January – March 2022
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Your route to adventure
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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 seventh edition of Wilder Magazine, and the first of 2022, we hear from German adventurer and ultra-endurance athlete, Jonas Deichmann, about his incredible round-the-world triathlon. Adventure photographer and environmental activist, Yan Kaczynski, narrates stories from Pakistan’s Karakoram Mountains, where communities are adapting to a changing climate. British adventurer, Aaron Rolph, explores the remote Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan, and bikepacking enthusiast, Alba Xandri, follows the Gran Guanche cycling route across the Canary Islands. Social educator and visual storyteller, Ana-Maria Pavalache, documents an empowering initiative in southern Tajikistan, focused on the training of female wildlife guides. Ultra-cyclist, Axel Carion, navigates the lithium-rich salt flats of the Atacama Desert, and for our Portfolio series we feature talented Kenyan wildlife photographer, Clement Kiragu. Finally, Jan Fox takes on the ultraMARAthon — a stunning 50-kilometre footrace across the wilds of Kenya’s Maasai Mara.
EDITOR & DESIGNER JAN FOX Front cover: The Rupal Face on Nanga Parbat // Yan Kaczynski Right: An isolated valley in the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan // Aaron Rolph @wilder.magazine
editor@wilder-mag.com
wilder-mag.com
Explore. Immerse. Connect. Your very own bush camp in the wild offering complete privacy and freedom. Explore an amazing ecosystem on foot and on horseback, sleeping under canvas each night. Minimal impact. Maximum experience. elkaramawild.com |
@elkaramawild
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In this issue 1. Shifting perspectives 17. Gran Guanche 31. Mountains of Heaven 45. The Wilder Interview: Jonas Deichmann 57. All roars lead to conservation 69. Portfolio: Clement Kiragu 85. White gold 97. Beasts without and within
Contributors 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, paddling, skiing or mountaineering — or ideally a combination of them all.
Ana-Maria Pavalache Currently based in Switzerland, Ana finds balance between working as a part-time social educator and spending as much time as she can being involved with world’s most isolated communities and conservation projects — mainly focused in the High Asia region. Whether it’s trekking in Ladakh, ski touring in the Swiss Alps, backcountry camping and skiing in Lapland, rock climbing and sailing in the Pacific Northwest, or exploring glaciers in the Karakoram Range, Ana makes it her mission to immerse herself in nature to foster a true and vital understanding of our place in the world.
Clement Kiragu Clement is a Kenyan storyteller. He is a child of Africa, documenting its people and wildlife through the art forms of photography and cinematography. His visual art journey began in art school, where he studied fine art and majored in graphic design. He then spent 10 years working as an art director in a number of Kenya’s top advertising agencies, and he has also been photographing wildlife for eight years. His goal is to use his knowledge to positively impact African wildlife films. As well as documenting wildlife, Clement leads private photographic safaris in Kenya.
Axel Carion Axel is a French explorer, elite ultra-cyclist and world record holder who has spent years pedalling across extreme landscapes. In 2015, he embarked on a life-changing 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 written stories, talks and films.
Alba Xandri Alba is a translator, writer and language teacher who has competed in a wide range of endurance sports. She now understands sports as a means of travelling and enjoying the outdoors. She cannot imagine going on vacation without her bike and saddlebags. Between 2014 and 2017, she cycled 55,000 km around the world with Ricard Calmet, visiting more than 40 countries. She wrote a book about their epic trip called ‘La màgia dels pedals’.
Yan Kaczynski Yan is a director, adventure photographer and environmental activist. His preferred subject is the human being in the context of nature. Through his work, he constantly attempts to display the human and the environment as a symbiotic whole. Both are not meant to be separate entities. Re-establishing this connection is Yan’s way of helping to ensure our environment’s perennity. His photography provides a rich blend of authenticity and attentiveness to nature’s feel and raw beauty.
Shifting perspectives Stories of resilience from Pakistan’s Karakoram Mountains, where communities are adapting to a changing climate WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS YAN KACZYNSKI
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is eyes were looking intensely at me — no words were spoken. Then, with a timid gesture, he asked me to take a portrait of him. Finally, he put the log that he was carrying back on his shoulder, and thanked me with a nod. He continued on his path to the remains of a coniferous forest — the last few trees beneath the mighty massif of Nanga Parbat, the ninth highest mountain on Earth. That portrait depicted something vanishing in Pakistan, just like everywhere else: a lonely logger, cutting timber restlessly by hand, until no trees remain. Thankfully, the Pakistani government is aware of the crisis and, with the support of the United Nations Environment Programme, plans to plant 10 billion trees by 2023 to restore the lost forests. It will help a lot, but the land up there is abrasive and fragile. Landslides and erosion are happening faster than the reforestation of the forests. The earth there is shifting. We saw it daily with the constant landslides, making travel treacherous and unpredictable. But ultimately, that’s why we travelled there. In the fall of 2019, I embarked on a journey with four old friends to northern Pakistan for the sake of adventure, in search of authentic encounters with people and nature. As a mountaineer and skier, I was eyeing future ski projects in the Karakoram Range. But as a group we mainly sought random, unplanned and fluid stories to live. As soon as we landed in Islamabad, we were struck by a reality that we didn’t expect: northern Pakistan is a region of hospitality and genuine love. The people we met were good to us — almost too good — making the trip very easy. Without asking anything in return, we were plunged into their world, one adventure at a time.
Previous page: An encounter along the Hunza River. Top left: Living in the shadow of Nanga Parbat. Bottom left: A logger under Nanga Parbat. Following page: The Charakusa Valley. 4
Another thing that occurred to us was the symmetry of the people and the weathered land that they lived on. The logger beneath Nanga Parbat — our first encounter in the mountains — was rigid and strong like the trees he was logging. His features were as hard as the rock faces of Raikot, the mountain face rising proudly above his home, and his beard was as white as the overhanging glaciers of the 8,000-metre giant. Above the forests, we found a shepherd running with his herd of sheep on steep moraines. He was as agile as the sheep, and his long, narrow beard resembled those of his herd. Later on the trip, I took a photograph of a hanging glacier in the Charakusa Valley — a spectacular valley in the Hushe region, home to K6, K7, Link Sar, and other famous peaks. A few hours later, in another remote valley, I met a local shepherd who happened to be a veteran high-altitude porter and a K2 summiteer. He told me that the Charakusa was his favourite place in the world. In the mountains of Pakistan, there is no distinction between people and landscape; both are deeply intertwined. Given this connection, we wanted to understand how the locals treated their land. Surprisingly, everyone we met had answers full of clarity. Along the journey, we met an amazing character on a narrow suspension bridge above the Hunza River. We were tired and dusty after an unsuccessful trek along the Batura Glacier. 57 km long, the Batura is one of the largest and longest glaciers outside the polar regions. We expected to encounter some life up there, having read about herds of yaks and their shepherds. We also visualised water sources and settlements to shelter us from the winds and dust charging across the giant glacier. But we saw nobody, no yaks, and, most importantly, no fresh water. On the second day of that trek, we had to scratch chunks of ice from avalanche debris, removing the rocks and sand encrusted in the ice with a knife. We barely had enough water to cook and to stay hydrated.
