BASE # 10

ADVENTURE STARTS HERE

An unconventional honeymoon

There are not many brand stories that start with a honeymoon, but this is how Andi and Heidi’s story began, and therefore EXPED’s. Venturing as greenhorns they set off into the Canadian wilderness with only a hatchet and a saw blade, they chose an area not far from the Arctic Circle and began to build the cabin they’d dreamt of, knowing the following months would be nothing short of a challenge.

Their intention was to get the maximum outdoor experience with minimal means, sourcing supplies and food from nature at every opportunity. Through perseverance, hard work, and a lot of trial and error they managed to survive for 9 months through the harsh Canadian Winter. In the spring of 1981, they took their cabin apart leaving no trace of the previous 9 months and returned home to Switzerland with no plan set for their future.

Living in the cabin taught Andi and Heidi many lessons, most importantly that knowledge and skills are indispensable. Knowing what to do and how to do it helped them through many challenging moments, whilst also proving that doing everything yourself takes a lot of time and effort. As the months passed, they also realised that the less equipment you have, the less complicated daily tasks are.

Over the next few years, they saw that outdoor products were becoming increasingly more complex and generic in their nature, something that ran counter to their experience of living outdoors in Canada. This drove their desire to create their own products that were high quality, durable and performance orientated. They also wanted the products to be built in ways that inflicted minimal impact on the environment, embracing the importance of simplicity and sustainability at the very heart of their philosophy.

They knew this was not something they were going to be able to do alone so started to build the EXPED family, forming close relationships with factories, partners and staff. Learning together how to create exceptional products whilst keeping their original philosophy at the forefront of everything they did. Although still a small team, the EXPED family has grown whilst maintaining their passion for the outdoors, and drive to make, create and develop the best products. Knowing they have a wonderful team behind them, Andi and Heidi, now in their 70s, are now much more free and unbound to get back into nature once more.

Savoie Mont Blanc (the Savoie and Haute-Savoie départements) is one of France’s most popular tourist destinations all year round – a brilliant region for mountain lovers both in winter and summer. The largest ski area in the world, with 112 resorts, this is a giant outdoor playground for families and others, with a huge array of sporting activities for children of all ages and for adults.

With a national park, two regional parks, many nature reserves and more than 100 passes, Savoie Mont Blanc is a paradise for hikers, mountain bikers and cyclists. Its four lakes – Geneva, Bourget, Annecy and Aiguebelette – can easily reach temperatures of 25°C. Savoie Mont Blanc also offers fantastic food and wine and has an incredible 34 Michelin-starred restaurants.

3 GREAT CYCLING EXPERIENCES IN SAVOIE MONT BLANC

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01

COL DE LA LOZE (2304m)

This is among the most famous passes in Savoie Mont Blanc, in the Trois Vallées massif between Méribel and Courchevel. An old route newly transformed for cyclists, it’s the first stage of the future Via 3 Vallées that will link Courchevel and Méribel, and eventually Val Thorens. It’s a challenging ascent for experienced uphill cyclists, with several sections at more than 20% in the last 6km. You’ll be rewarded by breathtaking views over the glaciers of the Vanoise and Grande Casse and of Mont Blanc. courchevel.com meribel.net

02 –

MOUNTAIN BIKING IN LES PORTES DU SOLEIL

The Portes du Soleil area is very popular with mountain bikers, with a huge network of waymarked trails and a wide variety of routes for all levels, from beginner to experienced riders. This is one of the biggest mountain-biking playgrounds in all Europe. A single lift pass gives you access to all 12 resorts in the Portes du Soleil –that’s 400km of marked trails. portesdusoleil.com

03 –

GRAVEL CYCLING

Gravel is getting more and more popular with uphill cyclists. This is a new way of approaching biking, on non-tarmac routes that make going uphill more challenging. The Maurienne valley has become a top spot for gravel biking and is indeed the first region to carry the label ‘Rando Gravel’. The Col de la Croix de Fer, a legendary pass in the Savoie, consists of a short gravel section at the end of the route, and panoramic trails taking you up to the summit for 360° views over the Aiguille d’Arves, the Belledonnes massif and the Meige. montagnicimes.com/gravel/

Discover more about the trails in Savoie Mont Blanc by scanning the QR code or visit: savoie-mont-blanc.com/en

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Features

10 HEADFIRST

Thanks to a spontaneous trip to the Central Rockies in Montana, Lena Drapella discovers that not all good adventures need to be heroic to be worthwhile.

Lena Drapella

16 RE-ENCHANTMENT FOR RESISTANCE

A recent shift in an ancient law changes the face of outdoor recreation on Dartmoor. We join the fight for the right to wild camp in England.

Emma Linford

26 INTO THIN AIR

Fusing big mountains with wingsuit flying on the world’s first high altitude flight on Aconcagua.

Tim Howell

32 THE SMOKE THAT THUNDERS

Exploring personal connection to the river and what damming it could mean for the local communities, Ed Smith navigates the rapids of the Zambezi.

Ed Smith

Mark Chadwick

Alex Crawley

Lena Drapella

Luke Gartside

Oliver Grant

Brian Hockenstein

38 TRUTH IN MOVEMENT

Freedom, self-confidence and the balance of a healthy mindset, through flow and movement in wild, open spaces.

Ana Norrie-Toch

42 BIKE. SKI. FONDUE. REPEAT. Making the most of spring conditions in the Alps, three women take on a multi-sport adventure in their backyard.

Gaby Thompson & Sami Sauri

60 ODYSSEY OF ICE AND WATER

An Icelandic adventure to chart the ever-more delicate line between solid and liquid in our warming world.

Michael Levy

70 THE ADVENTURES OF MAC

The transformational journey of a rescue-pup-turned-searchand-rescue-dog in the Scottish Highlands.

Deziree Wilson

Contributors

Tim Howell

Michael Levy

Emma Linford

Jimmy Martinello

Richard Murphy

Ana Norrie-Toch

Interviews

20 KRISTIN HARILA: CHASING THE 14 Catching up with the world record breaking mountaineer as she enjoyed some rare family time and prepared for her next attempt on the 14 Peaks challenge.

Hannah Mitchell

50 RICHIE

FITZGERALD: SURFING AND THE TROUBLES

Irish big wave surfing pioneer talks about the bonding force of surfing in the coastal communities of Ireland during The Troubles.

Luke Gartside

Regulars

08 BASE NOTES

The latest in adventure BASE

76 MAKERS AND INNOVATORS

A look at the world’s first waterproof hijab designed for the outdoors.

Hannah Mitchell

Amira Patel

Aaron Pierce

Rupert Shanks

Roger Sharp

Ed Smith

Deziree Wilson

Editor Chris Hunt

Digital Writer and Content Editor Hannah Mitchell

Publishing Director Emily Graham

Brand Director Matthew Pink

Publisher Secret Compass

Enquiries hello@base-mag.com

Submissions submissions@base-mag.com

Advertising ross@base-mag.com

Distribution emily@base-mag.com

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THE GOAL IS SIMPLE. THE CHALLENGE IS ANYTHING BUT.

8,848m / VERBIER / FEB 2024

Everest in the Alps is the ultimate winter sports endurance challenge. It’s an ambitious claim, but we’re ambitious. We have to be.

The goal is simple: to ascend on skis the height of Mount Everest from sea level – whilst raising money for a cause close to your heart.

EDITOR’S COMMENTS

Spring 2023 – Transformations

Winter in the UK often feels like an attrition of hope. I’m sure I’m not alone in that. It’s why the spring equinox is the punctuation to my favourite time of year – arriving with a renewed sense of optimism for what’s ahead. A change of pace, warmth on our skin, in our bones and at long last, a restoration of our long depleted dopamine stores and a renewed sense of positivity. Cliché I know, but that combined with the anticipation of what lies just around the corner is a collectively binding force.

Our aim when we created BASE was to make something that would inspire everyone to spend more time outdoors, to learn something new, take more risks and ultimately help you adventure better. At this time of year, that goal seems even more relevant. It’s why we chose spring to launch our first issue back in 2019, and now, almost four years on, it feels great to be scribbling these words knowing they’ll adorn the introduction to our tenth issue.

In those four years we’ve also built BASE far beyond these 84 pages. We went live with BASE 2.0 online where you’ll now find hundreds of adventure stories as well as in-depth gear reviews of the latest and greatest in outdoor kit innovation. Leaning on the award-winning adventure TV background of our founders, we also built a film studio, creating projects with brands like what3words and prime time TV smash hits. More recently we launched a YouTube channel full of tips and tricks to help you get more from the time you spend outside. But more importantly than all of that, we’ve fostered a community.

So with issue 10, framed within this seasonal transition full of energy, we want to celebrate the community we’re so proud to be a part of and that’s led us forwards. In the following pages, you’ll hear from a range of perspectives that form this community, as they share what adventure has brought to their lives as many of them face transformations of their own.

In Truth in Movement Ana Norrie-Toch dives into her complicated relationship with her own body and self image and how spending time in the Highlands allowed her to move forward with a new, healthier perspective; while Deziree Wilson takes us on the emotional journey that sees her beloved rescue puppy trained as a Scottish Mountain Rescue Dog.

In Bike. Ski. Fondue. Repeat, Sami Sauri, Gaby Thompson and Annabel Varley set out to capitalise on the changing spring conditions in the Alps for a backyard multi-sport adventure; and in An Odyssey of Ice and Water we join a climbing, SUP and diving team as they explore above and below the surface of Iceland’s frigid waters as they face first hand the stark realities of a warming climate.

We catch up with Amira Patel to hear how an initial spark of idea turned into the creation of the world’s first outdoor-specific technical fabric hijab as well as recordbreaking high-altitude mountaineer Kristin Harila after her 14 Peaks speed record attempt, to hear how she recharges and renews her personal motivation before heading back into the high mountains. Luke Gartside chats with big wave surfer Richie Fitzgerald to lift the curtain on what life was like as a surfer living in Bundoran during The Troubles and how the act of surfing proved to be a connective tissue for the coastal communities.

Former-professional kayaker Ed Smith makes a long awaited pilgrimage to the Zambezi river in the shadow of what could be an environmentally devastating dam development; while in Re-Enchantment for Resistance, Emma Linford takes a dive into the battle over land and the community fighting to save wild camping on Dartmoor.

At the end of it all, BASE is a community, and if there’s one thing we’ve learned over the few years we’ve been doing this, it's that the adventure community is a thriving one! A huge heart-felt thank you to everyone who has supported our journey so far. From our contributors and Collective who trust us with their stories, to the brands and distributors we work so closely alongside and of course to you, our readers and subscribers.

Whether posted through your letterbox, found at your local climbing wall or perhaps placed in your hand by a trusted partner in adventure, I hope you find something in the following pages to excite and inspire you for whatever lies ahead for you this year!

Chris Hunt, BASE Editor

BASE NOTES

The latest in adventure

The Brecon Beacons National Park is now officially Bannau Brycheiniog

As part of a campaign to celebrate the history and heritage of the region and address environmental challenges, on its 66th anniversary, the Brecon Beacons National Park in South Wales announced it will now officially only use the name Bannau Brycheiniog. By reverting to its original name, the hope is to inspire and reconnect people to become better custodians of the land.

In the early middle ages, Brycheiniog was an independent kingdom (named after King Brychan) with borders that roughly align with today’s perimeter of the national park. The name Bannau Brycheiniog means ‘the peaks of Brychan’s kingdom’.

Bannau Brycheiniog is the second of Wales’ three national parks to undergo a name change following Eryri, formerly Snowdonia and subsequently the renaming of its highest mountain, now officially Yr Wyddfa.

Europe’s Last Wild River Granted National Park Status

Known to be the last truly wild river within the continent, in March 2023, Albania’s Vjosa River was declared a National Park, becoming the first Wild River National Park in Europe.

Vjosa will now be conserved as a living, free-flowing river, to the benefit of people and nature.

The announcement marks a hard-fought victory for campaigners and is the result of a unique collaboration between the Albanian Government, local and international experts, environmental NGOs from the Save the Blue Heart of Europe campaign, IUCN (International Union for the Conservation of Nature) and outdoor clothing company Patagonia.

England Risks Losing Precious Paths

In 2020, the public helped discover 49,000 miles of lost paths across England and Wales. Paths that are currently not recorded on maps and therefore are without legal protection, with many of them becoming part of private land. Public access to these paths is currently based on historic evidence of use on old maps, and campaigners have been trying to register them again as legal rights of way based upon this evidence.

As part of a package of reforms applied to the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000, the UK government had placed a 2026 deadline for registering such paths but campaigners complained this put too much pressure on local councils to verify and register them and in 2022, the government agreed to scrap the deadline. Earlier this year however, the government broke its commitment by reinstating a deadline of 2031.

Hope Reignited for Wild Camping on Dartmoor

After wild camping on Dartmoor was officially outlawed, following the January case brought to court by wealthy landowner Alexander Darwall, (find out more in ReEnchantment for Resistance on page 16) it seems hope is once again alive on the moors.

In April 2023, board members of the Dartmoor National Park Authority voted to proceed with a legal challenge against a court ruling to remove the right to camp on the commons without landowner permission. The appeal comes as lawyers for the park argue the judgement is flawed due to its narrow definition of open-air recreation, where only activities such as walking, horse riding and picnicking are permitted, therefore failing to take into account the historical interpretation of the law, understood to mean a right to camp and leave no trace.

While a date for the court hearing is yet to be decided, campaigners are determined that the fight for the right to sleep under the stars on Dartmoor is far from over.

LEFT: Ulli Eichelmann, CEO of RiverWatch, in the Vjosa river which he has fought tirelessly to protect.

Inspiring as it is, for many of us the ‘epic’ narrative of adventure media can feel a little intimidating. Through the lens of a spontaneous four-month trip to the Central Rockies in Montana, Lena Drapella reminds us that good adventures don’t always need to be heroic to be worthwhile.

Story and photos by | Lena Drapella

‘3, 2, 1… dropping!’ Oli’s skis slide over the edge of the ridge. The conditions are difficult today; the snow crust doesn’t make it easy even for the most experienced skiers. Oli’s not one of them. He learned to ski two years ago, and after just three days in Chamonix he left to go ski-guiding in Antarctica. No, he wasn’t the fastest learner on the planet, but he possessed a more useful skill – winging it.

He makes the first turn, so far so good. Form is decent, the snow seems hard enough and supports his weight.

Maybe it wasn’t just Oli who was a talented winger. Maybe it was all three of us. Maria managed to survive most of her adult years without getting a real job, living from ski season to ski season, changing hemisphere every few months. Myself –well, I enthusiastically agreed to go on a four-month trip with two people I had just met.

He makes the second turn; shoulders facing down the slope, weight on his shins, hips pushed forward. Maybe he actually knows how to ski?

With high hopes and little planning, we started our winter adventure in Vancouver, late November 2021. We decided to buy a 1976 Chevy van, and called it Jenny. It’s not that this particular year is considered a good year for Chevys; we bought a 46-year-old van because, well... it was the only one we could afford. Anyway, we had a basic mechanical knowledge, so what could possibly go wrong?

Oli’s eyeing his third turn. He’s getting into the flow of things, his body finally relaxes. He’s letting his legs do the work subconsciously. Suddenly he hits a soft patch. The crust breaks under the pressure and Oli is suddenly beginning his most memorable descent of the trip yet, headfirst.

As a climber, I always dreamt of buying a campervan and touring around North America. The United States is famous for its incredible rock, vast spaces and remote mountains. I’m not entirely sure why I decided to opt in for what was almost my biggest dream, a winter edition. I’d been ski touring once before, managed 15 minutes uphill, got bored, and skied down back to the lift. Let’s say I wasn’t the ideal backcountry partner.

