Wilder Magazine - Volume Five

July - September 2021

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ilder is a platform for compelling and authentic storytelling. Stories of extraordinary places, people and experiences, through well-written, in-depth articles and striking photography. With a quarterly digital magazine and featured articles on our website, our aim is to inspire our readers to travel wilder ­­­­— to explore new destinations and cultures, and to push personal boundaries through adventure travel. At the same time, we strive to set a sustainable standard, to encourage people to protect the places that they visit for future generations.

In each issue we feature interviews with a range of personalities — conservationists, photographers, extreme sport athletes — people who are excelling in their field, and with stories to inspire.

In this fifth edition of Wilder Magazine, we focus on East Africa’s mountain and rock climbing scene. Storyteller and adventurer, James Farr, documents a rare ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro’s jagged Mawenzi Peak. Environmental photojournalist, Kang-Chun Cheng, explores the culture of climbing and outdoor participation in Kenya. Also in Kenya, we feature the inaugural Migration Gravel Race — a gruelling, 650-kilometre gravel cycling race across the Maasai Mara landscape. In our new Portfolio series, we profile talented Kenyan travel and landscape photographer, Trevor Maingi. Moving out of East Africa, Aaron Rolph and his British Adventure Collective team tackle the Welsh 3000ers challenge — summiting 15 peaks above 3,000 feet within 24 hours. For our Wilder Interview, we speak to world-renowned explorer, writer and photographer, Levison Wood, about his new book, The Art of Exploration. David Dinsley, warden of The Oa reserve on Scotland’s Isle of Islay, narrates his encounters with enigmatic birds of prey. We feature another tasty meal in our newly vegetarian, outdoor cooking Wilder Recipes series, by Kieran Creevy. And finally, explorer and ultracyclist, Axel Carion, pedals across the stunning and extreme landscapes of Bolivia.

EDITOR & DESIGNER JAN FOX CONTRIBUTING EDITORS TARA KRAMER | SCOTT WEBBER Front cover: A rescue ranger coils rope on Mount Kilimanjaro // James Farr @wilder.magazine

editor@wilder-mag.com

wilder-mag.com

Inspired by the beauty of our country and the strength and ingenuity of our people, Sandstorm have been making bags in Nairobi for 20 years. You see, Kenya isn’t just where we are, Kenya makes us who we are. We are Made by Kenya. sandstormkenya.com |

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In this issue 1. The dark brooding one 17. Kenya’s gravel migration 27. Fifteen peaks 39. The Wilder Interview: Levison Wood 49. A tale of two eagles 59. Wilder Recipes: Maharagwe soup and cornbread 63. Kenya’s climbing culture 73. Unbreathable 85. Portfolio: Trevor Maingi

Contributors James Farr James is an educator and storyteller based in Laikipia, Kenya. As an American who was born and raised in Africa, he has always been most interested in the people at the edges and corners of the world — where strange collisions of culture and history, ecology and spirit lay bare the ground we share as humans, despite our great differences. He also enjoys more normal things, like chossy climbing, chocolate bars, and the occasional hot shower.

Aaron Rolph Aaron is an adventure athlete and photographer based in London. He is passionate about championing the amazing outdoor spaces in the UK, and he encourages people to pursue adventures of their own. Always seeking to push the limits, his high-energy and usually self-sufficient trips often involve cycling, packrafting, skiing or mountaineering — or ideally a combination of them all.

Trevor Maingi Trevor is a Nairobi-based, self-taught photographer and filmmaker, better known under his alias, The_mentalyst.

He first took up photography as a hobby in late 2014, experimenting with his smartphone, which later became a defining feature of his brand. Today, his style is a blend of travel, lifestyle and documentary photography.

David Dinsley David is a naturalist, conservationist and wildlife photographer, living on the Isle of Islay, Scotland.

Born and raised in the North East of England, he began developing a career in nature conservation and habitat management in 2014. David currently works as warden of The Oa reserve, a 2,100-hectare nature reserve and working farm owned by the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds).

Kieran Creevy Kieran is an expedition, performance and private chef, writer, International Mountain Leader and aspirant Arctic wilderness guide with more than 25 years of experience leading and cooking in wild environments. He has worked as the team chef on sponsored climbing expeditions, cooked six-course tasting menus with wine pairings from wilderness basecamps, and led clients on mountain journeys across four continents.

Axel Carion Axel is an explorer, elite ultracyclist and world record holder who has spent years pedalling across extreme landscapes. In 2015, he embarked on a life-changing eight-month bike tour down the length of South America. The trip inspired him to establish BikingMan — a series of ultra long-distance cycling races around the world. He shares his adventures through his writing, talks and films.

Kang-Chun Cheng (KC) KC is a photojournalist with a background in environmental sciences, focusing on community-based natural resource management and traditional ecological knowledge. She uses photography as a tool for storytelling to show that there will always be more that connects, rather than divides us. KC loves rock climbing, reading magical realism and historical fiction, cooking new recipes and talking about cryptocurrency.

The dark brooding one An ascent of Kilimanjaro’s Mawenzi Peak WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JAMES FARR

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f you wake before the sun in Amboseli National Park and start your car with cold fingers, the clouds, glowing pink in the morning haze, will slowly reveal one of the world’s iconic scenes: a tremendous male elephant gliding through the grass glittering with dew, framed by the Olympian vista of Mount Kilimanjaro, its long shoulders curving into the savannah below.

It’s the stuff of postcards and desktop backgrounds. Thousands of hikers from every country summit the peak every year from every direction. Dozens of documentaries and National Geographic articles explore every aspect of life on the mountain: the tourism machine, the endemic species, the shrinking ice caps. It would seem there is nothing left to know.

But the world, if one looks closely, is far too big for postcards. Though Kibo Crater, with those much-diminished glaciers still startlingly white above the gold-flecked green, dominates this skyline, if you follow its silhouette through the ivory and acacias another immense summit hides in plain sight.

Across the eastern saddle of Kilimanjaro, the stark outline of Mawenzi Peak rises to nearly the height of Mount Kenya to the north.

Were it to stand alone at its 16,890 feet, it would be the third highest mountain on the African continent, and perhaps the most complex and dangerous to summit.

Of the mountain’s three volcanic summits, the elongated Shira plateau is the oldest, Kibo the proudest and Mawenzi the dark brooding one, its head gnarled and fractured. (This due, according to Chagga legend, to a jealous fit of rage in which Kibo, like the Biblical Cain, smashed his brother over the head with a rungu (club).) Thus Mawenzi, though extinct like Shira, appears to smoulder and smoke, hiding under incessant tendrils of cloud.

Previous page: Steven Masaga stands in the Oehler Gully on Kilimanjaro’s Mawenzi Peak. Left: Amboseli in the morning light, the summit of Mawenzi oft-overlooked but in full view.

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If your Land Rover could take flight from moratorium on Mawenzi and, with an eye to Amboseli, you would soar first over coffee its potential revenue, recruited a mountaineer plantations and dense montane forest that named James Kagambi to explore the viability gradually contorts into space-alien flora, of a commercially guided route up the peak. In which, in that timeless freeze-thaw of the 2015, Kagambi was the first person to reach equatorial alpine, grows interminably until the summit of Mawenzi (Hans Meyer Peak) in it collapses under its own teetering weight. nearly two decades. The brass were thrilled.

You would eventually fly up through the crumbling But the climb was seriThe golden age of East crags of Mawenzi itself, ous: long, meandering, African alpinism saw a finding its summit to be icy and prone to showless a summit than an eenumber of daring explorations, ers of rock. Mawenzi’s rie candelabra of twisting reputation, it seemed, but Mawenzi’s labyrinthian fingers of rock melting in was not entirely unridges are hazardous even for geologic time. deserved. The rock is experienced climbers. unstable and becoming But without a flying safari more so. The vanishing car, few people see this strange, hidden corglaciers make Kili feel naked, raw, and angry. ner of a well-trodden mountain. The peak has Ancient sediments are beginning to creak, rift, been closed for decades, its beleaguered cortumble down on the audacious homo sapiens ries shrouded in mist and bureaucracy. who unwittingly contribute to this very process.

