Wilder Magazine - Volume Two by Wilder Magazine

October - December 2020 //

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 second issue, we hear from world-renowned photographer, Chris Burkard, about his recent bikepacking adventure across Iceland. We also profile The Cairn Project — a nonprofit supporting community-based wilderness and outdoor education groups to expand outdoor access for girls and young women. We feature articles by two Cairn Project Ambassadors, Ashley Carruth on a backpacking trip with 10 female-identifying youths in Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness, and Annie Le on one of many bikepacking excursions in the Scottish Highlands. A few hundred miles further north, we explore the rugged shores of the Shetland Islands, before heading south and trekking across Sudan’s little-visited Bayuda Desert. We then navigate wilderness trails in South Africa and Rwanda, and hike up northern Kenya’s Mount Ololokwe. JAN FOX FOUNDER & EDITOR

Front cover: Bikepacking in the Cairngorms | Annie Le Right: Aleutian Islands | Chris Burkard // Cypress Peak Productions

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editor@wilder-mag.com

wilder-mag.com

In this issue 1. Bikepacking in Am Monadh Ruadh 13. The Cairn Project: creative magic in the outdoors 19. Finding the ‘why’ in the Weminuche 29. In conversation with: Chris Burkard 43. Shetland: life on the edge 59. Sudanese sands 69. Night-watch — a short story 75. Trail de Akagera: the conservation of experience 85. A night on Ololokwe

Contributors Susan Molloy Susan is a portrait, landscape and lifestyle photographer based in the Shetland Islands, Scotland. She discovered her passion for photography while living for several years in the Samburu National Reserve, in northern Kenya. Drawn to the outdoors, Susan is often found in wild places, or at her jeweller’s bench at Shetland Jewellery, where she works with silver, gold, precious and semi-precious stones.

Brenden Piennar Brenden has been conducting multi-day Primitive Trails for the past sixteen years. His field experience has acquainted him with the biological diversity and ecological processes of the savanna ecosystem exceptionally well. It is based on this experience and knowledge that he acts as Trails Guide Trainer, Mentor and Assessor for FGASA in South Africa.

Annie Le Annie is an outdoor professional who lives and works in the Scottish highlands. She loves anything outside, especially mountain biking and camping. Over the last few years she has prioritised travelling by bike, and has been lucky enough to go on trips to Greenland, Iceland, Sweden, Patagonia, Nepal and France. Although she grew up in sunny Cape Town, she now loves cold winters and arctic landscapes.

Ashley Carruth Ashley is an educator, activist and community leader in Southwestern Colorado who mentors a diverse youth community to help them become leaders in environmental sustainability and social justice. The co-founder of San Juan Mountain SOLES and a humanities teacher, she has focused on connecting her students to wild spaces and providing them with outdoor education experiences that foster ecological ethics and a stronger connection to place and community.

Peter Ndung’u Peter is an award-winning visual storyteller from Nairobi, Kenya with a passion for creating and sharing travel and documentary stories. He has documented his travels across Africa and beyond for six years, and has featured in National Geographic and other global platforms. Through his work, Peter aims to inspire people to find beauty within themselves and their surroundings.

Louis Supple Louis is a writer and adventure enthusiast who is passionate about exploring remote but beautiful corners of the world. From skiing across disappearing Arctic glaciers, to traversing little-visited African deserts, and running ultra marathons in pristine rainforests, he has explored some of the world’s last remaining wildernesses.

The Elewana Collection of 16 boutique lodges, camps and hotels is known for its unique accommodation in iconic locations across Kenya and Tanzania. The origin of the name Elewana is the Swahili word meaning ‘harmony’, a concept that underpins our company philosophy and influences the way we deliver our unforgettable safari experiences To make a booking, or for more information, please call +254 (0) 713 474 171 for Kenya or +255 (0) 788 650 511 for Tanzania, email reservations@elewana.com, or visit www.elewanacollection.com

Bikepacking in

Am Monadh Ruadh Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains, or Am Monadh Ruadh in Scottish Gaelic, form the highest mountain massif in the British Isles. Cairn Project Ambassador and keen bikepacker, Annie Le, tackles their misty trails on two wheels WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS ANNIE LE

e push upwards into the swirling mists that cloak our past and our future. Only the present is left as we sweat past clear, gurgling streams and over pink granite boulders. At some point it will level off and we will ride our bikes, but not yet. The mist shifts to reveal a glimpse of the steep, black cliffs that line the corrie bowl. I hope the clag will clear — the scenery is stunning and I used the promise of it to persuade Neza to change her original route for this tougher alternative. We have met through that modern wonder, Instagram. She is on holiday in Scotland and asked if I wanted to join her for a short bikepacking trip. It can be delicate balance, introducing someone to the lumpen, damp nature of Scottish trails and finding the fun side of adventure. After many hard steps we reach a shoulder and the gradient eases slightly. Here, the deer grass is winning the battle with the granite, and the mountain appears softer under the orange-tipped blades dancing in the breeze. Jumping at the chance to ride, we pedal slowly upwards. A short push takes us onto a beautiful, traversing trail where we stop to chat to some walkers. They are surprised that we aren’t riding e-bikes, but they wish us luck with our journey. The trail takes us over a high mountain plateau and we enjoy tantalising glimpses of the looming peaks that run alongside us. To our right is a huge cleft, a natural fault exploited by glaciers. Rising from the near vertical cliffs of the far side are several peaks. One, Angel’s Peak, towers over its corrie bowl, filled in with deep green waters. A brief glimpse before the mist thickens is barely enough to satisfy my eyes. Higher still and we push again over moss and lichen-crusted boulders. They roll and crack under our feet, grudgingly offering us passage.

