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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 third issue of Wilder, we feature three unique endurance trail running stories from Canada and Kenya. As part of her mission to run unsupported across a mountain range on every continent, Jenny Tough attempts a solo traverse of the Canadian Rockies. In central Kenya, three long distance runners swap tarmac for the rugged trails of Mount Kenya, in pursuit of the fastest known time up and down Africa’s second highest peak. Also in Kenya, we profile the first ultra marathon in the Maasai Mara, in aid of the rangers who risk their lives to protect its wildlife. We then hear from grassroots conservation leader, and winner of the 2020 Tusk Award for Conservation in Africa, John Kamanga, about his vision for the co-existence of pastoralists and wildlife. We take a roadtrip across Namibia’s open plains, and trek with a family of mountain gorillas in Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park. We also witness the consequences of climate change in Alaska’s Denali National Park, and explore the vast Brooks Range on two wheels. JAN FOX FOUNDER & EDITOR
Right: A lion cub in Kenya // Guy Western Front cover: The Canadian Rockies // Jenny Tough @wilder.magazine
editor@wilder-mag.com
wilder-mag.com
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In this issue 1. Shocks and slides 11. Running the Rockies 23. A record run on Mount Kenya 37. Running for rangers 49. The Wilder Interview: John Kamanga 59. Nine nights in Namibia 75. Bikerafting the Brooks 87. Wild cooking in the Caucasus 103. Gorillas in the mix
Contributors
Emily Sullivan
Steve ‘Doom’ Fassbinder
Howard Saunders
Emily is a writer and photographer, working primarily in the 35 mm film format. After over a decade of guiding trips in Denali National Park, she now works as a community organiser focused on arctic advocacy. Her intimacy with subarctic ecosystems and her human-powered trips across Alaska’s landscapes inspire her work. Her favourite days are spent travelling long distances on skis, climbing, packrafting or identifying flowers. She lives and works on Dena’ina lands, now known as Anchorage, Alaska.
Doom is a photographer and co-owner of adventure travel company, Four Corners Guides, in Southwest Colorado. Always on the hunt for creative human-powered adventures, he can often be found pouring over maps both near and far from home. After a decade of using the packraft as a tool for adventure, he and partner, Lizzy Scully, have started a bikepacking and packrafting guide service with a strong focus on safety, education and self-reliance.
Howard is a professional safari guide based in Kenya’s Maasai Mara, and has led safaris throughout East Africa for over 20 years. He has become integrally involved with conservation work across the Maasai Mara ecosystem. He works to share with others the inspiration he draws from living in what many naturalists call the best location anywhere to see and photograph Africa’s iconic large mammals.
Jeremy Flint
Kieran Creevy
Jenny Tough
Jeremy is based in Oxfordshire, and is an award-winning professional photographer and writer. He specialises in travel and landscape photography. His work illustrates colourful and intimate moments that capture the essence of a place, and shows affection and optimism through his ability to connect with people. He also focuses on environmental portraiture, and has a passion for travel.
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, prepared six-course tasting menus with wine pairings in wilderness basecamps, and has led clients on mountain journeys on four continents.
Jenny is an adventurer, writer and filmmaker on an ambitious mission to run solo and unsupported across a mountain range on every continent. So far, she has managed to complete three world-first mountain range traverses, and only has one range left in her project. She has also taken on a broader mission to get more people outside and challenging their own comfort zones, particularly women and girls — a mission she has recently championed by launching her book: ‘Tough Women: Adventure Stories’.
It was a meeting with a French optician in 1959 that led to the creation of the legendary brand VUARNET. During this meeting, the optician, Roger Pouilloux, offered French ski champion, Jean Vuarnet, the 02 sunglasses model as a kind token of his admiration. The sunglasses were equipped with luminous Skilynx mineral glass lenses, which enabled the French skier to improve his performance. They highlighted contrasts and also enhanced depth perception for Vuarnet on the slopes of Squaw Valley several months later, during the 1960 Winter Olympics. VUARNET sunglasses are equipped with mineral lenses, which are produced in France in their very own factory near Paris. They are 100% natural and 100% recyclable. Head to vuarnet.com to learn more and shop their range of sport and lifestyle sunglasses.
Shocks & slides An attempt on Scott Peak WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS EMILY SULLIVAN
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nyone wanna ride the otter slide?’ I grin at Katherine and Taylor, waiting to see if they’ll roll their eyes or laugh — I’ve already asked this question four times today. Ever the self-appointed joker, I’m attempting to make light of the very scary truth that the Sunset Glacier is disappearing before our eyes and below our feet. Standing beside a narrow seam filled with crystal clear meltwater, I watch the flow gather in a deep, cerulean pool, then surge into a dark tunnel towards the hollow depths of the ice below us. It’s early in the day, but I’m already sweltering under the morning sun. I shudder at the thought of riding the ‘otter slide’ into the darkness below. I snap back to reality, and Taylor grins back at me. I try to swallow my awareness that we probably won’t summit Scott Peak. ‘Alpinism in shorts’ is our motto this weekend. It’s early July during the warmest summer on record in Alaska, and Denali National Park just saw a streak of 80-90 degree days. Our bodies, much like the surrounding peaks, are not acclimated to the heat. We know that summiting the 8,828 ft peak will hinge on snow conditions, especially on the steeper terrain at the headwall of the Sunset Glacier. But we all have the holiday weekend free, and the weather is beautiful despite the extreme temperatures. So we’ve decided to give it a shot. Wearing short-shorts and tank tops, the three of us poke fun at ourselves as we lash mountain axes to our packs and stuff our glacier kits, ropes, and harnesses inside. We have about 35 miles to cover in the next two days, and our packs are heavy with sleep kits, layers, and climbing gear. We make quick time, nearing the headwaters of the Thorofare River just hours after leaving the park road. There are no trails and few visitors in the backcountry of Denali National Park. Our only interaction of the day is with a lone caribou who prances aimlessly around the valley, nervous in the uncomfortable heat.
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Taylor and I share a deep intimacy with the land we’re travelling through: she is a Denali park ranger, and I’m fresh off of nine summers living and guiding in the area. Navigating the trail-free Wilderness feels second nature to us, and we’re excited to share our hearts’ home with Katherine, an accomplished climber from Anchorage. The walking is fast and easy until we reach a choke where the bank of the Thorofare meets the base of the mountains. We decide to sidehill above the river. We move carefully now, aware of the muddy, glacial waters raging below. It’s on this mountainside that the pangs of climate anxiety I have felt for weeks finally overtake me. In the preceding month, I’ve watched innumerable heat records get shattered across Alaska, and I’ve breathed grey air, thick with smoke from nearby wildfires. I’ve also just returned from a sweltering week at Denali’s basecamp, where I learned from an ongoing glacier study that 60 times more snowmelt occurs today on Mount Hunter’s summit plateau than did 150 years ago. But it’s in this moment, above the banks of the Thorofare, that tears prick my eyes and hairs stand on end as I watch a mountainside crumble before me. I’m familiar enough with Alaska’s young mountains to know that they are constantly changing. But I also remember that less than ten years ago I wore long underwear all summer in Denali Park. Now I’m in shorts and a tank top at 9:30 pm, watching a mudslide slowly eat away at a mountain. A boat-sized chunk of ice-rich permafrost has been exposed by the slide, and I wonder how long it will last in this summer’s heat. Taylor sees me falter and offers some reassurance, but this moment feels heavy and transformational — like every moment of the rest of my life will be coloured by an acute awareness that the Earth is melting, fast.
