Borrego Springs for one final resupply before the last two POI points and the finish, Coyote Canyon lying in wait as the final test.

Ah, the willows. I’m actually quite relieved to be here, my shoes squelching in the thick mud, the shade of the grove sheltering me from the beating sun for a moment. The willows are an infamous part of the Stagecoach lore, a truly silly place to be with a bike. I’m listening to a live DJ set by Rüfüs Du Sol, ankle deep in mud, in a thick willow grove, over 300 miles in. The trance-like music is fitting for my state of mind as I plod along. I stop to filter water. I can’t seem to get enough, I am so thirsty. Even though it’s early evening, it’s roasting. I think about how crazy it is that one week prior I was traversing a mountain range on skis.

I’m under the impression that the willows are the toughest part of this, and that it would be smooth sailing to ride the next 15 miles of the canyon before hitting the pavement again. I’m so incorrect. The sand gets deeper. The old, decrepit road gets steeper. My stomach is unhappy with the heat and all I can manage are a few Skittles and M&M’s. Sunset begins, and soon it’s dark. A heinous, rocky hike a bike section makes me laugh; it’s hysterically ridiculous. I already miss the willows. I’m quite a solitary person, so alone with some dance music in my headphones in the middle of nowhere is my happy place. But I feel a kind of encompassing hopelessness embrace me. A blanket of exhaustion mixed with dread. I’m moving at about 5 miles per hour, just walking. I thought I might be able to finish under 40 hours, but that was slipping away.

I’m so tired. The darkness tries to coax me into stopping for a nap. But I’m committed.

Reaching the top, I put on all my clothes for a very chilly pavement section. Just hours ago I was melting in the 90 degree heat. Over 5 hours to cover 20 miles. But I still have 30 miles and over 3,000 feet of climbing to go.

The next few hours are a blur. The darkness and delirium play tricks with my mind. I’m paranoid I’ll get lost or get overtaken at the last second. I start hallucinating, first seeing hundreds of small owls in the trails that are really just pinecones. Climbing the final singletrack section I see a skunk, laying on its side, holding a huge camera taking my photo. Upon closer inspection it’s just a gnarled log. I chuckle to myself as I’m on and off the bike, crawling to the end.

I see a headlamp in the distance. It’s Ben, coming out at 1 AM to cheer me into the finish and give me a ride back to the cabin. What a legend. A final climb and descent into town, to the finish point at Alpaca Coffee. I sign the finish sheet. First finisher at 1:17 AM.

It’s always so anticlimactic to finish a bikepacking race. Late at night, out of your mind, no fanfare. Just relief. But somewhere in Coyote Canyon and its endless gauntlet of sand, I felt pure. Released.

David would take the overall win on points, which felt exactly right. We’d share stories from the ride the next morning over breakfast, cheering on finishers throughout the day.

Taking on these endeavors wouldn’t be possible without the support of many. The Old Man Mountain Experimental Team, friends and family, and especially Ben and his wife Sarah who went above and beyond to take care of Alex and I.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, and want to read more stories like this, but in print, visit https://www.mountainathletejournal.com to learn about my forthcoming magazine celebrating creative mountain athletes, launching soon. Contributor submissions are open through May 1st.

Ciao for now,

- jackson

This first part is all about the equipment I brought to successfully finish the ~400 mile/30,000ft race first/second overall. In the next part I’ll break down the ride and race itself.

The Bike Setup

With quite favorable weather conditions and a shorter course than last year, I decided to go with the most minimal kit I’ve ever used in a bikepacking race. I was aiming for under 48 hours total time, which is on the cusp of pushing through with little to no sleep. Here’s what I took:

Bike: Alliance custom titanium

I’m so smitten with this bike that Erik Rolf from Alliance Bicycles handmade for me here in Hailey, Idaho. We worked together to build a purpose-made bike for demanding off-road ultra racing. It’s a hardtail MTB built around a FOX 34 120mm front fork, using high quality titanium tubing that’s light and compliant. It’s a joy to ride and feels incredibly stable yet capable over the rough stuff.

It’s built up with a Shimano XTR mechanical groupset, featuring a 34t front ring and 170mm cranks, with a 10-51t cassette. I went with mechanical shifting on this build due to its reliability, weight, and cost savings over electronic, which I’ve experienced some issues with in long rides in the past.

Wheels are the HUNT Proven carbon dynamo, so the front has a hub that generates electricity to power my front light and a charging system for ultimate self-sufficiency. Tires are 2.4 Vittoria Mezcal (front) and Peyote (rear) in the more burly trail casing.

Contact points are an Ergon saddle, Wolf Tooth Components ALT pedals, and Wolf Tooth Components mega fat paw grips, with some SQLabs inner bar ends and cut down aero bars for more hand positions.

Bags

I used a mishmash of bags to carry my limited stuff. A Rockgeist partial frame bag was mainly for storing food, but also housed my backup headlamp. In there was also some backup carbohydrate drink mix, a mini pump, and emergency blanket.

The top tube bag by Apidura held the charging port from the dynamo, which connects to a power bank to recharge my phone while on the go. In there was also a dynaplug tire plug kit, chapstick, chain lube and rag, multitool, sunscreen, waterproof over gloves, and food.

A small saddle pack carried two tubes, and had a tool caddy mounted in a bottle cage to the top tube that housed my repair kit:

• spare derailleur hanger

• needle and thread

• mini leatherman

• chain pliers + quick links

• tire lever

• spare tubeless valve

• spare brake pads

• tire boot

• spare dynaplugs

• spare cleat and bolts

I also carried a Salomon hydration vest with a 2L bladder and storage for a few other items, like extra food, my camera, and water filter.

Lastly, a small dry bag was mounted to the bars with voile straps to carry my down jacket, spare socks, and pillow.

Clothing

I brought a pared down kit that I knew would be enough for the forecasted high and low temperatures along the route. I’ve experimented a lot with clothing while doing these long races so know what I need to stay warm. The start and finish, and riding through the Cuyamaca Mountains at night, would be cold but not freezing, and the daytime riding through the exposed desert would be quite hot. I felt my selection was the perfect balance between being prepared and being minimalist.

• short sleeve jersey

• cargo bib shorts

• mesh sleeveless base layer

• knee warmers

• down jacket

• rain jacket

• buff

• MTB long finger gloves

• waterproof overgloves

• two pairs of cycling socks

• helmet

• sunglasses

The only thing I didn’t use was the second pair of socks - I probably could have swapped them out going into the final night after the long, sandy, and wet hike a bike section where my feet got pretty destroyed, but by then it was almost over and I just powered to the finish. I managed to stay fairly warm and only got properly cold in the last few hours riding near a lake.