My friends say I have a fair amount of fuck it in me. That is to say I tend to say yes to stupid ideas rather easily. Unsurprisingly, when – a month before the departure date – I first met Oli and heard about the trip, I was hooked. I managed to convince Oli and Maria to let me crash their plan. I guess the initial drunken chat about the trip didn’t give me the best idea of their plans; I thought it would be a type 1 fun

“My friends say I have a fair amount of fuck it in me. That is to say I tend to say yes to stupid ideas rather easily.”

– LENA DRAPELLA

FACING PAGE: We didn’t find much snow in Utah, but we did find the Arches.

TOP: (L-R): Maria Moreno, Oliver Grant, Lena Drapella. Our team celebrated the overnight dump... before we realised we were indeed very stuck. Stevens Pass, Washington. ABOVE: Apparently crying is a legitimate response for the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen, while digging yourself a grave – I mean a bedroom for the night. Photo: © Oliver Grant.

CLOCKWISE

Jenny was many things but fast. We were constantly overtaken by everything else on the road, including lorries. © Oliver Grant; Lena Drapella wishing she brought her crampons for the Spearhead traverse, Whistler, Canada. © Oliver Grant; The beforemath of the best skiing day during our four-month trip: an insane dump of snow in Stevens Pass, Washington. We did have to overstay our visit for a few nights until we could dig the van out, but didn’t mind it too much considering the quality of the conditions; Oli Grant enjoying the best snow of the trip. Seconds before the fall. Stevens pass, Washington; No better feeling than taking your ski boots off in -20 ºC to warm them on the fire. The only downside is the fire keeps moving away from you while it melts the snow underneath it… duh! Hyalite canyon, Montana.

“You don’t have to send death lines with the perfect technique to enjoy the outdoors.”

FROM TOP LEFT:

resort skiing holiday. I started to get a little worried when Oli sent me a bunch of videos from ascents of 4000m peaks. Wait a minute. You guys wanna do what?

Fast forward a couple of months, and we’re back to Oli and his headfirst descent. We're in Hyalite Canyon, Montana. We only planned to stay here for a week or two but fell in love with the place and overstayed our plan – by a month. Hyalite Canyon is especially well-known for its incredible ice climbing. It’s a convenient spot as you can choose your own level of adventure. You can be ‘cragging’ five minutes from the car park, or choose an epic multipitch and most likely get benighted. No wonder Conrad Anker and many other world class mountaineers chose to settle here.

Hyalite also has some really good skiing. True, the long approaches do make it slightly less appealing – especially to cardio haters like myself – but the rewards are immeasurable. We decided that camping was our best bet to limit the long walk-ins. Instead of going fast and light, we opted for the slow and heavy approach.

With overfilled bags and overflowing psyche we left our (t)rusted Jenny in a cul-de-sac to begin the long slog towards the mountains. The path seemed mostly flat. We weaved our way through the forest, hearing only the musical clinks and thuds coming from Oli’s bag – it looked like a scout’s backpack on a first ever camping trip. Considering we all had 15-20kg loads, we toured surprisingly briskly towards our destination for the night. Maybe we’re finally getting a little bit fitter? After a few hours of moderate effort, the path started to steepen. The last kilometres reminded us that we were all indeed still punters. With breaths heavier than the bags, we finally made it to this imaginary dot on the map that we agreed would be our camp for the next three days.

As it happens, our van insulation was nearly the same thickness as the canopy of the tent, so by this point in our trip we were pretty well trained for the cold nights. After we pitched our tent, we still had an hour of daylight left. What now? It was around -10ºC outside so sitting down to relax wasn’t really on the cards. With little thought, Maria and myself grabbed the shovels, while Oli disappeared into the woods. After a solid 30 minutes of digging, we stood proudly above our creation – the living room. In the meantime, Oli had returned with a dead tree on his shoulder.

What a surreal evening it was. The fire illuminated the tent and our skis, glowing orange. The three of us, sitting in our snowy living room with no other sounds around but the wood crackling in the fire. Even though it was now nearly -20ºC, close to the fire we were all just in socks, warming our feet, and hugging our freeze-dried meals. Sometimes these simple moments feel more adventurous than the biggest summit, drop or epic climb. Yet, having to unwrap yourself from three jackets, sleeping bag and bivy bag for a 3am wee is definitely an adventure you’re embarking on less willingly.

Back to Oli’s headfirst descent now. Legs first. Headfirst. Legs first. He finally comes to a stop. His face emerges from the snow, with a newly earned white beard.

We had left the tent pretty early that morning, and our main goal for the day was to ski this line. Considering we spent a solid few hours getting up to Hyalite Peak in the hope of having one of the best ski descents yet, he seems weirdly happy with how it went. He brushes off the snow, revealing his contagious smile. I look at him, look at Maria, look back at Oli and we simultaneously all burst into laughter.

During the four months of this trip, a lot of things went wrong. Our 46-year-old van broke many, many times. Pretty much everything inside it froze at some point, including washing up liquid and eggs. We got stuck in the snow on multiple occasions. At some point each one of us had a pretty bad ski crash. And from day one, the delights of winter van travel continued until the very last moments of the trip, when we crashed into a fire hydrant.

In hindsight, I’m glad all of this happened. Every single one of those calamities and hardships brought us closer together, making the trip all the more memorable. The adventure of a lifetime.

All three of us were, and still are, pretty rubbish skiers. None of our attempts would ever make the news – and that's ok. Every day our news feeds are flooded with the incredible achievements of outstanding athletes. And often it’s inspiring to hear about those endeavours but sometimes it can paint the wrong picture in our heads. You don’t have to be the best athlete to live a life of adventure. You don’t have to send death lines with the perfect technique to enjoy the outdoors. It’s ok to fail. Just get up, brush off the snow and go back at it, headfirst.

LEFT: The mentioned sunset. A mixed feeling of experiencing beauty first-hand, yet knowing it’s going to get damn cold in a moment, and you’re about to sleep in a snow hole.

RIGHT: The real reason for owning the lightweight kit is so that Maria, as a true Argentinian, can always have space for Yerba mate. Hyalite Canyon, Montana. FACING PAGE: Maria sampling some of the ice climbing in Ouray, Colorado.

“You don’t have to be the best athlete to live a life of adventure.”

RE-ENCHANTMENT FOR RESISTANCE

When a wealthy landowner filed a case in court effectively revoking the right to wild camp on Dartmoor, there was uproar across the outdoors community. This change in a historical law reignited a dormant debate around our access rights to wild landscapes and the benefits experiences in these spaces can provide. Emma Linford is an International Mountain Leader and Right to Roam campaigner and has played a central role in the counter activity to the case, organising and speaking at rallies in both London and on Dartmoor. Here, she dives into what this ruling might mean for us as a society and future generations of outsiders.

LEFT: Old Crockern, the guardian spirit of Dartmoor, rises with the protests. CENTRE AND RIGHT: The Dartmoor march was one of the UK's largest countryside access protests ever.

Story by | Emma Linford

Virtually and in person, we assemble to debrief. This touchstone had been our anchor since the organising group of The Stars are for Everyone, formed in October 2022. A union of five strangers, from the Totnes Trespass group, fattened to 15 souls then 80, that have stitched together the largest mass protest for land access since the Kinder Mass Trespass on 24th April 1932, all within two weeks. On January 21st 3500 wild campers and allies gathered in Cornwood in defiance of the wild camping ban on Dartmoor. Seven days hence, in a state of depletion, we gather to share emotions and ruminate over what’s been awoken here.

It appears we have returned to the generational pasturing of land injustice and severance seen during the agricultural and industrial revolutions, when the commons were enclosed and land was appropriated by the wealthy. Access to green spaces continues to be contracted, commodified and enclosed.

The story begins with the plaintiff. Alexander Darwall, a wealthy equities manager, who owns 4,000 acres in South West Dartmoor and who filed a case against the Dartmoor National Park Authority (DNPA) seeking clarification about the legality of wild camping on his land. This tiny slither of land was part of the last relic of space in England and Wales where it was thought to be legal to wild camp, spending a maximum of two nights, in one location, abiding by Leave No Trace principles. On December 12th, outside the Royal Courts of Justice, alongside Caroline Lucas MP, I spoke of the elemental experiences of wild camping that transform people’s lives. Sitting behind Darwall in the courtroom, so very far from moss, lichen and birdsong, I witnessed the reductive power of law against that expansiveness of being in, with and belonging to the land.

On Friday 13th January, it was ruled that wild camping has never been legally bound in law due to its omission in the 1949 National Parks act, as a form of ‘recreation’. The judgement wholly ignores the need for ‘everyone to get out into

“Let’s change the culture of a privileged outdoor education system and our right to roam.”

the open air and enjoy the countryside’. Clearly decades on, a new interpretation of recreation is required. Wild camping on Dartmoor is now considered to be ‘civil trespass’ just as it is in the rest of England and Wales. However, moving swiftly to gain control in a vulnerable moment, a financial deal has been struck between landowners and DNPA to allow wild camping to continue permissively. That which was free for all, now comes at a cost to the taxpayer, an 18% shrinkage in land mass including those areas on the periphery that are easy to access for less able bodies. A cruel turn of the screw. This new permissive deal provides no certain future for wild camping and organisations such as Ten Tors and the Duke of Edinburgh

Award who introduce younger generations into this space. This is blatant commodification of land where a right to access has been replaced with a fragile permission that can be rescinded at any moment.

Yet, these past few months have illuminated the public appetite for protest. Generated by the polarising status quo of governmental politics alongside the pandemic, this agitation was enough to mobilise mass numbers in Princetown, London and Cornwood. One woman determinedly pushed her mobility frame 5km up and downhill over uneven ground to participate. Consequently, this exceptional visibility of feeling was instrumental in influencing DNPA to appeal the ban and for Jim McMahon, Shadow Secretary of State, to announce that Labour will lead with a Right to Roam bill if elected. Unearthing and bringing life to an old story has energised the politics of access and perhaps a pyrrhic victory for Darwall.

Perhaps the existing wild camping community will not be affected by this loss, continuing to wild camp as they have always done; pitch at dusk, leave at dawn, stealth-style. New legalities will however deter many who do not like to operate in secrecy. This is an opportunity to revise this covert archetype of land access. What would it feel like to camp in such places without someone metaphorically looking over your shoulder? What freedom and love could you carry instead of access restrictions and urbanity strapped to your rucksack? And, for our younger generations, tasting wildness for the first time,

ABOVE: Local residents and many from further afield, the young and the old and the in-between, joined the impassioned crowd.

replacing a permissive right with a generous welcome would naturally hand over an innate responsibility of being a steward for the land.

Back in that courtroom, I reached out to Darwall to seed an alternative perspective. Looking to his solicitors for counsel, he refused. This refusal to see another’s perspective is the fear of difference that seems to permeate our culture; an us vs them, hero vs villain narrative. And herein lies our reasoning for choosing a mythical story as the centrepiece to the protest; Old Crockern, totemic puppet and defender of Dartmoor. Risen from granite, transformed by ice ages, rainforest and at one time covered by sea, Dartmoor is seeded with stories, myths and legends. The mythic world carries the imagination of our ancestors and helps us to make relational sense of ourselves today. Unearthing this old parable of a greedy landowner proved there is a huge appetite for disrupting a prosaic rhetoric. The magical, demonised during the industrial revolution as evil and unproductive, is having a renaissance. At its very source is a wholesome, joyous relationship. Old Crockern appearing over the hill was enchanting, filling us all with childlike wonder. I felt a rare but tangible companionship and love inspired by this magic.

In my 20 years of facilitating and leading groups on multiday journeys and camping in all environments this planet holds, I’ve witnessed profound transformation and can gush about its educational and spiritual value. Wild camping is the key to cultivating better, more wholesome relationships to self, others and the environment. Portable homes with permeable membranes allowing for primaeval communion with the land and a sanctuary from its wild forces. There is nothing so alive and animating. A conjoining of nature brings me what I need and shakes me out of cultural stupor; I often feel more at home in my tent than in my house.

Wild camping isn’t always comfortable, it’s mostly type2 fun, yet what it affords over domesticity is vast. ‘It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter our true selves. The furniture insists that we cannot change because it does not; the domestic setting keeps us tethered to the person we are in ordinary life who may not be who we essentially are,’ writes Alain de Botton. To camp out overnight, invites us to quiesce, drawing our attention away from the noise and quieting to presence. Connecting viscerally with the vastness of the sky, we are rewarded with joy and perspective. The challenges it brings confront and invite us to round our self-edges. A vital rite of passage for all young people.

Nature writer, Nan Shepherd affirms ‘no one knows the mountain completely who has not slept on it. As one slips over into sleep, the mind grows limp; the body melts; perception alone remains. One neither thinks nor desires, nor remembers, but dwells in pure intimacy with the tangible world.’

Out of countless examples, a female carer, late teens, comes to mind. With her long black unkempt hair covering her face, looking downtrodden, she moved through panic attacks, diet control and running away on a funded 20-day expedition programme in the Scottish Highlands. She left with upright posture, hair pulled from face and was able to speak openly to a large audience. This was someone who had found her confidence and voice out there in nature. She wrote to thank me, but I was merely an enabler of the opportunity she was afforded.

Participants of a long term 40-year impact study of wilderness experiences reported that relationships, confidence, self-worth, self-reliance, overcoming problems and gratefulness were all improved as a result of such experiences. I am from the generation when 40% of children played in green spaces. Currently, with 85% of the population now urban, only 10% of children regularly experience a green space and 40% never enter one. Being in and with the land is contrary to our prejudiced society; it openly welcomes and accepts the queerness of humanity, opposing the extractive, consumerist culture of capitalism.

Neither legislation nor social norms are currently sufficient for access to land for our wellbeing, social development and cultivating compassion for nature. How can we become better relatable citizens, understand the interconnectedness of ourselves within other-than-human ecosystems and therefore take responsibility for its conservation, if we can’t spend considerable time in wider natural spaces?

The 2019 Glover ‘Landscapes Review,’ described National Parks as ‘England’s soul,’ vowing that every child must ‘spend at least one night in a national landscape’. The experience doesn’t discriminate against social background, age or class, yet there is huge inequality in access. Let’s change the culture of a privileged outdoor education system and our right to roam, opening up a broader right of access for all. It's time to end the apartheid between wealth and access to wilder spaces. This is not an ending but a re-imagining of what connection to land could be. Reawakening an ancestral story is part of the great turning of our times. I invite you to reimagine your relationship with wilder spaces, perhaps exploring this question; ‘how can I bring enchantment to my outdoor space?’ And, those new to wild camping, I encourage you to begin, it will bring you exactly what you need, even if it’s not what you thought you wanted. Wild camping is social activism.

For more information about wild camping visit dartmoor.gov.uk/enjoy-dartmoor/outdoor-activities/amp ing

Please visit righttoroam.org.uk and @thestarsareours.uk to donate and get involved.

“Risen from granite, transformed by ice ages, rainforest and at one time covered by sea, Dartmoor is seeded with stories, myths and legends.”