When I first climbed Kili, Mawenzi was merely background: spires that cast shadows over the spectacular panoramic dawn from Stella Point. Scenery holds little mystery until you wonder what’s behind it. My story of Kilimanjaro was the old one — a gruelling trek on a barren mountain, one and done, a nice photo op. Until 2020, when through a series of unexpected events, I joined the secret society of this enigmatic volcano.

The golden age of East African alpinism saw a number of daring explorations, but Mawenzi’s labyrinthian ridges are hazardous even for experienced climbers. It accrued a reputation for dramatic accidents such as the tale floating in obscure corners of the internet of a climber who, his partner having fallen to his death, was left to a gruesome end swinging from an overhang until a marksman freed his corpse with a canny shot.

Unconfirmed stories like these and the peak’s general resistance to Kili’s commercial machinery led the Tanzanian park officials to determine it a liability near the end of the century, shuttering Mawenzi to alpinists. However, they soon began to second-guess their

Rescue on the mountain is already notoriously dangerous, and it was clear to Kagambi that were Mawenzi to be re-opened, it would require an expert rescue team. In collaboration with NOLS and the park authorities, he organised a series of courses in wilderness medicine, leadership and technical climbing skills to develop Kilimanjaro’s rescue rangers into a formidable squad.

Meanwhile, I had been doing my own training. As an avaricious young climber hunkered in the swamps of Patagonia, my instructors, learning I had cut my teeth on Mount Kenya’s granite, told of a legendary Kenyan mountaineer who would strap nyama (meat) to his pack as he traversed the glaciers of the world’s tallest peaks to choma (roast) back at base camp.

They called him KG. In 2019, Kagambi gave me a call. Six rangers had been selected to finally venture onto Kilimanjaro’s best kept secret, and he needed another instructor. These guys were the cream of the crop: young, strong, smart and bold. I, on the other hand, was recruited for my in-demand combination of climbing skill (scrappy), Swahili (passable), and availability (cheap).

Right: James Kagambi, or KG, a veteran Kenyan mountaineer and educator, in the moorland under Mawenzi Peak.

Following page: Kilimanjaro, a severe wilderness with a bridled reputation, collects clouds along the rim of Kibo Crater.

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In February of 2020, we headed up the mountain. (It was in the Mawenzi Tarn base camp that I first heard people whisper about ‘the corona’ in worried tones; it was not until we got down several weeks later that we realised what was about to happen.) We began spending long days on the route, moving rangers through the motions of multi-pitch alpine climbing, basic rescue manoeuvres. I began to realise just what we were dealing with, and see the tension that makes Kilimanjaro as compelling, and hazardous, as it is.

Nature doesn’t play by our rules (or tourism revenue projections). Kilimanjaro is a wild, rugged mountain that has been conscripted into economic service. Cynics, including myself, have unceremoniously called it a ‘cash cow’ — a neutered wilderness — but the dynamic is more subtle.

For a country as poor and proud as Tanzania, it is difficult to criticise the government’s decision to capitalise on its crown jewel. It is an economic engine so reliable that porters down in Moshi bars will empty their M-Pesa’s under the refrain ‘Bado upo, bado upo’ (It’s still there). But it is also an engine that can chew people up and spit them out haggard, injured, even dead. Tourists who expect lavish tents and fresh pineapple at 16,000 feet may be unaware of the toll their comfort takes on the young (and old) porters.

Regardless, the Tanzanian authorities have broadly accepted this approach as modus operandi, striking a tone somewhat at odds with the landscape upon which their system is overlaid. Case in point: after one braves the winds screaming up from the Serengeti along the western rim of Mount Meru, Kili’s dark and jagged cousin, a hiker will find a placard reading: ‘Congratulations, valued customer’.

But this is a land of contradictions. The moment you stray from the beaten paths (which are, in reality, few and far between) you are in a wilderness that is deeply inhospitable. Aside from the ghostly butterflies with wings almost indistinguishable from the papery, translucent petals of the ‘everlasting flowers’ (Helichrysum newii) adorning the titian boulders, you might find in the early morning the tracks of an intrepid eland, searching out the salt that circulates through the churning, icy topsoil.

It was on Kilimanjaro (now the place you receive a laminated certificate of completion for hiking to Uhuru Peak) that the renowned alpinist Reinhold Messner climbed, in 1978, what he purportedly called the most dangerous ascent of his career on the immense Breach Wall of Kibo Crater. It is a mountain where colonial geographers, missionaries and militarists made magnificent ascents on the back of a brutal regime, and a mountain which has itself now been domesticated by a lumbering African bureaucracy.

So there seemed to me some karma at work in training Tanzania’s brightest rangers to tackle a historic peak with skill and safety. The Oehler Gully on Mawenzi, though no Breach Wall, is still a consequential undertaking. As both the first known route up the Massif, climbed in 1912 by the Germans Klute and Oehler, and the route that, with some variations, Kagambi re-opened in 2015, it seemed both the logical and symbolic route to introduce to the rangers.

The route moves up the western cliffs, weaving through petrified lava flows and across harrowing traverses, scree sprinkling off overhangs hundreds of metres high. The climbing is old-school, the only protection being the four pitons that KG and I hammered in while descending from our first mission.

Top left: Porters play checkers at Mawenzi Tarn camp, 14,160 feet above sea level. Kilimanjaro provides nearly yearround work for thousands of Tanzanians, but it can be a taxing career. Bottom left: A ranger, Karim Shekimweri, takes the sharp end through an icy gulley. Protection is scarce, judgement and skill all the more crucial.

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Like many things in Africa, aspiring to a Western system of standards is both unrealistic and disingenuous. The only time I placed a three-point anchor in Kilimanjaro stone, a rhino-sized block pulled out and nearly severed a leg, so we taught how to sling horns and body belay. Gear is sparse and expensive, so we downclimbed to remove our tat anchors. Feats of daring were to be avoided. Any rock over 5.7 would likely crumble under your fingers, so the path of least resistance and a policy of ‘Don’t pull on anything you don’t have to’ were strictly followed.

Working on Mawenzi was a revelation to my guiding sensibilities. Success meant adaptability, not credentials. Safety meant speed and judgement, not equipment. We were on the mountain’s terms, not our own.

It was fitting that one of our students reached the summit before I did. We at first avoided the treacherous ice chute that led to the final steep scree, running our students up the first twelve-or-so pitches day after day. After a week of this (at which point we knew to a pebble which holds were trustworthy), Kagambi led Karim Shekimweri, a bespectacled and sarcastic ranger, to the third highest point in Africa. He was, to our knowledge, the first Tanzanian citizen to have ever stood atop Hans Meyer Peak, the delicate pinnacle of Mawenzi’s jagged crown. His boyish whoop of victory seemed, for a single moment, to cut through the smog of history.

I arrived on the summit the following day with KG and two more students. It felt like stepping out onto the moon: a surreal panorama that few have ever seen. And, like that distant rock, a place that remains untamed. The peak is still closed. The rescue team may be ready soon enough, but even then, Mawenzi will lurk under heavy clouds and history, a hidden corner of the known world.

It is a reminder to me that though we the civilised species proudly draw our maps with lines and labels and expectations, we inevitably leave out the spaces in between. And it is always, ultimately, the spaces untouched that give meaning to our journeys. The desert expanses of Kilimanjaro give meaning to our narrow trails. Our single meandering quest up Mawenzi stands against the hundreds of shadowy gullies which have never been, and may never be, explored. Squinting at the specks of hikers cresting Kibo at dawn, as though peering into our own insignificance, I remember that the world is far too wild for our structures.

As I stumbled back to camp after our final ascent, far behind my students and alone in the moonscape, a single white butterfly landed on my hand and rode my knuckle until I arrived at my tent. As I stepped inside the ranger hut for chai and mandazi, it caught the wind and fluttered off again to parts unknown. I watched it vanish over the horizon of Amboseli.