Water/food

I had capacity for over 4L of water, including a 2L bladder in my hydration vest, 2 x 1L bottles on the bike, and a filter flask that was about 700mL. I basically kept 4L topped up all the time, especially in the hotter sections. I brought some electrolyte tablets and a variety of riding food from the start (such as candy bars, a bagel, leftover pizza), plus a number of gels and carbohydrate drink mix. There was ample resupply on the route for the most part, so I only stopped a few times to replenish calories and finished with a lot of leftover food.

Sleep kit

I knew I would only stop to sleep very briefly, and with the weather being pretty mild I opted for just an emergency blanket, inflatable pillow, and down jacket as my sleep setup. I ended up only sleeping for about 30min the early morning of the second day, and felt that was enough to get me through.

Electronics/misc.

• I use a COROS Dura for navigation and ride tracking, which has incredible battery life. I think it was still at around 70% battery after the 41 hours of being out there.

• My front light is a dynamo-powered light by k-lite, which works great in these events. I also had a Fenix headlamp for the hike a bike sections and added illumination for the more technical portions as the dynamo light doesn’t work super well at slow speeds. A blinky tail light kept me seen during the few traffic-heavy sections.

• I also brought a small film camera to capture some of the scenery which I’ll develop and scan soon!

• This was also my first event using a waxed chain. The Old Man Mountain Experimental Bikepacking Team I’m part of is sponsored by Silca, who sent us a sweet little chain waxing kit, making it really easy to do. The wax treatment lasted roughly 180 miles before I switched over to Silca’s Synergetic wet lube.

Overall, I’m incredibly happy with the setup and had no mechanical issues to speak of. In this length of race, with the ideal conditions we were blessed with, I could afford to run a very minimal kit. Granted, I was pushing at the front of the race with a goal of finishing under two days, so each person’s needs are different. I have now done a lot of these ultras, building a lot of experience (learned from making many mistakes), and I recommend anyone interested in taking something like this on to do the same. It takes a lot of trial and error to build the wisdom for what you do and don’t need out there, and my setup might look totally different for the next one based on the individual demands and conditions.

Stay tuned for the race report coming soon! And feel free to drop me any questions about the setup in the comments.

-jackson

Like many athletes who are creatively minded, there’s a paradox of fear and freedom through this partnership. It’s scary to step into the arena, opening ourselves up to the possibilities of failure and disappointment. But there’s great freedom in the truth of It Might Not Work. With no guarantee for success lies the unlimited capacity for experimentation and expression. I tend to find myself on the negative side of this coin. Paralyzed by fear of failure, of comparison, of feeling like an impostor. This leads to nothing good; a block, a stagnation of athletic and artistic expression.

My experience at Atlas was the perfect embodiment of this contract. Months of preparation from the bike and kit build, to focused training through winter in Idaho, all towards the singular goal of success at the finish line in Essaouria. I signed this contract willingly, even eagerly. I believed in the preparation. I believed I was ready.

But less than 24 hours in, sitting in an empty cafe in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, sick and physically hollowed out, I knew my race was over. There wasn’t even much of a decision to be made - I just couldn’t do it. My body, and then my mind, weren’t allowing it. Quitting a race you've built months toward is both devastation and relief, tangled together, with something quieter underneath. A deflation.

The following weeks were harder than I expected. Illness lingered. The fatigue morphed from physical to mental. My depression and self doubt crawled out of their lairs, sensing vulnerability. When you aim at something that big and it falls apart, there’s grief in the aftermath. Motivation, purpose, excitement. All of it receded. I found myself questioning not just the race but everything built around it.

But this is in the fine print of that contract. The failure impacts the absolute goal — which at the end of the day is simply a bicycle pedaling contest — but also bleeds into something deeper, my sense of who I am, what I’m capable of, and why any of it even matters.

And yet.

In the greyness of these weeks following, a small ember is still there. Not with excitement or urgency, but with freedom.

Because through all the highs and lows I’ve experienced as an athlete, whether it’s a crash or illness ending a race or feeling the flow of magic skiing a ridgeline at Pierra Menta, the anchor that keeps me connected is the creative part, the part that finds deeper meaning from these pursuits. What kept returning wasn't the need to get back to planning the next race objective or training program. It was something I'd been building before Atlas that I let slip through the cracks in the tunnel vision of preparation: a tangible expression of my relationship to the athletic life, a print magazine, the Mountain Athlete Journal, dedicated to exactly this intersection I keep circling back to. The space, for me, where athletic life and creative life stop being separate things. Neglecting it has contributed to this malaise I feel. Even just putting words on paper here, or taking photos at a recent ski race, nurture this ember.

So here’s another contract to be signed. The Mountain Athlete Journal might not work. It might not find its readers, its contributors, its reason for existing beyond my own need to make it. In an era where so much of our attention is dominated by digital content, making a print magazine seems an irresponsible venture. That uncertainty has kept me from fully committing to it.

But there’s freedom there too. The feeling of exploring something new is what fuels my creativity. All of those reasons for not doing it are also reasons for doing it. Because a print magazine dedicated to the creative expression of mountain athletes doesn’t need to be perfect or guaranteed to matter. It’s just feels like something I need to do.

I imagine some of this might resonate with you. I can’t be alone in these feelings. The fear, the paralysis, the self-doubt that intrudes when you're stuck or trying to make something worthwhile.

But also the ember.

Maybe you’re a writer or photographer, a painter or simply an athlete who sees your sport as a conduit for creativity. You derive meaning from movement, and a need to express yourself. That instinct to turn experience into expression is exactly what this magazine is for.

When I got home from Morocco I developed the rolls of film I shot there. Scanning the negatives, I felt something shift. There was beauty in those images from a trip that felt like a failure. The light on the mountains. The faces of other riders standing on the start line. Moments I couldn’t really appreciate because I was too busy grieving the race. That’s the ember. That’s why the Mountain Athlete Journal exists — because these things deserve to be seen, and shared, and on paper.

It might not work. But I’m signing the contract anyway.

- jackson

The Mountain Athlete Journal is open for submissions through May 1st. We're looking for photography, writing, and art from athletes and creatives who find meaning in mountain pursuits. Learn more at mountainathletejournal.com

Ultra cycling is perhaps the thing I love most in this world. It’s a beautiful place where I’m completely in the flow, connected to movement and a feeling of being truly alive. It’s often where I feel my most confident and capable. But the wondrous highs and peak experiences are paired with the shadow of facing difficulty and pain. The thing you love most can also hurt you, offering amazing wonder and amazing disappointment.

I came into the Atlas Mountain Race feeling quite prepared. I trained hard through the fall and early winter months, a solid mix of ski touring, strength training, and bike riding. I meticulously planned my bike and gear setup. I had a plan and a goal of finishing in the top 20.