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On the glacier, the ice is grey and tacky, textured by silt. On day two we pass countless more ‘otter slides’, and comment on how scrappy the glacier looks. I’ve dreamed of this trip for years — a pilgrimage to a peak that bears the same name my father did — and I’ve studied maps and satellite imagery enough to understand that major changes are now taking place. Though I’m anxious about the heat and the state of the planet, I will myself to enjoy the weekend. I’m still in a beautiful, remote landscape with my close friends, chasing a longtime goal.
year?’ This is not my first objective to get shut down by Alaska’s extreme climate ramifications. Nor is it the first time I’ve ruminated on the urgency of climate change. In fact, I work in environmental advocacy, fuelled largely by climate justice. But it’s the first time I’ve felt the insurmountable fear that it’s too late to fix the damage we’ve done. This feels different. My mind turns to the frontline communities that must have processed these fears years ago. I think about homes that have been or will be destroyed by wildfires. And I wonder when climate deniers will eventually feel what I felt on that scree slope in the valley. I know that the movement will continue, and I’ll keep advocating for a just transition to a regenerative economy. Though doubts may creep in, the stakes are too high to give up the fight.
Our lunch break is punctuated by pops and bangs like firecrackers as the ridges overhead shed loose rock. We’re grateful to have a wide berth from the steep slopes above. The three of us watch in awe as boulders careen downslope, kicking up dust in the midday sun. Doubt ‘It’s the first time I’ve felt creeps in again, but we have a safe travel corridor ahead. the insurmountable fear So we push on towards the that it’s too late to fix the glacial cirque, stopping peridamage we’ve done. odically to watch impressive This feels different.’ shows of rockfall. Nearing the flank of Scott Peak, we navigate a scene of waterfalls, cliffs, and precarious icefalls. At the firn line, we eye the bergschrund we still need to cross. It sags and yawns above us — a menacing mouth, waiting to swallow one of us up. Though we’ve had doubts about our mission since departing the park bus, we’ve pressed on. We’ve come so far. At this point we might as well put boots on the snow. After a brief deliberation we transition to pants, crampons and harnesses, doubtful that we’ll use them. About ten minutes of isothermal snow travel confirms our nagging suspicion: the route ahead is unsafe. We’re here just days too late, and Scott Peak evades us. I spend much of the return trip processing my climate anxiety. Turning back is the definitive right choice, and normally I’d shrug, ‘Scott Peak will be there next year’. But this time I wonder, ‘will the Sunset Glacier be there next
Adrienne Marie Brown writes in Emergent Strategy about shocks and slides in today’s unstable society. Shocks are ‘acute moments of disruption’, and slides are changes which are ‘incremental by nature’. She advises to harness shocks in order to direct slides. My climate anxiety is a shock, and I’m sure I can use it to re-energise my advocacy, hopefully contributing to a slide towards a more sustainable future. Peace comes and goes as we travel down the valley. I notice my favourite wildflowers dotting the tundra, and I don’t cry when we cross through the mudslide again. We walk in our sports bras, and I wrap my shirt around my head to protect me from the sun. At lunch I watch my friends boulder around on a small cliff near the Thorofare. I’m grateful that they pressed on with me this weekend despite our many doubts. Though we didn’t reach the peak this time, I know that if we try often and push far, our likelihood of summiting increases — a lesson for advocacy, life, and adventure. www.ejsullivan.net
@emelex
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Running the Rockies Jenny Tough tackles an unsupported 950 km run across the Canadian Rockies, as part of a solo mission to run across a mountain range on every continent WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JENNY TOUGH
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y alarm sounds. 5 am. I shrivel in my sleeping bag, hugging the down layers tight around my shoulders. I don’t need to poke my head out of my bivvy to know that it’s covered in frost on the outside. I forgot how cold these Rocky Mountain nights are, even in the height of July. Although, camping at 2,044 m, freezing temperatures should always be expected. The stars are still bright, glittering in full, unfiltered above the vast wilderness. I resign to the discomfort — I have to get up. I have nearly 900 km in this journey ahead of me, and the longer I sleep, the more nights I will spend in this abominable cold. I delicately unzip the small dome over my face, avoiding any crystals of ice falling onto me, and wriggle out of my bivvy sack. I expertly left my stove and tin mug nearby, so reach an arm out to set some water to boil while I muster the courage to get all the way out of my sleeping bag and delicately tiptoe, in my frozen running shoes, the roughly 40 m to my bear hang — where food and coffee hangs suspended out of reach of bears. I arrived at my campsite well after dark, and in the dawn glow I now inspect my work from last night: pretty terrible, if we’re being perfectly honest. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. I marvel that no wildlife stumbled upon me during the night while I untangle my clumsy rope and let down my backpack, frozen solid but remarkably without any bite or claw marks. I dive back inside my warm sleeping bag while I make my ‘cowboy breakfast’ of coffee mixed directly into my oatmeal. Steam rises from my titanium mug, and I lean my face over it, holding the heat close to my skin. As I eat the warmth transmits through my body, while the caffeine massages my sleepy eyes. I check my rations and assure myself that I can have a second coffee after this, buying more time for the earth to thaw while the sun begins to crest over the mountains. The stars have disappeared now, and the sky begins to brighten enough to turn my headtorch off. The dawn chorus of chirping birds and woodland creatures brings my campsite to life around me, and I feel my legs begin to stir and prepare for the big journey ahead.
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I breathe a big, deep, cleansing breath. The mountain air. These mountains that I come from. These mountains that I haven’t seen in over a decade. The adventure. The adventure that we were denied since March. The adventure that has become more familiar to me than any part of lockdown. I’ve come home, in more than one sense. Over the past four years, I’ve been working on a project to run solo and self-supported across a mountain range on every continent. It has become more than a project. It’s become a central pillar of my life. It’s the place where I’m the best version of myself. Everything in expedition life is controlled chaos — but it’s the most sense I’ve ever been able to make of the world. And, finally, I’m back here. And no less, back in the Rocky Mountains. The childhood home that raised me to love exploration, nature, and adventure. The place that, you could even say, made me. I stretch my sore legs underneath my sleeping bag, still clutching the titanium mug of coffee with bits of oatmeal still swirling around, and know that the weeks ahead are bound to be emotional. This was never going to be a straightforward journey. I smile as I dive into my unusually usual morning routine, packing up my 32 L backpack in the exact order that makes it all fit so perfectly — the system I’ve mastered over thousands of kilometers of doing this. I have everything I need to survive in the mountain wilderness, and nothing I don’t need. It’s life at its utmost simplicity. I’ve always secretly enjoyed the admiration these journeys attract. Viewed from the outside they appear so epic and clever. But I know the truth and the beauty of travelling in this way — that it’s the most simple and pleasurable way to cross a landscape. My daily routine involves nothing but the basic necessities of survival, and running. Running a fairly long way, by my personal standards, but it really is just as simple as that. The past few months have been far from simple for all of us, and I feel palpably lighter to be out here, in this forest, packing up a modest campsite before another day of running northwards along the Great Divide of the Canadian Rockies. 16
I leave my campsite wearing all of my layers, but the sun rapidly grows in the sky, and within an hour of climbing I’ve shed all of my excess layers and am overheating in shorts and a t-shirt. Snow crunches beneath my feet, the lingering patches still clinging to the high-altitude regions. Navigation is especially difficult when I reach the snowline, as the trail disappears underneath and I’m literally wandering on a blank white page. I fight through branches and crawl over deadfall, hopelessly chasing the direction that I imagine the trail should be headed in. I feel utterly lost — knee-deep snow covers the ground, and the dense forest shrouds me in all directions. Without my compass in hand, I have absolutely no idea which way is which. I know that when I get higher, above the treeline, navigation will be easy. But for now, I can’t see beyond the thick fir trees and can only guess which way will take me above the forest. The branches seem to close in around me, and I can’t find a sensible path in any direction. I am exasperated as I backtrack along my own footprints, hoping a more obvious path will lead me out of the forest. It takes me hours to finally fight my way out of the trees and onto the exposed, alpine pass. With relief, I look back on the expansive view behind me: miles and miles of pure Canadian wilderness. No sign of human influence breaks my vista, only mountains and endless green forest. The air is ominously still, and I feel like the only living thing on earth for a moment.