The world is far too big for our stories. kileleproject.com @kileleproject

Previous page left: Steven Masaga, a rescue ranger, follows the final pitches of the Oehler Gully, Kibo Crater holding the horizon. Previous page right: Rangers follow James Kagambi down from Mawenzi Peak on Kilimanjaro as an afternoon storm blows in. Right: Two rangers join James Kagambi on Hans Mayer Peak, the tallest of Mawenzi’s many spires, among the first Tanzanians to ever set foot there.

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Your route to adventure

Find, plan, and share your adventures with komoot.

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Kenya’s gravel migration East Africa’s top cyclists face considerable challenges breaking into elite international circuits. But a new gravel race in Kenya’s Maasai Mara has provided vital racing experience on home soil WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS LIAN VAN LEEUWEN

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ule Kangangi’s journey as a pro cyclist began many years ago in the town of Eldoret in Western Kenya. After dropping out of school because his parents couldn’t afford the fees, he found a job as a milk vendor, riding his single-speed Black Mamba bicycle from shop to shop, selling packets of milk. Doing his rounds one Sunday, a crowd cheering on riders in a local bike race caught his attention.

He’d never seen bikes move so fast — to him they were just tools of his trade. Inspired by the competition and the joy of the crowd, he signed up to ride his bike in the next race in a town nearby. He won a trophy for finishing fifth, and has never looked back.

Sule has recently competed as a continental pro rider with BikeAid, after a stint with another continental team called the Kenyan Riders Downunder. The story of his first foray into competitive cycling isn’t unique among East Africa’s riders; involving small town races and cheap Chinese equipment.

But few make it to the international stage. Kenya’s cycling culture is still in its infancy, and those who do aspire to turn pro face considerable challenges — from unstable financing from local development teams, to visa issues, language barriers and cultural differences on the European circuit.

A recent and novel approach to overcoming these hurdles has led to the creation of East Africa’s first major gravel race.

The inaugural four-stage Migration Gravel Race (MGR) took place from 23 – 26 June in Kenya’s Maasai Mara, with 59 competitors covering 650 gruelling kilometres across open plains, farmland and forested hills.

The event falls under the umbrella of the AMANI Project — a Dutch-African initiative founded by bike shop owner and lawyer, Mikel Delagrange. Through his work in East Africa, and conversations with the local cycling community, Mikel gained a clear understanding of the barriers preventing riders from breaking into the elite circuits. High on this list were the lack of racing opportunities in Europe, and the cultural challenges facing aspiring pros from having a fair chance at success on the continent.

Previous page: American gravel specialist, Ian Boswell, leads a group of racers in this year’s MGR, in Kenya’s Maasai Mara. Left: Kenyan rider, Sule Kangangi, racing on day two of the MGR. Following page: An early morning start for the riders.

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The AMANI Project’s first initiative was aimed at confronting these barriers. They created an international cycling team composed of Dutch cyclists and talented riders from sister teams in Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda. The goal was to soften the pressure and culture shock for the African riders when they travelled to race in the Netherlands; however, their first season last summer was scrapped when the pandemic hit. For the cyclists in East Africa, a solution was needed closer to home.

This led to AMANI’s second initiative, the #RideOnline campaign. With their partners, Team Africa Rising and Wahoo, they outfitted three sister team clubhouses in Kenya, Rwanda and Uganda with e-trainers, and launched the Team Amani X Africa Rising Intercontinental Series event on Zwift. This has enabled the East African riders to regularly race and network with riders in the Netherlands, online.

And then there was the Migration Gravel Race itself; another local initiative stemming from the pandemic. For Mikel and the rest of the race organisers, the MGR was seen as a way of providing valuable race experience for promising East African cyclists, against top international riders. Beyond its unique setting in the wilds of the Maasai Mara, it was primarily created to be challenging and competitive, and to attract some of the best gravel riders around. Alongside a strong field of cyclists from Rwanda, Uganda and Kenya — including Sule — were gravel specialists, and former World Tour pros, Ian Boswell and Laurens ten Dam. The Migration Gravel Race’s name is derived from the migration of hundreds of thousands of wildebeest through the Mara landscape between July and September each year. Normally, at this time of year, the Mara would be teeming with tourists, but because of Covid, the tourist industry has taken a significant hit. So another benefit of the MGR has been the involvement of local Maasai communities. The organisers were keen to ensure that the Maasai were key stakeholders in the race, acting as motorbike drivers, suppliers, cooks and camp hosts.

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I travelled to the Mara for the final stage of the race — a 162 km stretch across wildlife-rich plains and scattered farms, with a daunting climb up the towering Oloololo Escarpment.

Launching an early attack, Ian Boswell peeled away from Sule in the chasing pack, and won the stage with 10 minutes to spare.

But the East African cyclists held their own against the visitors. Although Laurens ten Dam won the event overall, Sule wasn’t far off in second, and another Kenyan, Kenneth Karaya, completed the podium in third. There was a Kenyan winner in the women’s race, too, with Nancy Akinyi finishing eight minutes ahead of American, Betsy Welch.

Speaking after the race, Sule had plenty of good things to say about his fellow African competitors.

‘I think they did really well. There was no messing around for four days; we all focused on racing.

These guys we were up against, they’re not just any other riders. Slowly by slowly, I’m sure gravel racing here will take off.’

Ten Dam also saw the value of racing in East Africa.

‘If you get two guys to Europe, you only teach two guys something. But if you race here with four or five good Europeans, you teach 30 guys at once. I’m a retired pro, so I’m not at the level of the Tour de France anymore, but at least they see the level they have to get to. That’s the benefit of this race, and it would be good to have more races like it across Africa.’

The MGR is already part of a new gravel racing series in Kenya, which Sule has helped to organise. And its success may also lead to the creation of an East African gravel racing team under the AMANI banner. For years, the focus for East Africa’s riders has been racing at the highest level on the road. But at the MGR, they’ve shown that they can compete with the very best off the tarmac, too.

The 650 km MGR route was mapped by Laurens ten Dam on komoot, which you can view here. migrationgravelrace.com

@migrationgravelrace

Previous page clockwise from left: Sule leading the pack; Maasai giraffes along the race route; Kato Paul of Uganda’s Masaka Cycling Club, covered in dust. Top left: Winner of the women’s race, Nancy Akinyi. Top right: The Masaka Clycling Club twins, Kato Paul and Wasswa Peter.

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Fifteen peaks Aaron Rolph and his British Adventure Collective team take on the Welsh 3000ers — summiting 15 peaks above 3,000 feet within 24 hours WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS AARON ROLPH | BRITISH ADVENTURE COLLECTIVE

Climbing 15 mountains in a day certainly sounds like a lot by most people’s standards. But the Welsh 3000ers is one of the finest hill days around, and can be accomplished by the determined hill walker as well as the super-fit trail runner.

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eaching sunny Snowdonia as the evening light starts to dip, we begin the necessary arrangements to leave a car at the end of the route in the northern tip of Wales. We’re starting with the highest peak first, camping a stone’s throw from the 3,560 ft summit of Snowdon. As well as getting a sunrise start on an impressive massif, it means we’ll face the more exposed sections of the route with fresh minds (and legs). Despite its modest height, there is something grand about Snowdon. No side quite looks the same, and by all accounts, you’re spoiled with mountain lakes at every angle. It rises from near sea level, but after a two-hour stomp up the ‘Pyg Track’, we’re finally scoping our camp spot for the night.

What starts with such good intentions — hoping to have a relaxing evening on the summit — inevitably ends with cooking a quick dinner in the tent at midnight. (Those looking to undertake the 3000er challenge should note the start line is generally taken to be the top of the peak, so start the clock once you get going at sunrise.) With just a few hours of sleep it’s safe to say that our preparation was suboptimal, but a quick dose of caffeine and the excitement of the day ahead eventually get us going.