Top right: Storytelling with the Raikoti family. Bottom right: Crossing the suspension bridge over the Hunza River. Following page left: High-altitude porter, veteran K2 summiteer, shepherd, and a great human being. Following page right: Rugged and crumbling terrain. 7
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On the third day, we slowly returned to the village of Passu. After a good meal and lots of liquid, walking beside and above the Hunza River was a pleasure. Seeing the water flow was a blessing. A couple followed us as we crossed the suspension bridge over the river. They were on their daily commute to their village on the other side of the Hunza. The man told us that the land was changing, and that his whole lifestyle would have to change, too. He explained that the sides of the Batura Glacier were once grazing land for yaks, and that he used to watch over 200 of them. The cattle couldn’t cope over the years with drastically rising temperatures. Yaks fare best between 4,000 and 5,000 m, where they forage throughout the year. Below 3,000 m, they tend to lose vigour. In Pakistan, the terrain above 5,000 m is really steep, and is mostly inaccessible for anyone who is not an alpinist. The lands below 4,000 m are too warm for most yaks. The man could no longer live as he had for the majority of his life. He and his wife had to relocate and find a new way to sustain their lives. This 60-year-old man, living in a remote corner of the world, was more aware of social and climate change than many of us.
In Hushe, a lovely mountain village at the heart of the Karakoram Range, we met Khadim Ali — a teacher at a local school, and now a good friend. He and a high-altitude climber called Taqi led us on a walk through his village, painting a full picture of life in his hometown. He also brought up the topic of the impact of deforestation and climate change on his community. The melting and shrinking glaciers above the village directly impact the rivers, which impact the cattle and the crops, the drinkable water, the health of the elders, the youth, and every single soul in the valley. From the lessons that the elders teach the youth, to the ways that water is treated in the community — everything and everyone directly impacts the remaining vegetation, the river and the mountains. It’s a full circle. We echoed his excitement as we listened to his solutions, and his eagerness to effect positive change through education. Teaching is so important to Khadim, and it shows. Again, against the dark and rugged spires of the Karakoram, we had the chance to meet another kind soul full of awareness and love for his people; another person in the middle of the mountains talking about change and deeply caring.
Left: A Hushe high-altitude climber and friend, Taqi. Top: Hushe youth. Following page: The Rupal Face, lit by the full moon. 12
Also in Hushe, we spent time with a famous Balti climber known as Little Karim. As his nickname suggests, Mohammad Karim is a small man, but his spirit is as immense as the mountains he has scaled as a high-altitude porter. He has climbed Gasherbrum II without supplemental oxygen, and has scaled the upper reaches of K2 carrying heavy loads. The story of Little Karim is a long one, full of feats of mental strength and vigour. Over the years, he has saved egocentric climbers, and put his life at risk on many occasions. He has also helped celebrities reach their lofty goals, including in 1985 when he carried a five-metre long paraglider wing to the top of Gasherbrum II, for famous French climber, Jean-Marc Boivin. Little Karim cared for everyone in the mountains, no matter their convictions or values. We saw his love for his community, too, sharing what he had with the young and the old. It seemed paradoxical to witness such will for life in such a wild land. Ultimately, though, this land and its inhabitants are aligned. The people are as resilient as the mountains above them. Their traits tell stories just as the slow-moving glaciers do. More and more, I think of this region as a place of clarity, where you can see and feel the shifting of the world. It’s a place where you have to act and react to survive. Enduring communities have emerged from the land, that are obliged to feel their surroundings and the pulse of their people. In the high mountains of the Karakoram, you can feel the heartbeat of the world. I would like to thank everyone I met who let me know them, photograph them and tell their stories through my work. I am just as grateful for the land that was sometimes hard on us, and sometimes kind to us, but that notably gave us a new perspective of this fascinating world. yankaczynski.com
@yankaczynski
Top: Overwhelming beauty. Right: My friend and legend, Mr Little Karim. 15
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Gran Guanche An adventurous cycling route offering a unique perspective of the Canary Islands WORDS ALBA XANDRI PHOTOGRAPHS RICARD CALMET
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rom sandy beaches to snow-capped peaks, through empty deserts, enchanted rainforests, moon-like volcanic landscapes, lush tropical canyons, sand dunes, black lava fields, and ancient pine forests. This archipelago seems to host every corner of the planet ... and some sights from another world.’ This is how Matteo Minelli described his creation, the Gran Guanche — a jewel of a cycling route across the Canary Islands. It’s a route that enables visitors to discover the archipelago’s changing landscape, cultural and historical heritage, starry skies and the vastness of the ocean. After reading Matt’s description, who could resist a bikepacking trip to the Canaries? We definitely couldn’t, so we flew to Arrecife, on the island of Lanzarote. My riding partner, Ricard, and I felt that the best way to start the route was by visiting the man who had designed it. We pedaled from the airport to the area where the route begins, and further on to Matt’s hostel in Nazaret. We didn’t know if we would arrive before dark, but the desire to meet him meant that our path was illuminated for a while by the little lights of our headlamps. A smiling Matt opened the door of a typical Lanzarote white house that had been converted into a hostel. We immediately started talking about the route, bicycles, the island and life. Matt is Italian, and he treated us to an excellent pasta with clams, drizzled with a good white wine. We had time to exchange experiences and, above all, to learn about the inspiration behind the Gran Guanche. Matt has always been keen to show his friends that the Canary Islands offer far more than just mass tourism, beaches and partying; that there are also fascinating natural and rural sides to the islands that most people don’t see. So, during the Covid lockdown, he devised the route of the Gran Guanche.
Previous page: Riding through pine tree forests. This page: Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Lanzarote.
We settled on a sui generis route that combined the gravel and trail versions, starting in Lanzarote and ending in La Palma, traversing the islands of Fuerteventura, Gran Canaria, Tenerife and El Hierro. In Lanzarote, the Gran Guanche led us along paths across seas of lava, near the Timanfaya National Park and through the Janubio salt flats. It was beautiful, despite being battered by the incessant wind. In the end, we managed to catch a ferry that took us to the beaches of the arid Fuerteventura, the Canary Island closest to the African continent. Here, a section of the route skirts the coast. Although we already had a few kilometers on our legs, we had the opportunity to see the precise moment when the sun appeared in all its immensity in front of us. A strong gust blew our backs and we advanced like old sailors with the wind in their sails. Meanwhile, surfers were taking advantage of the last waves before dark, and others had beers in hand as they prepared dinner in their beach-side vans. The sun was perfect; tinted a deep yellow by
the floating sand from the Sahara. It was a moment that seemed more typical of the African continent. It was a moment of peace, of feeling grateful for the day, and for life. The following day, we were on Gran Canaria Island, and cycled up to Pico de las Nieves (1,956 masl). This meant veering off the Gran Guanche route for a couple of kilometres, because we didn’t want to miss the opportunity of reaching the summit. We camped nearby, in a magical place with views of the ancient rock towers of Roque Nublo and Roque Bentayga. We were unaware that the following morning had something wonderful in store for us. The Tamadaba Natural Park is among the most spectacular parts of the Gran Guanche. The park has been declared a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, with fabulous natural forests of native Canarian pine, rich biodiversity, high cliffs, and an inaccessible coastline. Best of all, is that the Gran Guanche crosses the park along a track where motorised vehicles are prohibited.
Top: Volcanic trails in Lanzarote. Right: Fantastic dirt roads near Tamadaba Natural Park. Following page right: Colourful architecture in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. Following page top: Magical sunset in Fuerteventura. Following page bottom: From the highlands down to the coast through Tamadaba Natural Park. 21
After Lanzarote, Fuerteventura and Gran Canaria, the next stop on our itinerary was Tenerife — the beach, sun and party island. That was how we knew it, but the Gran Guanche gave us another lesson. There was another side to Tenerife. We discovered an island where water was scarce, and forested trails led us to the foot of Teide — the highest mountain in Spain (3,715 masl). We followed the trails in the fog for hours, until the mountain’s majestic cone appeared. That was where the Guanches came to mind — the indigenous inhabitants of Tenerife, until the Castilian conquest of 1496. I was impressed when I thought about how they lived, in caves and huts, dressed in furs. I wrapped myself up in all that I had with me and still shivered. I started wondered how we have evolved. I didn’t find an answer in that moment, and opted not to share my crazy ideas with Ricard. It was a great day, and a unique and beautiful way to get to know Tenerife. Matt was achieving what he had intended with the Gran Guanche: to reveal the rural and unknown sides of the Canary Islands. On the following afternoon, we docked at the Puerto de la Estaca, on El Hierro Island. Our most immediate mission was to find a place to sleep. The night was calm with a pleasant warm breeze, and a full moon shone above us within a blanket of stars. Because the weather was mild and the sky was worth watching, we decided to bivouac near the port, by the hermitage of San Telmo. We rested as if we were in the best of beds. Left: The massive Teide Mountain, the highest peak in the Canary Islands, and in Spain. Bottom: A mural in Gran Canaria.