Just as I think Neza will never forgive me, we reach the top and the mist clears. Our high rounded summit offers views through the mountains and down into the forested glens below. We smile at each other, grateful to share this incredible place and thankful to be at the high point. We pause to snack on trail-mix and oat cakes before tackling the way down. This descent is hard, steep with rocky steps and water bars. Neza glides down it, on her rigid, heavy bike. My worries about whether she would enjoy such a trail put to rest. As we wind down through boulder fields, deer grass meadows and dark lochs it’s no time before we reach the valley floor. Time to find somewhere for the night. Flat ground is easy to find in the valley, but ground that is not pockmarked with hard sedge hummocks is sparser, and it is with relief that we find somewhere suitable for both our tents. Silence falls as we busy ourselves getting the stoves on and making tea and food. A nearby stream gurgles and chatters to itself. A frog hops through the grass, making the most of the short summer warmth. I love the moments of contemplation in camp. The stillness — just listening and seeing. A chance to absorb the landscape and process the day’s scenes. Dinner eaten, we chatter quietly, in the comfortable manner of having spent a great day together, building friendship through a shared love of space and movement. Night creeps in and I fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper its secrets. We pack quickly in the morning as the midges hassle us in their determination to feast on our blood. Their bite is sharp and results in perfect pink dots that itch and annoy for a couple of days. No lazy cups of tea are to be had with them around. We start by riding down through a lush, forested glen. The variety of textures and greens from the pick ‘n’ mix jumble of trees is a rare sight in Scotland. The obsession of a wealthy few to keep the land overstocked with deer to hunt has all but destroyed any hope of the rebirth of our native forests. Here, however, the land is managed by a conservation charity and their efforts to replant the forest are obvious and appreciated. 8

We travel through the forest for several hours. The floor is bright green, rich in blaeberries that are nearly ripe. The Scots pines rise above with orange-scaled bark, decorated with lichen. Our wheels spin fast over well-maintained tracks before popping us out onto moorland speckled with purple heathers and yellow bog asphodel. Our track takes us up over the shoulder of another mountain, and we can see big rain showers moving through, blurring the mountains behind. We sit to snack and chat about our differences and similarities. Both women in our thirties, having chosen a life of uncertainty and instability to pursue adventure and unique opportunity. Bees fly past on important missions to a collection of hives on the nearby hillside and, cooling, we soon carry on with our own journey. The rain hits us with a rush, refreshing on the climb. It speckles our kit but we dry fast in the warm breeze. The descent is fast and steep, with loose rock rolling and crunching under our wheels as we try to pick the smoothest lines. We follow a path downriver for several kilometres, where the water gains speed and energy as it bounces down a small gorge. Here the air is cooler, shaded by larch and pine. The air smells of pine sap and damp ground. We stop to snack at a waterfall, watching the white waves as they endlessly tumble over worn rock. The afternoon is hot in the valley. Pedalling becomes hard work on the flat. We shift in our saddles trying to get comfy, and ride past meadows and farmland. Eventually we give in and stop at a quiet river bank to eat and snooze before carrying onwards. A short road section on a popular tourist route fills our nostrils with diesel and our ears with the roar of engines. It’s with great relief that we turn off and head back into the hills. Camp tonight is easy. A secluded riverbank under big old trees. We sweep away the needles and pinecones before pitching up. Conversation is easy as we make dinner and listen to the hum of our stoves. Hunger quelled, we wander upriver to stretch our cycling legs and find another roaring waterfall. Tired, we go to bed early before the last of the light is gone.

We pack away our sleeping mats and bags for the final time. This is our last morning together. We separate at a big river crossing, Neza following her longer route and me to return home for work. It’s been refreshing to experience a familiar place with fresh eyes, and I’m sad to say goodbye. The land I ride over is open and bleak. Trees are rare up here on the overgrazed deer moor. The trail fades in and out, punctuated by peat hags that I must dismount to push across. Although I love the huge emptiness out here, the land feels barren and poor with so little diversity. It’s all now managed by conservation organisations, but it will take years for the decades of misuse to be rectified and biodiversity to return. I drop off the moor into a smaller glen: this one is bursting at the seams with life. Adders bask on the track in the warm rays and butterflies dance. A group of sparrow hawks indignantly take flight as I disturb their bathing. I peddle past big juniper groves, the berries still small and green with ripeness over a month away. The single-track snakes alongside the river, dry earth and pine needles making me feel like I could be in the Mediterranean, not Scotland. I come across a blown-out stream bed: it was once an easy crossing, but I now have to lower my bike awkwardly down several metres to the base of the boulder-filled gully. The damage is the remnant of a big flash flood a few years back. It is a good reminder of the power of water. All too soon I reach tarmac — an overflowing car park and tourists stopping for their brief photo opportunity, before rushing off to the next one. Time in the hills is always special. Camping out, listening to the land and watching the light change helps to clear headspace. Experiencing it with someone new, and building a delicate friendship, has enriched my ride and brought me new understandings of my old haunts. annieleoutside.com @a_girl_outside