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Annoyed at the amount of time that I’ve spent spinning in lost circles below the treeline, I now pump my legs hard up the pass. Today’s route follows a ridge over a total of six Rocky Mountain peaks — the path of least resistance, in comparison to the forest, but in no way an easy day ahead. As I climb towards the sky, I feel the hot July sun reaching down to meet me. The heat is remarkable, despite my shoes still sinking deep into snow banks. 19
Over the course of the day, I make a few snow angels to cool down. The scree along the ridge slows me down to a crawl. The spiny ridge is impossibly narrow, with steep flanks on either side. There is no room for error — one slip and it is a long, long way before any obstacle will stop my fall. My knees wobble as I place each step carefully, scrambling towards the tops and delicately downclimbing each peak. When I descend the ridge towards
the forest once more, it’s already late afternoon. I nearly kiss the ground when I reach a double-track trail, my first easy segment in two days. Finally, I break into a free and easy run, descending for more than three hours at a steady pace until I reach the valley floor. I finish the long day exhausted, sore-legged, sunburnt, and with swollen feet and ankles. I drop my backpack with a thud at my chosen campsite, and curl up on the ground for
a few indulgent minutes before going about my familiar routine of setting up camp. Another 37 km have been ticked off, and less than 900 km to go now. It’s daunting, but familiar. Even as my body shakes from the intensity of the day passed, I am delighted to be back. Click here to learn more about Jenny’s ‘Run the World Mountains’ project, or to order your copy of her book, ‘Tough Women: Adventure Stories’. 20
Enda make running gear for athletes looking to go faster, to run further and to help others. We work with Kenyan athletes to design and develop our products, which are then made in Kenya. We are proud to go the extra mile by giving a portion of our revenue to community development projects, and to be one of the first Climate Neutral certified running brands in the world. Enda shoes are designed to help everyone run a bit more Kenyan by rewarding a natural midfoot strike running gait and being purpose-built for a range of running workouts. For more information and to buy your pair of Enda shoes, head to ke.endasportswear.com.
A record run on Mount Kenya Three Kenyan athletes attempt to clock the fastest time up Africa’s second tallest mountain WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS ENDA
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enyan athletes have dominated distance running for over 50 years, since Naftali Temu won the six-mile gold at the 1966 Commonwealth Games in Jamaica. But this dominance is still chiefly on the track and on the road, and not within elite trail and ultra running circles. The global popularity of competitive trail running has skyrocketed in recent decades, but the sport hasn’t had the same kind of influx of East African runners as we saw with road racing in the ‘90s and 2000s. A simple reason for this is that it doesn’t have a big enough financial draw, with many major events offering no prize money at all. There has also been a broad recognition of the need for greater diversity and inclusivity in the trail and ultra scene. Over the last few years, though, there have been encouraging signs in Kenya of a growing local interest in trail running. In addition to the long-running Lewa Safari Marathon, held within the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy and regarded as one of the toughest marathons on the planet, we have also seen the establishment of a number of ultramarathons (with routes longer than the traditional 42 km). In 2018, the For Rangers Ultra was launched — a gruelling 230 km race across five wildlife conservancies in Laikipia. And in 2020, also to raise funds for the For Rangers Charity, the inaugural UltraMARAthon was held, a 50 km race across wildlife conservancies in the Maasai Mara. The primary objective of all three of these events is to raise funds for conservation and community development, but they have also widened the region’s interest in extreme off-road running, and demonstrated Kenya’s suitability as a host of unique ultras. Another ongoing event aimed at raising the country’s trail running profile is a series of fastest known time (FKT) attempts up Mount Kenya — Africa’s second highest peak. The event has been organised by a Nairobi-based company called Enda, manufacturers of the first Kenyan-made running shoe. As well as a novel way of promoting their brand, Enda came up with the idea to support a few of their sponsored athletes — Kenneth Kemboi, Sussy Chebet and Alfred Moindi. These talented Kenyan runners usually rely on earnings from city marathons all over the world, but most races have been delayed or cancelled because of the coronavirus outbreak. So they turned to Enda for help, who recruited several co-sponsors for the Mount Kenya FKT attempts — apparel maker Janji, GPS watch brand Coros, and athletic hydration and lighting company UltrAspire.
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If you head to fastestknowntime.com, you’ll see a world map with thousands of logged FKT routes, but the vast majority of these are in North America or in Europe. Only two are in East Africa: on Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya. The first attempt at an FKT on Mount Kenya was actually in April 1995, when a Fila-sponsored International Skyrunning Federation (ISF) race was held. During that race, Italian ‘skyrunner’, Fabio Meraldi, logged an out-and-back time of 5h 2m 22s for a 42 km trek from the Sirimon Park Gate to Point Lenana — the mountain’s third highest peak, and the only one accessible without a multi-pitch, roped climb. That run is listed as the official, supported record on the FKT site for the Sirimon route, but its validity has since been challenged. There appears to be no GPS data to back it up, and the actual out-and-back distance from the Sirimon Gate to Point Lenana is 48.2 km. When queried, the ISF team confirmed that the 1995 route was 42 km to mirror the classic marathon distance, and that the competitors stopped short of the gate on the way down. So the Enda FKT attempt, which was held on the morning of 20 November 2020, was the first of the full Sirimon route. Having struggled my way up to Point Lenana myself along this route, I appreciate how challenging a task this was for Kemboi, Chebet and Moindi. Most climbers spend four or five days summiting, and include a full day of rest to acclimatise. From the Sirimon Gate, it’s an elevation gain of 2,335 m to Point Lenana (4,985 m), through a long stretch of alpine heather and moorland, and with a final ascent up a steep slope of scree and rock. November is usually a miserable time to climb the mountain, too, as it’s in the middle of Kenya’s short rainy season.
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Incredibly, Kemboi clocked an unsupported out-and-back time of 7h 0m 40s, for a distance of 49.2 km. Both he and Moindi — who managed an equally impressive time of 7h 35m 23s — ran an extra kilometre because they got lost in the snow. Chebet now holds the women’s record for the Sirimon route, having completed a distance of 48.7 km in 7h 50m 8s. In his postrun report on the FKT website, Kemboi describes trudging through an unforeseen knee-high layer of snow, and slipping a few times on wet grass. Chebet and Moindi give their own accounts of the day on the Enda website. While Chebet said that she hoped it would inspire others in what had been a terrible year, Moindi didn’t give much away about his run at all. He said that if he spoke about some of the ‘tough moments’ on the way down, his wife may not let him take part in any future challenges. The Sirimon FKT attempt was the first of three that Enda have organised on Mount Kenya. Over the next few months, the same athletes will attempt out-and-back FKTs of two shorter, but steeper, routes. It may be a while before we see Kenyans runners on the elite ultra circuit, but events like these will undoubtedly inspire many to swap the tarmac for the trails, and to take on new challenges.
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For Rangers is a campaign founded by Sam Taylor and Pete Newland to raise awareness of the struggles and hardships that Africa’s rangers face protecting the continent’s wildlife. 1,500 rangers have been killed in the line of duty over the last 15 years — more than the number of British servicemen killed in both the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. The For Rangers teams mainly raise funds by taking on gruelling expeditions to demonstrate solidarity, and in recognition of the challenging work of the rangers they support. So far they have raised over three million US Dollars, which has been channelled towards rangers’ health and life insurance, orphan fund kits, equipment and general items to improve their welfare. To learn more about the story of For Rangers, or to donate, head to www.forrangers.com.
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Running for rangers Amidst a global pandemic, innovative ideas are needed to fund Kenya’s parks and conservancies. The UltraMARAthon is one such initiative, a gruelling 50 km race across five conservancies of the Masai Mara WORDS HOWARD SAUNDERS PHOTOGRAPHS FINLAY MARRIAN
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he setting is the wide grasslands of the Masai Mara. Endless plains stretching south to the Serengeti, where the legendary herds of wildebeest roam. Masai herdsmen have wandered these great plains for centuries, and perhaps it was only a matter of time before more humans figured they should sample this epic journey. So, in the midst of a global pandemic, a little over one hundred intrepid runners joined an inaugural effort to cover a 50 kilometre stretch of iconic Mara landscape. In doing so, they would not only attempt to fulfill their own personal goals, but crucially each would make a stand for the rangers who work to protect this precious resource.