The trip to Morocco started off with a bit of stress, with my final bike setup coming together at the last minute due to availability issues with on the bike luggage, coupled with flight delays and rebooked itineraries meant there was a bit of a scramble to get to the start. The night before the race I tossed and turned with stomach pain, which would be an ominous precursor to my eventual demise.

An added stressor, which everyone faced, was the wild weather and resulting route changes to the start of the race. Morocco has been experiencing a very wet winter, ending a 7 year drought in the country. This meant sections of the beginning of the planned course were at risk of flash flooding and deep snow in the initial Atlas crossing, so the organizer was forced to do a reroute on a long section of paved roads.

The race started at 5pm with torrential rain for most of that first night. As we gained elevation and reached the high point, temperatures dropped below freezing and the road was frozen over in ice and snow. My bike was soon covered in a layer of ice, and I had to stop to chip away my frozen derailleur to be able to shift gears. I was able to stay mostly warm, having come prepared with quality layers. It was a battle out there though. At one point fellow Substacker and eventual 4th place finisher passed me shouting that he peed on his freehub to melt away the ice. Desperate.

I started strong, feeling great initially. I was somewhere in the top 20 of the field for that first night, right on schedule with my plan. If anything I was playing it pretty conservative, trying to ride my own pace and get through the night. I was fueling well, staying on top of hydration, and minimizing stopped time. But as the early morning hours approached something flipped. My body started feeling oddly drained, a sensation I haven’t experienced in an ultra before. Deep waves of nausea and dry heaving soon followed, and soon I couldn’t keep food or water down. I’m someone who believes in listening to my body, and have a strong intuition about what it’s telling me.

I knew my race was over. I felt terrible, and I’m still, over two weeks later, fighting off this virus. It would have been irresponsible to keep going.

So there I was, in a small Moroccan village on the outskirts of the Atlas Mountains, halfway across the world, scratching from a big goal race, devastated. The following days were rough. There’s a deep loneliness, a sort of empty feeling that comes from quitting an ultra. Due to the self-supported nature of the sport, I had to get myself out of there. A mixture of long taxi journeys with some riding to get back to Marrakech, all while following the race from the sidelines stung. Feeling physically and mentally empty, I felt like I didn’t belong in this sport. A failure.

I kept replaying the scratch over and over in my head. Was this weakness or wisdom? Did I just quit when it got hard and uncomfortable? Could I or should I have pushed through the sickness?

This stabbed at my identity as an endurance athlete - someone who works hard to push myself through challenging moments and experiences which lead to great rewards. I derive incredible meaning from the alchemy of difficulty into nirvana. It’s why I’m drawn to this sport; it’s a unique opportunity to step into the arena of discomfort and personal challenge. It’s shaped how I relate to sport and adventure. But at the same time, there’s a hardo culture within ultra endurance sport that can border on toxic. I’m guilty of falling into this trap. Do we really need to push through potentially dangerous situations to reach our goals? To “succeed”? DNF’ing and scratching are so stigmatized in sport, and the social media culture around doing epic shit can lead to amplified disappointment when things don’t go to plan. There's a meaningful difference between quitting and making an intelligent decision to stop. But there’s also a fine line with that distinction. A DNF is a DNF. And sitting in a guesthouse, sick and exhausted and watching everyone else's race unfold, I wasn't sure which one I'd done.

During those first few miserable days I tried a reframe, asking myself, “what would I say to an athlete I was coaching in this exact position?” It helped me get out of my head and find clarity from the outside. I’d tell them it’s part of the game. It’s a risk we all take when we step into this arena, and that the stars often have to align to have a perfect race. The long game matters much more than a single race. Sustainable performance means knowing when to stop, not just knowing when to suffer. There's a version of this sport that mistakes suffering for virtue, and I knew that pushing through sickness would be ego-driven to avoid the shame of scratching. But this is not why I love this sport. It’s the beauty of exploring the world on my bike, the way pushing myself makes me feel alive. That was lost when I got sick. Stopping was the right call. It doesn’t eliminate the sting, but it gives me the grace to move forward towards the next one.

The Atlas Mountains aren’t going anywhere, and neither is the part of me that wanted to be there. It’s time to reset, get back to work, and build towards the next adventure.

- jackson

Quick favor to ask: I’m on the shortlist for the Transcontinental Race photography competition. If you dig my stuff and want to support, I’d really appreciate your vote! http://bit.ly/4rvTzFe

I’m typing this on my phone from the flight between Salt Lake City and London, the first leg of my journey to the start of the 2026 Atlas Mountain Race. It’s shaping up to be quite the adventure with some last minute route changes due to Morocco’s exceptionally wet and cold winter this year.

I was initially going to do my typical bike check and gear setup post, outlining everything I’m taking with me to take on this self-supported mountain bike race through Morocco. To do these things you must be a little bit of a gear nerd willing to spend hours and hours meticulously preparing your kit for the demands of the specifics of the expedition.

I love a good kit list. The classic ultra race bike check dripping with the finer details of one’s unique setup and the reasoning for each and every bolt, bag, and gel.

I’ll admit I tend to fall prey to obsessing over gear and bike setup. To me it’s an extremely fun and important part of the ultra puzzle, requiring a lot of time and thought. It’s also quite stressful to pull it all together, especially this early in the season. The balance of ensuring you have everything you need and nothing you don’t, while aiming to be light and prepared for any scenario is tricky. I think (hope) I’m prepared for this one.

My bike is dialed; it’s finely tuned for this type of event.

I have warm clothes and stuff to sleep outside.

I have stuff to fix my bike.

I have two full Fred Again.. live concerts downloaded.

But now that I’m just two days away from launching into the unknown roads of the Moroccan Atlas, I’m not really thinking about gear. I’m thinking about the mental gear check, which is just as, if not more, important. What are my goals? What kind of experience do I want to have? What would a successful outcome look like?

Balance. I want to push myself, but not become a victim to the ride.

Presence. I want to stay focused on my own experience, not compare myself to other racers.

Creativity. I want to make time for photography and not be too consumed by racing to enjoy it.

Execution. Stay grounded in efficiency and forward progress. Finish.

It’s such a privilege to be lining up for this incredible event. I’m arriving with significant experience combined with an openness to the unknown. The discovery of adventure and exploration of my capacities is why I’m here. This is my happy place. My form of creative self-expression.

It all starts Friday evening local time. You can follow along through the race tracker here: https://amr26.maprogress.com and also through the Mountain Races Podcast and their social media channels. Gonna be a banger.

