Held: A Hammock Story About Rest, Becoming, and Everything in Between

Written and photographed by Justin Bickley

I was in college on Oʻahu, Hawaii, when I got my first ENO hammock in 2016. I lived on campus, but I’d drive an hour and a half each way to the North Shore just to sleep in it on a quiet beach. Sometimes I’d go up there during the school week, set up just before sunset, and stay until the first class the next morning. 

It wasn’t about adventure or escaping anything big. I just needed stillness. I didn’t have language for it then, but something about hanging between two trees and the repetitive sound of waves crashing helped me feel like I could finally exhale. 

That same hammock followed me everywhere. I used an old ENO stand to sleep in a friend’s cramped apartment during my final semester; no need to buy a bed. I backpacked the Nā Pali Coast with it. I strung it up on my parents’ back porch during a gap year from school and read there almost every day. People used to ask, “How can you swing and read at the same time?” But the rhythm of it grounded me. That repetitive motion, the slight drift, it was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt like too much. 

After graduation, I packed my car and set off on a cross-country road trip. No real plan, just a restless feeling and a need to move. I slept in my hammock hidden between trees outside Rochester, New York. I hung it with views of the cliffs in Big Sur. I was broke and uncertain and quietly trying to figure out who I was. And in the middle of all that, the hammock was one of the few constants. It held me through that whole season of “not yet.” 

These days, life looks different. I work in the outdoor industry. I teach backcountry packrafting and help queer folks find belonging in wild places. The days are long and full, and I’m often surrounded by people. But when I get the chance to string up my hammock again, even just for a few minutes, there’s this sense of return. It’s like checking in with an older version of myself. The one who used to sleep on beaches and porches and didn’t have a clue what came next. 

Just recently, I was at an outdoor industry conference, Switchback Spring, representing the nonprofit I work for, LGBTQ Outdoors. It was nonstop. Meetings, conversations, standing around on concrete floors all day. At some point, I wandered over to the ENO booth and dropped into one of their hammocks. Anna was there, and we started talking. And I stayed. I stayed because it was the place to be. Somehow, that booth became the heartbeat of the whole event. People came through who were working to protect public lands, shift outdoor culture, build something better. That small moment of rest turned into real connection, and I felt lucky to be there for it. 

Looking back, I realize ENO has been part of every chapter of my life. Not in a flashy, life-changing way. Just in the quiet, steady background. The places I’ve landed when I needed space to figure things out. To be in motion and at rest. To be uncertain and okay anyway. 

I still don’t always know where I’m going. But I know how to find myself in the pause. And most of the time, it starts with two trees and a little room to breathe.

Author Bio

Justin Bickley lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and has called many places home, including Hawai‘i and Arizona. He’s a packraft instructor and community-builder who brings people together through queer-led outdoor trips and storytelling. Over the past 10 years of movement and self-discovery, he’s found deep solace in the simple act of hanging a hammock.