CHASING THE 14

Introduction and interview by | Hannah Mitchell

The Kristin Harila Interview

A former professional skier from Norway, Osprey ambassador Kristin Harila climbed her first ‘8,000-er’ at 35. The ascent served as something of a revelation as she unintentionally set a record for the fastest traverse of Everest-Lhotse by a woman. Just 12 months later, she was back on the same mountains, making headlines as she broke multiple records, this time in hot pursuit of Nirmal ‘Nims’ Purja’s six-month 14 Peaks speed title. Surpassing Purja’s time early in the challenge, she ascended the first six peaks in 29 days, two days quicker than Nims’ 31. Despite such an impressive start, her endeavour was hampered by red tape. When their permit applications to enter Tibet were refused by the Chinese government, Kristin and her team were forced to attempt the ascent of their 13th summit, Cho Oyu, from the lesser-frequented and arguably more dangerous Nepalese side. After 10 anxious days in basecamp, conceding that the treacherous conditions posed too great a threat to the lives of the team, the decision was made to abandon the challenge. The team fell short of just two summits, Cho Oyu and Shishapangma.

Kristin’s determination to take on the 14 Peaks whilst still a relative newcomer to the mountaineering world saw her selling her home in Norway in order to fund her first attempt. Since then, she has unsurprisingly received international media attention and widespread praise, not only for her ambitious nature and staggering speed records, but her pragmatic approach and determination to address the gender imbalance in high-altitude mountaineering for the next generation of women.

I spoke to Kristin upon her return to Norway as she enjoyed some family time and prepared for her next attempt on the 14 Peaks challenge, beginning this time from where she was previously forced to give up. Shortly after we spoke, Kristin summited Shishapangma on the 26th of April 2023. Just one week later, she was standing on the top of Cho Oyu.

“We need role models to show younger girls that it is possible for them to do it too.”

You’ve just returned home after calling time on your 14 Peaks attempt. How do you deal with that feeling of being ‘back to reality’, after you’ve spent so long on such an intensive challenge?

Well, I have like six or seven weeks at home this time. I’ve been here since we came back from Cho Oyu and then I leave again in ten days. Before I used to feel quite sad, and I really just wanted to go back. But now every break I have is so busy, without much sleep and a lot of travelling. It's actually very hectic to be home, so I'm looking forward to going back to the mountains so I can get some rest!

When you've had to retire from something that you've been so invested in for so long – particularly when it's for reasons out of your control – how do you begin to process and deal with those feelings?

Well, I didn't really feel so much because I decided right away to try again. Since then there’s been a lot of work to do and I had lots to focus on like trying to get the permits and the sponsorship and everything sorted out. So I’ve really just been focusing on the future and working on the next step.

And you're going straight back to try for the record again? Yes, that's the plan. Hopefully we will start with Shishapangma and Cho Oyu this time, but we still don't have the permit. So first we have to get that of course, but either way we need to leave now to start to acclimatise so we will be ready to go.

You're very transparent on your social media, telling both sides of the story, not just the successes. For example, you recently calculated your carbon footprint on the project and shared that with your followers. Why is that honesty and accountability so important to you?

I just like to be open about things. I think it's good to talk about things that are not so easy to talk about, especially with climate change. Everyone knows that in climbing this or that mountain you have to fly long distances and most of the time with a project like this, you can’t do it without a helicopter. I think it's better to actually talk about that, to say like, ‘what can we change in the future?’ Because as long as the mountain is there, people will climb. We just have to see if it is possible to climb the mountain in another way, a better way.

And if you're talking about things like your carbon footprint and acknowledging that, hopefully it’s going to encourage others to think a little bit more about it themselves.

Yeah, and for myself when I started to look at this calculation, I was thinking, ‘ok, these long distance flights have a lot of impact, maybe I can cut one of them’. And I realised that yeah, I actually can. So if we are honest with ourselves and each other we can start to make changes.

“On Everest in 2021, we had five out of five women in the group that summited, and only six of 14 men did the same.”

– KRISTIN HARILA

We sometimes see images – I think Everest is the one that people will think of immediately – where there are huge quantities of rubbish left behind from the commercial camps, and it's absolutely mind-blowing that there can be so much in such a seemingly inaccessible place. Do you think mountaineers such as yourself have a responsibility to educate people who aspire to climb these mountains about how they can look after them?

Yeah, for sure. I think we should talk about that too. I actually have a plan to do something with the trash on the mountains after I go for this project again.

I feel like most of the mountains are very clean though, it's mainly a problem on Everest and K2 where there are more people. If we are going to clean up, we need to have a fresh start because as long as there is trash there, people will throw more. We need a big clean-up, but we also need regulations. I think we need to involve governments and we need to educate, to help people understand. We have a way to go but it is possible to change.

“People have to see themselves represented to feel that they have a place, and that they are equally capable.”

Do you think there needs to be even greater control over the numbers that are summiting Everest and K2, or are there other solutions?

We know how many people are climbing because we know how many permits are issued and we know the statistics of how many made it to the summits too, so I think we need more regulation for the trash mostly. It's possible to do that by adding on a tax or seeing how much people are carrying down, we could have some points to check what people actually bring off the mountain.

We know that things happen in the mountains like people get sick, people die or they've been in an accident and actually can’t take their trash down. And many people will think ‘oh that's not my trash’. So when we can take trash down we should, and everyone needs to agree to do the same, to help each other when those things happen.

The gender imbalance in high altitude mountaineering is still pretty big, and of course there are complex cultural and historical factors which are a large part of that. How do we go about closing the gap?

I think history is definitely a part of it. It's always been about men on these expeditions. The first ascents are by men, and the films and the books have been about men. But we are seeing more and more women out there. We’re seeing more and more mothers also being out in the big mountains, and that's also nice because it has been seen as acceptable for fathers to go in the past, but not for mothers.

I think if you're going to change it, there's two important things. One is that we need role models to show younger people, younger girls, that it is possible for them to do it too. And I think we need to make sure that women get equal opportunities when it comes to sponsorship.

Do you think it's harder for women to get sponsorship? Yeah, for sure. For some reason some companies feel that we have a lower value. I’m not sure why, it’s probably historical. In Norway for example, we say that we are equal, but the biggest sports brands support mostly men. We need to start by giving female athletes the same amount of funding that we give the men.

I personally believe that women in the outdoors and mountain sports have advantages in our differences from men, in the way that we operate. What advantages do you think women have over men when it comes to high altitude mountaineering?

It’s funny you know, when we were on Everest in 2021, we had five out of five women in the group that summited, and only six of 14 men did the same. All the women came well prepared, both physically and mentally, and the men came like, ‘oh, I can do this’.

I think we are just as strong as they are, and that was kind-

of why I started the project. I think it doesn't always help that we say that we are just as strong, I think if we can show it, it's much better. I knew Nims had done it in 2019, and I was thinking the best way to change something is to do something that we can easily compare. People have to see themselves represented to feel that they have a place, and that they are equally capable.

And in terms of kit, you favour the women’s-specific fit Osprey Ariel Pro 65 for your expeditions. How important is a properly fitting pack when it comes to high altitude mountaineering?

I have been using Osprey product for many, many years. For me, they are the best. I need to be able to trust and rely on the kit I take with me to the mountains. The pack is so important, it’s almost like one of the most important products that we have, along with the shoes and down suit and maybe the helmet! We wear it a lot and we are going to carry heavy stuff, so it’s important that it is comfortable.

Who inspires you inside and outside the world of mountaineering and why?

Oh, so many in so many different ways. In mountaineering, Melissa Arnot Reid has been really inspiring for me and for many other women and girls. It’s amazing what she’s done. And also other athletes from other sports like Emily Forsberg and Becks Ferry and if I look a little bit into the history of Norway, we have Cecilie Skog – she climbed Everest in 2002.

INTO THIN AIR

Fusing big mountains with wingsuit flying was only a matter of time for Tim Howell, and at the end of 2022, he set off to Argentina, for the first ever high-altitude wingsuit flight.

CLOCKWISE

back

all went to plan. A successful landing after the world’s first high altitude wingsuit flight; After turning the corner into the last valley, this is where you finally catch the first sight of Aconcagua’s summit; Ewa and Tim take a much needed rest at 6650m above sea level; With Aconcagua now on our back we trace the trail over the next two days back to the park entrance. It's always special to share these expeditions with my wife, when we are tested to the extremes the simple tests in life seem easier.

the valley in not so favourable conditions;

Story and Photos by | Tim Howell

FROM TOP LEFT: Walking away from Aconcagua

down

Ecstatic

Below the tip of my toes is a 300-metre drop to the glacier below. My foot is curled over the edge, for maximum purchase against the rock. Pushing off is all about the perfect angle. Predetermined by a thousand other jumps, that angle is ingrained into my muscle memory. Practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect, but practice does make permanent, so I’ve made sure to practise perfectly.

I bend over to sweep the edge of the rock of any loose snow and shingle and zip up my leg wing. That minute under tension and the small amount of physical exertion has deepened my breath and quickened my heart rate. I am at 6000 metres above sea level. There’s 50% less oxygen and I can feel it. I need to compose myself again before I jump, but in the back of my mind I ask myself: Is the altitude clouding my judgement? Flying already requires the most immediate responses to both the wingsuit and the environment, I can’t afford those reaction times to be lessened.

It took us eight days from the Aconcagua Park entrance to get to this point, and 10+ years of experience to be comfortable standing there about to jump. The first three days took us along the Vacas Valley, following a river that, due to the day’s glacier melt, would be raging by the afternoon. We crossed the river by the morning of day three, when it was at its lowest, and climbing, we gained significant altitude to reach basecamp at 4200m.

Now began the real acclimatisation. We gave ourselves a rest day before we pushed up to camp one and two which would be our highest camp. We had enough rations to stay for three more days. At 5900m, it was the highest we had ever slept and although the night was full of restlessness, broken sleep and cramped conditions, we were acclimatising well.

The next day we attempted a summit push via The Polish Traverse. Breaking trail all day left us exhausted. Finally pushing round to the west face, the extreme wind hit us and we turned back 300 metres away from the summit. I had prioritised summiting over the wingsuit exit. It was a goal for the whole team and it would lessen the pressure on myself. This would be important for my mindset, I didn’t want to feel like the wingsuit flight was the primary goal.

I had already recce’d the exit point and landing options. I walked for 200 metres from our tent following a crag to the sheer cliffs at the end. Passing a bolt and some tat on the wall, I noticed a bag on the ground stuck in the snow. For crag tat, it was in an unusual position. There was no need for a bolt to

be on such flat terrain, so it stuck out as an obscurity. I tugged at the bag to find a human skull staring back at me. Dropping it instantly, I beckoned Jimmy over and told him what I had found. It had been such a quick visual. Did I really see a skull? I had seen many skulls and even full corpses over the years but I’d never reacted like this. This hit me because of the surprise element of the situation. This wasn’t a war-torn country, the location of an ambush or a poverty stricken village in a developing nation, it was a glacier next to our campsite. I had never seen human remains on a mountain before.

50 metres past the bones, fingers of rocks protruded from the cliff, cornices between them like webbed toes. I would have to find the steepest and most accessible one, avoiding the cornices as I went. Throwing a rock over the edge I counted until I heard the impact. Six seconds. That meant I would have plenty of height for the wingsuit to inflate before impact. Normally I would use a laser range-finder but this large vertical drop gave me plenty of room for error so I didn’t need to know the exact distance. Using various mapping tools for altitude difference and distance, I had already calculated the glide ratio needed to reach the landing.

“I tugged at the bag expecting to find some crag swag but unexpectedly I’d uncovered a human skull.”

The gear at this altitude would also be different to my usual jumps. I wore a gilet over a base and mid-layer. It was the perfect attire as the arms wouldn’t get stuck in the zipper of my arm wing with so many bulky layers. With half as much oxygen here than at sea level, the inflation of my wingsuit would be slower and impact the handling of my parachute too. I have to take this into account and give myself a larger margin for error than normal. I have carefully calculated and thought hard of all the possibilities that could arise in the moment, but at the end of the day I have never jumped from this altitude before.

The main worry was the weather. Aconcagua is a mountain known for winds of up to 100 kmph but we saw a weather pattern that would suggest before 9am it would be still. My wife Ewa joined me on the exit, her hands and feet still numb from the summit attempt the day before. ‘Only jump if you are 100% sure,’ she cautioned.

Her second opinion on the jump was invaluable, her calm approach and consideration of all the variables. On other hundreds of jumps that I have done, margins can be squeezed, but I wanted nothing left to chance today. I spotted my landing, knowing the anabatic winds would be running up the glacier so I could plan my landing accordingly.

I walked out onto the finger of crumbling rock, regained my composure and counted down. There is no room for doubt.

I am 100% sure and I jump. The air even feels less dense, it takes a while for the wingsuit to inflate. But finally, I’m gliding.

For me the hardest part of this was finding confidence. Or at least the correct level of confidence, whilst remaining true to myself and my own ability. Confident enough to take that leap, but not overconfident which can cause delusion.

It has taken me 10 years to gain the experience to fly wingsuits at high altitude. But for me, combining my love for the mountains and BASE jumping was always an inevitability. I’ve recently discovered that conquering fear comes with acceptance. In this case the fear is of serious injury or worse, but I’m not willing to accept that result. As long as I’m not overconfident this is less likely to happen.

My landing was fast, but on easy terrain. While packing up my gear I thought of the friends I’ve lost this year and the skull next to our camp. I want to be flying and exploring with my wife for the rest of my life. These people gave it their all. But the reality is you always need something in the tank to get back home.

Modern climbers are more accomplished than ever, and we don’t just mean on the wall. We’ve always valued boldness, whether that means having the vision to push highpoints into the unknown or having the audacity to demand more for our home planet. To be a strong climber means full commitment to the sport and to our communities. It means not just working towards futuristic first ascents, but working towards a better future. And we aren’t going to get there alone.

Bolder Together

Chemistry teacher and track coach Eddie Taylor on Moonlight Buttress with partner Kate Kelleghan. In the classroom and on the field, Eddie empowers high schoolers with tools to make informed decisions about the climate and their futures while developing leadership skills. As an educator, he hopes to pass on knowledge and experience that the next generation can use to build resilient communities.

Photo: James Lucas © 2023 Patagonia, Inc.

THE SMOKE THAT THUNDERS

Story by | Ed Smith Photos by | Ed Smith & Alex Crawley

Home to Victoria Falls and some of the world’s most famous whitewater, at 1,599 miles long, the Zambezi is Africa’s fourth longest river. But a dam proposal places its waters, wildlife and tourism economy under threat. Exploring his own connection to the river and what damming it could mean, former professional whitewater kayaker Ed Smith makes the long-anticipated journey to ride the whitewater of the Zambezi before it is gone for good.

Running rivers before they are dammed has become the perpetual chase of the international whitewater kayaker. But navigating the experience without falling in love with both the river and its surrounding community is tricky, at times traumatic.

After witnessing the demise of the White Nile to largescale hydro, followed by a twelve-year hiatus from international kayaking, I finally made the pilgrimage to the Zambezi. Images of this river have captivated me since my early teens. Re-entering this world of whitewater created a surge of passion to pair my experience as a photographer with my experience as a kayaker in order to document such environments as closely as I can. In trying to understand what hangs in the balance for this environment and its culture, I have never felt more hopeful that the local voice is being transmitted. But is it being heard?

Few rivers make their presence known so distinctly whilst remaining hidden from sight – tucked in a cleft scored into an immense open plain, the mist rises and the drum beats louder than ever. I’m here, and whilst I won’t see the river until tomorrow morning, as the vapour rises above where I know Victoria Falls to be, the anticipation of what the Zambezi holds in store for me builds. The same images I obsessed over as a teenager, along with those very first beats of the drum, now flick through my mind.