Over breakfast, Emily and I take some time to admire our scenic camp spot and wait for the sun to rise above the chain of clouds on the horizon. Our fellow 3000er hopefuls, James and Alex, join us from their camp next to the cafe, where they opted to pitch out of the wind and prioritise a good night’s sleep over the morning view.

Previous page: The Cantilever, a precariously placed rock on Glyder Fach. Top left: Sunset views on the Snowdon summit. Bottom left: Getting the Optimus stove going.

Following page: Running across Garnedd Ugain on an amazing, clear morning.

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Packed up, we set about descending towards Garnedd Ugain (3,495 ft) and onto my favourite Snowdonian peak, Crib Goch. Traversing the ridge is a truly awesome start to the day: a mix of reasonably technical grade 2 scrambling and a beautiful, exposed knife-like arête.

I’m reminded at this point that although this route isn’t the longest, a lot of the terrain is physically and mentally taxing. Successfully navigating the exposed sections, we descend the lesser-trodden north ridgeline until the route is entirely off-piste, carefully weaving through large rock bands and overhanging cliffs until we reach the valley floor. By now the sun is really beating down, but we’re feeling pretty smug to be offloading weight from our camping kit into the car.

Now disappointingly close to sea level, the next climb is a bit of a slog, but our efforts are rewarded with a fresh breeze as we finally get back up over 3,000 ft. Our legs are starting to tire, but after a brief encounter with some Welsh mountain ponies, we’re over onto Glyder Fawr and Fach. The rock formations on these two iconic peaks are thought to be over 500 million years old, and the wild summits are nothing short of otherworldly. You’d be forgiven for thinking you’d stumbled out of Wales and onto a Game of Thrones set.

Although there are easier-going paths off the northeast face of Glyder Fach, the rocky outcrop known as Bristly Ridge is an enticing way to descend, albeit not for the faint-hearted. What starts as a simple enough path to follow soon becomes a rocky maze as you descend down the increasingly exposed ridge.

Downclimbing inherently demands my full attention, but before long I find myself narrowly off route and wondering how to descend the steep face I’m on without a rope.

With hundreds of metres of air under my heels and gripping with what feels like little more than my fingernails, I eventually rejoin the more polished route and drop into the infamous Sinister Gully. Relieved to get off the wall, James and I shout back to Alex and Emily in an attempt to coax them through the final steps.

Eventually safe off the face, we all breathe a sigh of relief, reminded that there is plenty of serious terrain in Wales that can’t be underestimated. We put this behind us and set about our final few hundred metres to the summit of Tryfan (3,010 ft), where the blustery wind has picked up. We undertake the obligatory ‘Adam and Eve’ jump between two upstanding rocks on the summit (not one you want to slip off) and run back down the north face.

Above: Attacking the Crib Goch ridge. Right: Leap of faith — the Adam and Eve jump on Tryfan.

Following page: James soaking in the morning rays.

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We’ve lost all altitude gained by descending into the valley, but this time at least there’s a small cafe to refuel our rumbling stomachs. Cleaning the cafe out of pastries, we begin the long climb up the steep nose of Pen yr Ole Wen (3,209 ft), which takes us up into the Carneddau range and our final seven peaks. The hot afternoon sun shows no sign of abating, and dehydration or sunstroke starts to take its toll on Alex, who is now experiencing waves of nausea. Pausing our trek, we’re a little worried because sunstroke can be very serious up here. However, replenished with some fresh water, essential salts and shade, we’re back on the move and taking the final steps to our next summit.

Alex is feeling much better in the cool air, and with these mountains to ourselves, we’re back on top of the world. With our newfound second wind, the peaks begin to fly by as the light gets more golden with the hours that pass. We take some time to admire the peaks that we climbed, visible as far as the eye can see.

Before long, darkness falls over us, and all that remain are the orange-pink reflections glistening off the sea and the lakes. How lucky we are to have experienced this incredible place through such an epic journey. Thanks Wales — we’ll be back.

Stats (car to car): 50.05 km / 13,700 ft ascent / 12h29m moving time. @aaronrolph | @britishadventurecollective Also featured: @adventure_scottie | @jamesnorbury_ | @alexfelstead With support from: @lasportivauk | @expedint

Top left: Weaving through the rugged terrain. Bottom left: Incredible rock formations on Glyder Fach.

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The Wilder Interview

Levison Wood PHOTOGRAPHS SIMON BUXTON | ALBERTO CARACES

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or nine months in 2013 and 2014, explorer and former British army captain, Levison Wood, walked 4,250 miles up the length of the River Nile. The Channel 4 documentary of his expedition was a hit, and his book, Walking the Nile, became a Sunday Times bestseller. Over the years since, Levison has undertaken similarly ambitious journeys on foot, walking the length of the Himalayas, crossing Central America, and circumnavigating the Arabian Peninsula. His most recent project involved following the migration of elephants in Botswana.

Wilder’s editor, Jan Fox, recently spoke to Levison about his past expeditions, the lessons he’s learnt on his travels and in the army, and his latest book, The Art of Exploration.

Jan: With its recent release, I think a good place to start would be your latest book: The Art of Exploration — which you’ve described as your most personal story yet. Tell us a bit about it, and how it differs from your previous, more journey-based books.

Levison: Most of my books have been about a specific journey, place or region. This one I guess, in it’s essence, is a sort of reflection of thoughts over 20 years of travelling. It actually began about three years ago. It was an idea of how I could transition, not away from travel writing, but to sum up some of the lessons I’ve learnt so far. And then, of course, the pandemic and lockdown hit, which gave me the time to sit down properly and formulate those thoughts into a more cohesive narrative.

What I ended up doing was collating the top lessons that I’d learnt from other explorers and people in lots of different fields, and then combining them with my own stories and anecdotes. There are stories in there from people in business and sports, and from astronauts and historical military leaders. So it’s a real mixed bag. There’s a smattering of philosophy in there, and (I hate the phrase) a bit of self-help, too. So it’s about how those lessons are applicable to daily life as well.

In the book you talk about lots of experiences from your time in the army. What are some of the key lessons from the army that have served you well as an explorer?

The army was a formative time in my life. I joined when I was 23. I spent five years in the regular army, and then subsequently I’ve done another 12 or 13 years in the reserves. The early 20s are an important age in anyone’s life; it’s when you figure out who you are. The army didn’t just give me the practical skills — map reading and that sort of stuff — but it gave me the confidence to cross boundaries, and to pit myself against any environment. It was where I led my first expeditions, and it enabled me to build a network of military guys around the world, which I’ve been able to tap into as an explorer. Wherever I go in the world, there are always dodgy ex-para hanging out in a bar somewhere!

The main lessons I learnt from that time were about leadership and teamwork. How to create a team, how to get the best out of people, how to motivate people when they are up against really tough challenges. And I was in Afghanistan, where the stakes were somewhat higher. That’s where I learnt a lot of very valuable lessons.

Exploration has evolved over thousands of years. What is the role of the modern-day explorer?

Well I think the word ‘exploration’ has been used somewhat frivolously by some. There’s a perception that there’s nowhere left to explore in this age of Google Earth and Tripadvisor. But actually, I think the concept of exploration — that mindset of being curious and not being fearful — is more important now than it ever has been. What we see and read on the news is usually biased and full of shit, basically, and we only get objectivity from those who are brave enough to see what’s happening with their own eyes. That’s the role of the explorer — to step outside of that comfort zone and do things that many are fearful of, or unwilling to do.

Top right: Mosul, Iraq // Simon Buxton. Bottom right: Wading through a river in the Darien Gap // Simon Buxton 41

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You’ve talked in the past about the ‘duty’ of modern-day explorers to document their experiences, whether good or bad, and to share them with the world. This is something that you do very well through your writing, photography and films. Have these skills always come naturally to you?

No I’ve had to work very hard! I’ve enjoyed writing since my days at university. I studied history at uni, and I guess writing a book is no more than writing a series of very long essays, when you think about it. Photography was more of a hobby. I used to be very bad at it, so that was something that I really worked on to improve. I got a real sense of achievement out of publishing my first photography book, Encounters. That was a result of lots of wasted images down the line, and sorting through a bank of about 50,000 images.