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We woke up at first light to a grey dawn. I was transported to the rugged Irish west coast, where the mist gives way to a green and ancient landscape. On El Hierro, we were wet and cold, and even had to navigate a landslide, but I fell in love with the island. It captivated me, and made me feel part of nature. Our last adventure was on the beautiful island of La Palma. We spent the first morning surrounded by ferns, tropical birds, mossy rocks and slippery roots, and eventually reached the emblematic Roque de los Muchachos (2,426 masl). The terrain and vegetation changed drastically, giving way to pine forests, vineyards and banana groves. We enjoyed ourselves like two adventurous children, alone in a forest. We camped, cooked and made a fire, and waited for the moon to say goodnight. In the morning, we cycled further until we reached our final destination, Santa Cruz de la Palma — a flirtatious city that whispers stories of conquerors, corsairs and adventurers from overseas. We treated ourselves to a couple of nights in the impressive Don Gabriel House. Sleeping on a mattress again in this wonderful, historical house, and enjoying delicious Canarian cuisine, restored the energy that we had left on the trails and slopes of the Canary Islands. Our Gran Guanche experience had led us 900 kilometres across some incredible landscapes. If Matt’s goal was to enable visitors to discover the unknown essence of the Canary Islands by bicycle, he has undoubtedly succeeded. Side note: Cycling the Gran Guanche involves a lot of island hopping by ferry. It’s a fun aspect of the trip, but also a cost that needs to be factored in. You have to plan well, too, because if you miss a ferry you can be stuck for 12 or even 24 hours on an island. So don’t forget to check the schedules of the ferry companies. Alba and Ricard’s Gran Guanche route is available on komoot.com. Ricard also created a short film of their trip, which you can watch on vimeo.com. Previous page: Our bivy spot on El Hierro Island. Top: Misty roads on El Hierro. Right: Lush forests on La Palma Island. 29
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Mountains of Heaven A remote adventure in the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS AARON ROLPH
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he Alps have been a playground for the adventurous for nearly two centuries. Despite the dangerous terrain and harsh conditions, the most advanced lift infrastructure in the world can now take you to dizzying heights in no time at all. In Chamonix, for example — the beautiful mountain town I’m lucky to call my home — you can reach the notorious 3,777-metre high Aiguille du Midi in just 20 minutes. While steeped in history, I think it’s safe to say that the Alps are no longer as remote and wild as they once were. The golden age of alpinism — when the majority of the highest peaks in the Alps were climbed for the first time — lasted 11 years, from 1854 to 1865. Reading accounts of the summer endeavours of those mountaineering pioneers, it doesn’t feel as though much has changed. Mountain lovers come from all over the world to climb the tallest peaks of the Alps, and mainly via their easiest routes. With the growth of affordable travel, however, this life-affirming luxury isn’t limited to Etonian aristocrats. Some 30,000 people climb Mont Blanc each year, and most of those by one or two routes in peak season. My aim isn’t to discourage anyone from climbing in the Alps, or to undermine the achievements of such gruelling ascents. I do think it’s worth recognising, though, that there is a certain level of predictability in modern alpinism for most. There is a wealth of information available nowadays: countless trip reports, YouTube videos, hourly weather forecasts and, if the unthinkable happens, the invariable option of a helicopter rescue. Having this support is
undoubtedly a great benefit; it reduces the unknowns and mitigates some of the risk. I do feel, however, that it is these unknowns that yield the very best adventures, and the fulfilling experiences many of us are chasing. To test this theory, I headed to the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan with my climbing partner, Alex, with little more than a map and a backpack. Kyrgyzstan has been dubbed ‘the Switzerland of Central Asia’, not for luxury timepieces or a booming finance sector, but because it is made up almost entirely of mountains. While there are 82 peaks over 4,000 m in the Alps, Kyrgyzstan boasts 88 mountain ranges, so there’s no shortage of objectives to choose from. Alex had limited time off work, so we settled on an area south of Karakol that appeared to have several exciting 4,000 and 5,000-metre peaks. We made every effort to shorten our approach by using the rough-and-ready Toyota 4x4 we hired from the capital, Bishkek, but the terrain eventually forced us to park up and continue on foot. With a week’s worth of food on our backs, we began hiking through the valley towards the high mountains. Despite our heavy loads, I felt a distinct sense of freedom that only an expedition without a rigid plan can bring about. Although we aimed to climb some mountains, our main mission was simply to experience all that the range could offer, and to have a great time doing so. Passing nomadic communities that live off the land, we made our way through the glacial plains beside a meandering river, leaving the autumnal hues behind as we gained altitude.
Previous page: Reaching the ridgeline. Top right: Making good use of our 4x4 for the offroad approach. Bottom right: The last person we’d see on the trip — a nomad farmer. Following page: Horses grazing in the valley. 33
Clambering over a melee of boulders, I caught my first glimpse of the mountains we were aiming for, and they were just as impressive as I’d hoped. I saw the daunting north face of Djigit in the distance, where rocky outcrops and overhanging seracs appeared permanently shrouded in shadow. After a couple of days hiking, we eventually reached the glacier snout, and with it a wall of frigid air. Roping up and readying tools, we navigated our way through the ice. It appeared simple enough at first, but the slope steepened and the fresh snow was soon well over our knees. Bootpacking with heavy backpacks on the snowy rock face, which had softned in the afternoon sun, made for a gruelling ascent. We navigated gaping crevasses and made our way up the ridge, keeping a constant eye on an overhanging cornice, before finally reaching our 4,000-metre base camp on the col. From here we were able to survey the area we knew so little about. With limited information in Russian and none in English, we didn’t know much about the conditions or technical requirements of the surrounding peaks. The old Soviet maps that we had acquired were of such a large scale that we would have been better off with an A–Z, and we mainly relied on the trusty FATMAP app on our phones. Perhaps for the ultimate adventure, we should have tossed our phones into the glacier and navigated by the stars — but I suppose we all have our limits. As the sun dipped behind the peaks, the temperature instantly dropped and the air felt bitterly cold. Nursing banging headaches from the exertion at altitude, we skipped dinner and clambered into our sleeping bags, agreeing to look at the rocky peaks to our east in the morning.
Top left: First glance of the high alpine. Bottom left: After negotiating a cornice we managed to follow the ridgeline which offered plenty of exposure in icy conditions. 38
The night was long, cold and uncomfortable, as is so common before proper acclimatisation has taken place. Facing south, the sun greeted us early, and I emerged from our tiny tent to thaw myself out in the warm rays and get the coffee on. After a leisurely breakfast, we started ascending the ridge along a beautiful mixed climbing and scrambling route. Alex and I both moved well, and we called it a day after navigating the ridge to an unnamed 4,400-metre peak. Taking a moment to admire the vistas, I couldn’t help but wonder why the 4,000ers in the Alps were so sought after, and why the summit we stood on didn’t even have a name. The lure of the dominant Djigit (5,170 m) was ever-present. The peak that we successfully ascended provided the perfect vantage point, and after careful consideration we decided to aim for Djigit’s north east ridge. To our knowledge, it was a route that may have never been climbed before. The following morning, we descended the glacier at first light until we reached an incredibly complex crevassed stretch with numerous weak bridges to traverse. We eventually opted to climb the ridge’s steep icy slopes directly, avoiding the worst of the messy glacier in the heat of the day.