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From my home in the Mara, I’d witnessed firsthand the significant drop in tourism earlier in the year, as revenues from park fees dried up. Wildlife conservancy budgets were suddenly slashed as these shortfalls began to bite. I determined that within this disaster lay opportunity, and out on one of my daily runs back in June, the concept of the UltraMARAthon was born. Kenya is renowned for the sporting prowess of its runners, and what better way to celebrate this talent than over a rigorous route through the wildlife conservancies where so many live and work? Over the next few months, the Mara community pulled together in an effort to showcase this ecosystem, and in doing
so, raise funds through the For Rangers Kenya charity. The Masai Mara Wildlife Conservancies Association — the umbrella body for this rangeland — also played a critical role in getting everyone on board. The traditional Masai landowners could proudly lay claim to hosting the first ultra run in this region of Kenya. And so the December day came with the runners assembling at dawn for the final briefing. As we limbered up, we were full of anticipation to cover this great transect of Mara wilderness, knowing each of us would need to dig deep to find the stamina to sustain our bodies for what lay down the track. In our heads our
individual game plans played out — working the water stops, calorie top-ups, pacing — for what would be a mega five-to-seven hour effort. We finally set off with a burst of pent-up energy, early enough to catch a hyena or two heading home after their nocturnal roaming. Once we were on the course there was plenty of time to soul-search about what drives us to take on such challenges. What mix of personal achievement, community involvement and passion for this sport had brought us here today? Both as individuals, weaving this into our personal journey, and as a collection of people united by a common desire and purpose. 40
In any endurance runner’s mind can be found the appetite to stride out across rolling rangelands such as these; each rise opening a new window on the terrain, with the beautiful interplay of the Mara’s big game. For 25 kilometres I kept an easy pace, savouring the epic vistas and views of animals I passed by. I had time to pick up the scents of grasses, and to admire the morning light as it shifted through countless shades of blue. There was time to chat to fellow runners, as we settled into a rhythm for the hours ahead. Welcome swigs from water cups at the halfway point and encouraging cheers from others gave some much needed succour, knowing much of the over 400 metre elevation gain remained ahead. From 30 kilometres the burn began, as we started the long ascent out of the Olare Orok valley. Here it became clearer how important it is over a long run to be able to internalise your thoughts. We faced long stretches of solitude across wide open country, with fewer intersections of riverine bushland, and with time to think about form and breathing. Until what was left was the final stretch — that piece of the ultra that earned its name, and where the long hours of training paid off. We pushed our bodies into a rarified zone, spiked by the 30 degree heat on the open plains, knowing the finish line was tantalisingly close — and yet so far.
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In what for me was my first test at this distance, I felt the physical and emotional exhaustion of giving everything I had to complete my 50 kilometres. My final push to the finish was fuelled by adrenaline, as a rush of endorphins swept over my body. And no doubt every runner felt it as they crossed the line with warm welcomes from the small, but passionately supportive crowd. The evocative tunes of Jerusalema reminding us all of the value of bringing a community together for a uniquely important cause. The Masai Mara is a jewel in the crown of Africa’s wildlife resources. If each year more people get to experience its majesty, whether on game drives or guided walks, or by running through its gullies and grasslands, its deserved recognition will grow. The Masai community who own this land, the biodiversity, the endangered species that also live on it — they all rely on a global recognition of the Mara’s cultural and ecological benefits. These in turn provide the economic and social impact to move the region successfully through the 21st century. A diverse set of concepts will aid this process, and I’m proud to be part of the effort to add the UltraMARAthon to that set. ultramarathon.co.ke
@ultra_mara_thon
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As with road running, a good pair of shoes is essential when hitting t spend less time, energy and money slogging through the miles. Wit Going Outdoor has filled a huge gap by signing on as a distributor with plans to open up stores in Rwanda and Uganda, Going Outdoor is ai
the trails. Shoes that can handle rugged terrain, and that ensure you th little availability of high quality trail running equipment in Kenya, h Salomon, a global leader in trail running footwear and apparel. With iming to make Salomon products more accessible across East Africa.
The Wilder Interview:
John Kamanga PHOTOGRAPHS GUY WESTERN // SORALO
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ecent studies have shown a considerable decline in wildlife numbers in Kenya since the 1970s, driven by a multitude of pressures, from human population growth to land fragmentation and climate change. The findings have raised concerns about the future of the country’s wildlife, and the effectiveness of existing conservation policies and strategies. Many foreign visitors associate Kenya with its well-known national parks, but government-run protected areas only cover eight percent of its territory. In reality, nearly two thirds of its wildlife is dependent on open rangelands beyond park boundaries. A man with a unique approach to conservation in Kenya’s South Rift Valley is John Kamanga, winner of the 2020 Tusk Award for Conservation in Africa. John is the Executive Director and Co-Founder of the South Rift Association of Land Owners (SORALO) — a collective of Maasai-owned group ranches that have come together to protect the free movement of people and wildlife in southern Kenya. He is
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a strong advocate for the preservation of open, fence-free landscapes for wildlife and the pastoral communities that SORALO supports. As Kenya’s population increases, and space for wild animals shrinks, he is determined to show that pastoralism can offer a mutually-beneficial solution. Wilder’s Editor, Jan Fox, spoke to John about his conservation journey, SORALO’s work and the future of Kenya’s wild spaces. Firstly, congratulations for winning the 2020 Tusk Award for Conservation in Africa. Tell me what it means to win such a prestigious award, and its significance more broadly for community-driven conservation? It was a very interesting moment for me, but a tough one too. When I first heard that I had been nominated for the award, I was with my dad who was sick in hospital. He sadly passed on soon after, so I wasn’t excited about the award initially. And I didn’t actually think at the
time that it was anything out of the ordinary. But then I was told that the nominees would be talking to Prince William directly. I didn’t know whether what we were going to say would be used to determine who wins. When the day of the ceremony came, and he was talking to the other nominees, I could tell that he had done his research, and my adrenaline was pumping. He then came to me, and my mind nearly went blank. But after about five minutes he announced that I was the winner, and my heart nearly stopped! What that win really represents is an appreciation around the world of the communities that I work with, and a recognition that they are conservators. We have this idea of conservation, but what actually is it? The Maasai communities don’t interpret conservation in the same way that most of us do. They have no specific word for it, just a unified concept of managing their family, their herds, and the wild. Conservation isn’t a separate entity — it forms an integral part of their lifestyle.