-jackson

What I do know, is that I feel an amazing sense of confidence when I’m out there pushing myself in new lands. Alone with my thoughts, dancing with the discomfort and nirvana of exploring my capabilities is where I’m the best version of myself. Adventure and testing one’s capacities for endurance have been a pursuit of humans since the dawn of time. I’ve always been inspired by explorers like the original mountaineers and alpinists of history who made the conscious decision to step into the void of the unknown and attempt things that seem impossible. To me, this is art.

Long distance cycling is my own version of this. While certainly far removed from the pioneers of mountain climbers in the Himalayas, setting my own goals to ride really far in new places provides my own kind of grand adventure. A significant challenge requiring meticulous preparation, from training to equipment, I find great fulfillment from the process.

2026 is shaping up to be a year of exploration, both physically and creatively.

The dream.

As I’ve written about extensively, I find the journey of my physical pursuits to be greatly enhanced by the creativity I discover and share through them. This is the life I want to create.

The Experimental Bikepacking Team

I’m extremely fortunate this year to be supported by some amazing people willing to take part in chasing all of this. Pursuing these dreams requires a lot of equipment, energy, money, and importantly, the faith of others. I’m thrilled to be included in a new collaborative “Experimental Bikepacking Team” put together by the amazing folks at Old Man Mountain, Silca, Robert Axle Project, and Ocean & San. The team is comprised of inspiring riders and creatives from all over the world, taking on many of the biggest ultra bikepacking races on the calendar.

Connected to this, I am working on something exciting in the ultra cycling space that I will announce very soon. I feel extremely lucky to be part of this initiative and you should go follow this rad group of humans: https://oldmanmountain.com/2026-experimental-bikepacking-team/

If the physical adventures are the experience, the creative projects are the expression. I’m motivated to lean totally in to my creative work in photography, writing, podcasting, and my forthcoming print magazine project and continue the good fight against AI and social media distraction.

New Equipment

I’m also aboard a brand new bike for the 2026 season. I plan to do an entire post dedicated to this beautiful machine and all the details, but for now here’s a sneak peak:

It’s a custom-built titanium frame designed and built by Erik Rolf, who has a workshop for his frames called Alliance just a few minutes from my house here in Hailey, Idaho. We collaborated to design and build a frame purpose-built for the types of events I’m targeting this year and beyond to handle the demands of rugged off-road bikepacking. A plush titanium foundation makes for a comfortable, damped ride, and there are mounts galore for bags, racks, and bottles. Combined with a mechanical Shimano XTR drivetrain, a 120mm travel FOX 34 suspension fork, and a carbon dynamo wheelset make this the ultimate vehicle for going long. It’ll be paired with some exciting new products from Old Man Mountain for luggage.

I’m insanely grateful to Erik and Alliance for making this build happen and supporting my pursuits this year. It’s even more special that this bike was built down the street from me, with my specific input for all my wildest dreams. Check out his work at https://www.alliancebicycles.com and stay tuned for my bike check for Atlas Mountain Race coming soon.

2026 Calendar

I have quite an ambitious year of bike riding and creative projects planned, but I’m also very confident in the experience I’ve gained over the past few years of racing ultras. This is the tentative schedule, subject to change!

Atlas Mountain Race | February | Morocco

Spanning 1,350km through the Atlas Mountains and deserts of Morocco as part of Nelson Trees’ infamous Mountain Races series, this one has been on the bucket list for a long time. It’s coming up in less than two weeks from writing this, and it’s looking like a cold and wet edition. You can track the race here: https://amr26.maprogress.com

Stagecoach 400 | April | California

An American bikepacking classic route, the Stagecoach is a 400 mile mountain bike race starting and finishing in Idyllwild, California riding through some of Southern California’s majestic trails.

Tour Divide/GDMBR | June | Canada to New Mexico

After crashing out with a broken wrist so close to the finish of the 2024 edition, I feel like I have some unfinished business with what is often considered the definitive off-road bikepacking route in the world. It’s a beast, and a challenge not to be taken lightly. So I will decide later this spring if it’s actually feasible to tackle again, and have some interesting ideas around the approach. One thing’s for certain though: I’ll be coming in with a lot more experience than last time.

Taurus Mountain Race | October | Türkiye

A brand new race launching this year as part of Nelson Trees’ Mountain Races series, it’s sure to be a banger. 1,460km through Turkey’s Taurus mountain range in a remote, off-road odyssey. I was a little bit shocked to be accepted to race in this inaugural edition, as the hype around it has been huge and seemingly everyone in the ultra community is aiming to race it. I’m still debating whether I can actually pull this one off…

I’m deep in the midst of organizing my kit for Morocco, and head across the pond a week from writing this. I’ll be bringing my film camera and a portable microphone to capture the experience. Stay tuned for my full bike check breakdown for the race as well.

Thanks, as always, for reading. And for the people in the back:

FUCK ICE.

- jackson

On January 1st I posted this note:

It was a spontaneous share of my thoughts and feelings around AI and art. I’ve had a tumultuous relationship with social media and have written pretty extensively about my challenges as a creative person who wants to share my stuff. This seemed to really strike a chord among the Substack community, ironically going pretty viral here. As of this writing, it has 12.5k likes and 443 comments, reaching thousands of people who seem to feel similarly. The irony is not lost on me that a post on a social media platform about the current perils of social media kind of blew up.

I think it highlights exactly the point I was trying to make - that despite this accelerated AI landscape and the ride we’re being taken on by these large social media corporations, so many of us still want the realness. The human-made art. Stuff that’s lasting and meaningful. The response from this note has given me hope that the pendulum will, in fact, swing back towards quality over quantity. Away from the fake fragmentation and towards the real authenticity of human-made art, at least within a certain sector of the community. I, for one, will keep fighting the good fight.

I also wanted to introduce myself to all the new folks here.

Hi. I’m Jackson.

I live in the mountains of Idaho and have developed a passion for the combination of writing and photography to express myself creatively. I’m a lifelong endurance athlete and write about my experiences in ultra cycling and bikepacking, ski mountaineering, and general life as a mountain athlete. I’m a coach and sports nutritionist who supports a variety of endurance athletes chase their athletic pursuits. I also started Idaho’s first youth skimo (short for ski mountaineering) team.

I’m fascinated with this intersection of art and athletic, which compelled me to start this Substack publication a couple of years ago. Through that journey, I’ve developed a love for film photography and a shift towards more analog expression, and am working on creating a forthcoming print magazine, Mountain Athlete Journal, which celebrates creative mountain athletes who find meaning through movement and expression through art. You can learn more about it via my website: https://www.themountainathlete.com.