Creative Magic in the Outdoors WORDS ALISON WRIGHT & SARAH CASTLE PHOTOGRAPHS THE CAIRN PROJECT & EILEEN ROCHE

‘Do what brings you to life.’ Brought to life is one way we’d describe the experience of standing atop Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the continental United States, on a blustery and unseasonably cold September morning. Exhilarated and exhausted are also adjectives that come to mind as we conjure up memories of the final moments of our John Muir Trail thru-hike in 2016. It had been a freezing early morning climb at the end of a long 212 miles through California’s High Sierra to reach the Mt. Whitney summit. And in that moment, on top of the US, we were celebrating the accomplishment of a goal more than a year in the making. It seemed like an end point — a triumphant one. In retrospect, that triumphant end was just the beginning. In the course of planning this 12-day expedition, we’d stumbled upon the idea of turning the adventure into something bigger: The Cairn Project, an adventure-driven nonprofit that expands outdoor access for girls around the United States. Knowing how transformative outdoor adventure can be for young women — seeding self-esteem, inner strength, and the tenacity to embrace the unexpected — we based the mission of The Cairn Project on a vision of fostering our future leaders and environmental stewards.

From the outset, we wanted our effort to help reduce the barriers that continue to leave women and girls — and particularly women and girls of colour — significantly under-represented in outdoor education and the outdoor industry generally. We decided that the best way to do this was through a funding programme: we’d raise money from our friends and loved ones, and pass it on to community-based groups giving young women the chance to learn and explore outside. As we 15

worked through fastpacking food plans, gear lists, and itinerary tweaks, we also built a nonprofit start-up — branding, website, charitable status. A couple months prior to our departure out of Yosemite Valley in September 2016, we launched a crowdfunding campaign, and by the time we summited Mt. Whitney, we’d raised $30K USD, which we channelled to organisations getting girls and young women out mountain biking, backpacking, and rock climbing in several different states. It was a

spectacular hike and a successful initial campaign, but the real accomplishment has been in what followed. For both of us, the chance to turn an adventure into something bigger than us — something that gives back and passes on that very sort of opportunity to the next generation — grabbed our attention and wouldn’t let us go. It turns out we’re not alone: since 2016, our growing cadre of more than 40 Ambassadors have catalysed self-powered outdoor adventures around the United States

(and even in Mexico!) into crowdfunding campaigns that support The Cairn Project. Our ‘Adventure for Good’ model has been a banner for expeditions in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, Bears Ears National Monument, along the US’s most famous long distance hiking routes, and many places in between. Each campaign has provided the woman spearheading it a chance to share her own outdoor story, to educate her network about the barriers and inequities that continue to keep jjj 16

too many girls off the trails and rock walls, and to call her community to action. Our grants have helped to fund scholarships and gear purchases that allow young women whose families can’t afford these sorts of luxuries to participate. We’ve helped connect hundreds of young women to important ‘firsts’: first hike in the rain, first night sleeping in a tent, first time feeling comfortable and confident in their own skin, surrounded by a group of supported peers and mentors. When the idea for The Cairn Project struck us, that notion of ‘Big Magic’

made famous by Elizabeth Gilbert’s book rang true. In the stripped-down simplicity of self-powered time outside, in landscapes where we feel most alive, we have the chance to see out beyond the horizons that normally hem us in. What’s lying out there, beyond the boundaries of the day-to-day limitations, routines, and expectations we all face? We want more young women to find out. For more information about the work of The Cairn Project, and to find out how you can get involved, head to www.cairnproject.org

Alison Wright

Sarah Castle

Alison grew up exploring California’s Point Reyes National Seashore. After years of living and adventuring in the Rocky Mountains and Latin America, she has returned to her hometown of San Francisco. Alison melded her professional and personal passions by co-founding The Cairn Project with her friend and fellow adventure-seeker Sarah Castle. In her primary career, she serves as Director of the Environmental Defenders Collaborative at Global Greengrants Fund.

Sarah grew up in a mountain town west of Denver, Colorado, and has spent most of her adult life a stone’s throw away from the Rocky Mountains. Though she held a fascination for wild places at a young age, it wasn’t until late high school that she became captivated by the mountains in her backyard. Merging her love for exploration and grit, she pursued a career in soil science, studying the effects of global change and land use on natural and managed ecosystems.

Finding the ‘why’ in the Weminuche PHOTOGRAPHS ASHLEY CARRUTH | CHERYL ALBRECHT | MOLLY BACHMAN WORDS ASHLEY CARRUTH

Sisters on Leadership Expeditions (SOLES) is an outdoor education and leadership development organisation that Ashley Carruth and Rachel Landis cooked up on a white-knuckled snowy drive in 2015. As they crested Lizard Head Pass in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado, and began the descent down into Telluride, they shared similar stories of female students plagued by self-doubt. They agreed that these students lacked the tools and the community needed to develop healthy coping mechanisms. They reflected on their own adolescence and the crucial role that strong female mentors and outdoor experiences played in shaping their identities. As snowflakes pummelled the windshield, Ashley and Rachel decided to offer something similar to the young women in the community of Durango, Colorado. A mission statement was crafted: SOLES will inspire female-identifying youth to lead healthy, fulfilling lives rooted in the big mountains, confident leadership and authentic community engagement.