I do think, in a way, that if you’re going to go out there and do these sorts of things, that you have a duty to share those findings. Not everybody wants to take up that role, but if you want to do it professionally, there is a responsibility to showcase what you find. I try to do that through different mediums, and they all serve their own purpose.

How have you found the process of writing your books after your big expeditions, particularly the first, Walking the Nile?

Walking the Nile was my first book published, but it was actually another book called Eastern Horizons that I wrote first, when I was just leaving the army. I pitched it to dozens of agents and publishers, but I just got rejected everywhere, so that sat on my laptop for about six years. It was only after I published three other books that I finally got my publishers to agree to publish that one.

I’ve definitely honed my writing process over the years. I do keep a journal, but there is a big difference between a travel journal and a book that people actually give a shit about and want to read. It has to be interesting, follow a narrative arc, and have believable characters.

There’s a tendency to write what happened when you’re writing non-fiction, but that isn’t necessarily what interests people. Obviously you’re not allowed to make anything up, but what you can do is be really ruthless about what you leave out of the story. That’s how you craft a good narrative, because the best non-fiction should read like fiction, and that’s something that I learnt very early on. So even with my non-fiction, I follow the basic principles of the monomyth — Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey — and structure it like I would a work of fiction.

Are there any current writers, explorers or photographers who inspire you?

There are loads. I’ve always loved the work of Paul Theroux. Although, he’s a bit of a miserable git at times! Norman Lewis, he’s long dead, but he was one of my favourite travel writers of the mid-twentieth century. Him and Eric Newby wrote these classic, very self-deprecating, works that I just found hilarious, and it’s their style that I’ve tried to adopt for my own writing. More recently, Tharik Hussain has just written a book called Minarets in the Mountains, about Muslim travellers in Europe. That was really interesting for me to see things from a different perspective.

In terms of photography, there was Don McCullin. Again, pretty bleak outlook, but his photographs are still around today. I went to an exhibition of his life’s work a couple of years ago, and that was really inspiring.

You’re well-known now across the world for your expeditions, and your books and documentaries, stemming from your River Nile journey. How have you coped with fame over the years?

I did an interview recently with the Daily Mail, which was meant to be all about children’s literacy and charity stuff. We spoke for about 45 minutes, and then right at the end the journalist ambushed me with some questions about my personal life, which I was daft enough to answer. And then, of course, the whole article

Left: Levison in Botswana, where he walked alongside migrating elephants // Simon Buxton 44

was flipped on its head and focused on that instead. But you play these games, and you have to accept that there’s a price to pay I suppose. I try to avoid doing that limelight stuff as much as I can, but when you’re on TV and you write books, you have to expect some spotlight on you at times. It’s just part of the game really.

Your journeys have predominantly been human-powered. What motivates you to explore on foot, rather than other, more conventional means of travel?

For me, these journeys are ultimately about meeting interesting people. So by travelling on foot you remove any barriers between you and the local people, and you put yourself in vulnerable, sometimes dangerous, situations. But again, that enables you to have these interactions, because there may be no other escape. You can’t just get in your car and go if you can’t be bothered to speak to people. It can be tiresome, but also wonderful, because it’s in those quite serendipitous encounters that you meet some fabulous people. That’s what gives me the best memories. You see places and cultures at the slowest pace, so you have more time to take it in, and you’re not letting the world zip by.

Not to undermine other forms of travel; I’ve driven the length of Africa in a Land Cruiser, and I’ve rafted down rivers, and they were all great. But there’s something very simple about being on foot, something very liberating and free. That’s what human beings have evolved to do.

In 2019, you walked across Botswana with migrating elephants. What did you learn from that trip, about the threats facing Botswana’s elephants, and about the communities living alongside them?

That was a dream come true. I’ve always been fascinated by the African wilderness. When I was 18, I travelled to Zimbabwe and Zambia, and I was fortunate enough to spend a bit of time in Kenya when I was young. So I’ve always loved the continent, and elephants in Right: Photo by Alberto Caraces 45

particular as a species. I’m interested in conservation, and I’m an ambassador for a number of conservation charities, so the Botswana trip kind of brought all of these things together. It wasn’t just about the animals, but also the local people who live on the frontlines of human-wildlife conflict. It’s a pretty complicated story when you’ve got people whose livelihoods are at risk of being eaten or trampled by these animals. So I was trying to show an objective view from both perspectives, while exploring some of the most magnificent wilderness areas left in the world, like the Okavango Delta. It was a real privilege to have access to that.

And finally, I understand you’ve also delved into fiction writing of late, and that there may be a novel on the way … Can you tell me a bit more about that, and how you’ve found the process of fiction writing?

Word travels fast! I won’t go into too much detail just yet, but it’s very different from what I’m used to. It’s based on a number of events that have happened to either me or some of my friends, so it’s steeped in some truth. But I’m really enjoying it. It’s fun, and I hope it will resonate with a lot of people. It takes into consideration some big themes that are present right now, so watch this space! I won’t give too much away because I want to try to turn it into a film. So there’s lot’s of work to do.

Levison’s new book, The Art of Exploration, was released on the 17th of June, and is available to buy on Amazon. He will also be doing a speaking tour across the UK in September and October. levisonwood.com

@levison.wood

Top left: Wadi Rum, Jordan // Simon Buxton. Bottom left: Crossing the Empty Quarter // Simon Buxton 48

A tale of

two eagles Encounters with elusive birds of prey on Scotland’s Isle of Islay WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS DAVID DINSLEY

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he short, dark days of winter are now but a memory, and spring, as I write this, is upon us. The wildflowers have begun slowly unfurling, reaching towards the light of longer days. Skylarks are singing high over their prospective territories and the heather stems rustle around me.

You’ll find me on the Isle of Islay, Queen of the Hebrides. I am the warden of the Oa reserve, a 2,100-hectare nature reserve and working farm owned by the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds).

In the water below, an otter moves through the glare, skirting the rock edge where land meets water. With smooth and slinking movements, it soon vanishes out of sight. To my left, the haunting call of a great northern diver echoes across a small coastal bay — a sound reminiscent of the wailing from an eerie spirit. The diver sits tight to the surface, peering its head

under for a glimpse below. I watch as it sinks under the water, looking for molluscs and fish.

It does this time and time again. Occasionally, it brings something to the surface — in this case a crab. It removes the crab’s legs and pincers from the carapace before swallowing it whole.

In front of me, harbour seals lounge and loll on the rocks above the gentle lapping tide, snorting and whining when the urge strikes them.

Now a raft of red-breasted mergansers drift past the seals. Like the diver, they submerge looking for fish, and seize them within their serrated bills. They quickly catch and swallow the fish once they return to the surface. But they aren’t alone. Opportunistic herring gulls follow them and pillage their catch.

I’ve been here for hours, watching, waiting, and observing. No sign of my quarry yet, though.

The camera is primed and ready for when, and if, the moment arises.

Clockwise from top left: A pink-nosed otter; Viviparous lizard; Red deer; Feral goat.

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The tide has risen and pushed the seals from their rocky lounges and into the water.

I notice a large hunched and bold shape in amongst the tussle of branches on a dead, leafless tree to my right. It’s swiftly joined by another. Flying up from below and carried on broad wings and stiff wingbeats, it perches next to the first. These are the white-tailed eagles I’m here for.

I hear the great northern divers in front of me panicking as they disappear from sight.

In all the commotion, I can’t quite tell what just happened. Both eagles gain height and turn back towards their downed target, swooping and snatching at it with talons ready. Flying low and extending their legs, they make a decent go of it, but miss.

As the eagles fly up to gain height and speed one more time, I manage to get a look at what exactly it is that they are targeting. Shockingly, it’s a buzzard. In most parts of the UK this would be the dominant raptor species, but not here. The buzzard uses its wings as oars and swims for the rocky shore of the bay. The eagles swoop again, and the buzzard retaliates with its own talons.