I’m currently training for the Atlas Mountain Race, an 850 mile self-supported bikepacking race through the Atlas Mountains in Morocco next month, and have an exciting year ahead of me with some lofty goals on the bike and skis, and the creative projects that connect them.

I’m thrilled that my words and photos are resonating. That there are people out there who feel similarly about art and expression and the concerns of the current state of the internet. Sometimes it feels like I’m alone in my head about these things, but I can’t help but want to share them. It means a lot that I can positively impact even one person through the stuff I make, and my dream is to continue doing so through my coaching and creative practice. So thank you for joining me on this mission.

Cheers to more authenticity and beautiful photos in 2026 and beyond.

-jackson

This is the earliest in the year I’ve committed to doing a bike race. Living in the mountains of Idaho, winter is typically dedicated to skiing, and the past few years the main training and racing focus has been on skimo. Thus, most of my training this winter has been on skis. Is it the most optimal way to train for this event? Probably not. But if I’ve learned anything from races like Tour Divide or the Transcontinental, it’s that pure cycling fitness is but one factor in the puzzle that equates to “performance” in ultra endurance. Being well rounded, mentally and physically tough, and prepared for the various challenges and scenarios like weather, eating, sleeping, and mental fortitude outweigh one’s threshold power at turning the pedals.

I very much live by the ethos of being multi-faceted as an athlete, and believe in the practicality and strength of using different modes of movement throughout the year to build durability and endurance, especially with the objectives I have. I find this approach really works for me.

Instead of fighting the Idaho winter, I’m using it to arrive prepared to Atlas.

Maintaining bike-specificity

Despite winter’s current grip on my training grounds, I’m not coming into Atlas from scratch. I’m finishing up my biggest year of endurance training - nearly 600 hours of riding plus another 200 hours of skiing in 2025. The star of the year was of course the Transcontinental Race, where I rode 3,000 miles in 13 days, which comes off the back of many, many years of building my aerobic base. After some weeks of recovery after that epic, I’ve maintained a solid base of riding through the fall to keep the continuity into the winter. Our slow start to ski season here let me ride consistently into December, preserving the cycling-specific neuromuscular patterns and saddle time that skimo can't replicate.

Now that proper winter has hit and it’s started getting more snowy and cold, I’m definitely riding less. If there’s a decent weather window, I will bundle up and head out for a couple of hours to keep the pedals turning when I can. I’m not much of a trainer guy after countless hours spent riding indoors during my road racing days, so I’ll gladly ride in the cold over an hour inside on the trainer.

Mainly, I’m aiming to prevent too much loss of bike-specific fitness until mid-January when I’ll head to southern Utah for a mini training camp as my final prep for Atlas.

Strength training

I’m a proponent of strength training through the winter to prepare for ultra races, as these events demand a lot from the body. For injury prevention, durability, and performance, cycling-specific strength training is an important part of my weekly routine. I’m currently doing 2 strength sessions per week, focused on unilateral movements like split squats, single leg deadlifts, and core strengthening to help prepare the body for the hours and hours of riding through the rugged terrain of the Atlas Mountains. Here’s an example of one of my workouts:

Warmup/activation

• Fire hydrants + skaters w/ band x 15 each leg

• Goblet squat x 10

• Glute bridges w/ band x 15

Circuit (3-4 rounds, superset):

• Single leg kettlebell split squats x 8-10 / Dumbbell rows x 10 each arm

• Single-leg kettlebell Romanian deadlifts x 8-10 each leg / Pallof press x 15 each side

• Step-ups to single-leg stand x 10/side (hold top position 2 seconds) / Deadbugs x 20 each side

Skimo for fitness

Because winter here in the mountains of Idaho is cold and snowy, and I love skiing, I have been building my aerobic fitness primarily through uphill skiing. It translates remarkably well to the demands of ultra cycling, as it develops a really strong cardiovascular stimulus in conjunction with time spent at altitude and promoting leg strength through the downhill portion. We are very lucky here in Sun Valley to have access to after hours training on the ski resort, where a climb of the mountain is a bit over 3,000 vertical feet at a consistently steep gradient. I’m typically up there skinning 3-4 days per week, climbing anywhere from 3,000-6,000 feet in a given session, with both endurance training and interval training.

We also have enough snow in the backcountry to do longer days of ski touring. Over the next few weeks I’ll probably dedicate at least one day per week to a longer endurance day in the mountains, which is a great opportunity to move for 5-7 hours through various terrain at high altitude which is hugely beneficial to developing the endurance required for what I’ll face in Morocco. Skiing is a great exercise for mountain biking specifically, as the uphill builds leg strength and endurance, while the downhills tend to mimic the tension and isometric leg power required while descending a bike through technical trails.

Gear, logistics, and strategy

The fitness side of these races is just one factor for success. There’s a lot of planning involved, from gear selection, to course research and planning resupply points, to the logistics of the travel and race strategy. This is one of my favorite aspects of the whole puzzle, as doing this stuff well can really set you up for a smooth race. Atlas is a fixed route, meaning everyone does the same course (unlike my last race, the Transcontinental). Doing some initial planning and research around key resupply points, major climbs and remote sections, developing a sleep and pacing strategy, a nutrition and fueling plan, etc. are all things within our control as ultra racers that pay off majorly when we’re in the midst of the race mode. Getting this planning right can make or break one’s experience.

Planning and organizing the kit and bike setup for an ultra race is essential to success, and something I spend a lot of time on in my own preparation. I have some very exciting new sponsors to support me in the new year, and I can’t wait to share more about my setup for Atlas and beyond. Look for a full kit list breakdown coming soon.

As with any race I do, my primary goal is to finish with a positive experience. I’m not shy about my competitive spirit, and hope to finish within the top 20 of the field. But more important than a result is the breadth of experience through the creative connection I feel to these types of adventures. With the development of my print magazine project coming down the pipeline, as well as some other creative and professional ventures, I want to create a story through photos and words sharing my odyssey across the Atlas Mountains. So I’ll be taking a film camera with me to document the experience, and recording podcasts from the road. I can’t wait to get started.

- jackson

So as I reflect on 2025, I’m trying to resist the urge to simply tally accomplishments. I did a lot of cool stuff. I raced a pretty full skimo season, culminating with Pierra Menta, the most epic skimo race in the world. I raced my bike 3,000 miles across the European continent in the Transcontinental Race. I launched Idaho’s first youth skimo team and spent countless days in the surrounding mountain ranges on skis with some of my closest friends. It was a full year, at least athletically.

But what I keep coming back to aren’t these accomplishments, it’s the shift underneath them. I feel like I started to understand what I actually mean when I talk about being a mountain athlete. Not just someone who trains and races in the mountains, but someone who treats movement as a creative practice. Instead of focusing on the performance outcomes of race results and other metrics, I’ve become so much more fascinated by the deeper emotion and purpose behind why I’m motivated to do these things.