Left: The snowy ice pitch up to Djigit Peak. Top right: Awaiting much-needed warmth from the first sunlight. Bottom right: Advanced base camp. Following page: Negotiating the rocky ridgeline.
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I led up the slopes as I’m naturally more comfortable on snow and ice, and we made good progress as the cold haze gave way to bright sunshine. Alex took over as we reached the top of the last ice pitch; as a strong climber he was better positioned to lead us through the complex rock towers. It was clear that most of the ridge was insecure, as much of the rock face moved under touch. It became increasingly difficult to put in decent protection to keep us safe, and rockfall was a serious concern as we searched meticulously for a route. Nearing the high point of this huge rock band, we spotted an area where the snow and ice came back into play. But no matter where we looked, there seemed to be no way across the rock without risking it all. We were now delicately poised on the exposed tower, attempting to traverse steep gullies in search of rock that we could trust. With little success, it become clear that the risks weren’t worth taking, not least because we really were on our own on the mountain. Peaks were scattered across the horizon as far as the eye could see, and we hadn’t seen a soul for seven days. I couldn’t believe how lucky we were to have the entire mountain range to ourselves. Around 500 m shy of the summit, we took in the last of the views before admitting defeat, and with it the chance to fight another day. On this occasion, we never did manage to put a new route up the magnificent Djigit Peak. But with little expectation or pressure, we still had the trip of a lifetime. We could have easily set a goal in the Alps with a much better chance of bagging a summit, but to what end? Now and again it’s worth choosing the remote adventure, and daring to head into the unknown. @aaronrolph | @britishadventurecollective britishadventurecollective.com
Left: Looking out across a vast mountain range knowing there’s not another soul for miles and miles.
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The Wilder Interview
Jonas Deichmann
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onas Deichmann is a German adventurer and ultra-endurance athlete who continues to push his own limits. He has set numerous world records for ambitious continental crossings, including an 18,000 km cycling challenge from Cape North in Norway to Cape Town in South Africa — which he accomplished in just 72 days. But his latest challenge trumps them all. In September 2020, Jonas set out on a roundthe-world triathlon, aiming to circumnavigate the globe by swimming, biking and running. He began by cycling from Munich to Croatia, where he then swam along the country’s coastline for 54 days. After cycling to Russia, he was forced to wait by the border for 13 weeks due to Covid restrictions. It was winter by the time he was eventually allowed across the border, and he was forced to endure freezing temperatures cycling across Siberia. His original plan was to then hop on a boat to the United States, but further restrictions led him on a flight to Mexico. Here, he spent months running across the country, and became known nationwide as the ‘German Forrest Gump’. In October 2021, he flew from Cancun to Portugal to complete the journey’s final leg — a bike ride back to Munich. The stats from his epic adventure are incredible. Over the 429 days it took him to complete the challenge, he swam 460 km, cycled 21,000 km, and ran 5,060 km. In Mexico, he ran over a marathon a day for 117 consecutive days. His total triathlon distance is equivalent to approximately 120 Ironman-length triathlons. Wilder’s editor, Jan Fox, recently caught up with Jonas to chat about the challenge, and his new book about the adventure, Das Limit Bin Nur Ich (The Limit is Just Me). Wilder: How did it feel to finally arrive back in Munich after such a long journey? Jonas: It wasn’t like the sprint finish of a race — where you’re racing and then in the next moment you’ve won. It wasn’t the case for me because for many months I already knew that
I would make it. So I had time to prepare for it. But it was still super exciting to see friends and family, who I hadn’t seen for 14 months. And it was also nice to finally finish. The past 14 months were the hardest, but also the best, time of my life. But the goal is always to finish. So even if it’s the best adventure ever, the goal is to finish, and afterwards there comes a new adventure. So I’m super happy, with a wife now and a son — so now comes a different chapter. You always seem to have a new challenge on the horizon. Were you already planning the next adventure before you finished the global triathlon? Yes I already have my next challenge. I know exactly what I’m going to do. If you finish a project like this, there are a few weeks of excitement, and a few weeks where you have lots of things to do. But once this is done, what do you do next? Do you go back to your old work and live in a house and everything, and go back to a routine? Sounds pretty boring to me, straight after an adventure like this. For that reason, I always have something new to look forward to. For now, I’m happy that it’s done. I just cycle for fun. And I run for fun. But I already know that in a few months (I don’t know whether it will be five, six, or seven months) there will be a point where I am ready again, and I want to prepare again for the next big adventure. It’s good to already have it on the horizon. Can you give us a clue what this next big challenge will be? It’s a state secret! But I can tell you that it will be at least as tough as the triathlon, and that no one has done it before. Looking back over the past 14 months, what were some of the moments that brought you the most joy? It was definitely Mexico. It was simply incredible, in so many ways. At the beginning, in Baja California, I was completely on my own,
Previous page: Jonas swimming in Norway // Markus Weinberg. Right: In Mexico with his Bubba Gump cap // Markus Weinberg
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running on small roads through the desert. I camped in beautiful spots with no one around. It was just amazing. And then suddenly, a month later, I was on TV and known as the German Forrest Gump, with hundreds of people running with me. So it was the complete opposite, but also amazing in a different way. And even more special in a way, because it was unplanned. You were originally meant to sail across to the US from Russia. Exactly, the original plan was to go to the US, but I couldn’t get in because of my previous Cape to Cape challenge, when I cycled through Iran and Sudan. Now I am on some kind of terrorist list, and I need to go to a US embassy for security clearance. At the time, the embassies were closed because of Covid. But that turned out to be the best bit of bad luck I’ve had in life, because Mexico was incredible. On one particular morning in Mexico, you were joined by a friendly street dog called La Coqueta. Tell me her story. La Coqueta lived on the streets of Durango. The local runners told me that she likes to run, and always followed them as they ran. That’s why they gave her the name La Coqueta, which means a flirty lady. But she was living on the street; she had no home. Then when I passed through, she followed me, and ran after me. I tried to get rid of her at first, because I would be passing through busy areas like Mexico City, and with the traffic it would be crazy; she would most likely die. But she slept in front of my tent, and she waited for me in front of supermarkets. She didn’t move. She just stayed where I was. I started to like her, of course, and I ended up on a local TV channel in Durango. I looked for someone to adopt her. Mexico is just crazy; she got adopted and got a big reception from the government — from the mayor and everything. She even got a medal around her neck. She became an honorary dog of the city. Now she has a nice home and food, and still goes running with the local runners. They always send me photos and videos of her. The national TV came to run a big story about her, so now she is Mexico’s most famous dog. The next day I was all over the national news — in every newspaper and on every news channel — as the German Forrest Gump. I was never alone again. You must have been surprised to suddenly get all this attention, having started out completely alone. Very surprised — no one knew me in Mexico in the beginning. I was a national celebrity overnight. It turned out to be quite a useful marketing campaign for Mexico, too… I never faced the dangers that people talk about in Mexico. Everyone was extremely nice. Many people in Europe and elsewhere associate Mexico with Netflix’s Narcos series and Hollywood films, and think they’ll probably be shot if they go there. But I was showing a very different side of Mexico. It’s simply an incredible country. Top left: Resting in camp in the Mexican desert // Ravir Film. Bottom left: Approaching the finish line in Cancun with other runners and cyclists on the final day of the running leg // Markus Weinberg 50
A lot of people have run marathons, so I think the scale of the running leg is what people will be able to grasp the most. How did you manage the mental challenge of running a marathon day after day, for 117 days? The mental challenge is about being able to see the finish line long before you are there. After I set off, marathons one and two were the hardest for me, because I hadn’t run for seven months. In the evening, I was pulling myself up the staircase with my hands. I was basically crawling. If you are in this situation, and you start to think OK this is marathon number two, and I still have 118 ahead of me, then that’s extremely demotivating, right? But in my mind, I was always just focusing on the next 20 km, where there would be a restaurant with tacos and chocolates, and where I would be happy again. That was the only thing on my mind, and from there I went on to the next one. So in a way, it was kind of a taco run. I broke down the big goals into smaller ones, and 120 days later I was at the finish line. That is the big secret: you need to set yourself small targets that you are always sure you will reach. That’s the only thing that matters. The swimming leg must have been trickier, because you didn’t have the same physical targets to aim towards. Would you say that was the toughest part of the triathlon? Definitely. I’m not a swimmer. I’ve never swum long distances before, so I had no idea what I was doing. And swimming is super tough because you get a lot of injuries from the salt water. You swallow water all the time, you have to deal with the waves and the currents, and the sleeping spots are horrible. On the bike and when I was running, if I didn’t find any sleeping spots I could run or cycle another 10 km and find one. But I was so slow when I was swimming, and I wanted to find somewhere to stop within the next kilometre. Often what I did find was horrible. I just slept on some rocks. So the mental aspect is much more difficult while swimming. Cycling or running, there is always something to see, and to