I feel the heat on my skin – inhale – I take in the sensation of finally being here. My girlfriend Alex is sitting beside me ‘Africa looks great on you,’ she says with a smile as we roll into Livingstone, Zambia. Whilst I’ve never been here before, I have that strange sensation of content that comes from arriving on familiar grounds. Our driver pulls me out of my reverie, advising us to buy Nyami Nyamis – carved pendants of the serpent river god – before getting on the river. This deity is said to have flooded the river in the 1950s in response to the Kariba dam which separated him from his sweetheart downstream. We’ll take all the help we can get.

MAIN: Alex amongst the mist looking up to the lip of Victoria Falls with the thundering Minus Rapids behind her. For two decades I had dreamed about making it to this location. It didn’t disappoint. The experience was made extra special to be the only people there with the access of our kayaks.

THIS PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: A local safety kayaker passing on Rapid #15 to get in position to collect any swimmers and debris from the rafting group at the bottom of the rapid; Ed getting steezy with some side kicks on the wave at Rapid #2, directly below the Victoria Falls Bridge and it’s imposing bungee jump stance; Mike and James portering boats up the last steep pitch of the woode ‘staircase’ made of tree branches. It’s more akin to scrambling at times yet they make this look easy in sandals with 15kg kayaks on their shoulders.

FACING PAGE, CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Benjamin, what a legend! A driver for local outfit ‘SafPar’, each day he’d drop us and the other kayakers off, and organise porters to get us into the gorge. Then, in the afternoon, once we’d made the strenuous hike back out, he’d meet us with the most thirst quenching cooler of soft drinks. He’s currently learning to kayak with his eyes on being a safety boater and guide; Alex getting launched on Rapid #18 ‘Oblivion’. Whitewater kayaking together as a couple requires a lot of faith in each other's abilities. Whilst the size of the white water was new to Alex, her natural instinct to tackle it head on shone through; Porters cruising out of the gorge with their unique ways of carrying boats in this steep and loose terrain; A white fronted Bee-Eater spotted on the riverbank; Sunset over the the bends of the Batoka Gorge from the top of the hike out; Rolling to the river each day, it was so common to see this herd of elephants or at least signs of their journey.

THE DAM PROPOSAL

If funding is secured, construction of the new dam will take five to seven years. From consultations to date the proposed dam wall has reduced from 182m to 175m, which in theory means that rapids #1#13 might still be navigable, but on the other hand this still might leave less than a handful of rapids. Obviously this offers little environmental compromise, but feedback from the commercial activities around the river is also not fully understood. Whilst the ebb and flow of low and high water seasons currently offer a natural shift in feasibility and activities at different times of year, it is the length and variety of the Zambezi that leaves many options on the table for the economy around the river.

If the dam were to be erected then the offering would be significantly limited. As the director of operations at one outfit explained; 'with only a few rapids left we would be limited to a low water season which would be very short and therefore limit our business model.’

In looking at such a seasonable model, there would be a spiral of logistical difficulties, such as less chance of retaining the likes of river and raft guides. Diversification would be limited as the lake created from the dam would be narrow and deep, not good for the likes of fishing, plus the mobility of the crocodile population, currently limited naturally by the course of the river, would heavily limit watersports participation.

Before we head into the Batoka Gorge, let me take you back some years, beyond the start of the beating drum of the Zambezi, to when this sense of needing to chase rivers took hold. ID2 by Shaun Baker was the first kayak movie I ever bought. It followed an unusual storyline of kayakers running man-made dams and weirs, prophesying of a sport that would fall into folklore after the rivers had all been dammed. It was a sad vision but one that clearly left its mark. As a remedy, I bought a second kayak movie, Wicked Liquid II, which showcased the kayaking elite of the era weaving through huge crashing rapids of the White Nile and Zambezi. Hooked, I set about manifesting a cold (faked is such a strong word) to allow me the next day off school so I could commit the moves and belting tunes to memory. Kayaking these rapids struck me as the perfect ambition… likely more than my careers advisor could cope with. The most chaotic, noisy, thrashing playground imaginable. Perfect.

Fast-forward to my late teens and I was logging formative trips to the White Nile. As was the case for many others, my connection with the river grew incredibly strong; it soon became a home from home. The river built a visibly progressive economy that saw local villagers go from small-scale subsistence farmers to also becoming crafts people, raft porters, safety kayakers, raft and kayak guides. Other members of the community went from pedalling bicycle boda-bodas (push-bike taxis) to mopeds and cars, taxiing more people, longer distances and so on. How sad, then, to witness the start of its slow decline. In 2007, we’d be floating past a regularly kayaked channel, blocked by the first half of a hydro mega structure. It’s certainly the most acute, tangible environmental travesty I’ve witnessed in person; a natural beauty carved by the ebb and flow of nature over millennia, cut-off in the blink of an eye. The estimated lifespan of this dam is 50 years, which seems futile, already foretelling of another unnecessary dam in its wake.

But that was then and this is now. The rapids of the Zambezi still have a chance of survival, and I like to think that the odds are good.

Sat in the dusty pickup with kayaks overhanging the tailgate, we’re acutely aware of our heightened senses; of everything we see, hear and feel. Both Alex and I have a level of apprehension for different reasons. Alex is a highly capable kayaker with experience of Scottish and Alpine rivers, which run at volumes in the 10-50 cubic metres per second (cumecs) range. The Zambezi weighs in at approximately 500 cumecs for its rafting season. This puts it in the category of ‘big water boating’ and this is a perfect practice ground. Alex knows that in the next few hours, she’ll be getting her first taste of floating over the threshold into rapids that will crash overhead, hurl us over backwards, wrench at our paddles and blast out our sinuses – not necessarily in that order. I can see her picturing it in her mind. Imagine the sensation of queuing for a particularly

terrifying roller coaster, then imagine that 21 times in a row. Take away the safety net, forget about the control switch and swap out the manmade rail and electrics with the raw power of nature and gravity behind you. Part of the apprehension in these lulls, as you approach something daunting with so much time to think, is second guessing what your reactions might be; Will I be able to paddle hard enough? Will I freeze up? Will I get a thrashing? Will I be able to roll back up? In big water the answer is ‘time will tell’. I have every confidence in Alex’s ability, and I’m excited to see her build that confidence herself.

Whilst I used to consider such rapids as my natural playground, my apprehension today revolves around questioning if I might have lost something in the interim. I can assuage the fact I’ll be rusty by setting my expectations appropriately and not ‘going too big, too soon’. Having been privileged enough to grow up kayaking and canoeing, ‘home’ to me has always been connected to the closest waterway. Journeying on the water has

“With thoroughly cleaned eyeballs I firmly resolved to recalibrate my perspective.”

always felt natural, some of my earliest memories are of fishing off the back of a canoe with my parents. That connection is what I’m afraid I might have misplaced, as my relationship with water has felt somewhat hot and cold in the last decade, as I’ve spent more time looking to the mountains (can’t build dams up there!) and creatively immersing myself as a self-employed adventure photographer.

Having bought Nyami Nyamis from our porters James and Manyando, we set about a sweaty warm-up before tucking knees into our boats and straining our sprayskirts on. The first splash of warm water as we slide off the rocks reminds us that this is in fact, very much not home. So too does the massive train of waves emerging from Rapid #1, which we need to cross to gain access to the gorge proper. It’s an intimidating first move as the waves pummel straight into a rock wall, causing a lot of messy, reactionary whitewater – exactly where you don’t want to be. Set to make the move, we hear a blood-curdling scream. We look up to see a bungee-jumping backpacker midleap from the Victoria Bridge, followed by a massive bellowing jet boat, hooning up the rapid. There’s a lot going on here, and whilst there’s a lot to be said for the tourism on offer, at this exact moment in time I’d love it all to bugger off. Alex and I chat about the timing as we watch friends we’ve met from New Zealand and Colorado navigate across the train of waves with varying degrees of success.

As I peel into the slack water on the other side, I turn with my heart in my mouth to see Alex side-on, getting wiped out by a wave. It’s one of the toughest positions from which to roll up, but she gets her head above water just enough for some air before getting wiped out by the next one. From there she’s fed into the crashing waves and boils. I count six rolls as she’s thrashed around and the whole crew of us start paddling towards what we assume will be a swimmer, just as Alex makes her seventh roll. Gasping for breath she’s wide-eyed, rearranging her helmet and buoyancy aid after the river’s best efforts to strip them off. ‘I don’t know what happened there but that wave hit me so hard. My earrings are gone and the string on my Nyami

Nyami snapped’. Alex had been tested, and in full view of an international crew of kayakers who immediately tipped their hats. Witnessing her resilience, they acknowledge they would have likely ejected in the same situation. It was incredible to see her come out the other side with such composure.

On Rapid #7, Gulliver’s Travels, my own form and awareness came to light. Whilst not the biggest, this is perhaps the longest rapid on the section. From the riverbank, our local guide Amioty had talked me through the crux of the line, a ‘thread the needle’ kind of move around a crashing wave-hole you don’t want to be in, to then cut above a jagged rock feature you didn’t want to be on. Crucially, I forgot to recalibrate my distanced perspective from the riverbank to how small I’d actually be in the rapid (hence its name). I also hadn’t taken note of a section known as Land of the Giants lurking just beyond it. My descent was successful but nevertheless enlightening, as with thoroughly cleaned eyeballs I resolved to adjust my perspective.

Rapid #5, Stairway to Heaven gave us a highlight on every descent. Being of the straight-forward but massive variety,

“The rapids of the Zambezi still have a chance of survival, and I like to think that the odds are good.”

MAIN: Ed enjoying the ‘The Boiling Pot’, where the water continues to bubble and crash, having cascaded down Victoria Falls and the Minus Rapids.

cresting the brow as it comes into full view, it never fails to take the breath of its paddlers. On her first descent, Alex paddled down as if it were a ripple whilst the rest of us were thrown left right and centre – as would be the case for me until our very final descent. The most continuous section of rapids –#11, #12, #12b always posed a bit of a workout with currents pushing in all directions before feeding you into #13 – The Mother. Getting down this without rolling became one of Alex’s targets for the trip; no mean feat being that it was one of the biggest rapids and she was in the smallest boat on the river.

In the lower section of the gorge, we encountered crocodiles on the banks but to our relief they always remained inactive, choosing to sun themselves over making any move towards us. The thought of their presence was only heightened on a couple of descents we did alone as a pair. Without the noise of a group or rafts nearby, we were particularly vigilant but never felt anything other than the joy of seeing wild animals in their natural habitat. As was the case for the baboons who roamed the gorge, even if they did seem particularly judgemental were you to scout or walk a rapid along their bank, and I don’t know

anyone who would tire of seeing wild elephants on the way to the river every day. These experiences served to enforce the sense that this is far more than just our playground. This is a habitat, one in which some come to work and we have come to play.

Each day our boats were portered in and out of the gorge for us as part of the organisation of the local tourism economy. To refuse a porter when kayaking the Zambezi would be akin to not employing Sherpas in the Himalayas. Navigating the steep staircases built of natural branches and twine was a daily obstacle, jokingly deemed ‘the most dangerous part of the day’ by one of our friends from Colorado. Yet our porters would do it in flip-flops, sometimes with a kayak on each shoulder. We were always in awe. We shuttled to and from the river each day using local adventure outfit Safpar who employed local drivers, local guides and local porters. They’d also drop a sat-phone with the last group on the water each day – good peace of mind, which did come in handy for a kayaker who had a shoulder dislocation and needed evacuating from the gorge on our first day.

Jollyboys hostel is synonymous with the Zambezi amongst kayakers, and riding back to our base there, along the rutted and dusty roads, actually felt like the icing on the cake after each day on the water. It was a time to relax, reflect and chat whilst passing through remote local villages, often dropping off our porters and guides along the way or picking up their children and other members of the family, who might become the porters or kayak guides of the future.

On one journey I asked a guide Julius about the river and what it means to him: ‘Since the year 2000 the Zambezi has been my life, it has given me a huge amount – as the source of my living it’s helped me and my family survive financially and provided the opportunity to interact with people from all over the world. Without the Zambezi I wouldn’t be who I am today. I will always say no to the dam, because people will not come here, will not spend money here to see a river and environment that does not bring them joy’.

Both physically and figuratively we live a world away from each other, but in the Zambezi, we have more in common with these local friends than the organisations who threaten the communities, ecosystems and livelihoods that surround the river.

By simply understanding its most recent history and experiencing the river as it is, we can fathom the importance of protecting the Batoka Gorge of the Zambezi. It has to be saved. Because if it isn’t, there won’t ever be another one like it.

TRUTH IN MOVEMENT

For Ana Norrie-Toch the landscapes of the Highlands have been instrumental to finding her own sense of freedom, self-confidence and the balance of a healthy mindset. As she’s increased the time she’s spent outdoors, landscape has become a centrepiece of her work as a Movement Artist and Choreographer. Here she explains how that came to be.

Story by | Ana Norrie-Toch Photos by | Rupert Shanks

I was first introduced to my body at the age of three. Learning to dance, as I faced the mirror with my reflection staring back at me, my relationship between self and body was formed. Of course, I don’t remember being three, but I can recognise now the significance of focusing on my own image, as I turned my mind to the importance of alignment, posture and symmetry.

Moving into high school years, you’d think a physical outlet would be a good thing, and to an extent I think dance was. It consumed my time, often too much of it, but it provided a distraction from a turbulent home life in which I felt lost, as I was forced to grow up too quickly.

The need for that physical escape was amplified, as I stood for hours in front of the mirror. But, as my body stared back at me, the critical view I had of myself only intensified. I was frustrated, but I didn’t really know what to do with it. Dance was no longer doing what I needed it to and at a point I started to resent it. Uncomfortable in my own skin, I felt trapped. So, I took a break, and at 17 I was living independently in Edinburgh. At the time it felt like freedom and on my terms. But, naturally all of that turbulence and frustration was left suppressed and unaddressed.

My split from dance didn’t last long, I was soon drawn back to what my body knew, and I went on to train professionally in Edinburgh. Back to tuning my mind to the mirror and moving to fit varying techniques as I aspired to perform.

Don’t get me wrong, physical awareness can be good, and this awareness is a huge part of me – although, in my case, not always in a positive way. Other elements of my life, outside of my training, impacted how I felt about myself, and as before, turning back to the mirror again, I was soon lost in it. I became mentally detached from my body. I was going through the motions and not feeling much at all. Throughout these years of training, there was a huge drop in my self esteem. The consistency of the mirror was toxic.

My first spark of adventure came right in the middle of my final year when I hiked up Kilimanjaro. Feeling lucky is an understatement. Exposed to space, and people with stories outside of a studio – I was out there for eight days and felt more myself than I had done in a long time. My body felt different. My eyes felt open.

On my return, my body was floored. Again, I was back in the studio, where my technical body had to perform. This brought me back into that paralysing self-awareness. The respect I had built for myself on Kilimanjaro quickly slipped away. The closest I got to pulling myself out of this was, to the surprise of my tutors, working with a group of actors. Collaborating with people who were not impacted in the same way by the mirror was refreshing and, to me, human. They opened my eyes to different ways of moving, and we created work together. I enjoyed working as a Movement Director

“I was out there for eight days and felt more myself than I had done in a long time. My body felt different. My eyes felt open.”

– ANA NORRIE-TOCH

–

and became passionate about engaging their physical experiences and stories into my work. The conversations and the truth of their physicality changed how I saw movement.

After graduating, I went off-grid. In all honesty, I was running away. Over time, and I mean years, I understood I did not want to place my body under that physical pressure of performance. This growing decision came from that ever present insecurity. I didn’t want to show that.

What does this have to do with adventure? This is where my bike comes in.