t is 6:30 pm at 12,400 ft. and we’re deep in the Weminuche, Colorado’s largest wilderness area. My co-instructor, Rachel, and I peer up at the 45-degree talus field before us, and then back at the sinister thunder cloud two ridges behind. After donning down jackets, our intrepid band of SOLE Sisters circle up, erratically hopping and swinging their arms to stay warm. We encourage our veterans to lead some sort of psyche-up activity to boost morale. To our chagrin, they link arms and initiate a round of blood-curdling expletives followed by a roar of giggles. Rachel and I take that as our cue and walk a few metres away to weigh our options. Should we just camp here or capitalise on the group’s renewed bravado and go for it? We turn back to our rosy-cheeked and beaming students. They are ready. I think of Ainsley, one of our tenured participants, and her sage advice earlier that day: ‘Ashley, it doesn’t matter if it’s 2 pm or 12 am, we’re just climbing’. And so, we wave the girls on. Less than an hour later, we crest the pass as alpenglow sets the adjacent peaks on fire. Our voices join together in one giant ‘yeeeoooooop!’, which echoes across the valley. Before we begin our descent, eager to find camp before dark, I swear I hear Allen Ginsberg’s voice among our yips and howls: ‘Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!’. On the way down, I slip in next to Margaux, who just yesterday had stubbornly fought back tears as she fell behind, each step a painful suggestion to her that she didn’t belong here. Yet after her polar bear plunge in Vestal Lake earlier that afternoon, something clicked

in Margaux — she confronted and silenced the inner voice that told her ‘you can’t’. Now, her bounding strides reflect her new confidence and I tell her how proud of her I am. She looks me right in the eye and replies, ‘I’m proud of you, too, Ashley’. And like that, she signals that this trip, this community, is not a one-way street — she has my back, too. They all do. And yet, this entire experience almost didn’t happen this year. Navigating the ever-changing landscape of COVID-19 required equal parts determination, adaptability, and creativity. Cases were on the rise in our area and Rachel and I worried about the safety of our students, instructors, parents and community. We consulted with our medical advisor and other outdoor education organisations, and we relentlessly worked to revise our 35-page COVID protocol handbook. We considered cancelling it one month, two weeks, three days out, but we realised that we made the right choice as soon as we stepped out of our vehicles and onto the trail, and a relief befell us all. Each step along our route was one step further from the uncertainty and chaos of the ‘real world’. Without a doubt, our ability as 12 white women to escape, to take a break from it all, is privilege incarnate. On the trip, Rachel and I are careful to remember this fact and gently bring it into our participants’ awareness. We tell them the Weminuche is named after the ancestors of the Ute tribes. We are walking through stolen land, and while it is now public land, ‘available to all’, you don’t have to dig

Photo | Ashley Carruth

Photo | Cheryl Albrecht

too deep to expose the ways in which access to these lands have been limited for too many people of colour. COVID has been good at that — exposing. The pandemic has pulled our nation’s skeletons out of the closet and into broad daylight, exposing how skin colour predicts the likelihood of contracting or dying from COVID; how working from home compounds the domestic burden born by women; and how the environment can catch its breath when we all slow down a beat. Literally. Air quality, worldwide, improved with the decrease in traffic and a number of different analyses show that emissions this year will fall by 4-8%, somewhere between 2 and 3 billion tons of the warming gas. It’s clear our SOLE Sisters feel these issues. They express a sense of restlessness, a desire to help but lack an outlet to do so. As Edward Abbey once wrote, ‘action without sentiment is the ruin of the soul’, and so these young women have begun to feel that ruin manifested as loneliness, depression, self-doubt, angst. On the sixth night of our trip, we dine on homemade pizzas topped with sautéed blue bells and marsh marigold leaves we’d harvested earlier that day. Bellies full, we amble across the alpine tundra with sleeping bags like scarves around our necks, until we arrive at the edge of granite cliffs that plunge some 1,000 feet below us. We each find our own nook among the lichen, alpine sage and quartzite and nestle into our down sleeping bags as the sky erupts into a fevered sunset — a neon yellow orb sinks behind Turk and Sultan peaks, casting vermillion rays across smoky thunder clouds. I hold up a coyote femur we found along the trail, our new ‘talking stick’, and communicate the expectations for tonight’s circle — she who holds the femur will have the power to speak. I ask the group to reflect back on the past four months since the stay-at-home order hit Durango. Like most circles, the discussion starts slowly. The first speaker is self-conscious, but by the third speaker something shifts in the 24