I don’t have that philosophy fully articulated yet. But I can feel it taking shape, and that feels like the real work of this year.

So here’s a photo essay looking back on the highlights. Moments and experiences that reflect who I am and what I love doing. Thank you for being here to share it with, and thank you to all of my supporters which allow me to live this life. I have a feeling 2026 is going to be even more incredible.

Ski Season

This year’s ski season was jam packed. I focused heavily on skimo racing and ski mountaineering, competing in a pretty full season of some of the biggest races. The race season started with the US National Championships in Utah, with four different events: mixed relay, sprint, individual, and vertical.

A big goal of the year was to try and get into perhaps the biggest skimo race in the world, called Pierra Menta. Held in the heart of Beaufortain region of the French Alps, this historic and epic 4-day stage race is completed in pairs, and my race partner Sophia and I were lucky enough to get a spot. You can read my full race report and recap here. In the build up to the race, we did a similar format race in Aspen called Power of Four as a test, where we placed 2nd in the co-ed division. In addition to these big races, I supported some of the youth athletes I coach in my youth skimo program, Sun Valley Skimo, to a couple of podium finishes in races in Montana.

Additionally, I spent a lot of time skiing in my backyard mountains. Highlights include many early morning powder sessions on Galena Pass, a birthday yurt trip to the Pioneer Mountains, a classic ski tour in Chamonix, and an all-day traverse of the Boulder Mountains in the spring.

I wrote about La Passioné - a feeling and emotion that drives why I love these experiences, and I feel like this year’s ski season was the epitome of this idea. I love competing and exploring my limits, but at the purest level I’m pursuing the magic of aligning passion with experience, a type of flow state, where I’m present with movement and exploration.

Bike Season

In the middle of ski season I was notified that my application to race at the 2025 Transcontinental Race had been accepted. With an objective of this scale, preparations began almost immediately. So the focus of the spring and early summer would be training and gear selection. Coming off the solid endurance base of the ski season, I rolled right into an early season camp/visit to my family in Los Angeles to get some early training miles. Other notable adventures included some epic rides around the Sun Valley area and a win at a gravel race in the Tetons, followed by a lap around Grand Teton National Park.

Then, of course, was the main event of the summer: racing my bike across Europe from Spain to Romania, beginning with a “warmup” bikepacking trip along the coast of Portugal.

I have so many incredible memories and photographs from the summer that would make this post extremely long, so I’ve just included a few. This spring I also fell back in love with photography, specifically through film. It’s a medium that has opened my creative expression in these adventures, and provides a deep sense of meaning and connection to myself and the places I saw. Developing this outlet is something I want to continue crafting, and using it to share my experiences here and in my forthcoming print magazine.

Thanks for reading. I have some exciting new projects and adventures to announce very soon here, so subscribe to stay tuned.

-jackson

And yet I keep wanting to make things. The irony is that I feel my best when I’m creating and pushing forward through the discomfort, whether on my bike or in the midst of a creative project. I’ve wanted to create something meaningful, something tangible, but unsure how to do that in a landscape that seems to value digital distraction over depth, volume over substance.

So I’m making a magazine.

Bringing The Mountain Athlete Journal into the physical form feels like a natural progression after two years of writing here on Substack. In the age of phone addiction, AI slop, and short form content distracting us everywhere, I believe we need more tactile art in the world. Something we can touch and feel. Something collaborative that includes work from other mountain athletes who share this itch to create. Stuff that lasts.

The Intersection

Moving through the outdoors as an athlete creates a state of complete focus and feeling: l’état de concentration optimale. Flow state. It’s where movement and meaning collide, and creativity emerges. I’ve lost count of the ideas and insights that have arrived during long bike rides or days in the alpine.

I believe creativity is inherent to being a mountain athlete. Venturing into the unknown and uncomfortable on skis or by bike is part physical performance and part creative act. One of my favorite authors, Seth Godin, defines creativity and art as solving interesting problems, making a generous contribution, risking failure, all with intention to change the recipient for the better. The more I examine my own relationship to sport, the more I realize this is exactly what I love so much about it: not the metrics or grand performances, but the creativity of it all. And the opportunity to make and share something from it that resonates with others on a similar path.

Mountain Athlete Journal exists at this intersection. Where athletics become art, where movement becomes meaningful.

Why Print?

Exhausted by the distraction and noise of the social media slot machine, I wanted to make something tactile and intentional, away from the chaos of the internet.

I’m tired of “content” for content’s sake, disappearing in 24 hours or less. I’m tired of algorithms that reward frequency over depth. I’m tired of the noise and anxiety that comes from the endless feed and the feeling that I’m never going to be good enough against the influencers and sponsored athletes.

Print is slower. It sits on your shelf or your coffee table and lasts. Photos look so much better on the page than on the light up rectangle, words and reflections hit deeper in the long-form than an Instagram caption, and it just feels better to sit with something rather than scroll past it. It also reflects part of the philosophy of the Mountain Athlete. We prioritize and revel in the beauty of the physical world, forced into presence when running down a tight singletrack trail or pushing against our limit riding or skiing up a mountain pass.

There’s something deeply human about holding a physical object that someone made with care. In a world optimized for distraction, a magazine is a small act of resistance. For myself at least, much of the angst and mental turmoil I experience is linked to the digital distraction that has become so ubiquitous in our lives. I feel a sense of responsibility to protect analog art forms. Especially in areas I care so deeply about.

My Vision

Mountain Athlete Journal is a physical canvas by and for the endurance athlete-storytellers and artists, photographers, and philosophers of the mountains. Each issue features stories, photographs, and art from contributors who live and create in mountain sports in a tactile, physical form, away from the noise of algorithms and AI. My goal is to build community and a deeper relationship with the mountains and with ourselves. Published biannually in spring and fall, Mountain Athlete Journal is a refuge from digital distraction — a space for expression, connection, and the stories worth sharing.

Each issue will include a mix of narrative storytelling like race reports and trip reflections done with craft and intention. We’ll have practical and educational stuff in there too: coaching philosophy, nutrition guidance, route ideas. Photography, illustration, and painting with vision beyond the typical adventure content. And interviews with athletes, coaches, and creators thinking deeply about why they do what they do.

The unifying thread: celebrating creative mountain athletes.

A Call for Contributors

I see this as a community-based project, not just a solo endeavor. The beauty of art, athletics, and creativity is the shared experience of doing rad stuff together, and making something greater than the sum of its parts.

Mountain Athlete Journal is looking for contributors: writers, photographers, illustrators, coaches, and athletes with stories to tell and art to share. You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need a massive following. I’m interested in those of us who create because we have to, because the mountains and the ways we move through them provide inspiration. If this resonates, I want to hear from you.