‘Want to cycle the Outer Hebrides, Ana?’ At this time I didn’t own a bike, but ogling over the map of these Western Isles, a place at that time unknown to me, was enough motivation. The Cycle to Work scheme made buying my first bike accessible, and soon enough I was packing up my bike, with some serious bulk, for the four-days ahead. I had never cycled beyond five miles out of the city.

Sitting on the train to Oban with my friend and a group of her’s I had never met, the buzz was unreal. I felt alive, and I wasn’t even on my bike yet. I can still feel it in my face when I think about that trip – I don’t think I stopped smiling. 184 miles of feeling high on physical and mental freedom.

That first trip was the catalyst to my love for adventure and sparked the beginnings of the journey back to myself. And it became addictive.

I got to know myself in a new way and my mind and body gradually found a positive connection through the journey of the adventures that followed in the years after. Jumping out of my comfort zone and exposing myself to these landscapes and the communities on these isles and the Highlands shifted something in my mind. These spaces are where self-critique gradually began to dissolve. I remember thinking I am so small out here, beaming as we cycled through those landscapes. This feeling was and continues to be important to me. My mind and body had been disconnected for longer than I realised. The journey connects my mind and body together – truly together.

The bike taught me the difference between the positivity of physical and mental effort in adventure, and the previously damaging physical pressure I had put my body through.

Cycling with friends built my confidence, but I felt an urge to head out solo. Heading out from Stirling I cycled towards Glencoe and then off the grid into the wild Highlands, finishing in Corrour. This trip defined a shift in my mental and physical strength, and where my artistry first connected with the landscape.

Taking in the sight of the Buachaille Etive Mòr on that first day, I felt drawn to move with this mountain. I got off my bike and walked over, through the tall grasses and bog, breathed in the air and silence, filled with its own energy, and moved. I don’t mean in any kind of technical way that my body

had been trained. I moved the way that this 90-mile journey had prepared and informed my body to. Slowly! But this was the truth of my body – influenced by all I had experienced on my adventure. There was no physical pressure here. This moment was mine. At peace, my mind was completely connected to my body. This adventure and journey of endurance made me feel physically strong, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. After years of training in dance, I found my way of moving, out in the wild. Experience over performance.

There is something in the rhythm of the bike that taps deep into my movement brain. Pedal after pedal, that continued, hypnotic forward movement. A repetitive muscle memory of calm and focus, allows me to open my eyes and really see and feel the landscape I am passing through.

Unhealthy in its past, I am grateful for what dance has taught me. It has allowed me a fresh lens through which to see adventure and connection to landscape. When I move in the wild, my spatial awareness kicks in, and I see and feel rhythm. Adventure holds a real significance and has honestly been life-changing in the way I feel about myself both mentally and physically. Out there, either on my bike or moving, I need to be aware and safe – ultimately caring for myself and the landscape I am in. That kind of self-care, to me, is the most impactful. There is something about the vulnerability in these vast wild spaces that actually makes me feel safe. It’s humbling. Continually adapting to the terrain and elements, I am not in control of this environment. And that is freeing. Respect for my presence in that landscape builds respect, strength and independence in myself.

All of that being said, adventure isn’t always the answer, I want to be upfront about that. It’s been a process of learning when it is good and needed, and when it’s running away from something I need to address. But it is a space that welcomes me and is there for everyone. Sometimes I just need to sit down on the sofa, something which I find very hard to do. On a social level, these landscapes have given me and the people I meet out there, space for conversation – the tough ones and the funny ones. I believe this openness from strangers comes from a slowing down of time and a slowing down of self, in a space that none of us own. Life is simplified. This generosity from people equally inspires me. It’s not just the landscapes

that keep inviting me back, it’s the people I meet out there too. As the landscapes have given me a positive and strong perspective of myself and my body, this has naturally transferred to my creative work and teaching. The same way landscapes have encouraged my individual ownership of storytelling through the body, I want to encourage confidence with an emphasis on moving the way you move.

The direction of my work as a creative continues to be shaped by adventure and the exposure to people, connected to landscape in their own way. The more I explore these landscapes and communities across Scotland and beyond, the more I continue to be inspired by the diverse physical relationships and stories they hold. From the physical rhythm of the creelers on the coast, a climber's relationship to rock, to the cutting of peat on the Outer Hebrides, these cultural traditions are full of movement, natural choreography and physical history. These also provide a social space in the outdoors – a place where people come together to engage with the landscape and themselves. The above have had such an impact on me that I am working towards documenting short movement focused films, to share and give voice to the people within these landscapes, past and present. Just like those actors years ago, this is a collaborative learning process of conversation.

My story with landscape began with my bike, as it confronted my relationship to my body and how I felt about myself. It’s an ongoing process of unlearning the mirror damage and untangling negative patterns. But I know that mirrors don’t reflect what is underneath – where the feeling is. Being exposed to vast landscapes, I am able to see myself clearly and feel comfortable in my own skin. That sounds dramatic, I know, but this has been like waking up from a deep and numb sleep.

Don’t think your body is for adventure? I hope that maybe my story inspires you to banish that preconception and see that the outdoors is there for everyone – there is no mould to fit.

Experiencing landscapes through adventure has shattered that mirror and shown me more about myself than a reflection ever could.

“Experiencing landscapes through adventure has shattered that mirror and shown me more about myself than a reflection ever could.”

BIKE. SKI. FONDUE REPEAT.

Producer, photographer, multi-sport athlete and BASE Collective member from Spain, Sami constantly seeks adventure, a pursuit that has seen her move to four different countries. After four-years in the cycling mecca, Girona, she moved to the French Alps.

GABY

Originally from the UK, Gaby has spent most of her adult life in various parts of the French Alps. She was originally drawn to the mountains to snowboard, but along the way has discovered all the adventures they have to offer.

ANNABEL

Based in Geneva during the week, Annabel is always happy to escape to the mountains to explore, ski touring with her very energetic spaniel. Like anyone from Yorkshire, she is very particular about how she makes a cup of tea and is always in search of the perfect vessel for a summit brew.

Story by | Gaby Thompson Photos by | Sami Sauri Illustrations by | Tom Jay SAMI

There’s something special about an adventure that leaves from and returns to your front door. It’s an opportunity to explore familiar territory in granular detail, to see it with refreshed vision. Simple logistics can mean squeezing every last drop from the experience regardless of timeframe and minus any complex travel plans.

Of course some front doors are greater than others when it comes to adventure possibilities; based in the Alps, for Sami Sauri, Gaby Thompson and Annabel Varley, there’s a whole bunch of adventure just waiting to be bitten into. Keen to make the most of spring conditions, the three women wanted to recreate elements of an ambitious multisport expedition, but they wanted to fit it into a weekend and to experience it on their terms.

Spring in the mountains is great. Often you can ski in the morning and ride your bike in the afternoon. It’s the perfect time for a creative adventure.

The goal wasn’t to be the first to do anything or to break any record. Ski-to-bike has been done many times before and during some epic, much larger, more ambitious expeditions. The three of us just wanted to share an experience from home – it was just about having fun and getting right back to basics.

First, we’d ride over the Col Du Corbier, which takes you into the next valley. Just crossing from one side of the mountain to the other makes so much difference, you feel like you are in a completely different region. On the other side of the pass, we’d then ride down into Abondance, a small village, right on the Swiss border. It’s just over in the next valley but in contrast to Morzine, Abondance is much more rural. The local traditions are still very much alive and the town is renowned for its cheese – perfect for fondue.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: After a long day by bike and ski, Gaby and Annabel refuel by candlelight; With unseasonably heavy snowfall, conditions and visibility proved to be extremely mixed; From her house in Morzine, Gaby ensures the final adjustments to her bike set up, skis and all. The fabled cheese fondue of the Abondance valley; Riding in full ski gear is an unusual sensation, particularly when tackling an ascent as long and arduous as the Col de Corbier

Then after staying in a remote hut, we’d ski tour up to Point of Ardens, an 11km climb with 800 metres of elevation gain for epic views of Lake Geneva and the Dent du Midi.

When we were first piecing the trip together, it had been hot in Morzine. So hot, we’d been riding our bikes in shorts! But we woke on Friday morning to a full on summer storm. Temperatures had dropped to -10ºC and snow was settling on the road. The weather maps looked like we were set to get about a metre over the next 24 hours, so we had to tweak our setups to cover all our gear –especially our ski boots.

All we needed to do that day was get over the pass and stop at the cheese shop, so we set off later that afternoon, riding in full ski gear, including our goggles so we could see where we were going. To keep warm, when we reached the top of the pass, we stopped to put on any extra clothing we had, swapping wet gloves for dry ones and doubling up on BUFFs

The 600m descent into Abondance was freezing! We pulled up at the cheese shop shaking, frantically trying to warm our hands on anything we could. We checked into our hotel and took some time to sort out our ski equipment for the following day.

First on the agenda when we woke was a little mission to find a postbox in town to get the key for the refuge. Then we slipped into our ski boots and skinned up to the tiny hidden hut. As you climb up through the trees it's only in the last few metres that you catch sight of the hut within a small clearing. It’s

just about big enough for six people but inside there is everything you need: a little gas stove, fondue pans, and a kettle which you can fill from a small spring outside. There’s also a compost toilet across from the hut, perched on the edge of the mountain – it's the ultimate loo with a view!

“It was our adventure to play out exactly the way we wanted it to.”

As soon as we arrived, we unloaded a bunch of gear to lighten our packs and took the chance to head up behind the hut for a quick ski before dark. We followed a route that we had pencilled on the map up through the forest, just below a cliff band that leads up to a small col.

Due to the fresh snowfall on top of what was now – this late in the season – a pretty thin base,

the conditions were quite unstable. We were able to stick to the original plan, careful to be much more concise in our route choice on the way to the summit and in our line choice on the descent. Cautious, we didn't quite make it all the way to the col as planned. We did, however, still manage a few fresh turns whilst paying close attention to our route and how to get back through the forest and back down to the hut before dusk.

As soon as we stepped back into the hut, Sami pulled out her mini fire-making kit and we got the log burner raging, transforming the chilly shelter to this cosy cabin and we set about drying our ski gear for the morning.

One of my favourite things about being in a hut is the lack of connectivity. There’s no temptation to look at a screen and instead we passed the time laughing, playing Monopoly Deal, catching up and sharing a bottle of wine whilst we prepared the fondue! With stomachs full of cheese, we climbed into bed for an earlyish night with fingers crossed that the storm might have passed by morning to leave behind good conditions.

When we woke, the storm was still blowing through but as the clouds began to clear, we were gifted with glimpses of just how big the mountains around us were and a chance to finally see the terrain we were planning to ski!

On the way up to Point of Ardens, we passed a little collection of summer alpages buried in snow including a tiny chapel. As we stopped for a snack, we were passed by a couple of keen locals

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: The sweet relief of arriving at the cabin after a long day on bikes and skis; Between the clouds, moments of clarity and a hint at the grandeur of the surrounding landscape; Retracing steps and mapping tomorrow’s route. A key part of any adventure; Powder turns behind the hut; Sami enjoys a moment of respite as they ski up the mountain; And back over the Col du Corbier for the final climb of the adventure; When the adventure is done, nothing hits the spot like a taste of the local liquor; Hot tea and good company after a long day on the mountain; Gaby negotiates the final metres of ascent before reaching their destination for the night.

who were also out making the most of the spring snow. We continued to climb for a couple of hours more before finally reaching the top. From here, we could see so many fresh lines to be had. Super excited, we switched our skis to downhill mode and took it in turns to enjoy the powder, one-by-one!

Tired from the long day, we gathered at the bottom, but the adventure wasn’t over. We still had to ride home. We pedalled back over the pass in the other direction – this time with hand warmers we bought in Abondance. The descent on the other side goes almost to my front door so we knew that even if we did get really cold, we’d soon be in through the door with our hands wrapped around something hot to drink.

When we imagine adventure, we often think of something far from home, but in my experience there is something so uniquely special about discovering a new place right around the corner. Exploring locally made it easier to plan something with friends and without the extra complication of something bigger and further away. We didn’t have to factor in time away from work, childcare, or the extra money for travel costs.

My favourite part of the whole adventure was that we were on our own schedule. We could take our time to pack the bikes, riding, stopping for coffees, to laugh and tell stories. There was no real rush because there was nowhere we really had to be by any fixed time. It was our adventure to play out exactly the way we wanted it to.

“It's the ultimate loo with a view!”

KEEP YOUR

IN CONVERSATION WITH RICHIE FITZGERALD SURFING AND THE TROUBLES

Intro and interview by | Luke Gartside

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Crumlin Road Belfast 1987 © Richard Murphy; Shortstrand East Belfast 1987 © Richard Murphy; Falls Road belfast 1987 © Richard Murphy; While Richie is known for pioneering Ireland's biggest waves, as Ireland's first professional surfer he'd compete across the full spectrum of conditions and in 2011 he won the Irish Masters Tour and reached the semi finals in the Eurosurf Masters event in the same year. © Aaron Pierce

Before Richie Fitzgerald and Gabe Davies put the wave on the map, the quaint village of Mullaghmore in Co. Sligo was world-famous for something else.

On a sunny August morning in 1979, Lord Mountbatten, second cousin of Queen Elizabeth II, boarded his fishing boat in the village’s small harbour and headed off for the day. Fifteen minutes later, a remote-controlled bomb exploded on board, killing Mountbatten and three of his passengers, including an Irish teenager named Paul Maxwell. The Provisional IRA (Irish Republican Army) subsequently claimed responsibility for the attack.

The fallout from the incident marked one of the most high-profile episodes in the long and bloody chapter of British and Irish history known as ‘the Troubles.’

The conflict was fought between ‘unionists’ or ‘loyalists’ – who mostly identified as Protestant, and wanted Northern Ireland to remain part of the United Kingdom and ‘nationalists’ or ‘republicans’ – who mostly identified as Catholic and wanted to expel the British to create a united, independent Ireland.

Beyond deep-seated cultural differences, entrenched by centuries of battles, and their competing visions for the future of the island, there were more immediate, tangible reasons for the conflict. By the mid-1960s, Catholics in the North faced substantial discrimination at the hands of the Protestant-led devolved administration, with restricted access to housing and employment.

The Troubles erupted after a series of campaigns by civil rights protesters to end this discrimination were met with violence by loyalists. Over the following years, paramilitary activity intensified on the streets and in 1969, British troops were sent in to calm tensions and restore peace. However, their perceived allegiance with unionist factions quickly led the conflict to intensify.

Over the next three decades, thousands of lives were lost, including many civilians in a constant campaign of streetlevel warfare. The IRA planted bombs across Northern Ireland and later in mainland Britain. Loyalist paramilitary groups retaliated with violent attacks, while the British Army rounded up suspects, imprisoned them without trial and gunned down protesters in the street.

By the time the signing of the Good Friday Agreement finally brought a measure of peace in 1998, the majority of people in Northern Ireland, Britain and the Republic deemed the conflict to have been a brutal and senseless endeavour.

Surfing’s development in Ireland tracks closely to the timeline of the Troubles, with the first local communities beginning to emerge in the mid-60s. Initially, they were focused in the northwest of the island, with Portrush in the North and Bundoran just over the border in the Republic serving as the epicentres.

Although far from the cities, these coastal towns were by no means detached from the conflict. In 1972, Time Magazine called Bundoran a ‘favourite frontier sanctuary of gunmen’, while British government documents identified an ‘active service unit’ in the town. Conversely, Portrush was known for fierce unionism, characterised by exuberant loyalist parades.