SORALO’s approach is very much ‘inside-out’, in that it promotes traditional Maasai values and practices to reinforce the coexistence of people and wildlife across connected landscapes. What is it about Maa culture, in particular, that makes it effective as a system for communal resource management? The Maasai have developed their lifestyle because they have lived in areas of hardship. They have a complete connection with the environment, and one of their main responsibilities is to take care of it. They humanise nature. For example, before they had any other explanation for it, they saw the sap of trees as milk or blood. The natural world is everything to them. It provides their food, their medicine and their building materials. Their main source of food is the milk and meat of a cow. As long as the cow survives, they survive. They also see value in nature. They know if an elephant brings down trees, it creates grasslands, which they need for their livestock. The ceremonies that I witnessed growing up really showed
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how connected these communities were to wildlife. As youngsters in some of the ceremonies we attended, we were required to kill birds or other small wildlife as trophies. But then we were cleansed of our sins. They believed that killing wildlife was a sin, a taboo. We couldn’t kill an animal for no reason, especially a young one or a female. The Maasai have been criminalised for killing lions, but it was a good culture. The warriors killed lions because they wanted to be identified as a celebrity, and to achieve that they had to come back with the biggest mane. Old male lions have big manes. Male lions are also pathetic hunters, and they rely on the females to survive. Cows are easy targets for them, so they often become problem animals. So every 5 to 10 years, with each warrior cycle, the Maasai culled them — which is something that is done today scientifically. What other system did they have beyond that? The communities should not be criminalised because they did not understand the timing of their actions. It was something that happened very infrequently. Things can get out of hand, but that is not the desire of these communities. Their ways have not been explained to the world — it’s a spoken culture between generations. From the outside you see them killing a lion, but you don’t understand why that lion was killed. The Tusk Awards are a celebration of great conservation leaders in Africa. Were there any leaders in your past who guided you on your own conservation journey? My dad was the first to push me outside, making sure that I took care of the goats. At the time, that was the length that I understood that landscape. Did it mean much to me then? No. It was only when I got into the conservation world, and started to read science, that I could make the connection. So, in a way, my dad was my first conservation champion — although I didn’t call it conservation. I was a herder. The person who really encouraged me on my journey of conservation, how it is talked about globally, was David Western. I had heard that he was the Director of the Kenya Wildlife Service, and that he was 54
very interested at the time in community conpopulation and culture. If you lose the human servation. I finally got the chance to meet him, capital, you have to put in the dollar capital. and he was very excited. He said he hadn’t The pressures they face, though, are from been approached by a person from the combeyond the communities. Land subdivision is munity before to talk about conservation, and driven by the offices in Nairobi. We as a socihe agreed to work with me. It was around ety have grown very selfish, and it’s a result that time that the Shompole and Olkirimatian of our modern education system. You go to conservancies were estabschool to be number one, lished. This sparked exciteand to get your certificate. ‘We realised that the ment in the neighbouring It’s all about you. The trainMaasai culture is actually communities, and the leading we got from our tradithe pillar of conservation. ers suggested that I work tional systems were more with them too. That’s how about the collective — the If we can preserve a big SORALO was born. portion of that culture, then age set, the clan, the family. But today the Maasai I think we have 80% of the But conservation came to are taking this selfish ideolconservation story done.’ me in many different ways. ogy home with them. They At the Tusk Awards cerewant farms, cows, cars — mony, you may have seen me holding buttereverything for themselves. When they subdiflies. As a youngster, I joined researchers who vide and fill those spaces, the land becomes worked with insects. I used to go out with a unproductive. So one thing we are trying to net and collect butterflies, just to understand do is to educate the masses. their different colours, shapes and mimicry. I became hooked. That led me to different forTwo thirds of Kenya’s wildlife relies on open est habitats around Kenya. So butterflies enrangelands outside of government-run parks. abled me to get into the conservation world What steps should the government take to without actually thinking about conservation. support the traditional control and protection of wildlife? How do you see the future for Maasai culture and pastoralism, considering the pressures in The more we can convince communities to live the South Rift of land fragmentation, climate communally, the better for the management change, industrial development and rural to of wildlife. Communities are not managing wildurban migration? life because they have been told to do so by the government, but for their own sake. ReWe have an opportunity now to have dialogue, taliation cases, where people kill animals that and to make sure that these communities conkill livestock, are higher in government-run tinue to talk. Together they are very strong, parks than in the South Rift, where there are but divided they are weak. The culture of the no protected areas at all. SORALO is encourMaasai with a divided society has no future. aging more open spaces. The government has Every culture is dynamic, so we expect them to encouraged subdivision, but they don’t help evolve. But this dynamism doesn’t have to be communities to plan properly. If you insist on destructive. When we started our conservasubdividing, you should allow for pathways tion work, we realised that the Maasai culture for wildlife. So the government has pushed is actually the pillar of conservation. If we can for people to get titles, but with little underpreserve a big portion of that culture, then I standing of the impact this has on the mobilithink we have 80% of the conservation story ty that these communities and wildlife rely on. done. Today we have a great capital in their All it does it escalate human-wildlife conflict.
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Studies suggest that, over the past 40 years, livestock numbers have increased dramatically in Kenya’s rangelands, while wildlife populations have been on a sharp decline. Critics of pastoralism argue that the increase in livestock is driving a range of ecological issues, including overgrazing and the loss of plant diversity. How does SORALO’s approach mitigate these issues? As far as I’m concerned, livestock numbers haven’t been increasing. In certain areas, like in the Maasai Mara, it may seem like numbers are increasing, but they are not. Instead, new conservancies are pushing livestock into concentrated areas. The conservation models in those areas are in themselves creating part of the problem. If you fly over the Mara at 2 pm, you’ll see a lot of cows in their kraals. There is no pastoral cow that past 10 am is still at home. But in the Mara, their space has been taken, so they have to go into the park illegally at night to feed. Pastoralists will never drop livestock for conservation. Never. I think there is space in this country for livestock production. But in communal areas, we cannot have more space that is solely for wildlife. Finally, what are the benefits of conserving wild spaces, and how do you see the future of our wild spaces in Kenya? In some of the areas where we work, Shompole and Olkirimatian, we get very excited because we employ a lot of people and distribute USD 100,000 as an annual income from tourism. Is that enough to make conservation happen? From what I have seen in those areas, what makes conservation happen is the money generated from livestock. It’s a livestock-support economy, rather than a wildlife-support economy. On a single day at the weekly Shompole Market, USD 200,000 exchanges hands. So the future of wildlife and wild spaces is pastoral production. If we disconnect those two things, we are in for a big surprise. Wildlife may be a secondary beneficiary, but that’s fine. For me, this is the only way. The conservation industry has been driven by tourism and dollars from outside the country. But then you get leaders like Trump, who don’t care about conservation, and crises like the coronavirus pandemic, and the industry suffers. So we need home-grown solutions, and they have to be compatible with the pastoral system. Over time, I think we will start to convince the masses. The problem is, how fast can we change, before it’s too late? soralo.org
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Namibia Nine nights in
On the surface, Namibia is a country of inhospitable plains and vast arid lands. It is one of the least densely populated countries in the world, with such an extraordinary sense of space. Scratch beneath this exterior and you will discover a land of unparalleled beauty, with astounding animals, ancient cultures, and some of the world’s tallest sand dunes WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JEREMY FLINT
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sat and watched a herd of oryx roaming freely beside our vehicle. I admired their elegant stature and natural beauty as they grazed in the searing early morning heat. We had come to Etosha National Park on a self-drive safari, which is a great way to see Namibia’s native wildlife up close. Having just passed a sign warning drivers to stay in their vehicles, I felt safe in the knowledge that my Toyota Hilux would protect me from any predators. As well as being a safari vehicle, the Hilux would be our home for the next nine nights. Thankfully, I had been briefed on the intricacies of working the roof tent after collecting the vehicle in the country’s capital of Windhoek earlier that day.
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A trip through Namibia is said to be one of the world’s great road adventures. The journey took us through the heart of the country, visiting Etosha, Damaraland, Sossusvlei and Keetmanshoop. The beauty of a self-drive tour is that there is no fixed agenda — you can be flexible with accommodation and can relax and explore your surroundings at your own pace. This is certainly the case in Etosha, where there are wildlife encounters at every turn. You just sit and wait and let the wildlife come to you. We watched in awe from the comfort of our vehicle as elephants, giraffes and gazelles visited watering holes, and impalas roamed and feasted on the long grass.
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The Sossusvlei Valley, in the Namib-Naukluft National Park, is known for its spectacular sand dunes. Part of the Namib Desert, which extends down Namibia’s entire coastline for 1,600 km, the Sossusvlei is held to be the world’s oldest desert, and it supports some extraordinary flora and fauna. The oryx (also known as the gemsbok) can survive here for months without water. Getting to Sossusvlei involves a 65 km drive from Sesriem, and a further 5 km along a sandy track only accessible by four-wheel drives.
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This sea of towering red dunes, constantly changing shape and colour with the shifting sands and light, has become a Namibian icon. Climbing them is no easy feat — every step taken equals half a step back, as your feet are engulfed in the consuming sands. But it’s a captivating exploit, and well worth the effort. The endless views from the top of the rippled and smooth dunes are breathtaking.
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Stunning, too, are the ghostly white pan and ancient trees of the nearby Deadvlei. Dotted with striking camel thorn trees that have stood for hundreds of years, rising from the white clay against a backdrop of soaring terracotta dunes and a cloudless blue sky, it is a photographer’s paradise. Standing in this impressive desert landscape at dawn, it felt like I was on another planet.