The first issue, slated to be released in the spring, sets this stage with the theme of “Movement + Meaning.” Why do we feel compelled to move in the mountains? What does it reveal? How is physical expression linked to creative expression?

You can learn more about submissions here: https://www.mountainathletejournal.com/submissions

An Invitation

This is, honestly, an experiment. Deciding to put myself out there and make a print magazine is terrifying. It’s imperfect and ambitious. But vulnerability is fundamental to both athletics and art. Stepping courageously into the void can be a vehicle for growth in both pursuits.

I’m betting on print when much of the media landscape favors the opposite. Choosing depth in a culture that rewards speed. Trying to build a community of mountain athletes who want something more than content. I want connection, meaning, something to hold in my hands.

My hope is that this journal deepens our relationship with the mountains and ourselves. That it brings a sense of calm inspiration through the stories and art of our contributors, supporting your goals and aspirations. A breath of fresh air amidst the distraction.

The first issue launches May 2026. Stay tuned for more, and get in touch if you want to be involved. For more info, visit https://www.mountainathletejournal.com.

Thank you for being here. For reading, for moving, for creating.

-jackson

The solace of exploring quiet dirt roads. Grinding up challenging climbs and ripping thrilling descents. Feeling alive from pushing through the pedals with a group of fellow masochists. Community and connection.

This is the spirit of gravel.

As bike riders we seek freedom and challenge away from the routines of everyday life and find a sort of comfort amongst the suffering.

I was recently invited down to the high desert cycling oasis of Prescott, Arizona, to preview the new gravel stage race hosted by Transrockies called The Rough Rider Gravel. A three day gravel riding weekend happening at the end of October 2026, traveling through pine forested climbs, ghost towns, and stunning back roads.

Prescott is known for its extensive mountain bike trail network and the long-standing Whiskey 50 race, but the gravel riding is quite underrated.

In the era of increased professionalization of gravel racing, events like this are becoming rare gems of how gravel is meant to be experienced - focused on community over competition, exploration over performance, and embracing the love for riding off-road. Racing is wonderful; it’s hard to replicate the growth of pushing ourselves to new levels outside the structure of the competitive vibe. But often the spotlight is on the highest level of the sport, pressuring us to focus our attention on the most popular events. Traditional race weekends are short and fast. Show up, pin your number, race, go home. The stage race format opens the door to spending time in a place and growing community.

I’m here with a group of riders from all over the U.S. and Canada invited for a recon camp of the courses, excited to make the most of one last warm weekend before winter sets in. Transrockies hosts trail running, gravel, and mountain bike races in North America, and Prescott is the latest addition to their calendar.

The first stage takes us to the classically Southwest and historic mining town of Jerome, once called “The Wickedest Town in the West.” It’s largely a ghost town, with old copper and gold mines among the hills and old dirt roads that make up the stunning climbs of the canyon landscape.

Speaking to many of the participants it’s clear that while the structure and competitive push of a race format is a great motivator, what many of us are searching for through gravel riding and racing is this shared experience of connecting over the awe of the sweeping vista at the top of a big climb, or the euphoria of a swooping descent through a canyon most people don’t ride. I’m sure it’s a similar feeling many of the early settlers to this place felt - forging into unknown lands, their breath taken away from the beauty of the American West.

Following each stage, there’s a gathering at the local happy hour hot spot, the Fairweather Social Club. This is where the spirit of gravel truly shines through as I listen to the other riders tell stories from the day, making new friends and connecting through the common love for riding bikes. Transrockies clearly invests in this component of their events, prioritizing the celebration of people and bikes. It’s Halloween, a highlight of the year in Prescott. People in costume line the streets, the local cover band performing Thriller.

Stage 2 heads for the hills south of town for a climber’s paradise among the Prescott National Forest. We’d climb over 5,000 feet in just 40 miles to the small community of Breezy Pine before making our way back to Prescott.

Each of the stages of The Rough Rider uniquely challenge riders’ multi-day endurance. Recovery between is critical; pacing and fueling become more important over multiple days of racing. This adds a layer of strategy that is not found in the typical one day event.

The final stage ties everything together in a full value “Queen Stage” course crafted by the Transrockies crew. It’s a balanced mix of long gravel climbs, technical and remote singletrack, and paved sections of road. We stop for a quick coffee and refuel in the funky town of Skull Valley before embarking on the crux of the day: a long section of technical two-track and singletrack that tests the handling skills of any gravel rider.

As gravel racing continues to explode and the calendar fills up with races all over the world, I can’t help but be intrigued by events like this one in Prescott. It’s less of a race and more of a celebration of the spirit of gravel. For those of us who aren’t chasing the pro cycling dream, we can have the best of both worlds: challenging ourselves while sharing the adventure with others.

If you’re on the hunt for the perfect end of season race experience, complete with amazing weather and terrain, registration for the inaugural Rough Rider Gravel is open now.

Since I was 12 years old, I’ve identified as an “athlete.” Someone who trains, competes, and finds great pleasure in the pursuit of performance in endurance sports. In many ways my entire existence revolves around athletic performance in myself and for others. Educationally and professionally I have embarked on a career in coaching and sports nutrition consulting, and invest a significant amount of my time into my own athletic goals. I willingly decided to race my bike 3,000 miles across a continent this summer.

Yet I’ve simultaneously noticed a paradigm shift within my own thinking around what it means to be an athlete in recent years, and the relationship I have with sport. I feel a redefinition is needed. One that links movement with meaning and creative expression. Reframing performance.

I’ve felt a growing tension between my inherent competitive nature and the desire for something more. As athletes it’s easy to become attached to our results and our performances. Competitive sport, by nature, is objective. Race results, PR’s, Strava KOMs. Mainstream sports culture champions the champions - the stars, the awe-inspiring performances. There’s nothing wrong with this - sport at all levels is inspiring and incredible, and I’m a big fan of high performance in elite sport. However, it’s easy to be lured into a trap of comparison, leading down the road of losing the fundamental joy sport can bring. It’s also a harsh reality - one that I’ve experienced first hand - that the path to being a professional athlete is wrought with much sacrifice and pain.

Initially, Substack felt like the perfect place to establish my credibility and share knowledge and advice around endurance training and nutrition. Articles featuring the latest research and science, diving deep into sports science topics using my education and experience in these realms to sound smart and helpful.

But quickly something shifted. I found I was growing tired of the standard discourse of endurance sports chatter - the latest supplement trends, the minutiae of training theory, why protein is the answer to all of life’s problems - the list goes on. I was drawn more to the philosophical over the analytical, the subjective over the objective aspects of sport.