The small amount of writing that exists on the subject of surfing and the Troubles claims sectarianism never factored into the development of the sport or the culture. Easkey Briton – noted surfer, scholar and child of Ireland’s first surfing family – for example, writes that:

‘During the height of the conflict, surfing had an ability to transcend Nationalism and identity politics and bring together a mix of surfers from ‘North’ and ‘South’, from Protestant and Catholic communities for surfing trips, events and competitions.’

I wondered how surfing managed to unite such seemingly disparate groups, existing in such close proximity to the conflict. Seeking answers led me to Richie Fitzgerald, one of the country’s most preeminent wave riders and a passionate keeper of Irish surfing history. After growing up in Bundoran in the ‘70s and ‘80s, his family opened up the first shop in the region, which quickly became a hub for visitors and locals alike.

In the early 2000s, he pioneered tow surfing at Mullaghmore alongside Gabe Davies, subsequently bringing the wave to the world’s attention and laying the foundations for the surf culture that continues to flourish there to this day.

Five years ago, he relocated to Victoria, Australia, which is where I found him, early one August morning, as we connected via Zoom for an in-depth conversation about his experience of surfing during the Troubles.

“Everything was so dire; Ireland was on a freight train to oblivion, the economy’s fucked, people being blown up left right and centre, everyone’s emigrating.”

– RICHIE FITZGERALD

Let’s start with your childhood Richie. What was that like?

I was born in ‘74 and grew up in the middle of Bundoran – it’s kind of like a mini-Newquay by comparison, but with waves of consequence. Our family was just one of those outdoor families. I know it’s very trendy now and everyone’s very outdoors, but we were the exception back then. I have vivid memories, even in the late ‘70s, of being out on the beach in hail, rain, sleet, snow – just swimming, spearfishing and picking crabs out of rock pools.

As I got older, the beach was my meeting point, to see the boys, go for a cycle, meet girls, so I just naturally got into surfing at a young age. Rossnowlagh, just up the coast, was one of the original focal points of Irish surfing. There was a small hardcore community there, but until the early ‘80s in Bundoran, there weren’t many locals taking to the waves.

Tell me a bit more about the history of Bundoran as a place. Bundoran, like anywhere in Britain and Ireland, has millennia of human history. In 1771 The Earl of Enniskillen built his summer residence there, giving birth to the modern town. With that, years later, came the railway line which vastly increased its popularity. So Bundoran was originally a town for Irish ascendancy, it was a resort town, known for the health benefits of clean coastal air and seaweed baths.

Then during the Boer Wars and into WWI, there was a large British Army camp set up on the outskirts. My parents lived in Bundoran before the Troubles, and it was a very mixed

town, but the Troubles polarised everything. Because we’re right on the border, it suddenly became a destination for mostly Catholic people from Northern Ireland who were just trying to escape the horribleness that was going on there and that influx is how it garnered its modern reputation as a republican town. Now, we weren’t Derry or Belfast, but by fuck we felt the reverberations of the violence that was going on there. Everything came down to us over the border. Gunmen on the run, ill-gotten republican money – anything you can imagine was taking place in Bundoran during that time.

Where did you and your family stand within the ideological divide?

I grew up as accepting as it was possible to be in those days. My mother was raised Catholic, but she had lived in the UK since her early teens. She became a naturalised American citizen after many years of working in New York. My dad was born in New Jersey, to a hard-working Irish immigrant family. Weirdly, for the 1930s, his family emigrated back.

“Boxing each other over waves in tropical paradise? Grow up! Come and try driving through a UDR checkpoint when you’re from the Republic of Ireland with a provisional licence.”

It was against the grain as millions would go to America from Ireland and almost no one would come back. My parents were very progressive for the time regarding the political and social upheavals in Ireland. They taught me to try and understand everyone’s corner. Encouraging me to read the republican side, the loyalist side, the British side, the Irish side and then make an informed decision.

And was that attitude typical among the people you grew up with?

Absolutely not, many opinions were polarised and viciously sectarian. When we went up to Portrush, you’d see guys in Rangers tops, British bulldog tattoos, Union Jacks. While at home in Bundoran it was all about the Tricolour, Bobby Sands and ‘up the IRA.’

The irony was that when you stripped the colours off these people, they were from a very similar demographic. The thing is, the Troubles were just the latest incarnation of hundreds of years of British and Irish struggle and Protestant-Catholic sectarianism. And if there ever had been any honour in it, by the time they reached their peak, it was long gone. It had descended into a vicious civil war; indiscriminate murder, money rackets, drugs, prostitution, illegal fuel, robbery. When women and children were getting blown up and soldiers were shooting innocent people in Derry, it was very hard for a decent person to see any legitimacy in either side’s cause.

You know Blounty [Dave Blount, fellow Irish big wave surfing pioneer] always said to me that he never looked at other surfers as Protestants or Catholics. He just saw them as longboarders, short boarders and bodyboarders. Now that’s a beautifully utopian view. But Blounty grew up 200 miles south in Tramore. And this isn’t to belittle Blounty’s philosophy – he’s one of my best mates – but most of what he saw of Northern

PREVIOUS PAGE: Today Mullaghmore Head is Ireland's most famous big wave spot, attracting professionals from across the globe. It was the early pioneering tow-sessions like this that stamped Ireland's position on the international surfing map. © Aaron Pierce

TOP: From Portstewart, looking towards Castlerock and Mussendun Temple, Northern Ireland's northern coast. © Richard Murphy ABOVE: Richie after another session at his beloved local reef, The Peak in Bundoran. © Roger Sharp

Ireland was on the RTE or BBC news. For us growing up so close to it, you felt it. I knew people involved in it, still do. People who have got a lot of marks against their names. But I also had friends with family who served in the Irish army, the British army, the RUC [Northern Ireland’s police service - the Royal Ulster Constabulary]. On the other side of the coin, I had friends at school who later became actively involved in the IRA. But through surfing, I had a lot of Protestant friends. The best man at my wedding was Adam Wilson, a Protestant fella. He was one of my best mates from Portrush, Adam’s a lovely very vibrant character. But, if it wasn’t for surfing, we would have never been friends, ever.

A lot of people seem to attribute surfing’s ability to steer clear of sectarian strife to the creation of an all-Ireland surf team, encompassing both Northern Ireland and the Republic. Can you tell me how that came about?

It was an active decision from the very outset of the Irish Surf Association, which when I first got involved, had Brian Briton and Roci Allen at the helm. Brian is from the famous Briton surfing family – he’s Easkey’s uncle. He was a businessmansurfer who rose to become Chairman of the ISA. He was a Catholic man from Rossnowlagh. Then you had Roci Allen, who was the vice-president, and he was a Protestant fella from Enniskillen.

Now it’s hard to comprehend, because nowadays there is a lot more talent from Co. Clare and a lot more southern influence in general. But, for the first few decades of surfing in Ireland it was very northwest centric. You had Portrush in the North, which was predominantly Protestant, with Strandhill, Bundoran, Rossnowlagh just over the border being predominantly Catholic. These two areas were where most of the Irish surf team came from.

Brian knew those small surf towns were the epicentres, but that they were split across two different countries, two different religions, two different jurisdictions. You know everything was indicating that these places are diametrically opposed. So Brian knew Irish Surfing had to be inclusive, secular and non-aggressive by design. It wasn’t easy, I remember there was a push for a while for Northern Ireland to branch off. It was mostly to do with finance because there was so much money being pumped in from Britain. So it would have been financially more beneficial. But Brian knew that couldn’t happen. He really was the driving factor. And as a result, we all surfed for Ireland, under the Tricolour. But you didn’t throw that in the Protestant boy’s faces, and they didn’t throw it back into yours. It’s incredible really, in the middle of the Troubles, that you had guys from loyalist backgrounds surfing under a flag, which at the time, was considered a vivid portrayal of nationalism by many.

ABOVE: Shankil Road, Belfast 1987 © Richard Murphy

“Gunmen on the run, ill-gotten republican money – anything you can imagine was taking place in Bundoran during that time.”

And did you ever witness any sectarian tensions flare within the team?

Only ever once, when I was a junior. We were on a team trip to the European Surfing Championships and one of the Protestant boys took a bit of umbrage to the Tricolour. He wiped his hands on it – used it as a towel. He was being a bit of a dick, but we don’t have that American thing about the flag being sacred. One of the southern boys piped up and there was a bit of handbags at dawn, pushing and shoving. Brian Briton heard it and he came over in a whirlwind. He says, ‘Right you two, you’re on the first flight home tomorrow. This is not creeping into Irish surfing. No republicanism, no loyalism. You can have a bit of craic, but not this.’ And that’s the only time I heard or saw it in any of the Irish teams I was on over the decades. Brian Britton passed away a few years ago, but he deserves an awful lot of credit for holding Irish surfing together.

But you’d have a bit of craic? So it wasn’t like the cultural differences were this unspoken thing?

Oh no, not at all. Ahh, I have a million anecdotes. During the Troubles, I grew up in a big Georgian house in the middle of Bundoran where our surf shop is now. There was this huge room at the top of the house where you could sleep as many people as you wanted. It was like a train station. We’d have visiting English surfers in there, my sister’s boyfriends, an Aussie surf traveller, someone down on their luck, it could be anyone – my mum was very open and giving when we were growing up.

A lot of surfers would come down from the North – a real mix of Catholic and Protestant boys – and they would all stay at our house. My mother, Jesus Christ, she was a funny woman. She used to come in on a Sunday morning when we were all hungover and say ‘Right then, Catholics, get up! Get out to mass. Protestants, you can sleep on, but have breakfast ready for us all when we get back!’ And that’s as true as I sit here! There was a lot of funniness in it all.

Grant [Robinson], Adam [Wilson] and all the proddy boys would come down [from Northern Ireland] when the waves were pumping. They’d come to the surf shop because they needed a pair of booties or some wax for a dawn session. And I’d stop them at the door and I’d go, ‘say ‘I love Catholics’, and they’d say, ‘Ah fuck off will ya’ and I’d be like, ‘say ‘I love Catholics’ or you’re not getting into the surf shop.’ And they’d say ‘Fucking hell…’ you know, under their breath ‘I love Catholics’ and I’d let them in. So there was a lot of funny shit that went with it. That’s something a lot of people don’t understand, because it’s such a juxtaposition. Everything was so dire; Ireland was on a freight train to oblivion, the economy’s fucked, people being blown up left right and centre, everyone’s emigrating. It was a very dark time, very ominous, but within that, the slagging and dark humour from both sides was unbelievably funny. That’s the real essence. For the small community of surfers, it provided the perfect escapism from all the madness and killing going on up north.

When we’d go to events, both domestically or overseas there would also be the best camaraderie between members of the Irish surf team. I always remember Andy Hill at the World Championships in Lacanau in 1992. Andy was a really good surfer – head and shoulders above the crowd in Ireland. Going into the event, the favourite was the then-current Australian champion, a fella called Grant Frost. Andy drew him in his second heat and he went out and beat him and beat him well! Here’s Grant Frost, a cool Aussie at the top of his game, probably looking at his round two heat and saying to himself ‘A surfer from Ireland? This is going to be easy, he’ll probably be on an eight-foot mini-mal going over the falls.’ And then Andy paddles out and wins convincingly. We had such a laugh as a team that night.

What about outside of the Irish team? Did everyday surfers mix as freely and without conflict?

It’s hard for me to mention names here, but I remember being out surfing in town one day in the late ‘80s and I knew one of the boys in the water was in the RUC in Northern Ireland. One of the other guys in the water – who was one of the original surfers in Bundoran – was as IRA as they come. And they were just surfing the main beach together. And your kind of going, this just doesn’t make sense.

Now I would have never got any stick over having proddy mates. Because even though we didn’t come from a Republican family, we were local. But I had friends who were tied up with the UDA (Ulster Defence Association) – a monstrously antiCatholic organisation – and I used to go to East Belfast and hang out with them and no one ever said boo to a goose to me there either, because I was one of the boys. They were into surfing, and I was into surfing. And that was enough.

I remember going to a club in Bangor one night, which like many venues at the time, had the shadow of paramilitary group involvement. You’d have all these loyalist bouncers selling drugs and deciding who got in. Now, I was a boy from down south in a Protestant heartland, but because I’m with the right boys – the loyalist boys who all came down surfing – not a word was ever said to me. I mean we’d have a bit of craic, I’d say ‘You dirty fucking prods, you wouldn’t spend Christmas you miserable bastards,’ and they’d say, ‘Go home and make your Semtex bombs you bastard, with your fucking 19 brothers and sisters,’ you know, all of that. But it was just mighty slagging.

The main question this leaves me with is how was it that surfing in Ireland possessed this great unifying power? Because it’s not like it had that ability everywhere in the world. For example in Hawaii, where conflict existed between the ‘Haoles’ and the indigenous population and in the Basque country too, there are stories of surfing localism underpinned by nationalistic sentiment.

Well, with ETA (the Basque separatist organisation) there was the occasional explosion and killing. People always drew comparisons with Northern Ireland, but it was nothing really

compared to what was going on at home. As for the Hawaiians, they had fucking white sand beaches, sunshine, palm trees and they were walking around in flipflops!

I’ll tell you a story. One day in the early ‘90s, I had to drive over to the east side of Belfast to pick up an old girlfriend from the George Best airport. I was driving a blue panel van with a southern Irish registration plate. At the time you just didn’t go into East Belfast if you had a southern reg, or if you were a Catholic. But I had to pick up my girlfriend. Her flight was getting in at six in the morning, so I drove up from Bundoran really early. On the way, I took a wrong turn off the main road and got lost. It was all a maze of red-bricked houses, with bollards at the end of the streets to stop people getting car bombs in, or making a quick getaway after a shooting.

I was shitting it, lost down these little streets in a southern plate panel van that probably looked as dodgy as it gets. I was thinking I’ll be lucky to get out of here without getting two bullets put in my knees and my van set on fire. And that’s the truth. That’s the way it was. It was before mobile phones and all the shops were closed, with steel shutters on the front. Eventually, I saw this guy unlocking his shop and I just pulled up next to him. I said, ‘Alright mate, I’m fucking lost, I can’t get out of here.’ He looked at me and looked at the van and heard my accent. He goes, ‘Son you need to get the fuck out of here. Get in that van, don’t stop for anyone. Now, what you need to do is drive down here, turn right, turn left, turn right...and you’re out.’ And I did, I got out. He was probably a raving loyalist, but he saw my predicament and probably saved me from a lot of shit.

A couple of years later, I was paddling out at Pipeline with Gareth Llewellyn, a Newquay boy, it was a good day at Pipe. Johnny Boy Gomes comes up, and he’s like stewing about the crowd – you can hear him sort of snorting. And at the time Johnny Boy was a big dude in the surfing world, you know I think he won the Pipe Masters that year. He goes, ‘Hey bra, where you from’ I was like ‘Oh, um, Ireland,’ and he goes, ‘Never fucking heard of it bra.’ Gareth, not wanting to be outdone, goes ‘Alright I’m from England mate,’ and Johnny goes, ‘Then why don’t you fuck off back to England man…’ He was really intimidating in the water. But honestly, if you’d got lost in East Belfast, or been pulled out of your van and searched by the RUC at a military checkpoint, Johnny Boy Gomes in

his fucking flip flops and board shorts didn’t scare you one bit. Boxing each other over waves in tropical paradise? Grow up! Come and try driving through Belfast or going through a UDR checkpoint when you’re from the Republic of Ireland with a provisional licence. Then tell me you want to have a fight over a wave. Do you know what I mean?