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It’s a dramatic sight that requires a 2 km walk from the Deadvlei car park, traversing sand and low dunes. I arrived early to avoid the brutally hot sun, and was grateful to have the place to myself. There were twisted shapes everywhere I turned. It was mesmerising.
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The final leg of the journey involved a sixhour drive from Sossusvlei to Keetmanshoop. Lonely dirt-track roads snaked into the distant horizon, and exposed us to a wilderness of large open spaces and granite peaks. The roads were often deserted, and ours was the only vehicle for miles. Keetmanshoop is a friendly little town with a few examples of German colonial architecture, including the Imperial Post Office and town museum. It’s also well-known for its quiver tree forest, about 14 km east of the town. The forest is a National Heritage Site with trees up to three centuries old, and hyraxes living amongst the rocks. Quiver trees get their name from the San people, who made quivers for their arrows from the hollow branches. Visiting Namibia’s photographic wonders was a humbling experience, from the epic landscapes to the fascinating wildlife and tribes. This journey through the heart of the country will stay with me for many years. jeremyflintphotography.com @jeremyflintphotography
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Bikerafting the Brooks Alaska’s remote Brooks Range is the highest mountain range in the Arctic Circle. Experienced adventurer, Steve ‘Doom’ Fassbinder, attempts to traverse this rugged terrain on two wheels WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS STEVE ‘DOOM’ FASSBINDER
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he Brooks Range is a huge expanse of geologically old, very remote mountains stretching 600-plus miles east to west across Northern Alaska and into Canada’s Yukon Territory. Besides the notoriously rough Haul Road which splits the range into eastern and western halves, there are no roads, towns, established trails or services of any kind. As such, the range receives very few visitors, and the few that do make the long trip usually do so by chartering expensive bush flights into small lakes and gravel bars where ballsy pilots ply their craft. With the growing popularity of packrafting, an even smaller number of people are accessing remote parts of the range by hiking and paddling in, sans bush flight. In all my research, I could find no evidence of the fat bike as a means of travel through the area, and so began my search for a more human-powered (no bush flights) route that would support at least some type 2 fat biking. As with all great Alaskan trips, a
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packraft would be essential equipment, and its use bookended our trip — providing a quick but sketchy ride in, and a Cadillac-smooth 100mile river trip out from the heart of the range. Trip planning for me usually involves having an idea (typically a bad one like riding bikes where everyone says it would probably be shitty), scouring Google Earth for a potential route that would ‘go’, getting inspired by the landscape, making a realistic estimate on how long it would take, reaching out to friends and acquaintances that might know the area, and then asking specific questions about it. Questions like: How sketchy was the Atigun Gorge in a packraft? How bad would it be with a 40 pound bike on the bow? Can the bad stuff be portaged? Etc … In this research I was lucky enough to have fellow packrafters Brad Meiklejohn, Nathan Shoutis and Alaskan explorer Roman Dial in the ring with me, and for their tutelage I am greatly indebted.
Armed with modern mapping tools and priceless beta from peers, a route was conceived. Trip partners Jon Bailey and Brett Davis were on board from the get-go, and were integral to the successes of this tour from the beginning — in addition to being well-versed in just about any skill necessary to get shit done in the bush. They both possess the fortitude to push through the many difficult situations we would inevitably encounter.
the Alyeska Pipeline. Think Mad Max, Alaska style. The truckers rule this place, and you very quickly get the impression that you don’t want to piss them off, get in the way, or have any kind of a break down out there. So we didn’t. But we did successfully return Gareth’s van ten days later with 850 more miles on it, a cracked windshield, and a coating of grit so thick that it took 30 bucks in quarters at the local car wash to blast it off.
The three of us landed in Fairbanks at 2 am after 20-plus hours of travel, only to be thrust straight into the local custom of drinking a whole bottle of Scotch with your host. Apparently we passed the test, as our host Gareth quickly offered up his new tin can van for our ground transportation needs. When I say ground transportation, I mean we needed to drive 400 miles north on the Dalton Highway, AKA the Haul Road. And when I say road, I mean rugged industrial trucking route feeding
Our trip started in earnest at 7 pm on the side of the aforementioned Haul Road, where the Atigun River crosses its path. We’d just spent 10 hours in a glorified tin can racing crusty eighteen wheelers, and our nerves were feeling a bit frayed. But I was itching to get our trip started, and the 24-hour daylight afforded us the ability to charge straight into the crux of our route. We paddled the Atigun Gorge with full drysuits, fat bikes and 10 days of equipment and food. Much research and prep
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went into the decision to use the gorge as an entry point. On one hand it’s the best way to access the east side of the range from the Haul Road. On the other hand its a known killer, with a reputation for being fast and unforgiving. In fact, after doing my own research, I’d mostly given up on using it. But with a more thorough investigation and the blessing of my packrafting peers, I decided that as a group we had what it took to safely manage its temper. A methodical, slightly somber, packing session concluded and into the canyon we slipped, far from all human interaction for the entirety of our nine-day trip. At 1 am we pulled off the water at the confluence of the Sagavanirktok River, delivered slightly scraped and bruised, but very much alive, into a landscape of rolling green valleys. Steep grey mountains pierced an encroaching layer of fog that would soon dim the midnight sun. And so began our simple and oh-so-satisfying evening chores: gather twigs, make the fire, boil water, set up shelter, talk some shit, recap highlights of the day, talk some more shit, get cold, feed the fire, make a pillow with your food, dose off … When I awoke the next morning I did a little poking around, and to my dismay observed the tiny gravel bar where we camped to be the only rideable terrain in sight. Surrounding our camp in all direction was endless Arctic tussock and steep rocky mountains. We were all thinking the same thing: This is going to suck. The first three hours of our ‘ride’ contained about two and a half hours of tussock and swamp pushing — the other thirty minutes were made up of awkward bursts of pedal turning and falling over. That was our first taste of arctic riding. Fortunately we were at the low elevation point of our trip, and the higher we got the better it got. It didn’t take long for us to realise that the south-west facing (ie drier) aspects of the valleys had much higher riding to pushing ratios. And so began our Brooks Range education.
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Over the next five days we followed water courses where we could, constantly searching for faster gravel, rock and baby-head riding. Avoiding if at all possible north-facing slopes, and making lots of noise when passing through brushy low-visibility areas. The latter being the most important. Which brings us to the subject of bears. There were bear prints everywhere out there, and it’s not if you will see a bear on a Brooks trip, it’s when. And so it went for several more days, one pass after another with increasing beauty and depth. In the middle of day five, we reached the top of our last pass and what would be the high point of our trip. The weather was stunningly perfect and we were running well on schedule. So it was decided that we would climb the best-looking peak accessible from the pass. On the map it was marked simply, Rib, and was one of the very few peaks in the area to actually have a name at all. I’ve climbed up a lot of mountains in my life, but nothing compares to the view from atop a peak deep in the Brooks Range. We spent the better part of an hour just soaking in the view and piecing together different parts of our route past, present, and future. The Ivishak River starts high amongst these ragged peaks as just a trickle through rocky drainage funnels. Our route descended what looked like the main stem at this point, and it was choked with recent rock fall and thick willows. As we descended, the valley gradually began to open up, and the mostly-dry riverbed afforded some of the best riding of the trip. But we were eager to start paddling as the river slowly began to grow in size. At a certain point the river just seemed big enough to paddle, so we broke down the bikes and prepared our packrafts for the 90 miles of crystal-clear river that lay ahead. These transformations from bike to boat are always an exciting moment as it marks a clear end and beginning to vastly different segments of a trip. Not to mention our bodies — especially our cold, wet feet, which were ready for a break from the grind of pedalling rough terrain.