One of the eagles retreats into the treeline and vanishes; the other returns for a final attempt, but it doesn’t manage to grab its prey. With that it returns to the tree. The buzzard continues paddling towards the shore, and, from what I can tell, just about makes it.

The eagles have given up. As a final hoorah, the eagle erupts high from the tree and flies right over me and out of sight.

Left: White-tailed eagle preparing to dive. Above: Red-throated diver. Following page, top: Juvenile golden eagle. Bottom: Male golden eagle.

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It’s thanks to my day job that I discovered my passion for wildlife photography. It creates a gateway to pure mental escapism for me — one in which I can clear my mind and focus on the relationship between my eye, the camera, and the subject.

Nothing else matters in that instant before I hit the shutter, capturing a moment in time. A fine example of this electricity is when I locked eyes with a female sparrowhawk. She stared with lightning-yellow eyes straight down the barrel of the lens. In addition to the whitetailed eagles and the sparrowhawk, I’ve also been fortunate to observe and photograph buzzards, ravens, and peregrine falcons.

But it is the enigmatic golden eagle that I really want to capture on camera. Far more secretive and elusive by its very nature, the golden will see you coming a mile away and vanish from sight, lost to the sky. There’s no chance you can walk towards one and expect to do well. For large birds, golden eagles are incredibly efficient hunters and, despite their large size, can reach incredible speeds of 150-200 mph when stooping on prey — second only to the peregrine falcon.

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In the future, I intend to build a golden eagle hide: hidden somewhere in the landscape, but not close enough to disturb these birds in their territory, and only built and used once the breeding season has come to a close. When built, the hide will be set near a regular perching point for these enigmatic birds, and to get the results I want will involve a lot of time sitting and waiting (not to mention a heavy lashing of good luck). But isn’t that part of the charm? You could wait for hours, days, weeks even, for that one single golden moment that could last just seconds.

It’s critically important to remember that these are Schedule One birds, and as such have the highest level of protective status in the UK. As an employee of the RSPB, I hold a Schedule One license to observe several species of rare and protected birds that breed on the reserve.

Setting up on a nearby vantage point and using spotting scopes, we quietly and effectively survey our golden eagle eyries (nests) from a distance of 1 km, in line with the guidance.

Nest disturbance is no joke, particularly during the egg-laying stage when they will most likely abandon the nest if disturbed.

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I’m sheltering against the white rocks of a craggy and rugged hillside. The western winds are whipping at my face, and as the sea crashes and carves the shore 100 ft below, I’m watching over a vast and expressive landscape in front of me. The terrain leads to a sheer cliff face, battered by the elements and the slow passage of time.

I move my face to the spotting scope, looking down the barrel. My eyes focus. There it is — the eyrie, and upon it a female golden eagle tucked in tight, only her head and the top of her wings visible. She’s brooding her eggs, sitting and waiting for the male to release her of her maternal duties. I swear that, even from this distance, she can see me. Staring straight down the eyepiece of the spotting scope.

To date my greatest photographic encounters with golden eagles have been pure luck. Every now and again they will drift nonchalantly over me as I’m hunkered into a crag surveying them, sometimes not spotting me until they pass over. These birds know every stretch of this hillside, glen, and crag like the back of their hand — or talon — so a surprise encounter is the only way to get a close-up view.

On other occasions I’ve been lucky enough to have them literally fly over my house, sometimes quite low. The farmhouse sits above a loch that provides a great view into the glens that flow down into it. If I observe a golden approaching, heralded by the calls of chaos and alarm from all the other birds in the area, it gives me the opportunity to scramble for my gear and run for the door. It’s a frenzy; an adrenaline rush of natural delight.

A shadow looms from the distant right-hand horizon. It’s a white-tailed eagle. It glides over the coast, mobbed by gulls as it drifts closer and closer to the golden eagle territory. In mere moments, it’s above the nest site and soaring in circles on the updraft over the rocky fortress.

Suddenly my eyes are drawn upwards as another raptor arrives overhead.

The male golden eagle! He charges ahead to meet the intruder. When they meet the two don’t grapple. They don’t even connect, but the sheer dominant presence of the male golden pushes the white-tailed eagle clear out of the area. I can’t help but feel inspired every time I see one of these majestic creatures in flight, moving through the sky with a freedom you can’t even imagine, and a view of the world everyone desires to see. bio.site/DavidDinsley

@naturenortheast

Left: Sub-adult white-tailed eagle.

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Wilder Recipes:

Maharagwe soup and cornbread RECIPE KIERAN CREEVY PHOTOGRAPHS LISA PAARVIO

Maharagwe soup and cornbread Ingredients: Soup 1 tbsp ghee or oil 1/2 white or yellow onion, finely diced 1/2 red pepper, sliced 1 ripe tomato, diced 2 cloves garlic, finely diced 3 tsp garam masala powder 1/2 tsp cardamom 1 tsp black pepper 1 tsp hot chili powder 1 can full fat coconut milk 1 cup water 1 vegetable or chicken stock cube 1 can of white beans or red kidney beans Salt

Cornbread 1 cup cornflour, finely ground 1/2 cup yellow polenta corn 2 eggs 2 tsp sea salt 1 tsp chili flakes 1 cup hard white cheese, cut into fine cubes.

2 tbsp rapeseed or olive oil.

Water Extra cornflour for dusting

Equipment: Camping stove, pot and skillet Chopping board and knife Wooden spoon and spatula Insulated food flask; if making in advance Bowls and spoons.

Method: First make the cornbread.

Mix together the cornflour, polenta, spices, salt, eggs and oil.

Then add in the cheese and a little water at a time.

Knead until you have a smooth dough.

Store in a silicone drybag or reusable container.

Cook at home for the outdoors: Add the butter/ghee to a pot, place on medium/high heat, and when gently sizzling add the onion, pepper, tomato and spices.

Cook for 3-5 minutes.

Add the beans, water, stock cube and coconut milk and reduce heat to a simmer.

Cook for 20 minutes.

Taste and season with salt if needed.

Remove from the heat, decant into an insulated food flask and take on the hills.

The food flask should keep the soup warm for 3-4 hours.

Place the skillet on the stove, reduce the heat to medium/high.

Break off a golf ball size lump of dough, roll in between your hands until smooth and flatten.

Dust with a little cornflour and place in the skillet.

There is space in the skillet for 2-4 breads, depending on size.

Dry fry for a few minutes on both sides until cooked through and the cheese starts to ooze out.

Serve with the stew.

Cooking outdoors: Make the bread first, so the soup stays warm.

Either prep all ingredients in advance or take a good chopping board and knife with you to prep outdoors.

Enjoy. lisapaarvio-photography.com kierancreevy.com

@lisapaarviophotography

@kierancreevy

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Kenya’s climbing culture An exploration of the culture of climbing and outdoor participation in Kenya WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS KANG-CHUN CHENG

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or weeks, Samson Mwangi hasn’t been able to climb with me. ‘I’m taking beginners out again’, he explains. ‘It’s not always the most exciting thing to do, but I’m really trying to get Kenyans out there.’ Sam is the director of Climb BlueSky, one of very few climbing gyms in East Africa, and an active member of the Mountain Club of Kenya (MCK) — a nonprofit members club that brings together community members to hike and rock climb. As rock climbing steadily gains popularity all around the world, Kenya has also been swept up in the wave.

Nairobi is a place rich with cultural amalgamation, given its history of colonisation by the British and Portuguese. Arabs and Indians introduced currency through coastal trading, and the Chinese are currently altering the physical and social landscape through large-scale construction and developmental projects. Consisting of over 42 unique cultural ethnicities, the man-made borders of independent Kenya were drawn by an imposing international administration. Such colonial boundaries arbitrarily brought together previously independent communities into a single nation-state, while at the same time factioning ethnic groups such as the Maasai across several East African countries.

Kenya’s complex past thickens the plot when it comes to unpacking influences of ethnicity, geographic layout, and socio-economic issues endemic to diversity issues. Particularly for the outdoor adventure scene — one commonly associated with Westerners — social stigma may play just as forcible a role as accessibility logistics.