You’re saying that the stakes were too high to let any conflict in…

Yeah, exactly. With all that violence and death, surfing offered a relief, an antidote and a safe space for surfers from the North. It also helped that surfing wasn’t tied up in history, you know. Cricket in Ireland was a Protestant sport, GAA is all Catholic up north, soccer was a Catholic working-class sport down south; so every sport had a tag and a history. But here was surfing, it didn’t have a track record as a Protestant or a Catholic sport, it wasn’t associated with the Union Jack or nationalism. And it didn’t hurt that we had world-class surf all along Ireland’s west coast. You know, if we’d had shit waves, the Northern boys wouldn’t have been coming down and those friendships would never have developed.

That’s one of the things Adam Wilson told me too, that surfing forced you guys to meet and experience the lives of people that you wouldn’t have otherwise. He said a lot of the conflict that was going on in Belfast and Derry would have been at least partially derived from the fact those people were kept apart.

Yep, kept apart by physical walls and prejudice. If you take people who don’t have a lot – don’t have purpose, money, work – and put a big wall between them, it all festers and leads to the attitude of ‘your struggles are all the fault of those Protestants on the other side.’ And then you have the Protestants saying ‘this country belongs to us, those Catholics are cockroaches.’ It just becomes a vicious generational cycle of hatred. When you have that, it’s ‘never the twain shall meet’. That was 99% of it. And surfing was the 1% that totally bucked the trend.

It tore down the wall?

Yep exactly. Surfing created an environment and an atmosphere that transcended the differences and allowed everyone to let their guard down. You knew everyone had a background –something that they may have been fiercely loyal to. Or they may have been more neutral like Adam and me. But when you watch someone paddle into a 10-foot beast and get spat out of a really deep barrel, all that rubbish was just washed away.

We knew we were surfing some of the best waves in the world and then there was the classic good Irish craic with the proddy boys in the pub afterwards. We were really different to them in many ways, but surfing was the common denominator that superseded everything. It was a different time that’s hard to reconcile in our modern Ireland. On reflection I’m glad I grew up back then, there really was nowhere else in the world with a surfing environment quite like that.

“Here was surfing, it didn’t have a track record as a Protestant or a Catholic sport, it wasn’t associated with the Union Jack. And it didn’t hurt that we had world-class surf all along Ireland’s west coast.”

ODYSSEY OF ICE AND WATER

In the far North, the land of fire and ice is a landscape of juxtaposition, from the violent Atlantic storms which shape its coastlines to the lava which spews from its core. Combining free diving, ice climbing and paddleboarding, three explorers embark on an Icelandic adventure to chart the ever-more delicate line between solid and liquid in our warming world.

Story by | Michael Levy Photos by | Jimmy Martinello

As the setting sun sparkles across the fine black basalt sand, Tim Emmett, Luca Sommaruga Malaguti and Jimmy Martinello inflate their paddleboards in a tiny oceanside village at the southern tip of Iceland.

Beneath a fiery orange sky, they paddle out towards the towers of Reynisdrangar, a set of three freestanding sea stacks like gothic columns. An eerie calm sets across the still, dark waters. It could have been a scene from Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

A few days later, a death in those same waters is reported in the local news. A body dragged out into the icy ocean by a massive wave. The placid ocean that evening had been an anomaly; big waves and violent currents are the norm underneath cliffs at Vík í Mýrdal.

‘It really highlighted to us the wild swings in the weather and these powerful Icelandic storms,’ Emmet recalls somberly. ‘It gives you an appreciation of the power of nature: raging storms, freezing cold water, climate change — it’s all part of the world we have.’

“You have to keep your shit together when it gets spicy. That’s the synergistic thread between the activities.”

LEFT:

Though sobering, that power, and that ability of water, in all its forms, to destroy and be so achingly beautiful all at once, was one of the inspirations behind the entire trip.

Luca Sommaruga Malaguti, has felt a connection to water since he was a child. Born in Italy, his family would visit Croatia and Greece, and it was in the turquoise waters of the Adriatic and the Ionian Seas that he became a diver.

But in 2010, he had a life-changing moment while surfing in Costa Rica. After an unfortunate fall, he was held under for a seemingly interminable stretch of time. ‘The guy who pulled me out said I was lucky to be alive,’ Malaguti remembers. ‘Only a month before someone had died there. That really tweaked me a lot. I had a lot of fear and hit a patch of depression, but I reconnected with my love of the ocean through free-diving.’

Since then he has made it his life. In 2019, he quit his day job as an engineer to become a professional free diver, and has since dived all over the world — from Southeast Asia to the Middle East to the Caribbean and the Mediterranean. Malaguti is the Canadian record-holder for the deepest bi-fin dive on a single breath, which he set at 275 feet in November 2021.

Tim Emmett is better known for his exploits on frozen water. From the UK, the 48-year-old is one of the most accomplished all-around climbers of his generation, whether it be rock, big mountains, or frozen vertical ice. On Canada’s Helmcken Falls, an overhanging amphitheatre of dangling ice daggers, he put up the most difficult ice ascents in the world.

Emmett has also been freediving for about 10 years, and it was in this way that he met Malaguti.

‘I kind of became his mentor for free diving and he kind of became my mentor for ice climbing,’ Malaguti said. ‘And we started working on a few projects together.’

As it turns out, mountain climbing, ice climbing, and freediving have more in common than meets the ice. Success at high altitude, requires one to train the body to be able to endure hypoxia, a condition of decreased oxygen in the blood supply. ‘Whether you’re 8,000m high, or two-hundred feet under the water in one breath, the same concepts apply,’ Malaguti explains.

The main similarity according to Emmett, however, is dealing with challenging and heady conditions and situations. ‘If you’re pumping out on an ice climb and you think you’re about to die, or if you’re at a record depth freediving, you have to stay relaxed and calm. You have to keep your shit together when it gets spicy. That’s the synergistic thread between the activities.’

One of the projects they had brewing was an idea that had long been the obsession of Malaguti: the opportunity to combine both of their primary passions into one trip, perhaps even capture it all in one unforgettable frame. It was Emmett who suggested Iceland as the perfect destination to realise the vision.

Covering eight percent of Iceland’s total land mass, the Vatnajökull Glacier is the largest glacier in Europe. Here, Tim Emmett climbs steep ice in a moulin within the glacier.

FAR LEFT: Roughly circular, vertical shafts within a glacier, moulins are created where streams of melting surface ice are able to exploit weakness in the ice. Here, inside the moulin, Tim Emmet explores its structure.

LEFT: Luca Malaguti (L) and Tim Emmett (R), contemplate which direction to climb out of one of the many incredible moulins in the Vatnajökull Glacier.

L-R: The braiding glacial rivers of Iceland; Freediver Luca Malaguti explores the crystal clear water of Silfra. A deep fissure formed by the separation of the North American and Eurasian Tectonic plates, Silfra has some of the clearest water in the world; Through the coastal mist, under the towering snowy peaks, Jimmy Martinello rolls into a memorable sunrise wave near the fishing village of Höfn, Iceland; Jake Humphrey paddles among giant Icelandic icebergs, mentally preparing himself to dive beneath them; Emmett paddling above the surface, and Luca swimming below, in Vatnajökull National Park, Iceland; Tim and Luca paddle out to the freestanding sea stacks of Reynisdrangar, on Iceland’s south coast.

The outstanding question was how to make it all feasible. That’s when the idea of inflatable paddleboards sprung to mind. SUPs would be the connective tissue between the world below the water and the one above it, allowing them to reach icebergs offshore. The SUP inspiration was also part of what led them to invite Jimmy Martinello onto the team. In addition to being an ace photographer, close friend and collaborator of Emmett’s, Martinello is also an experienced wave rider. And so was born this veritable quadfecta, multisport expedition.

On touch-down in Reykjavik, their first stop would be Silfra, a geological wonder and legendary freediving spot. It is a deep jagged-sided fissure within Þingvallavatn Lake, formed by the slow, glacial-paced separation of the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. The spring water

“It demonstrates the fragile nature of the ice cap, and how weather and climate change are affecting it more every year.”

within Silfra is some of the clearest in the world. Despite having spent a full day in the sky, making the journey from Calgary and not yet adjusted to the jet lag, just a couple of hours after arriving in Iceland, the team were stepping into the icy waters. ‘The best way to wake up has to be to immerse your face in 0.5 degree water,’ says Emmett.

Despite the 7mm of rubber in their wetsuits, getting in was difficult. Factoring in wind chill it was about -10 degrees Celsius. Going down a set of metal steps, as the icecold water slowly permeated his wetsuit, Emmett questioned his sanity.

‘It’s not like getting in the sea. It’s way colder. I was like, Oh my god, this is flipping freezing, what are we doing? But as soon as my eyes went under, I was mesmerised. The visibility is so amazing — it’s difficult to describe.’ Emmett estimates

he could see 100 metres in the water. Looking at his wetsuitclad friends and silvery fish swimming by him, he said, felt like being ‘in a high-definition film or video game.’

They spent a couple of hours exploring the deep recesses of Silfra. Clambering back up the metal steps, they compared notes – as best they could, that is. ‘None of us could really speak,’ remembers Tim. ‘The only skin exposed to the water is just a little section around your mouth that is totally bare; our mouths had gone entirely numb. Brian had a layer of ice covering his face.’

Next they drove southeast to the southern tip of the island, where they’d paddle to the towers of Reynisdrangar that unusually quiet evening, before continuing northeast around the Ring Road to the town of Höfn. Höfn is situated on the eastern edge of Vatnajökull National Park, within which lies the Vatnajökull Glacier, the largest glacier by volume of ice in all of Europe.

Here, Emmett, Malaguti, and Martinello climbed inside cavernous ice caves. This was terrain Emmett had already covered on a trip back in 2013. This time, he swung his axes up a perfect arch of glittering 100-year-old ice. But there were differences in the glacier since Emmett had climbed it last: Over the last hundred years, Vatnajökull has lost 15% of its mass.

Epic as the glacier was, the team’s main goal – combining freediving and ice climbing in a single outing – was still waiting.

The next morning, they headed over to a lake into which the Vatnajökull Glacier calves massive blocks. Climbing into their free diving suits, over which they put on dry suits with inflatable PFDs built in, they laced up their ice-climbing boots, wiggled into their harnesses, and strapped on their helmets before eventually inflating the paddleboards.

‘I was just hoping these paddleboards were tough,” says Emmet. ‘They’re inflatable, and the ice is sharp… you can pretty easily imagine a worst case scenario.’

Soon, they made it to an iceberg that looked promising. But despite the relatively safe appearance of this particular floating hunk of ice, Emmett still harboured doubts as to the wisdom of hacking his way up the side of it.

‘Two of my most trusted ice climbing partners, who have also climbed on icebergs, both said to me very explicitly: Ice climbing on icebergs is a really bad idea. Don’t do it,’ says Emmett. So I was apprehensive about it. But this iceberg was big; and

it was definitely grounded, so that’s good – it wouldn't be spinning around and flipping upside down and stuff.’

After gingerly fitting their crampons, careful not to puncture the SUPs, the team climbed atop the ice, sinking their ice picks into the soft, slushy surface. Despite choosing what looked like a stable option, a floating block of ice can only provide so much stability. ‘I started to downclimb and the whole thing started swaying,’ recalls Martinello.

As Emmett continued to climb, Malaguti and Martinello got into the water. Malaguti took a breath, and dove down, while Marinello treaded water nearby in the freezing cold.

ABOVE: Heavy mist makes for glassy conditions as Jake Humphrey, who joined Jimmy for the final days of the trip, paddles his way towards the open water.

Martinello then positioned his lens, equipped with a special splitter device, evenly above and below the water-surface level. All the while, Emmett continued swinging his tools. Click went the shutter.

Having accomplished the primary ice-climbing and freediving objectives of their trip, the only box left to tick was surfing. Up in the town of Ísafjörður, a town in northwestern Iceland, Emmett and Martinello had – despite the 1 degree water and the gigantic chunk of ice sitting right in the middle of the lineup, which they had to navigate with each wave they caught – what they’d describe as one of the best surf sessions of their entire respective lives. But it didn’t come easily.

‘We got up one morning to go surfing in the north and our boards were completely frozen together,’ Martinello said. And though they escaped Iceland without frostbite, they came startlingly close to hypothermia on more than one occasion. That captures the overall theme of adventure somewhere like this. The rewards of exploring somewhere so cold and unspoilt are plentiful, but you’ll have to pay to play.

Yet perhaps the overarching takeaway they all came away with was the fine balance in which the natural world sits, one in which a single degree of warming can turn everything upside down. Before leaving the Vatnajökull Glacier after their first ice-climbing stop on the trip, the arch they scaled had already disappeared.

‘It seemed strange and sad that it would melt like that in Iceland. And in October, no less,’ ponders Emmet. ‘It really demonstrates the fragile nature of the ice cap, and how weather and climate change are affecting it more every year. Iceland is an amazing, diverse country that connects you to nature in all its forms. It’s all just incredibly real. A place to be valued, and protected.’

That, and bloody cold.

TOP LEFT: Jake Humphrey on the snowy approach to the ice-cold surf.

TOP RIGHT: Free diver Luca Malaguti explores the crystal clear water of Silfra. A deep fissure formed by the separation of the North American and Eurasian Tectonic plates, Silfra has some of the clearest water in the world.

ABOVE: Tim Emmett marvels at the power of Seljalandsfoss Falls in southern Iceland. Water – in all its forms – was the connective tissue of the multisport expedition.

“Iceland connects you to nature in all its forms. It’s all just incredibly real. A place to be valued, and protected.”

– TIM EMMETT

THE ADVENTURES OF A SEARCH AND RESCUE PUP

Proud owner of Mac, rescue-pup-turned-searchand-rescue-dog, Deziree Wilson discusses the joy this canine has brought into her life, and the bittersweet nature of standing by as he ventures out into dangerous conditions.

Story by | Deziree Wilson

GUARDIAN OF THE MOUNTAIN

Looking back, I think we’d always had a Mac-shaped hole in our lives. Every so often, one of us, usually my husband, Mark, would brandish a picture of a cute creature with soulful eyes, silently entreating us to offer a safe new home. Then we’d go round the block of how we’d fit a dog into our itinerant work lives and leisure pursuits. Reality always kicked in before we felt able to commit.

It was probably lockdown that tipped the scales. The endless, rainy traipses around our local woods in Aviemore would, we agreed, feel a lot more purposeful if we had a dog trotting beside us. Then, in October of 2021, Mark underwent a double hip replacement. Years of guiding in the mountains had, at the age of only 42, taken its toll and he faced a gruelling recovery.

Both of us had grown up around dogs, and Mark’s collies had accompanied him and his father into the mountains when he was a boy. As a member of a local Mountain Rescue team, he’d always had an ambition to train a dog for Search and Rescue, and we agreed that having a focus at home might help him on the road back to full fitness.

Unbeknown to me, Mark had been keeping an eye on potential matches through the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SSPCA) website and, just before Christmas in 2021, he tentatively announced that he had ‘something to show me’. On the screen was a five-month-old collie cross, all white, except for his ears, a few black splodges

around his nose and a charming teardrop on his head. He seemed to be just what we were looking for.

Our journey to collect him felt like a pilgrimage: we drove northwards through an increasingly bleak, frozen landscape for several hours. Arriving at a windswept outpost in Thurso, we were greeted by kindly SSPCA staff whose cheerfulness seemed at odds with the surroundings.

Through the wire mesh surrounding a concrete pen, we spied a lanky, ghostly figure careering around with a soft toy. Identifying a couple of new suckers, he dropped the battered toy at our feet and looked up at us expectantly, amber eyes gleaming. We spent half an hour playing with him and walking him around the enclosure before we had to choose whether to take him home with us. It seemed too monumental a decision to make after such a brief encounter.