distract yourself with. I listened to music as I ran. But swimming, there was nothing, just water. It was incredibly boring. You sometimes swam at night as well. That must have been terrifying. It was. I never really got used to it, and I tried to avoid it if I could. It was usually a mistake when I found myself in the dark, from miscalculating the time because of a strong current or something like that. I couldn’t find a sleeping spot in time, so I just swam in the dark. It’s a terrifying feeling, especially when you are off the coast. Once I found myself 3 km off the coast, and it was pitch black. I was out there in the water, thinking I really shouldn’t be here. What impact did each leg of the journey have on your body physically? The three legs were completely different challenges, and my body changed depending on the situation. On the swimming leg, the main physical challenge was the cuts from small rocks — open wounds, basically, from the salt water and my wetsuit. It was a lot of pain caused by the elements. I’m a cyclist, so for the first time in my life I got some muscles in my upper body. So I put on a bit of weight during the swimming leg. Cycling was super easy for me, to be honest. I even put butter in my coffee to get some fat. So I maintained my weight in Siberia. Then for the running leg, the challenge again was different. From an endurance perspective, I could easily do it. But the main challenge was the impact on my knees and ankles after several marathons. I got super thin; I lost more than 10 kg running. So I basically lost all the muscles and weight I had gained in my upper body, and my legs also got very skinny. But the weight loss was absolutely necessary, because 1 kg less weight was 1 kg less impact on the body. After marathon 100, I felt stronger than marathon number 10. There was some tiredness, of course, but the effect of the conditioning and training was bigger.
Previous page: Braving brutal blizzards in Russia // Ravir Film. Right: Cycling through winter // Markus Weinberg. Bottom right: Approaching the end of the swimming leg in Dubrovnik, after 456 km in the water // Markus Weinberg 53
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Tell me about some of the charities that you partnered with along the way, and how they were supported. The two main charities were Oxfam — focusing on environmental protection — and World Bicycle Relief, which does a lot of work in Africa. They give bicycles to children in small villages where there are no schools, or no public transport to take children to school. Together, we raised around €30,000. You’ve since released a book about the triathlon, Das Limit Bin Nur Ich — what can readers expect from that? In English, the title means ‘The Limit is Just Me’. It will actually come out in English in April 2022 — we are currently translating it. It is the story of my adventure, with so many anecdotes and nice pictures, and also my emotions and how I deal with different situations. So it’s an adventure book, but also with a focus on the psychology of the challenge. It’s definitely the only book available about a round-the-world trip during a pandemic! You give a lot of motivational corporate talks, too — are there any lessons in the book that apply to the business world? Many. Everything I do is relevant to the business world. In the end, success in business and adventure are very similar. It’s about resilience, goal setting, and the mindset behind
it. In the business world, they have the same challenges. My projects are ambitious, with finish lines that are very far away, and it’s exactly the same with a new business project. It’s about the next chocolate bar — you have to stay motivated even if your goal is far away. What other lessons do you hope to inspire through your adventures? The hardest thing is always to get to the start line. But it’s worth getting there. Most expeditions fail before they start. It’s the same with most dreams — whether it’s starting a new company, or travelling around the world. Most dreams will never even be attempted because it’s easier to stay in your comfort zone. It’s always easier to not change, to leave everything as it is, because taking risks is sometimes uncomfortable. But it’s worth it, and it’s not that hard. I had no idea about swimming, and now I’ve swum 460 km to the Mediterranean Sea. I wasn’t a runner either, and now I’ve run 120 marathons in a row. In the end, it’s simply about mindset, and having the motivation and belief that you can do it. And it’s absolutely worth it. So my best advice is: if you have a big dream, prepare for it, but go for it now. Don’t over plan, or worry — just do it. If you give 100 percent, you will eventually find a way. Jonas tracked the route of his round-the-world triathlon, which you can view on komoot.com. jonasdeichmann.com
@jonas_deichmann
Left: Taking a well-earned break in Mexico // Markus Weinberg 56
All roars lead to conservation Empowering women through snow leopard conservation in Tajikistan WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS ANA-MARIA PAVALACHE
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t’s 6:30 in the morning and we have already been up for three hours. Two hours go by without any signs of wildlife. Nyozmoi and Gulizor scope the dusty ridge through their binoculars, looking for traces of creatures that have been in these mountains long before humans arrived. They choose to adopt the pace of nature, and continue to wait patiently while others begin collecting ripe figs for breakfast. It’s their first time in the backcountry watching wildlife. There seems to be nothing worth paying attention to, until Nyozmoi directs our eyes to a rock perched on the ridge. And there it is, a
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female markhor with her kids, totally still. We all stop and watch this wild goat — a species that not so long ago was speeding towards extinction as a prime target for poachers and illegal trophy hunters. Since establishing conservation projects in the range of the Tajik markhor, local hunters have been able to help the population increase by managing sustainable subsistence, trophy hunting and tourism in the area. So the sight of one now is definitely worthy of our attention. It’s something worth roaring about. During and after Tajikistan’s civil war from 1992 to 1997, poaching increasingly affected the
mountain ungulate species. Especially in the Pamirs — the eastern part of Tajikistan where the landscape is dominated by some of the highest mountain peaks in the world — food was insufficient, arms were easily accessible, and hunting regulations were not enforced. Predators, such as snow leopards, starved or were killed when turning to domestic animals for prey. Since then, poachers have come to understand that intensive hunting will do more harm than good. It affects their own hunting opportunities and threatens wild animals with cultural value in local traditions. According to local legend, the snow leopard is pari or mergich — a holy and powerful being that needs
to be propitiated to ensure the success of summer herding and dairy production, as well as successful hunting. Community rangers who gather under the Hunting & Conservation Alliance of Tajikistan (known today as ANCOT, the Association of Nature Conservation Organizations of Tajikistan), patrol the land to prevent poaching. Their goal is to stabilise and increase wild ungulate populations, as well as to support and increase the number of local snow leopards. Previous page: The Panj River forms a natural border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. Above: Nyozmoi and Gulizor enchanted by their first sight of wildlife. 60
In southern Tajikistan, where the roaring waters of the Panj River separate Tajik cliffs from Afghan summits, new allies of Tajik wildlife roar for a future full of possibilities. Until very recently, only men worked as rangers and guides. Community meetings were male-only, whereas women carried out domestic duties, and interactions with local women were restricted to their homes. Tanya Rosen, a former director of Panthera’s Snow Leopard Program in Central Asia, and her team realised that these women represented a potentially powerful force for wildlife conservation. Together with Piia Kortsalo, we joined the Tajik Women & Conservation Initiative to train the newest voices in the conservation scheme of Tajikistan: the local young women. Five of them came from the nearby and very conservative district, Shuroobod. They were quite shy at the beginning, and to complicate communication only one of the women spoke English. However, once we introduced each other, things quickly changed. Their main motivation to take part in the training was to meet foreigners and to become familiar with flora and wildlife of their homeland. None of them knew what a conservancy was all about, or had relatives working in this field. They all came from villages right at the foot of the mountains, so the gorgeous landscapes weren’t new to them. But they had never been encouraged to look at them as something to conquer. Until this day, none of them could imagine hiking in the mountains. Our first lunch brought lots of confusion. Being served by men was highly unusual, and embarrassing even, for these young women. It was obvious that letting go of cultural norms was difficult, but the feeling of discomfort finally burst out as silly jokes and laughter. This was also a new experience for the male rangers, who would normally only provide this service to foreign female tourists. To attend the training, four of the young women travelled all the way from the jamoats of Alichur and Bartang in the Pamir Mountains — ‘The Roof of the World’. They had already done some outdoor skills and guiding training, and were eager to explore areas different from their own. It was with these nine young women that we spent the days in the nearby mountains, learning and experiencing what it was like to eat, sleep and survive outside.