The vibrant outdoor culture in Nairobi exists predominantly amongst expatriates rather than locals. For instance, the majority of MCK members are not Kenyan, instead spanning the globe from France to Argentina. Although Kenyans are participating more in outdoor activities, Mwangi believes that the bucket-list mentality has been inhibitive of a deeper connection and

dedication to the sport. ‘Many people climb once, take a photo, and walk away’, he says.

‘It is hard to convince people to come back to climb consistently. That’s where the real fun begins.’

Tyson Nuthu, a Climb Manager at BlueSky, points to disparities in cultural background as a reason for Kenyan reticence to engage in activities with higher elements of risk. ‘It’s common for parents to discipline their kids for climbing trees or doing anything that could hurt them.

And when you grow up with such rules, you’re conditioned to avoid anything like climbing.’

This survival mentality may be partially ascribed to vestiges of foreign rule. As Tyson explained: ‘Daily life can be hard enough. It doesn’t strike people who are hustling to survive to go out and potentially get injured while having fun’. Many Kenyans associate leisure with drinking mojitos on the coast, not whacking their way through the prickly bush to scale up a cliff. ‘What do you get when you get up there?’, some people ask, clueless to the ‘purpose’ of rock climbing.

As topics of inclusivity and diversity proliferate outdoor communities globally, probing into the paradoxical delights of type-two fun is intriguing. Why do some people gain inimitable satisfaction from getting a little beat up in the pursuit of varying degrees of suffering — such as bruised knees and shredded fingers from a weekend of projecting (climbing jargon for working on a certain route) — while others can only scratch their heads at such masochism?

Perhaps understanding the mentality behind such pleasure may help unpack why populations are fractured between those who ‘get’ climbing and those who don’t. Does the existence of such barriers indicate moral failings within a society, or is it a non-issue that stems from inherent variances in personality — different people simply deriving pleasure from different activities?

Previous page: Akhil Shah on the boulder start of Pig’s Ear at Eagle’s Nest, Lukenya. Left: Sam Mwangi building an anchor at the top of Archway, also at Lukenya.

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Rock climbing is definitely not for everyone.

But the option of giving it a shot should ideally be exposed to a broader Kenyan audience. Ingrained perceptions and social constructs play a hefty role in setting expectations of personal behaviour, and the types of activities that people partake in. A common phrase used by Kenyans in reference to risky sports is ‘It’s a mzungu (white person) thing’, reflecting a perception that expatriates are the risk-takers.

Before the machinations of the internet and social media catalysed the universal climbing obsession, MCK was the heart of the climbing scene in Kenya. The sport was still quite niche up to the late 90s — not popular enough to sustain the few gear shops that had cropped up in Nairobi. Buying secondhand gear as a group made the most sense; MCK was the group to approach for both beta and ropes.

Participation in club meets was a prerequisite to membership at the time, not simply an annual fee. The insular nature of a nascent extreme sport created a tight-knit community, one that fostered the development and passing down of best practices (such as Leave No Trace) that extended beyond climbing itself.

Nikunj Shah, former chairperson and now one of the trustees of MCK, was an avid climber.

He and his friends had even set up top ropes from the roofs of their homes to practice abseiling. Shah talked to me about the MCK of old, and its role as the rescue team on Mount Kenya. ‘The club used to be strongly associated with Mount Kenya. Over time, it became hard for voluntary members to maintain the same level of commitment to the team.’ MCK’s expatriate-heavy membership also means that the attendance of core members is often transitory.

Shah described how MCK’s role shifted with the evolution of climbing in Kenya. Previously, there were few sport routes; most did trad.

But as the practice of bolting at crags like Baboon Cliff in Lukenya caught on, the old spirit of MCK diluted somehow. Traditions like the ‘Maxi-Dash’ are on hiatus. Shah attributes some of the ongoing tensions to impatience. ‘It takes time to build these long-term relationships, between MCK and the Kenya Wildlife Service, new hiking collectives, and even amongst members themselves. This seems to be something that people are forgetting.’ There is always a tradeoff. The one that MCK faces now, is how to maintain kinship as group scale expands.

Above: Batian’s peaks on Mount Kenya, from Shipton’s Camp. Right: A view of Mount Kenya from Old Moses Camp.

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Peter Naituli, one of the youngest and boldest climbers on the Kenyan climbing scene, first ascended Mount Kenya in 2013 as part of a school trip. The experience propelled his mountain climbing obsession. Two years later, aged 15, he started leading expeditions on Mount Kenya, pulling along cooks or camp workers, anyone he could convince to venture into the wilderness with him. ‘It was baptism by fire’, Naituli says. ‘In a way it was good that I was oblivious [to the consequences].’ There were times where suboptimal weather conditions and a lack of gear could have easily led to far steeper learning curves — realisations elucidated in hindsight.

‘When you advance to the third phase of being a climber — the first being fear, then confidence in the strength of your gear — you develop an appreciation in the balance of calculated risk.’

This appreciation is one that ripens with age and experience. Naituli grew up in Nakuru, where there were no climbing gyms and no one around him loved mountains out of passion beyond a deference to guiding jobs. Solo adventures and carving out his own space within the wilderness soon became second nature to him, a trait evident in his present pursuits. Warming his parents to his increasingly ballsy adventures in a culture where education is the priority has been a process. As he tackles mission after mission, from setting a speed record on the North Face of Batian — Mount Kenya’s highest peak — to free soloing barefoot, Naituli already demonstrates clarity on his role in the climbing community at age 22. ‘I want to be the mentor I didn’t have — someone who is solid and passionate. Not everyone has to climb. But I want to be there for those who truly care about the sport.’

The mechanisms for such change are slowly taking root. Upcoming challenges will include passing on the respect critical to sustaining a pleasant outdoor experience for all, from crag hygiene and Leave No Trace policies to ensuring that training is done well and safely.

Left: Peter Naituli lacing up his TCs, getting ready for Jason’s Route at Lukenya.

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‘I’ve been reading The Psychology of Climbing lately’, Mwangi told me. ‘It’s helping me understand how stoic theory fits into climbing — how one finds fun in suffering.’ I asked whether this applied to him. ‘Yes, because it ultimately gives me freedom and harmony.

You find a sort of peace out in nature.’

Mwangi doesn’t want to give Kenyans an excuse for not investing in outdoor adventures in the way that expatriates or Westerners have. ‘Its not simply about accessibility.

BlueSky and Lukenya have been around and available to everyone for a long time. A major factor is exposure. And after that, it has to do with who is ready to push it to the next level.’

As physical fitness piques greater interest among urban populations, the opportunity to introduce more people to a sport emerges as well. Climbing has the capacity to teach many life lessons, from mental endurance and self-control to harbouring a healthy respect for nature. It can help you figure out how to deal with responses to fear and stress, overcome negative self-talk, and form deep bonds of trust with your partner. But it can also just be a fun way to spend time outdoors.

A silver lining of the Covid pandemic has been a change in the marketing mindset in Kenya.

Traditionally, the tourism and entertainment sector mainly looked to Westerners as their target audience. But as borders shut down, tourism-dependent Kenya was forced to look inwards.

The foundations are in place for Kenya to develop a unique and enduring climbing culture.

The first step is to just show up. And then keep showing up. kang-chun-cheng.format.com

@takeme.north

Right: Richard Ahaza belays at Climb BlueSky in Nairobi.

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Unbreathable Explorer and ultracyclist, Axel Carion, pedals across the extreme landscapes of Bolivia WORDS AXEL CARION PHOTOGRAPHS DAVID STYV & DIDIER MARTIN

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W

hether you decide to travel to Bolivia by air or by land, the entry into the country is brutal. By air, you can reach its capital, La Paz (meaning ‘peace’ in Spanish), perched at 4,000 m above sea level. The 6,088-metre Huayna Potosi, with its snow-capped summit, sits in the backdrop like a peaceful monster.