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From this point the river was a braided maze of channels, many of which were tempting, but often too low for even our tiny crafts. Sometimes we’d separate the group, each taking our own ‘jungle line’ looking for the best path forward. At one point I took what I was sure would be the better line, as Jon and Brett floated by into another channel. We didn’t reconnect for close to an hour. But, with some luck, my line had delivered me downriver fast enough to snap a few shots of my friends emerging from their own jungle line. By the next day the river had grown significantly, and large herds of migrating caribou were charging confidently across the channel in front of us. Although only mid-August, there was a chill in the air and a cold wet front pushed into the wide-open North Slope. The river was quickly pushing us out from the mountains toward the Sagavanirktok River, which we had crossed nine days before. Past this confluence was our take out on the upper reaches of the Haul Road, just shy of its terminus at the Beaufort Sea. We had seen zero other humans during this wild traverse, and my only complaint at this point was having not seen a musk ox. Rounding a final bend in the river, there it was — a massive lone ox staring us down as we silently paddled by. Addendum: Much has changed in the world since we completed this trip five years ago, and the Brooks Range has seen an increase in similar adventure trips. As a consequence, the area has been receiving a disproportionate amount of search and rescue incidents, to the dismay of local bush pilots and land managers. Planning a trip to a place like this involves more than just downloading a GPX track, buying some gear and getting dropped off in the middle of nowhere. Not to discourage anyone from having a great adventure, but make sure that you are fully confident in your ability to self-rescue if things go sideways. Help may not arrive for a long time. fourcornersguides.com @republicofdoom
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Wild cooking in the Caucasus Expedition chef and mountain instructor, Kieran Creevy, redefines camp cooking high up in Georgia’s Caucasus Mountains WORDS KIERAN CREEVY PHOTOGRAPHS LISA PAARVIO
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he Lada Niva’s engine whines in protest as the rev counter approaches the redline. Tyres squirm for grip in the loose snow. Vasil, our driver, calmly smooths out the drift and slingshots his car into the next hairpin bend. Behind us, our axes, snowshoes and crampons create a cacophony of steel and aluminium, contrasting the leather squeaks and tinny rattles from the Niva. High in the Kazbegi Caucasus, Lisa and I have packs loaded with food, equipment and camera gear for a multi-day snowshoe and wild camping adventure. A few days earlier, we met Vasil by chance. One of those unexpected meetings that expands your knowledge and alters your world view. We got a detailed primer to decades of hard-won local information. Info on which market to find the best pickles, fresh vegetables, strained yoghurt, and local specialties like dried sour plums and walnuts — an integral element for many Georgian dishes. One such market gave us pause; from the outside, the ramshackle, faded facade spoke of a store long past its heyday. But its dimly lit interior revealed a trove of wonders: fruit leather with a mouth-puckering sourness, tangy cheeses, wild herb medleys, delicate beetroots and pungent onions with a green/white hue. The market visit also pulled into sharp focus the division of labour in this area. On our hike into town there were no women on the road, only men. All the taxis and tourist agencies are operated by men. Yet inside the market, in cafes and in restaurants the staff are almost always women. It’s as though we’re in the 1950s. After a dinner of local specialties in one of the small restaurants, Vasil drives us back to our base for the week, revealing a treasure trove of possibilities on the way for trekking, ski touring and mountaineering in the area. After only thirty minutes, we have at least a month’s worth of options. We need to head out for a recce.
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The next morning we shoulder our packs early and head down a snow-covered road, scoping potential trails. Within the first ten minutes we have had four offers of lifts from local drivers, curious as to what we’re doing out this early with laden packs. On the fifth offer, our resistance crumbles and we gratefully accept a lift down the road to the appropriately-named Sno village. Thanking our driver, I offer him a ten lari note. His response is a swift ‘I’m not a taxi’. Fearing I’ve made a faux pas, I look to see if he’s annoyed, but the beaming smile is its own answer. Our entrance into Sno is across an off-kilter suspension bridge with some planks missing completely. Luckily the river is only metres below us, not the yawning chasms you might encounter in the Himalaya. We find a village almost in hibernation mode. The high peaks and narrow valley floor create a sun shadow
that covers most of the buildings. Doors and windows are closed and shuttered, athough snatches of laughter reveal life within. There are gardens with haystacks and greenhouses with broken panes. Rusted trucks without windows lie canted on two wheel hubs, the rubber cracked and degraded in the deep cold. Around one corner we have a face-off with a cow — Lisa swiftly checking to make sure that we’re not playing chicken with the village bull. Eventually we are on the correct track to the trailhead. Once on the mountain, we can start to make sense of the surrounding landscape and terrain. A rough multi-day itinerary begins to take shape in our minds. Checklists can be made and crossed off. In this deep cold, we will have to find a good water source at some point, otherwise we will be melting snow for hours. Heading home for the night, we’re already excited for the adventure ahead. 92
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That evening, the ritual of sorting gear begins. Just enough clothing to keep us warm and dry, with some spares for those ‘in case’ moments. Winter sleeping bags have expanded in the house, which now have to be tightly stuffed back into our dry bags. We won’t be eating freeze-dried meals on this trip, only Georgian-inspired dinners and breakfasts. Food canisters, silicone pouches and dry bags get packed with food for three days. Morning comes all too early. We briefly question our career paths, but the magnetic pull of new mountains is all the incentive we need to get out the door. One wild ride up a twisting mountain road in that rattling Lada Niva to our drop off point, and we’re alone! Just us and an amphitheatre of peaks, radiant under starlight. Shafts of gold break the horizon and we pause for some morning tea and fresh bread. Time to soak up a little heat. We head deeper into the hills on worn goat trails, our snowshoes and ice axes still packed. Though we’re almost at 3,000 metres and it’s minus twenty, the snow is sparse and patchy. We encounter the first signs of long habitation in this wild corner of Georgia. A ruin of a shrine, its stones worn smooth with centuries of age. Late in the day, we chance upon a perfect spot for our first camp. The spur widens enough for a comfortable pitch. In the midst of setting up camp, my stomach growls. Time to make dinner. Cocooned in layers of silk and down, we fall asleep to the deep silence of remote winter peaks. Plumes of breath swirl and dance above me in the light of my head torch. I can hear Lisa curling deeper into her sleeping bag. It’s my turn to make breakfast. First order of business: thick, hot coffee. Easing my way through the narrow door, the fly sheet slithers and crackles in the cold. The sting of freezing air causes an involuntary cough. Burying my face into the hood of my jacket I jog on the spot to create heat. With coffee made, and grateful mumbles of thanks from inside the tent, I can get to work prepping our breakfast. 94
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Our winter adventure speeds by all too fast. Days pass in a kaleidoscope of sensory wonders: the smell of snow on the wind, moonlight glinting off shards of ice as though the ground is carpeted in diamonds, a dense forest hiding a stone fortress, hot spiced soup, and the joy of travelling in the wilderness with a close and trusted friend. Finally we near our home, the hillside showing small signs of traffic — a slight widening in the trail. But we don’t want to break the spell of the wilds and return straight to civilisation. Our last mountain lunch is suddenly interrupted by a wild street dog. Whether it caught scent of our meal, or is in search of company, we don’t know. It approaches camp, relaxed and at ease. Lying down, it seems content, but with the expectant air of one hoping for some food in the future. Our time in Georgia has left us astounded by the sheer number and friendly manner of all the street dogs that we have encountered on our journey so far. Not one has approached us with menace. Though they obviously live semi-wild, their manner seems to suggest that locals treat them with respect and human kindness. After lunch, as though reluctant to let us escape its enchantment, the Kazbegi Caucasus throws us a last curveball. The track we were on disappears with no warning. Far ahead we can see the continuation of the track, and a kilometre away our home. Between us and it, however, is a wide river. Backtracking will take us a few hours. We decide to scout the bank, hoping for stepping stones or a narrow stretch over which we can jump. No joy. Just as we’ve made the decision to turn back, Lisa spots a possible ford. Assessing the speed and depth of the flow, we’re in luck. It’s safe. Splashing our way across, we emerge and almost immediately the hems of our trousers freeze into board-like stiffness. Bone-tired and wet we may be, but the enchantment has struck us hard. We’re in the thrall of this magnificent landscape and its people. Thank you Georgia. 97
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Georgian Caucasus menu Lobio with Mchadi Red bean, pepper, onion and herb stew with cornbread Ingredients (serves 2): Lobio 2 cups dried red kidney beans, soaked in water overnight 1 white onion, finely sliced 1 green pepper, roughly diced 1 cup flat leaf parsley, roughly chopped 1 vegetable stock cube, crumbled 1 tsp white pepper 1/2 tsp dried fennel powder 1/2 tsp black cumin powder 1/2 tsp coriander powder Water Salt — to taste 1 tbsp butter or ghee
Mchadi: Cornflour, finely ground 2 eggs 2 tsp sea salt 1 tsp chilli flakes 1 cup hard white cheese, cut into fine cubes 2 tbsp rapeseed or olive oil Water Extra cornflour for dusting
Equipment: Camping stove, pump, fuel bottle, ceramic pot, skillet, wooden spoon, spatula, silicone dry bag — to knead and store the dough. Storage: Mix the beans, parsley and stock cube and store in a lightweight leak-proof container. Store the onion, pepper and spices in a separate container. Method: First make the cornbread. Mix together the cornflour, 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 dry bag or reusable container. Light the stove and when burning correctly reduce the heat to a simmer. Add the butter/ghee and when gently sizzling add the onion, pepper and spices. Cook for 2-3 minutes. Add the bean mix, stir well and add enough water to cover completely. Increase the heat to full, cover with the pot lid and bring to a boil. Reduce heat slightly, cook for 20 minutes or until the beans are soft, adding more water if necessary. Taste and season with salt if needed. Remove from the heat and keep warm. 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 the bean stew in an insulated container with some bread.