Something I felt was missing from the conversation was the exploration of the creative and cerebral side of sport. Taking a step back and asking ourselves what it is about being outside, moving our bodies, that brings us good feelings. When I look back at my athletic career, the moments that stand out are the landscapes, the emotions felt when I experienced flow and shared adventures. It’s being one with your breathing climbing up an alpine road at sunrise, or those first few powder turns after a long ski ascent in the dark.

Over the last year in particular, something clicked in my own definition of what it means to be an athlete. Feeling stifled creatively, dealing with some challenges around my mental health, and a bit lost professionally, I recognized the importance of taking a look at my relationship to sport. For many, many years I was attached to my identity as an athlete in comparison to others - how well I stacked up in bike or ski races, how many sponsors I had (or more accurately, didn’t have), and the perception of others. I now recognize how much weight these thoughts held in my brain, and how much of my self worth is and was wrapped up in the external. The very negative side of me feels as though I’ve wasted many years plagued by my own self doubts, paralyzed by feeling not good enough - as an athlete, coach, or human in general.

This is how the idea of The Mountain Athlete has formed and evolved. Mountain sports like trail running, skiing, cycling, climbing, and mountaineering are beautiful to me. Motivated by the shifts of seasons and modalities of movement, the beauty of landscapes, and the experience of creative expression among them. The Mountain Athlete seeks meaning through their movement, inspired by the sun peeking over ridge lines, the quiet solitude of exploring. The Mountain Athlete doesn’t define fulfillment by chasing performative validation, but rather the chase of feeling, of seeing. This may exist with or without competition, but nonetheless grounded in internal and experiential fulfillment over the external and competitive.

Now, I want to acknowledge a contradiction. Many mountain athletes, myself included, do find fulfillment in training and competition and seeking to improve performance. Doing these sports does require hard work and challenge, and there is great beauty and creativity in pushing ourselves. I think what I’m posing here is a recognition that what we’re probably searching for when we go out into the mountains or on a long bike ride isn’t the pursuit of elite performance, but rather a certain experience I like to call La Passioné. The Passion. The emotion and gratification of connecting with nature in a creative way, with the ups and downs that come along. It’s easy to become distracted from this when we’re constantly chasing performance through intense training regimens, strict diet and supplement routines, and competitive goals. The objective vs subjective.

Paradoxically, embracing La Passioné often enhances performance, because it makes the whole thing more fun and rewarding. It makes me think about one of my endurance sport idols Kilian Jornet, who just completed one of the most phenomenal sporting achievements in history. He’s doing that with passion, driven by his love for expressing himself in the mountains, and outside of the normal philosophies of training and performance. He did that for him. No external validation or trophies. Just the search for meaning in the mountains.

As we head into winter, I urge you to also reflect on what motivates you as an athlete. What’s the why behind it? Is it looking fast on Strava or an outlet for creative expression? Is it to win races and get sponsored or experience meaningful movement in magical landscapes? There is no right answer. I’m still grappling with these questions. Everyone is different.

Regardless, the canvas of the mountains are out there, waiting for you to paint.

ciao for now,

-jackson

It’s easy to feel pessimistic and discouraged with the current state of the internet. The rise of AI-generated content, the prioritization and ubiquity of attention-fragmenting Reels and short form junk food. Even Substack, which was launched as the anti-social media platform based around long-form written content seems to be declining a bit into the pull of the endless feed and the power of the algorithm.

I recently read an article about the trend of social media - and online consumption in general - towards a modern-day version of television. They quoted a report from the FTC, sharing that most consumers time spent on social media is not even engaging socially with friends:

“Today, only a fraction of time spent on Meta’s services—7% on Instagram, 17% on Facebook—involves consuming content from online “friends” (“friend sharing”). A majority of time spent on both apps is watching videos, increasingly short-form videos that are “unconnected”—i.e., not from a friend or followed account—and recommended by AI-powered algorithms Meta developed as a direct competitive response to TikTok’s rise, which stalled Meta’s growth.”

Social media has quickly become anti-social. These apps, in their endless pursuit of profit, have drifted from their original intent and are now designed to feed us short videos to keep us hooked and endlessly scrolling instead of interacting with our friends and family. They certainly don’t reward long-form, long lasting creative work.

This is not an essay meant to analyze the trends of social media or AI, or to argue either way about the ethics of social media and technology. I use this example to illustrate a problem a lot of us are facing right now. A sort of malaise around social media, leading to burnout and apathy. Getting trapped by the system to consume over create, caught in the vicious cycle of doomscroll, feel overwhelmed and anxious, repeat.

The truth is, I don’t pretend to have the slightest clue how to address this when the fact is there are multibillion dollar companies profiting on our attention. Personally, I have been feeling drawn to stepping away from the slot machine and instead investing my time and energy into more “analog” forms of media. It’s why I really like reading and writing on Substack, or taking photos with a film camera. Intentionally taking a step back to slow down and not be tempted by the instant gratification of the internet is a very simple way to feel a lot better than scrolling the feed. Call me a crusty old millennial, but I believe there is and will continue to be a resurgence of long-form print media and film photography. Stuff that is a little imperfect, but tactile. As someone who dreams of living a creative and artistic life, I want to be a part of making “social media” more social again. More real, something we can touch and collaborate on. Imbued with depth, inspiration, and artistry over likes and distraction. I almost feel a sense of responsibility to do it.

Inspired by my pal Bentley over at , or the folks over at Field Mag and Daybreak Magazine, who I’m sure share many of these same feelings, I want to start a magazine to share my work and the work of others. My way of connecting the things I’m interested in and contributing to opting out of social media and opting in to a slower paced, community based media project. A place to bring together other creative mountain athletes through stories, photography, and other art. I have no idea how to do this, or if it will be successful. But I think the juice will be worth the squeeze?

To give credit where credit is due, there’s a lot of positives about the internet and social media. Amazingly creative people doing incredible stuff, and many of my friends and ideas and inspiration are products of the online world. But I fear as a whole we’re beginning to lose the plot - and I for one am far more interested in shifting towards minimalism and quality over trying to ride the wave of AI and short form content. Perhaps it’s a mistake and I’ll get left behind while I’m living in a van down by the river taking photos on my 20 year old camera and trying to print a magazine when everyone else is making their fortune on TikTok. But I like to think I’ll be happier and calmer interacting with real people, making something that is born from my love of where the outdoors meets creativity. Spend the time to create something I’m proud of that is more everlasting that I can touch and feel and smell. Maybe we all need more of this.

But what do I know. I’m just a dude, overthinking everything, who feels a little lost in the chaos of the world.

ciao for now,

jackson