group; their awkwardness gives ways to a sense of relief. The circle provides a container in which to hold their collective sorrow. Amidst tears, Sailor explains: ‘When normal life was cut off, I was just hit by this darkness. I was feeling lonely, but I was seeing some friends and so how could I be lonely? But loneliness isn’t about that. It is when you don’t know yourself and you’re lonely from yourself.’ She pauses. It feels to me as though we’re all holding our breath, in awe of this wise-beyond-her-years human, and not wanting to break the spell. The words of Rupi Kaur, an Indian-born, Canadian poet, illustrator and author, come to mind: ‘The irony of loneliness is that we all feel it at the same time’. Sailor begins anew, describing how, for her, COVID has crystallised the vitality and centrality of human connection, reminding her of the preciousness of life and how to be more present in the moment. She shares how this awareness began after the death of her dad, who passed away from a stroke a year ago. Her dad who owned a bakery whose motto is ‘Drop Bread, Not Bombs’. Her dad who, when you walked into the bakery, would sling a loaf of olive bread at your head and refuse to take your money. If you weren’t on your toes, you might end up with a minor concussion, but it didn’t matter because you knew it was all yeast and love. So when Sailor wonders what her dad would do amidst this pandemic, I don’t miss a beat. I know he would bake a ton of bread for the people who need it most right now. Tonight these young women are fostering the same wisdom, enunciated by Kurt Vonnegut in a 1974 commencement address: ‘What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured’. Sailor wipes the tears from her eyes and sets the femur in the circle. Annika picks it up and explains that at the onset of the quarantine, she initially felt happy and free to live each day just as she wanted: 25

‘Everything was on my time. I could sleep in. I could wake up early. I could eat five meals a day. I could eat one’. She takes a deep breath and rolls the femur between her hands, then adds: ‘But then it was like a cloud came over me one day. I realised how just being around people was a distraction and I had no idea who I was or why I was here. I didn’t feel like the main character of my life; I was kind of watching it go by in front of me. COVID just stripped away everything and all I was left with was myself. But there have been moments on this trip when I’ve realised ‘why’ a lot, like coming over each pass, and this sunset; that’s why.’ That’s why. Sailor and Annika speak to the loneliness and purposelessness so many people feel today during a time of immense uncertainty and adversity. We’re not only experiencing a global pandemic, but a racial justice revolution as well. Rachel Velcoff Hults and Dr. Steven Adelsheim published an op-ed for Stanford Children’s Health explaining just how crazy these times are for our youth as they juggle the unique challenges of COVID with ‘processing news of the violent murders of George Floyd and other Black Americans, the country’s reaction, and the impact on themselves, their families, and their communities. Many are experiencing a range of intense emotions, from grief to anger to hopelessness, to hopefulness about the possibility for real change ... with limited access to the support they need to process these complex feelings’. When the last speaker returns the femur to the centre of the circle, Rachel leads us in a round of ‘pass the pulse’. We hold hands and she starts by squeezing the hand of the person to her left, who then squeezes the hand of the person to their left, and like that the ‘pulse’ makes its way around the circle. It’s a cheesy NOLS-it-all practice that typically makes me squirm, but I now recognise its symbolism — the pulse affirms our connection, as if to echo Rupi Kaur: ‘It isn’t the blood that makes you my sister, it’s how you understand my heart as though you carry it in your body’.

Photo | Ashley Carruth

Photo | Molly Bachman

Annika may have struggled to find her ‘why’ during COVID’s lockdown, but I’m pretty sure she reminded me of my own. My ‘why’ is to continue to hold the container that keeps passing the pulse of passion, earnestness, determination, humour, moral outrage and compassion of these 10 young women. It may be old hat to punish tomorrow’s generation for the crimes of yesterday’s, but it is also naïve to say tomorrow’s generation doesn’t have some heavy lifting to do. Yet, I’m confident they can carry the load. My SOLE Sisters are becoming stronger than I am. Oddly, I get older every year and I’m starting to feel it. I can’t sprint without risking pulling my hamstring, or trundle downhill with a 60 pound back without feeling a pang in my knee. But these girls, they are my legacy. They’re capable of carrying more of the weight, and so I give them my extra fuel bottle, the satphone, the bear fence. They teach the younger ones how to light the stoves, how to pee and poop in the woods, how to be vulnerable. They lead classes on leadership styles and lovingly support my own continued leadership development. In short, they are taking the torch and carrying it with grace and grit. I hope they’ll outdo me because I’m falling short. We all are. But I don’t despair in that. I find hope in each day I work to make the mountain taller so the women who follow have a better view of the sunset. The day after our trip ended, Annika dropped a note off at my house on her way home from work. She wrote it during her shift at a local restaurant on the only paper available to her at the time, an old menu. On the side opposite the appetiser and salad offerings, she wrote: ‘Not only are we all women who find excitement in the outdoors, but we want to change the world forever. Change can be scary when you face adversity alone, but with these women ... I feel loved, safe, supported and empowered.’ sanjuanmountainsoles.weebly.com @sanjuansoles 28

Chris Burkard Chris Burkard is an accomplished photographer, creative director, speaker and author. He spends the majority of his time travelling around the world’s wild spaces, photographing untamed and powerful landscapes. Wilder’s Editor, Jan Fox, recently asked Chris about his past adventures, his motivations to shoot, and what advice he would give to aspiring photographers in this digital age. WORDS CHRIS BURKARD & JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS CHRIS BURKARD | CYPRESS PEAK PRODUCTIONS

Thanks for your time, Chris. I understand you’re currently on an epic 900 km bike trip across Iceland’s interior. You’ve said before that Iceland is a favourite destination of yours – what is it that draws you to this Nordic island in the North Atlantic?