Top left: After starting in the dark the trainees arrived at camp, where they hoped to see markhor. Bottom left: The young women getting to know the mountains. 62
During the first days out, we worked on basic hiking and outdoor skills, and familiarised the group with different hiking gear. We first practiced sleeping outside in tents and sleeping bags close to the main hunting camp in Darvoz, and then hiked further in two other conservancies. There we learned that practical outdoor skills such as navigation and camping basics were about more than just survival. These skills taught our trainees about independence, resilience and adaptability. It showed them that they could rely on themselves. With the help of the four young male guides from nearby conservancies, our daily training also included topics such as conservation, sustainable tourism and hunting, local wildlife identification and responsible wildlife viewing. We discussed what it meant to bring outsiders to their land, and to introduce them to the wild treasures of their beautiful home country — in a way that preserves this beauty in all its forms. And we pondered what is it to be a pioneer — to be among the first girls and women trained as hunting and hiking guides in one of the poorest countries in Central Asia, where the culture is very traditional. As the training days went by, we witnessed shy girls become responsible, confident young women who could lead a tourist group through rocky hiking trails. We witnessed how traditional sandals and dresses were changed into hiking pants and shirts, while unique cultural features, manners and traditions were still sustained and cherished. We noticed eyes and minds opening to an unfamiliar world in their own backyard. The mornings rewarded us with freshness and light, and the nights were clear and bright. For most of the trainees, this was their first experience of this kind. The most memorable moments included a bear quietly wandering through the camp early in the morning; you can imagine the fear, the awe, the wonder, and the curiosity of our trainees. We also playfully tested their leadership skills by role-playing different challenges. One was an encounter with a tourist group while we hiked through the Shurobak Canyon — a rare geological formation unique to the region. Clockwise from the top: Rangers sharing their wildlife knowledge with the trainees; Anisa and Latifa getting the hang of map reading; The Shurobak Canyon. Following page: The bridge might not seem solid, but it was far better than the alternative.
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It was heart-warming how the people working in the villages and the three conservancies we visited (M-Sayod in Darvoz, and M-Bukhori and Saidi Tagnob in Shamsiddin Shohin) offered nothing but open-mindedness and support to this cause. We received warm hospitality, and car rides and pack donkeys were organised on short notice. We were also involved in discussions on the development of the conservancies towards better, community-based conservation practices. It may be difficult for a city-dweller to imagine a life in a country where those who work to protect wildlife face unimaginable challenges — from a wealthy man trying to shut down conservation organisations, to locals hoping to harvest a living from wildlife to get by. It would be easy to feel despair and to give in. The encouragement and support that we as trainers received was empowering, and we owe a huge thank you to all of those involved: Tanya Rosen, the other Panthera staff in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, ANCOT founder, Khalil Karimov, the other ANCOT staff in Tajikistan, and the local people in the conservancies and villages. With their support, we were able to inspire the young women to admire the environment they live in, to recognise the problems and threats that such ecosystems and landscapes face, and to seek solutions that will lead to a better future for all creatures under the roasting sun. They have learnt to leave no trace and to take only memories, to dare to follow the most intimidating trails, and to keep an eye on those wild treasures — the snakes, the bee-eaters, the ungulates, the bears and, if they are lucky, the snow leopards. Most importantly, they have been inspired to believe in the possibilities of young women as participators, as guides, and as roaring leaders for wildlife. tajwildlife.com
@tajwildlife
Top left: Nyozmoi, Gulizor and Ibodati immersed in the beauty of nature. Bottom left: In Shamsiddin Shohin waiting for the wildlife to emerge as the sun goes down. 68
Portfolio
Clement Kiragu Clement Kiragu is a Kenyan storyteller, photographer and cinematographer. His goal is to use his knowledge to create powerful visual impacts through African wildlife films. In Kenya, he is also a Canon Ambassador, and leads private photo safaris across the country. In this edition’s Portfolio feature, we go behind the lens of some of his most recognised wildlife images. WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS CLEMENT KIRAGU
Eternal Love Maasai Mara, Kenya Lorian was about seven years old when I met her back in 2015. It’s rare to encounter a leopard and her cub out in the open. They usually hide in thickets, caves or holes in the ground to protect their young ones. But on this occasion — on the first day of my seven-day trip to the Mara — Lorian lay on a small anthill, playing with her beautiful two-month-old cub. It was a sight for sore eyes, and an excellent opportunity for photography. The cub jumped up and down on her mum, and you could see her predator instincts kicking in, as she tried to perform the ‘kill bite’ on her mum in the cutest way. I was with these two for almost two hours, until there was no light left (photographically speaking). Big cats have the strongest bonds with their cubs — bonds of eternal love. Canon EOS 1 Dx Mark II 1/320 sec; f/6.3; ISO 1000
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Cloud of Dust Maasai Mara, Kenya It was a warm September evening in 2018. I was with my photo safari guests on the bank of the Mara River, hoping to see a dramatic crossing before the day ended. Instead, a herd of zebras started gathering by the river. The sun was behind a very dark cloud, and I remember wishing for the cloud to pass so we could get some lovely rays of light. Then, just by the river, I spotted the tail of a lioness, and I immediately advised my guests to shift their attention to her. She sprang to action as anticipated, and it was a dramatic photographic opportunity. The hunt failed, as they often do for lions. You could almost feel her disappointment as she sat hunched over, alone in a cloud of dust. Canon EOS 1 Dx Mark II 1/3200 sec; f/6.3; ISO 800
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Birds & Giants Amboseli, Kenya The name Amboseli is derived from a Maasai word meaning ‘salty dust’. It’s a beautiful national park in the southern region of Kenya, towered over by the mighty Mount Kilimanjaro. It’s a paradise for gentle giants and over 400 bird species across a range of landscapes — from dry plains to seasonal lakes. I have been visiting the park since 2016, and it never ceases to amaze me. There are few better spots to observe or document elephants in the wild. They are used to human visitors, so stay calm as you get up close. Canon EOS R5 1/2000 sec; f/5.6; ISO 400
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In the Spotlight Maasai Mara, Kenya There are no dull days on the African savannah. On this rainy day in April 2018, most people returned to their camps and lodges. But I stayed out. I knew that conditions in the Maasai Mara could change drastically, and very quickly. As we drove around, I saw this beautiful rainbow form in the sky. We had to find another subject as quickly as possible, because perfect rainbows don’t last very long. Then I spotted a big herd of impalas on the plain, huddling together to keep warm in the rain. Groups like these typically consist of a single male impala, and a harem of females with their young ones. For some reason, the male wandered quite a distance from the group, creating this amazing composition, complemented by the dark sky and rainbow. The scene only lasted seconds — as is often the case with wildlife photography — so it’s very important to have the right equipment ready, and to understand the lighting and your camera settings. Canon EOS 5DS R 1/400 sec; f/5; ISO 1000