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Chicken Satsivi soup – winter camp version Ingredients (serves 2): Cooked meat from thighs and one breast of chicken (slow cook in the oven and when cold pull the meat apart with forks or your hands) 1 cup walnuts, smashed to fine chunks/ powder 1 cup coriander leaf 1 cup parsley leaf 4 cloves garlic 1/2 onion
1 glass white wine 1 cup sour cream 2-3 cups water (depending on how thick you like your soup) 1 chicken stock cube 1 tsp ground black pepper 1 tsp hot paprika 1 tsp dried tarragon 50 g butter (wrapped) Sea salt
Equipment: Camping stove and pot, bamboo chopping board, knife, airtight container, insulated bottle, insulated coffee mug with airtight lid, wooden spoons, insulated bowl/mug — to serve. Method: Put the pulled chicken into an airtight container, and chill in the fridge overnight. Use this to transport to camp. Mix the wine and sour cream together and transport in a leak-proof coffee mug. Fill your bottle with water. Place the spices, stock cube and walnuts in a small reusable container. Place the herbs, onion and garlic and butter in another reusable container. Hike to your chosen lunch spot, or overnight camp. In camp, finely chop the herbs, garlic and onion. Heat the pot, add butter and foam gently. Add the onion, garlic, herbs and spice/walnut mix; cook for 2 minutes. Add the wine, sour cream and water, bring to a simmer. Add the shredded chicken and cook for 15 minutes minimum. (If you have the time and fuel, cook for longer as the flavours will intensify). Taste and season if needed. Serve in the insulated bowls/mugs. Dig in! lisapaarvio-photography.com kierancreevy.com
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Gorillas in the mix A close encounter with a family of mountain gorillas in Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JAN FOX
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‘
aaah-mmmmmm’. Our guide, Bernice, offered a throaty call into the forest. A clump of bushes suddenly shook in the distance, and an enormous silverback gorilla emerged into the clearing in front of us. He grunted deeply in response, and sat down to chew on a bamboo shoot. A few moments later, a matted black ball of fur tumbled out into the open. He was followed by another bundle of fur, and they wrestled and rolled on the path beside us. Within minutes an entire family of mountain gorillas surrounded us, unconcerned by our presence. I was in Rwanda’s Volcanoes National Park, on the southern edge of the Virunga Massif — a vast range of volcanic peaks along the shared borders of Rwanda, Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Virunga is home to about 500 mountain gorillas, just over half of the estimated global population. The gorillas that surrounded us were members of the Hirwa family, one of 10 groups on the Rwandan side of the ecosystem that have been habituated to near-daily contact with people. The Volcanoes National Park is about 110 kilometres from Rwanda’s capital, Kigali, and it took us two hours to reach along smooth, winding roads. We had to leave our base at the Radisson Blu Hotel at 4.30 am, but I can think of few experiences I would rather wake up early for. Once we arrived at the park headquarters, we joined our knowledgeable guides, Bernice and Francis, for a short briefing. They informed us that trackers had located each of the 10 gorilla families earlier in the morning, and that we would be allocated a family based on our hike preferences. We were assigned the Hirwa family because we opted for a ‘medium’ hike — which would be about a four-hour round trip.
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As the park is home to a third of the global population of mountain gorillas, access is understandably restricted. Only 80 visitors are permitted to take a guided gorilla trek each day, and groups of up to eight people are allowed to spend no longer than an hour with one of the gorilla families. This strict time limit has been imposed to reduce behavioural disturbance, and to minimise the possible transmission of human illnesses. Briefing over, we set off with our guides and porters to the last known location of our gorillas. For about 45 minutes , we navigated muddy tracks in between settlements on the edge of the park, and trampled across sloped fields of potatoes. We skirted the park boundary — a basic brick wall — for as long as possible before penetrating the forest, as we covered ground more quickly in the adjoining fields. Even out here, though, there were signs of gorilla life: rows of eucalyptus trees stripped of their bark. We eventually clambered over the low boundary wall into the dense forest, along the Sabyinyo trekking trail. Oblivious to us at the time because of the low cloud cover and drizzle, we were actually at the base of the 3,645 metre high Mount Sabyinyo — one of eight volcanoes of the Virunga Massif. ‘Sabyinyo’ is derived from the Kinyarwanda word for ‘tooth’, and is a suitable description of the mountain’s serrated summit. We were looking out for signs that the trackers often use to find the gorillas: stems stripped of foliage, or knuckle prints in the mud. We came across signs of other forest dwellers, including fresh elephant footprints.
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After a few kilometres we met up with the trackers, who said that the gorillas we were searching for were a stone’s throw away behind a screen of bamboo. I knew what was coming, but nothing can prepare you for such a close encounter with animals so critically endangered, and so human-like. It’s easy to appreciate the fact that they share 98% of our DNA, as they gaze at you impassively. After our initial encounter with the dominant male — a silverback called Munyinya — the group dispersed into the forest. The wrestling youngsters, a one and a three year old, shadowed Munyinya the entire time. We chased after them for the majority of our precious hour, scurrying up and down slippery slopes, hopping over narrow streams, nursing nettle stings, hacking through dense bamboo thickets and escaping giant ant nests. Munyinya eventually perched himself precariously on top of a flimsy bamboo tree, and the toddlers carried on play fighting on the surrounding branches. While gorilla numbers have grown over the last few years, the protected forests of the Virunga Massif are increasingly under pressure. Sadly, this motivated the Rwandan Development Board to double the price of gorilla trekking for foreign visitors to an eye-watering $1,500. There’s no doubt, though, that these funds are being put to good use, including in anti-poaching efforts, reforesting the park’s buffer zone, and supporting adjacent communities. As long as the visitors keep coming, and the fees are reinvested wisely into the park, Rwanda’s gorillas should continue to thrive. @jan.m.fox
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The Forest adventure centre, on the very doorstep of Nairobi, is Kenya’s centre for fresh air adventure. Nestled on the southern tip of the Aberdare Range, The Forest is home to a true bucket-list adrenalin hit with East Africa’s longest ziplines. The full sixline zip and hike tour takes adventurers on a stunning forest trek studded by the thrill of flying high over the canopy on over two kilometres of lines. With paintball, archery, MTB, horse riding, footgolf and fantastic food to add to the mix, The Forest is a perfect place to thrill and fill for body and soul. Head to www.theforest.co.ke for more info.
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