Yes, a team and I are currently doing a bike route through the interior of Iceland. It is amazing to see the country I’ve been to so many times in a different and unique manner. I have travelled to Iceland dozens of times, but I am usually there for commercial photography, and getting to experience the country by biking through it gives me a whole different perspective. Although the route has proved more difficult than I originally imagined … I truly believe that Iceland is one of the most beautiful locations in the world. It is by far my favourite place in the world. It holds so much opportunity for adventure and surf. Everytime I shoot there it is like walking on another planet. The geography, along with the people of Iceland, keep you coming back. Breanne (my wife) and I joke about living in Iceland when our boys get a little older for six-months at a time. I’ve been 40 times and have no intentions of stopping.

This is one of many incredible adventures that you’ve been on in recent years. Are there any trips that stand out to you in particular, and why? One of my favourite trips of all time was a trip to the Aleutian Islands in 2013 for Surfer Magazine. This trip was one of the most raw and intense trips I’ve ever been on and was pivotal in my career. We had no idea whether we would score any waves on our trip or not but we left hoping for the best. Ultimately, everything came together and we lucked out with waves. I got one image that I will remember forever on the trip — it has a monumental snow covered volcano in the background with a rolling hill below it, and a surfer slashing a wave in the foreground. After I captured this once-in-a-lifetime moment, I couldn’t help but smile and take a moment to soak it all in. I had left the well-known, warm waves in search of cold, remote places that had been unseen but was unsure if it would pay off. In this moment, it did. The gear that you use naturally changes with the assignment and location, but what are some of the things that you always take with you? This list is long but I will try to pair it down: Sony A7RIV with a 24-70mm and a 16-35mm lenses; Mountainsmith kit cube; Goal zero charger; sleep kit — ear plugs, neck pillow, eye cover; Iphone — the new camera is incredible; Medterra CBD; gummies ... of course.

Your ‘mission statement’ as a photographer, and more broadly as a storyteller, has inevitably evolved with time. What are your key motivations to shoot today, and how has this changed from your first forays into photography? Overall, my main goal is very simple — I hope to inspire others to explore this beautiful earth and to see how much can be enjoyed when getting out of your comfort zone! However, my motivations have in fact changed over the years, especially recently as a storyteller. To be honest, when I first started I was 19 years old and in the beginning it was just about travelling, seeing new places and filling pages of my passport. However, now I think it’s really evolved into telling stories about places that can’t necessarily speak for themselves. The wild places of our planet are at stake and I think the most meaningful thing I can do these days is lend my voice to them. A lot of the adventures that you undertake involve a high level of physical exertion, and your current biking trip in Iceland is a good example. How much of a motivation is the physical challenge of these trips for you? I’ve learned that there is nothing in life worth pursuing that isn’t going to require us to suffer, just a little bit. I like to photograph things that require you to be a part of the action — mountain biking, surfing, skiing. Anything really that requires you to go out and work to get the shot. When I have to put in more effort and lose a bit of skin. Those times are the times I feel most alive.

You have a global audience of millions, including over 3.6 million followers on Instagram. What sort of example do you aim to set with your lifestyle? First and foremost I try not to pretend to be anything I’m not. It’s my personal belief that people come to your channels to get a piece of who you are just as much as they come to see inspiring imagery. I try and give people that in all my social channels. In terms of what sort of example I try to set, I think the world just needs more kindness and that is most important to me. I also hope to show people how to live a life that cares for the environment and the planet, by exploring it, appreciating it, and taking measures to reduce your personal carbon footprint. Anything, no matter how big or small, is a step in the right direction when it comes to helping our planet and I hope to show this. You chose at an early age to follow your passion of landscape and action sports photography, but it hasn’t always been a smooth journey — living in your car for a period, for example. What would you say to others looking to pursue what they love as a career? I think the best advice I can leave those hoping to explore a career like mine is to love what you shoot. I spent a ton of time early in my career serving the needs of editors, magazines, etc. Once I finally tuned into what actually made me happy and brought me joy my career skyrocketed. I also realised what I was good at and stopped trying to convince others that I could do everything. That is REALLY important. Don’t try to show an editor tons and tons of images that reflect this broad variety of work. Focus on what is most important, the best stuff. The stuff that shows what you specialise in. It will help you become a better curator and editor for your own work. The worst thing you can do is try to tell people you can shoot everything well. You’re hired because you are a specialist in a certain area so the sooner you realise that the better.

With the rise of social media, and the improvement and accessibility of camera technology, young photographers have plenty of tools at their disposal to showcase their work. But it is also increasingly difficult for their work to stand out. What advice would you give to aspiring photographers in this digital age? The best thing that you can do as an aspiring photographer is to identify a style that represents you well, develop within that style, and keep shooting to perfect it. It’s super important to have your images be recognisable by editors and others who are looking at your work. With the large number of photographers that are out there now, you must find ways to stand out. The best compliment I can ever receive is when people know my photography work instantly when they see it. Your platforms as a storyteller continue to diversify — something that you’ve said you actively try to do to grow. In addition to your photography, you’ve done plenty of public speaking, published a children’s book, and you’re now writing a memoir, called ‘The Hard Way Home’. How’s that going? It’s going well, but to be honest it has been an incredibly difficult process. It is unlike anything I have ever done. Shooting photos has always come naturally to me, and pushing into storytelling was a natural progression, as was public speaking. It isn’t too hard for me to tell stories about other people, the planet, and places that mean a lot to me. However, it is quite hard to dive deep into your past and write a story about yourself. It forces you to examine yourself, your past, all your decisions etc. quite thoroughly, and then on top of that you have to convey how you felt to an audience. It has been a tough but rewarding process and I cannot wait to share the final product of all the hard work with everyone. You’re clearly drawn to very remote (and usually very cold) wild spaces. Have you thought about exploring off-the-beaten-path destinations in Africa? Absolutely! I have been drawn to cold places like Iceland but overall my goal and passion is to get out and experience all the amazing wild places on this planet. Africa is full of extraordinary places and I’d consider myself lucky if I get to see and photograph them. Hopefully one day! Click here to follow Chris on Instagram, and to purchase his latest book, At Glacier’s End, his prints or online business of photography workshop, head to chrisburkardshop.com 41