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Mighty Tim Amboseli, Kenya Since I started photographing wildlife back in 2014, I had heard tales of a gentle giant. A true icon and representation of the disappearing ‘Big Tuskers’. His name was Tim. I vowed to travel to Amboseli to meet him, and in May 2016, my dream came true. All I had to do was find an experienced guide to help me track him. On the third day of the search, I still hadn’t found the big fellow. We decided to stick with a certain herd and get some good portraits in the evening light. As I was buried in my viewfinder trying to get some interesting angles of my subjects, my guide frantically started calling my name. I thought we were under attack. I sat upright and tried to locate what the guide was trying to show me with my binoculars. There he was, the mighty Tim in the golden light. Tim lived to 50 years old, and passed on in February 2020 of natural causes. I am glad that I got to meet and photograph this icon, and happy that he got to live a wild and free life. He was a true ambassador for his species. Canon EOS 1 Dx Mark II 1/640 sec; f/8; ISO 1000
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Step Into the Light Maasai Mara, Kenya For the better part of 2017, I spent a lot of time studying big cat behaviour. I came to learn that part of big cat life, strangely, is survival. We mostly think of them as a lucky group of animals that get everything they desire by overpowering other animals on the savannah. However, big cats also face a lot of challenges to survive and to provide for their young ones. Leopards are the most elusive of the big cats, and to capture them on a successful hunt and in good light is one of the hardest things to do as a wildlife photographer. We followed this specific leopard with my guide for three days. Unfortunately, all his hunting attempts failed because he was still young and hadn’t perfected the art of stalking. By our third day, frustration levels were high. We kept eyes on him all morning, but lost him in the bushes for most of the afternoon. Then, as the sun was setting and we were about to give up, we noticed some impalas approaching a stream near where the leopard had disappeared. My guide suggested that we wait a bit longer. In his words: ‘The fact that we have not seen him all afternoon does not mean he has not been watching us’. Then, when the impalas inched closer, he suddenly emerged from the bushes in a stalking position, just as the last light of the day hit his beautiful face. Canon EOS 5DS R 1/500 sec; f6.3; ISO 3200
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Everlasting Bonds Maasai Mara, Kenya Lions are incredibly affectionate animals. Lionesses spend their lives with other females, usually mothers or sisters, and their cubs at the core of the pride. When you spend time with them, you can see that they constantly show affection to each other and their cubs. This behaviour heightens after situations of danger. On this day, a group of nomadic males attempted a takeover of this pride. Even after they had successfully escaped the attack, they stayed close to each other, fully alert and constantly embracing each other. It’s built into the lion code to stick together, hunt together, and defend their territory together for the strength and survival of the pride. Canon EOS 1 Dx Mark II 1/1000sec; f/6.3; ISO 640 jjjjj clementwild.com @clement.wild
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White gold Axel Carion navigates the lithium-rich salt flats of the Atacama Desert WORDS AXEL CARION PHOTOGRAPHS DAVID STYV
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P
icture one of the driest places on Earth, where some say it hasn’t rained for over 50 years. This no man’s land — Chile’s Atacama Desert — is wedged between brutal but amazing ancient landscapes: the Atacama Trench in the eastern Pacific Ocean, and the Andes Mountains. Wherever you look, you are surrounded by 6,000-metre high volcanoes, scarlet lakes and salt deserts with scarce flora and vicuñas. The Atacama’s name stems from the Atacameños — the first inhabitants of this hostile land. Over the centuries that followed, numerous civilisations survived in the area and exploited its resources, from ceramics to cattle and minerals. My base camp — the village of San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile — has served for many years as a shelter for the souls and bodies of shepherds in the past, and for today’s adventurous travellers. But the living conditions here are tough. With more than 3,500 hours of sunlight per year, and a UV factor of 11 (on a scale of 11), the sun is scorching. At night in San Pedro, you can lie comfortably rolled up in a warm blanket in one of the village’s many guesthouses, as music drifts in from the bars. If you dare to explore the high-altitude surroundings, you can easily face temperatures as low as – 15 °C. At 2,500 m high, you feel alive in San Pedro. But asphyxia kicks in as soon as you leave the village and pedal to the top of the surrounding passes. I was fortunate enough to return to this stunning geological theatre after first exploring it by bicycle in 2015. On that trip, I crossed over into the sun-scorched San Pedro from the Bolivian Lipez with a couple of friends. Then, in 2017, I rode from northern Chile along the border of the Peruvian desert. I passed through Paso Jama, which acts as a natural border with Argentina, where I had a very frightening experience in one of the powerful storms that are notorious at such altitudes.
Previous page: A memorable sunset in the Atacama. Left: The gigantic geology of the Atacama Desert. Following page: Patterns of the landscape from above.
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In these unprecedented Covid times, the atmospheres of the places we travelled through were changing. In the village oasis of San Pedro, only some of the businesses were reopening. It felt awkward arriving to the village to explore the desert, and to find all the residents locked up in their homes. Most of the tourist stops were closed to the public, which added to the drama of this isolated area. The more we travelled, though, the more we noticed more concerning changes beyond Covid and social distancing. Crossing regions by bike gives you freedom, but it also allows you to better understand and question the challenges facing these regions. The calm of the Atacama Desert is only superficial. The commanding Licancabur and Sairecabur volcanoes are the natural giants that guard the area, and witness the lust of mankind for minerals and lithium. Since my first cycle journey across the region in 2015, the landscapes of the Atacama have slowly changed as a result of human activity. On the one hand, local communities have built infrastructure to enable the exploration of surrounding natural parks — Salar de Aguas Calientes, Paso Sico, Geyser del Tatio, Valle de la Luna…. The challenging ripio dirt roads are slowly being asphalted, and guides in 4x4s check up on you to make sure that you don’t walk (or ride) outside the spaces dedicated to humans. Even in the deepest deserts, we construct lines to limit the possibilities of movement. While bivying at 4,400 m in a sandy spot, I heard the guides’ SUV driving back and forth trying to find me. Six years ago, the only sounds I heard at night were the freezing wind and the chilling cries of the vicuñas. Times are changing. In the morning I had a conversation with Oscar, Solange and Hector — the Chilean guides who lived at the doorstep of the Aguas Calientes salt desert for two weeks every month. Their explanation for the current situation in the Atacama was clear: gold-digging operations in the mountains were increasing rapidly, and so was the social pressure within the surrounding communities.