Somewhat nervously, we signed the paperwork. Mac trotted happily away with us, until we reached the van. Reverse thrusters engaged. We’d not been told much about his background, but knew he’d been caged for a fair bit of his young life, so it was hardly surprising he was a bit circumspect.

After a lifetime of shirking the sorts of commitments most of our friends had now embraced, we now had another being’s welfare to consider, but as Mac settled down on my lap, chin nestled in the crook of my husband’s arm, I thought, How hard can it be?

The dreich, dark days of early January were never going to be an easy time to train a new puppy. The morning after his arrival, an almighty clatter heralded a new day. I found him charging around the kitchen, having yanked the electric heater off the wall, emptied the bin and strewn his bedding

“The search dog, by virtue of its highly developed sense of smell combined with its intensive preparatory training, becomes a vital cog in the machinery of Mountain Rescue, providing an added dimension to the search facilities.”

– PETE DURST, 1982

around the room. We looked on in alarm as Mac, heedless of boundaries, ricocheted his way around the house, oblivious to pleas for calm. He’s just a puppy, I thought, naïvely; he’ll settle in a week or two.

Alas, the following months were fraught as it became clear that Mac was not your average dog. He was described as ‘unique’, ‘challenging’, and ‘unusually active’ by various dog sitters who, one by one, fell by the wayside, having suddenly discovered hitherto unknown commitments. Everyone commented on his adorability; none seemed in a hurry to look after him. ‘I think he’s part Kelpie,’ said one, adding brightly, ‘so, good luck with that!’ I later looked up the character traits of a ‘Kelpie’: an Australian herding dog that is thought to share DNA with the dingo and is bred to work all day across vast distances in extreme environments. Its signature move, I read, is to jump on the backs of sheep and walk across the flock.

Called back early from some filming work to collect him, I listened in dismay to one harassed-looking lady’s description of Mac’s gymnastic accomplishments during his brief stay. These included climbing onto her kitchen table to access the worktop, then escaping out the first-floor window and, from a standing start, jumping onto a six-foot perimeter wall. She had spotted him prancing along the wall on a mission to see what was happening down the street. When she discovered Mac gnawing her husband’s best fleece in the front seat of their transit van, having wriggled his way through the halfopen window (and scratching the paintwork in the process), it was the last straw. He was suspended, pending a trip to the vet for the snip and some reflection on his behaviour. Further filming work was curtailed after receiving a phone call from an unknown number. ‘Aye, have you got a white dog?’ Oh, God. ‘He’s just come into the pub in Newtonmore. I rang the number on his collar tag.’ Another dog sitter bit the dust.

Neutering Mac dialled down some aspects of his behaviour, but it still felt like a full-time job trying to meet his needs – a task I felt woefully ill-equipped for. ‘It’s like he’s got ADHD,’ said one friend bluntly. She was right. It was nigh-on impossible to tire Mac out, mentally or physically, and we spent hours trudging around in all weathers, trying to dissuade him from grabbing or taking off after anything remotely interesting.

Mark’s ambition to enrol Mac in the Scottish Search and Rescue Dog Association (SARDA Scotland), a branch of voluntary Mountain Rescue, meant that he had already put a lot of groundwork into the basics of training. But while Mac really engaged with receiving and responding to commands, we struggled to maintain his focus for long; no treats were delicious enough to win his favour. Although it sounds obvious now, the day we took a ball out with us was a revelation. Nothing had really captured his attention before, but he’d do pretty much anything for a ball. Best of all, it tired him out, at least for an hour or two.

There was no doubting his intelligence, and we realised that much of Mac's frustration was because he needed a job to do. So, instead of walking him for hours, we began working

PREVIOUS PAGE: Mac in his stylish new mountain gilet. Photo: © Mark Chadwick. FACING PAGE: Mac finds the ‘casualty’ during SARDA training. Photo: © Charlotte McIntyre. ABOVE: Curious Mac checking out a snow drift. Photo: © Deziree Wilson.

“After a lifetime of shirking the sorts of commitments most of our friends had now embraced, we now had another being’s welfare to consider.”

him harder on shorter journeys. Finding; catching; chasing; digging; waiting; sitting; lying down: he was eager for commands and thrived on the praise and rewards he got from carrying them out. One day, he even slept for three hours in between walks!

The downside was that my vision of strolling contentedly with a dog at my heels became a pipe dream. There is no such thing as a simple walk with Mac. It must involve a dizzying array of games, instructions and progressive training. But as much as I lamented the loss of freedom to do as I pleased, getting to know and understand Mac has brought moments of real joy. His delight in his own ingenuity, evidenced by his victory laps around us, make us laugh out loud, something that had been in short supply the year before. Taking Mac into the mountains felt like a real milestone, he’s extremely robust and utterly at home in wild environments, and more than capable of keeping up with us on bigger days, even on grade 1 rock and snow. His innate curiosity is tempered by a surprising cautiousness, and the only challenge is persuading him that skis, like bikes, shovels, rakes and hoovers, are not monsters to be slain.

Unsurprisingly, Mac visibly thrived when he joined the SARDA team, and his searching and finding skills were obvious from the get-go. Dogs have over 200 million scent receptors compared to a human’s 5 million, and this ability is honed over time to detect human scent, enabling them to assist Mountain Rescue teams and the police search for missing people, both in the mountains and semi-urban areas. SARDA Scotland is, like all Mountain Rescue, a charity, and reliant on public support to meet the £4000 cost of training and equipping a search dog team.

For the dogs, training begins by building the association of finding a human (a volunteer who acts as a ‘body’) with fun and receiving a reward. Eager to play, Mac was encouraged to find the ‘body’ and then bark for a toy, after which he’d get a few minutes’ play time with. ‘Indicating’ in this way is a key part of the process, since SARDA dogs need to not only

locate casualties but attract their handler’s attention when they do so. Although Mac’s finding skills are excellent, it took him a while to find his voice, probably because I tell him off if he barks at home.

Mac has now been with SARDA for almost a year. So far, he’s graduated from puppy training and passed his obedience test, which involved walking on the lead in control, sitting and staying over a distance of 15m, and coming back when Mark recalled him.

Next up is a stock test, where he’ll have to show he can be trusted around sheep. There is no better illustration of Mac’s heritage than when he’s around livestock: he’ll instinctively creep along in a collie crawl, ears flat, every muscle and sinew primed as he waits for instructions. The big test for him will be in March, when, acting on specific commands from Mark, he’ll have to find multiple ‘bodies’ in different areas over three days, indicating each find before moving on to the next. If he passes, he’ll become a novice SARDA Scotland dog and will be added to the callout list. It will also mark another stage in the long journey he’s been on with us, since those early days when he lacked any focus whatsoever.

Although it’s immensely rewarding to see Mac thrive as he’s allowed to channel his skills and express his character fully, we have a deep sense of responsibility for this wee creature’s welfare, and it’s nerve-racking knowing we’re training him go into hazardous environments. Like all Mountain Rescuers in Scotland, handlers can receive callouts at any time of day or night, sometimes to venture into remote, inaccessible areas.

As a member of a busy Scottish Mountain Rescue team, Mark has been laying the groundwork for this by exposing Mac to the rescue helicopter when it’s on exercise. ‘What I don’t get,’ I said to him the other day, ‘is why Mac is totally unphased about being around a noisy helicopter, but is scared of the hoover.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on inside that dog’s head.’

TOP LEFT: Incoming Mac finding a ‘casualty’ during SARDA training. © Charlotte McIntyre. TOP RIGHT: Mac finding his voice. © Charlotte McIntyre.

SEARCH AND RESCUE DOGS A BRIEF HISTORY

Dogs can work in all weathers and can cover huge areas quickly without loss of speed. The practice of using them for search purposes can be traced as far back as 1800: according to records, a Küherhund (cowherd’s dog) called Barry lived in the Hospice du Grand-Saint-Bernard on the Swiss-Italian border and saved 40 lives in his lifetime. Barry is reputed to have once found a young boy in an ice cavern. After licking the boy to warm him, the dog manoeuvred the child onto his back and carried him to the hospice.

During the First World War, dogs were used in The Blitz to locate buried casualties, and more recently they’ve been deployed in disasters such as the 1988 Lockerbie bombing.

It was Hamish MacInnes, one of Scotland’s foremost mountaineers and Mountain Rescue experts, who first conceived of SARDA Scotland, back in 1965. He had been inspired by a visit to an avalanche rescue training course using dogs in Switzerland, and immediately recognised the benefits of establishing something similar back home, which at the time had only informal rescue networks in place, mostly consisting of local shepherds and dedicated mountaineers.

The first Search and Rescue dogs in Scotland were German Shepherds called Rangi and Tiki, owned by Hamish himself. (Sadly, Rangi perished after being swept away by an avalanche during a call-out to find a missing climber in Glen Nevis – a brutal reminder of the risks faced by both human and canine rescuers.) Although there are no restrictions on breeds, a search dog must have excellent scenting ability and be large and strong enough to cope with the physical demands of the job. The handlers must also be active or have recent experience within a recognised Mountain Rescue team. Navigation skills are important, as is being able to operate in inhospitable environments, day or night, sometimes far from home.

Together, and through intensive training, a SARDA dog and its handler form a highly effective team and contribute a unique and vital role to Scottish Mountain Rescue.

TOP: A St. Bernard dog looking across to Hospice du Grand-Saint-Bernard on the Swiss-Italian border. ABOVE: A Swiss stamp from 1989.

MAKERS AND INNOVATORS

A closer look at the world's first technically designed niqab and hijab

Amira Patel is a firm believer that if you can’t see something, you should go create it. After discovering her own passion for the outdoors three years ago, she founded hiking and adventure group The Wanderlust Women in a bid to share that passion and improve the representation of Muslim women in the outdoors. From its humble beginnings with a few friends gathering for walks in the Lake District, the organisation has since grown into an international community, facilitating outdoor activities which help women discover or reignite their skills and confidence in a safe and supportive space. It’s not just an organisation, but a sisterhood

Around the same time that Amira started her journey into the outdoors, she made the decision to wear the niqab (veil). As a Muslim, wearing the niqab symbolised a personal act of worship for Amira. ‘The niqab to me is liberating and dignifying,’ she says. ‘It gives me strength and freedom.’ These sentiments, echoed by many other women, challenge common misconceptions surrounding the hijab and niqab – and challenging misconceptions is something Amira is particularly good at.

Venturing into the mountains, Amira quickly realised that balancing the modesty of the niqab or hijab with functional, outdoor wear presented a challenge to Muslim women. A lack of availability of modest outdoor wear was hampering women’s ambitions to explore and experience the benefits of being outside. An idea was born.

‘When I started hiking, I didn't really know where it was going to take me, I just went out because I needed to heal and find myself again. I was like, you know what, let's go hiking, it was a self-discovery journey,’ Amira explains.

Story by | Hannah Mitchell

IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

‘Along the way, I realised that I didn't really have the correct kit, and also that there wasn't even kit available that was suitable for me. I was hiking and trying to be modest at the same time, wearing my normal niqab and I’d be really sweaty, or in the wind it'd be flapping everywhere! I had all these ideas and thoughts about how it'd be so cool to have something that was modest and practical in the outdoors… But it wasn't something that I thought would actually happen.’

It was a chance interaction at an outdoor industry event that saw Amira’s dream begin to actualise. A shared belief in the project set the design process in motion. ‘I was just chatting to one of the experts at Trekmates, and I mentioned my idea to have an outdoor-specific, weatherproof niqab and hijab. And she just said: Yeah, it's possible,’ remembers Amira.

‘We often feel like we've got limits, but those limits sortof go away when we feel like someone's listening. With all the misconceptions that are attached to the veil, the hijab and niqab, it makes it a lot more difficult to bring these visions to life. Sometimes it just takes one person to believe in it.’

With support from Trekmates’ Head Designer, Emma Wakeley, Amira liaised closely with design placement student Tabitha Day. Tabitha made the initial patterns and prototypes for Amira to test, tweaking and refining the design based on her feedback.

‘The all-female Trekmates design team has more than 40 years combined experience in the outdoor industry,’ says Emma. ‘We’ve all seen the challenges women face in accessing the correct outdoor kit over the years in a male-dominated environment.’

THE AMIRA NIQAB

The Amira niqab is made from a soft, wind-proof stretch polyester shell with a durable water repellent finish. Its high-density polyester mesh panel allows ease of breathing and ventilation during activity, whilst the Haya hijab features strategic waterproof panelling and a softshell lower section for breathability around the neck. Both the hijab and niqab have fastenings to prevent them from blowing around in windy conditions, and are cut to maintain a modest appearance, whilst allowing for hair to be tied up and covered comfortably underneath.

“We often feel like we've got limits, but those limits sort-of go away when we feel like someone's listening.”

– AMIRA PATEL

Creating an outdoor-specific hijab and niqab was uncharted terrain, presenting a number of challenges and requiring extensive testing and prototyping in order to make something that would be both lightweight and breathable, as well as durable and waterproof. ‘The main challenge was obviously that there was nothing like this before,’ says Amira. ‘How can we, first of all, make something that's never been made before? Is it going to work? Are the materials going to be ok?’

And so, with the help of the industry expertise and technical knowledge of Trekmates, The Wanderlust Women set out to test the first iterations of the products. Braving all kinds of weather and different environments, they pursued the perfect fit and functionality for Amira’s idea, and reported back to the design team.

‘The fabrics that we used in the Hijabs were ones that we use in many other Trekmates technical glove, hat and gaiter

products,’ explains Emma. ‘So we not only have lab test reports to show the performance of the fabric when new, but also have the history of longer term performance through years of end use testing. The main challenge for us as a team was understanding the specific needs of the customer, as none of us had personal experience of wearing the hijab and the modesty requirements that we needed to consider. In the case of the Niqab for example, it was important to get the correct balance of enough drape around the face so the Niqab hung correctly to preserve modesty and allow free flow of air without being so loose as to cause it to get in the way when in use. So it was really important for us to work closely with Amira to gain that understanding to apply it to the design process.’

To widespread praise among the wider outdoors community, the final designs launched in March 2023, including the Amira Niqab, Haya Hijab and a silk hijab liner. The combination of high-performance materials and a carefully considered design that allows women to feel confident and comfortable in the outdoors is a huge advancement in inclusivity in outdoor clothing.

‘Everyone should have access to the correct protective clothing and accessories to keep them safe on their adventures,’ says Emma. ‘Supporting women of all faiths and backgrounds is something we will continue to champion over future seasons with new product launches.’

And as Amira firmly believes, there will always be room for progression. With ongoing development and feedback from the women wearing her designs, she hopes to continue the evolution of the technical hijab and niqab, improving functionality and meeting the specific needs of the community.

‘It feels surreal to finally hold it in my hands. But it's still a journey. It's just part of any process when you're making something new, you have to have the mentality that it's not always going to be right the first time,’ says Amira. ‘But for now I feel like we've done everything we can to make it suitable. Seeing people wearing it out and about and in stores will definitely get me really emotional. It’ll be a really proud moment.’

“At Trekmates we aim to inspire and enable everyone no matter their gender, beliefs or experience to get outside and enjoy the great outdoors. We believe the outdoors is for everyone and that everyone should have access to the correct protective accessories to keep them safe on their adventures both big and small. Supporting women of all faiths and backgrounds is something we will continue to champion over future seasons with new products.”

Emma Wakeley Head of Design

FOR THE PREPARED

It’s the little things that make a big difference. We’ve carefully considered the detail with our new and updated range of outdoor accessories, helping you to pack more efficiently, protect your gear and find your items easily.