Life edge on the

Lying roughly 100 miles off the coast of Scotland, the Shetland Islands are Britain’s most northerly outpost. Local resident, Susan Molloy, shows there’s more colour to life on these islands than their bleak portrayal in the hit TV crime series, Shetland PHOTOGRAPHS & WORDS SUSAN MOLLOY

f you search for Shetland on the internet, you’ll quickly find a thing or two about these ambiguously Scottish islands. You’ll discover their rich Norse heritage and Viking culture, their true remoteness and stories from a creative and strongly connected community. For outdoor enthusiasts, images will do what they can to expose the wild landscapes and wilder seascapes. Picture steep hills of bright red granite and black volcanic rock, cloaked in vibrant heather, muted browns and dark, khaki greens. These rugged shores are flanked in some areas by violent Atlantic swells, and by calm, Caribbean-blue oases in others. What you can’t sense online, though, is the way that Shetland stirs the soul.

Three miles is as far as you can travel in any direction on the mainland of this cluster of northerly islands, before you encounter seawater. And it can sneak up on you. What may seem to be a steady, flat piece of land can suddenly disappear, leaving you exposed to the biting wind off the Atlantic Ocean, or the North Sea, depending on which side you’re on. These dramatic cliff edges can be found all over the islands. There are over 2,500 miles of coastline to explore, and in the summer months these cliffs often merge with bright turquoise sandy coves.

Whether it’s spotting orcas from a cliff-top park bench in Lingness, jet skiing through the inlet of Ronas Voe, or coasteering in Fladdabister with puffins overhead, it’s the sea that truly ties life here together, and it always has. In Northmavine you can throw a stone from the Atlantic Ocean to the North Sea, and at St Ninian’s Isle you’ll find the largest tombolo in the UK. In Burra you can enjoy a sunset swim in a large natural rock pool, while looking out towards Foula — one of Britain’s most remote permanently inhabited islands, with a population of just 30.

Most of my favourite spots require a healthy day out walking to reach. There’s the magnificent waterfall at Tingon, and the Lang Ayre – the mile-long beach beneath Ronas Hill, the highest summit in Shetland. There is also the ‘Hams O’ Roe’, which translates to ‘The Harbours of The Big Red Island’ – derived from ‘hamar’, the Old Norse word for landing place. It’s easy to feel small and insignificant in this otherworldly realm of red rock and violent water.

Sea stacks of varying sizes are dotted alongside the islands, including the Drongs off the coast of Hillswick: sharp granite spikes that rise from the water like mythical beings. Glance over the edge and you’ll spot gannets, fulmars and puffins suspended on the breeze. Seabirds scatter the remains of sea life across the islands — crab claws and sea urchin shells that provide an occasional crunch underfoot on coastal walks.

In the cold winter season, swims, hikes and climbs are swapped for nights lying in empty roads, watching the aurora borealis, and for Up Helly Aa preparations — the twelve fire festivals held annually across the islands to celebrate their Viking heritage, and to mark the end of the long nights. During these bleak but often beautiful winter weekends, we switch the camping gear for climbing gear and head to the indoor wall at Aith — home to one of the mainland’s honesty cake fridges. There are honesty boxes all over Shetland, where farms and producers stock wayside cabinets with free range eggs, pastries and other treats. Passersby leave their money with a note of what they bought and go on their way.

Cliffs, natural arches, waterfalls, caves, endless walks and some of the friendliest people that I’ve ever met — Shetland is far more than just sheep roaming the barren hills of murder-filled islands, as depicted by the TV detective series. (Shetland actually has one of the lowest crime rates in Europe). It’s not all epic outdoor excursions, though; Sunday evenings can quite easily be spent sitting on the pier at Lerwick, drinking a flask of tea and watching Arctic terns dance and dive into the shallows of the harbor. The rippling reflections of the pink and peach pastel skies are just as rewarding as any eight-hour hike. I didn’t know that I needed a taste of Shetland life until I found myself here, and I hope that one day your boots will land here too. whatsusansees.com @whatsusansees

S u d a n e s e sa n d s Flanked by a sweeping bend of the Nile, Sudan’s little-visited Bayuda Desert is a rich geological and historical landscape, with ancient Nubian pyramids, sand dunes, acacia forests and vast savannah plains WORDS LOUIS SUPPLE PHOTOGRAPHS NICHOLAS HOLT & LOUIS SUPPLE