Top right: Licancabur (5,916 m) stands beside the moon. Bottom right: The geysers of the El Tatio geothermal field. Following page top: A panoramic view of Salar de Aguas Calientes. Following page bottom: Another view of El Tatio. 91
The topic of lithium came up in every conversation I had with Chileans when I discussed the Atacama. SQM (Sociedad Quimica y Minera de Chile) and Albemarle — two world giants mining lithium across the globe — are very active in the Atacama salt desert. It’s the largest salt desert in Chile, and one of the biggest lithium factories in the world. With consumer trends heading towards electrical vehicles, bikes and so much more, all eyes are on these areas. As I crossed the Atacama with my gravel bike, I traced deep ruts of sand and listened to the silence of the vast landscape. It was difficult to grasp the scale of the geopolitical stakes at play in a desert so calm. In a shimmering haze in the distance, I saw the factories that process lithium in the heart of the Salar. I tried to get a pass to cycle through, but this fortress is private. Local communities have started to prohibit or regulate access to tourist sites that were once open to everyone. In return, these communities are supported by the mining industry that exploits the ‘white gold’ so precious in this electric era. The paradox of lithium mining is that the industrial production process requires a lot of water. The Atacama is supplied with water through irrigation and exploitation of two rivers: Puritama and Purificada. These rivers are created by Andean thunderstorms at altitude, and by the natural slopes of the volcanoes along the Bolivian border. The question is: what will happen to these places when the lithium reserves run dry? What will happen to the surrounding giant mountains full of gold, copper and silver? Man imposes himself in a region by cultivating it and exploiting its resources, before abandoning his fortress and building new, more sophisticated ones elsewhere. Let’s hope that this magnificent region remains in reach of daring cyclists, longing to listen to the soul of the Atacama, and to gaze up to the Milky Way without any kind of pollution. It really is, and may always be, one of the most incredible places on Earth to explore on two wheels. axelcarion.com
@axel_carion
Top left: A friendly vicuña on the way to Paso Jama. Bottom left: Valle de la Luna and its alien geology. 96
Beasts without and within Jan Fox takes on the ultraMARAthon — a stunning 50-kilometre footrace across the wilds of Kenya’s Maasai Mara WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS ANGAMA | PLATCORP HOLDINGS
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shuffled along the straight gravel track, straining every ounce of energy I had left against the relentless wind. Parched grasslands stretched to the horizon either side of me, and a cluster of zebras eyed me curiously as I trudged by. I was deep in a spectacular wilderness, but it was no distraction from the sharp pain shooting up my calves. What am I doing here? At the start line, 44 long kilometres earlier, I was in a much better mood. A crowd of carb-loaded runners chatted and stretched anxiously, waiting for the Race Director’s orders. The start would be delayed, he announced, to allow the helicopter above us to drive an oblivious herd of elephants off the course. It was a reminder that this was no orderly city marathon. It was the UltraMARAthon — a gruelling 50-kilometre race across the wildlife-rich plains of the Maasai Mara. Over 200 competitors had signed up to test themselves and experience this stunning corner of Kenya on foot. It was also a creative way to raise funds for organisations protecting the Mara’s wildlife, and supporting the communities on the ecosystem’s fringes. The sun broke over a rounded hill behind us, and the plains turned to gold. I readjusted my trail vest, its pockets swollen with energy gels, and fiddled with my cheap running watch to hurry its GPS lock. Most of the runners spread along the start line were tackling a quarter or half of the course as part of a relay team. I stood on the far left of the line, with 20 others who would be braving the full 50 kilometres. I couldn’t help but size up all these red-race-number runners beside me. There were some familiar faces: super fit amateur ultra enthusiasts who I knew would eat up the miles. As a newbie to any competitive distance above a half marathon, it was difficult not to feel intimidated. I had to remind myself that I was there to beat the course, and no one else. The biggest mistake I could make would be getting lulled into another runner’s race. It would be a long day; I had to just relax and enjoy the ride as much as possible. Previous page: Cheering on a runner at the 37 km mark. This page: The start line at dawn.
‘3-2-1, GO!’ The relay runners shot across the line in a flash, and I let the pack flow past and filter into a gravel track a few hundred yards away. Full of adrenaline, we leaped across a shallow river and followed freshly laid chalk markings onto an adjacent plain. In no time my watch buzzed on my wrist at the one-kilometre mark; I was a good 30 seconds quicker than my target pace, and anything less seemed ridiculously slow. This feels great! Maybe 50 won’t be so bad after all…. I slotted in next to a couple of others running the full race, moving at a similar pace. I might have company the whole way too! We crested a ridge and the whole of the Mara seemed to open out ahead of us. In the distance to the southwest, the commanding Oloololo Escarpment stretched along the horizon. Between it and us were rolling plains, separated from each other by dark green snakes of vegetation beside seasonal rivers. In the gentle valley below, the runners at the head of the race scattered bewildered wildebeest — the remaining herds from last year’s migration from the Serengeti. After a few minutes of quiet admiration, the tall runner beside me broke the silence. ‘This really is a privilege.’ Around the five-kilometre mark, I started feeling a churning in my stomach. Whether from nerves, excitement or something more sinister, my gut had been in a poor state throughout the week leading up to the ultra. As a precaution, I’d popped a pre-race Imodium, but this now seemed unwise as the cramping intensified. No matter — there’ll be a Portaloo at each aid station. I’ll manage. Water points had been set up every six kilometres of the route, and as I approached the first, my spirits dropped. No loo. It’s fine; I can make it to the next one. The kilometres that followed flew by surprisingly smoothly, and I was enjoying the run again. The air was cool and the sky was mercifully overcast. I started to mentally scan the miles to calculate a realistic finish time at my current pace. If I kept it steady to the halfway point, and slowed down a touch when the heat kicked in, then I could do it in under — WHAM! A runner on the track ahead of me smacked into the gravel and tumbled over in the dust. I was glancing at my watch when it happened, and for a second I thought he’d been floored by an animal. Thankfully, there was no wildlife in sight, and he stood straight back up and regained his stride.
Top right: All smiles early on in the race. Bottom right: Valuable support along the way. Following page: A lonely runner and a wildebeest on the plains, with the wildlife-herding helicopter above. 101
My optimism ebbed and flowed as the kilometres ticked over, but after a half marathon I felt a long, long way from the finish. My pace dropped drastically and I lagged further and further behind my early running companions. The cramps in my abdomen seemed to spread down my hamstrings and tug at my Achilles with every laboured stride. My vest pockets were packed with the calories I needed to get me through the second half of the race, but my stomach lurched at the thought of sucking on a gooey, caffeinated energy gel. This is Hell. As the course sapped my physical strength out of me, I knew it would be a mental battle to the finish line. I had been fascinated by the psychology of elite ultra runners in the months leading up to the race. I’d juggled so many different opinions from coaches about optimum training distances and frequencies — especially for an inexperienced long-distance runner like myself. But the one area where there seemed to be some consensus was the importance of mastering pain. Pain is inevitable in an ultramarathon. And our relationship with it is a huge determinant of how far and fast we can go. ‘Make friends with pain, and you will never be alone’, Ken Chlouber, creator of the Leadville Trail 100, famously said. How this is done is a very personal process. Courtney Dauwalter — an ultra running icon — visualises chipping away at the walls of her ‘Pain Cave’ at the lowest moments of her races. Many others perceive pain as a living beast that needs to be tamed.
After 40 punishing kilometres, I didn’t feel alone. Not because I’d befriended the beasts gnawing at my dusty legs, but because my wife, Gabie, was driving beside me. Every few minutes, she would position the car 100-or-so yards ahead of me to give me a target to shuffle towards. By now, the clouds had cleared and the sun was beating down on the handful of us left out on the plains. Most of the other 50-kilometre runners were sipping cold beers at the finish line, but I tried not to let that discourage me. I’m only here to beat the course. The encouragement from rangers dispersed along the route helped me more than they knew. They had been out all day, too, keeping us safe from the surrounding wildlife. All I could do now was walk, and grit my teeth through the last few agonising kilometres. As I neared the end, another runner waited for me up ahead. Drawn to the finish by a cheering crowd, we broke into a jog and I flopped across the finish line. I hadn’t quite tamed my beasts of pain, but at that moment it didn’t matter. I’d completed one of the world’s unique ultramarathons, and it felt incredible. The ultraMARAthon raises funds for key conservation initiatives in the Mara. Beneficiaries of the 2021 race included The Mara Elephant Project — to aid recruitment, training and deployment of rangers — and the Africa Mission Services Birth Center, to expand a women’s health centre. For more information, head to ultramarathon.co.ke. The race route is available on komoot.com.
Left (clockwise from the top): More air support; a Maasai giraffe along the race route; A relay runner in the early morning. 106
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