By land, the ideal route is to skirt Lake Titicaca, which acts as the natural border between Peru and Bolivia. Passing along the north shore, instead of the ultra-touristy southern shore, feels like being at the end of the world.

The difficulty of finding passages across Bolivia below the altitude of 3,000 m is often a shock for Westerners. For much of its territory, the air is unbreathable — not because of diesel particles ejected by South American trucks passing along the famous Pan-American highway, but because oxygen is scarce (40% less than at sea level).

Bolivia is divided into two geological areas.

There are the high plains, or Altiplano — so named because the altitude never drops below 3,000 m — which form part of the western border with Chile up to the Cordillera des Andes Bolivian. It’s popular with travellers because it brings together the Sajama Volcano National Park (6,542 m), the salt deserts of Uyuni and Coipasa, and South Lipez at the heart of the Eduardo Avaroa region. And then there is the eastern region, where you can reach the Amazon Basin and the Paraguay River.

Left: Thousands of Andean flamingos breed by the mineral-rich lakes in the extreme southwest of Bolivia.

Following page: Laguna Colorada, a shallow salt lake in the Altiplano. Its striking red colour is caused by red sediments and pigmentation of algae.

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Titicaca and Sajama The highest navigable lake in the world, Titicaca is a pearl to cycle along. The north shore is wild, with fields along the water and fishermen from another era. The road isn’t fully paved, but the scenery takes your breath away. In Inca culture, Titicaca is a powerful place. Legend has it that the first Inca people rose from the lake.

Further south, the Sajama volcano — Bolivia’s highest peak — sits like a king at the heart of a scoured and hostile landscape. Here, sand is omnipresent; this is a territory with a singular geology that will thrill any explorer. Bolivian colours are unforgettable for those lucky enough to observe them with their own eyes, and not from behind a screen.

Bike touring the Sajama volcano is a challenge that should not be taken lightly. Food supplies in the surrounding villages are scarce, and the landscape is barren. No road welcomes you here. It’s a place of strong Bolivian winds and deep sand ruts. Even at the best time of the year, temperatures can drop to minus 20 °C. The morning ice causes tyres to slide off its gravel tracks. It’s essential to be properly equipped to bivvy in this area.

Sajama National Park, to the southwest of La Paz, is a sanctuary where the human ego disappears. Even with a 4x4, the challenge is considerable. But that’s the beauty of Bolivia. Reaching the country’s number one tourist attraction, the salt deserts, requires a lot of effort and strength. La Paz, itself, symbolises the living conditions of the humans who survive in Bolivia. The climate is harsh and life is slow, but a slow pace is essential to feel the Bolivian spirit. The apparent calm of Bolivia’s landscapes is a real reflection of its culture. Calm on the surface, with an almost immortal inner fire.

Leaving Sajama National Park, the spectacle for the senses continues as you enter one of the most important ‘white gold’ reserves on the planet: Uyuni and Coipasa. Half a century ago, humans had not touched these two sanctuaries. Today, desert-crossing 4x4s leave deep ruts that can be traced by bicycle. In our pockets, we all carried some precious lithium extracted from these salt deserts. Here, the mines are in full swing, as humanity turns its gaze from oil to lithium to power our batteries and future electric vehicles.

Crossing the deserts by bike, you travel to the end of your soul. At night, it is minus 20 °C. Rain during the day can turn the desert into a salt mirror lake that can corrode any metal. After spending days in the stunning, otherworldly landscape of the desert, the city of Uyuni can be a shock.

Top right: Riding along a sandy track with the Sajama volcano in the background. Bottom right: Fighting against the strong Bolivian headwinds on the Altiplano. Following page: Climbing the Uturuncu volcano pass, peaking at 5,800 m.

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Uturuncu and Eduardo Avaroa Reserve Uturuncu (‘Jaguar’ in Quechua language), is one of the highest cycling passes in the world. Here it’s possible to tear yourself from the earth to reach 5,800 m above sea level, along a rutted track. This twin volcano, housing an old sulphur mine, is the guardian of the Eduardo Avaroa Reserve, in South Lipez. You can cycle up its slopes for a breathtaking view of the lake region, at an altitude of 6,000 m — although the last 200 m of the ascent must be done on foot.

The Eduardo Avaroa Reserve was the grand finale of our north-tosouth Bolivia crossing. The reserve is in the southwestern quarter of the country, and covers 7,000 square kilometres. It’s full of Bolivia’s last treasures, from the Colorada and Blanca lagoons, to the spectacular Dali Desert and the symmetrical Licancabur volcano, which acts as the natural border with Chile.

It’s tough to breath in this mineral ‘no man’s land’, with an average altitude of over 4,000 m. For me, back in the modern world after this journey, the city has become unbreathable. I can only dream of one thing: returning to Bolivia’s hostile lands to recharge my batteries. axelcarion.com

@axel_carion

Left: Pushing the bike up the steep slopes of the Uturuncu volcano.

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Portfolio: Trevor Maingi Trevor, or ‘The_mentalyst’ as he is more commonly known on social media, is one of Kenya’s most talented travel and lifestyle photographers. He made a name for himself initially as a creative mobile photographer, but has now broadened his skillset, and is also recognised for his aerial and landscape photography. In this second edition of Wilder’s Portfolio series, Trevor gives us the stories and specs behind some of his stunning images WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS TREVOR MAINGI

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Hell’s Kitchen Malindi, Kenya The colourful canyons of Marafa, also known as Hell’s Kitchen, inland from Malindi on the north coast of Kenya. These odd sandstone canyons are known locally as Nyari — the place broken by itself. The best time to visit is in the evening from around 4pm, when it’s cool. In the middle of the day it can be unbearably hot, hence the name. One evening, I decided to fly my drone to capture this unique landscape from above.

DJI Mavic 2 Pro 1/120, f/5.6, ISO 100

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Balloon Ride Maasai Mara, Kenya Drone shot? Not at all. At dawn, flying above the Mara Triangle, in Kenya’s Maasai Mara, I saw another balloon flying low, trying to get a closer look at some animals, or landing. I quickly pulled out my camera to capture this frame.

Sony a7R II, lens 24-70 mm 1/320, f/6.3, ISO 320

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Sandwich Watamu, Kenya Lying down on my paddleboard, I saw an opening through the mangrove forest. An idea to capture a photo of us above the mangroves popped up. I navigated out of the thick forest and flew the drone. I had no way of communicating with my friends, so I told them I’d fly low, and they got moving as soon as they saw the drone.

DJI Mavic 2 Pro 1/120, F/4, ISO 100

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Burning Bridges Victoria Falls, Zambia A walk beneath the powerful Vic Falls left me soaking wet. After a quick t-shirt change, I was back exploring. When I found a path where I would have a good view of both the bridge and the waterfall, I threw up the bird.

DJI Mavic 2 Pro 1/200, F5.6, ISO 100

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Golden Hour Lake Chala, Tanzania Heading back to our campsite after a very cold swim in Lake Chala, I came across this amazing sunflower farm, with a clear view of Mount Kilimanjaro. The sun had just set, creating a moment of magic.

Fujifilm X100F 1/60, F2.0, ISO 1600

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Ghost Town Kolmanskop, Namibia ‘Careful not to stay too long when it gets dark.

That’s when the snakes start coming in.’ Some sound advice we were offered while exploring the abandoned town of Kolmanskop, in Namibia. I was in awe while wandering around the town. The sun was slowly setting, and there were few people around. It was perfect.

Sony a7R II, lens 16-35 mm 1/250, f/8, ISO 1600

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The Migration Maasai Mara, Kenya The county borders had just opened up again after the Covid lockdown in Kenya. With next to no one in the Mara, we had a lot of freedom to move around and find the best angles for a crossing. After days of waiting, we finally got lucky one morning. The wildebeests jostled down a steep bank in a frenzy. Our early morning start paid off.

Sony a7R II, lens 70-200 mm 1/1000, F6.3, ISO 320 thementalyst.net @the_mentalyst

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