Photo | Nicholas Holt

e sped along the highway, weaving in and out of an endless convoy of lorries in an attempt to make it to Sudan’s Meroë pyramids before sunrise. Having just completed a 280 km trek across the Bayuda Desert — a section of the Sahara created by a horseshoe bend in the Nile — I had been looking forward to the prospect of nestling into the cream leather seats of a Land Cruiser for the return journey. But I was soon itching to stretch my legs again. Several nomads on camels, elegantly dressed in flowing white robes and proudly sitting atop colourful saddles passed by, as we trundled along a dusty track back into the desert we had just traversed. A small sign with faded Arabic lettering was the only clue that we had almost reached the fabled pyramids. Built in 300 B.C., the pyramids mark the tombs of kings and queens from the ancient Kingdom of Kush, which ruled Nubia for centuries. Sadly, an Italian treasure hunter called Giuseppe Ferlini dynamited the tops off in the 1830s. Despite the damage, the pyramids are still a sight to behold. They are rarely visited — the only other visitors the night we arrived were a pair of inquisitive desert foxes scavenging around our camp for dinner scraps. As we explored the site the following morning, we were joined by a group of school children, who proceeded to run up and down the delicate pyramids. It was hard to believe that a UNESCO Heritage Site of such archaeological significance had no one to look after it. Sudan’s blasé attitude towards their historical treasures and lack of tourist infrastructure partly explains why the country attracts so few visitors. Its northern neighbour, Egypt, attracts ten times as many tourists each year, despite the countries sharing the same rich ancient history, beautiful desert landscapes and prime access to the clear waters and coral reefs of the Red Sea. Sudan is still perceived to be an unsafe place to visit, associated with its recent bloody civil wars and the coup d’état that ousted long-standing President Omar al-Bashir.

Photo | Louis Supple

Photo | Nicholas Holt

A BBC newsflash the night before I was due to fly out reported a gun battle between the military and supporters of Bashir in the streets of Khartoum, so there was good reason to be cautious. I was expecting a tense atmosphere on arrival, with soldiers on every street corner. But this wasn’t the case. The city seemed full of optimism, and most locals that I spoke to were excited to see what the future would hold following the fall of the ‘dictator’ Bashir. Our final preparations for the expedition in Khartoum included a meeting with the Minister of Environment in his opulent government office. With five plasma televisions and luxury interiors, the room was more akin to a suite at a five star hotel than a government office. After convincing the Minister that a military escort was really not necessary, and successfully acquiring a caravan of hardy camels from the market in Omdurman, we travelled to El Metemma, a small town near the Ethiopian border where we would begin our expedition. For the next ten days we would trek across the little-visited Bayuda Desert.

Guided by a wily old camel trader called Bela, and his cousin Qatar, we followed an ancient trading route that nomadic pastoralists from the Bisharin tribe have used for centuries to trade goods in Egypt. The route encompassed a range of beautiful desert environments, from acacia forests and savannahs to sand dunes and prehistoric volcanic rock outcrops. We also passed graves and forts from the illfated Gordon Relief Expedition of 1885. We enjoyed reading about the comical antics of the British Army during their march across the desert. Sir Redvers Buller, Chief of Staff for the expedition, and an alcoholic, hired 46 camels to transport his Veuve-Clicquot champagne. To our astonishment, Bela navigated the entire route using his memory and the sun, not once stopping to check the GPS. His weathered face and the jagged scar under his eye were clues of a hard life spent in camel markets and trekking in the desert. Hard to read, Bela had a twinkle in his eye, but he rarely made eye contact, always seeming distracted. I couldn’t help but think that he was a little bit sceptical about our chances of successfully traversing the Bayuda. 64

Photo | Louis Supple

Bela possessed the rare qualities that most great leaders have in common; I respected and happily followed him, but I also slightly feared him. Each morning he would stand over us with his hands behind his back like a school master, as we sat on a blanket for breakfast. He would then peer at his watch and menacingly shout ‘Yalla Yalla!’ when it was time to set off. Like an apprentice desperate to please his master, I would feel a pang of pride when Bela rewarded me for a good day’s march with a handful of delicious dates. Travelling through the Bayuda felt like being transported to another age, when modern transport and the internet were just fanciful 67

ideas. We had no contact with the outside world for the duration of the trek, and embraced a simple life involving little more than walking, sleeping, eating, drinking and talking. Evenings were spent sat around a fire chatting and sipping chai (Sudanese tea sweetened with ginger and sugar). We slept in tents, often without a fly sheet despite the bitter cold, and looked up at the stars glinting in the night sky. I was transfixed, and would pass the time identifying constellations. We always woke at sunrise. Before leaving the warmth of my sleeping bag, I took a moment to admire the vivid red colours of dawn. The comforting glow and crackle of the fire, and

Photo | Nicholas Holt

the promise of some coffee and pancakes, would eventually persuade me to slide out of my sleeping bag and start preparing for the day’s 30 km march. Bela and Qatar always rode ahead, leading the camel caravan, which would stop from time to time so the camels could stock up on desert vegetation. Our route passed two wells, so the camels could rehydrate. A few sips seemed to last them for days, and I appreciate now why camels are called the ‘ships of the desert’, as they are perfectly adapted to desert conditions. The dulcet tones of Qatar, who had a repertoire of Arabic folk tunes, kept morale high as we battled the all-consuming heat.

Photo | Nicholas Holt

As with most worthwhile adventures, reaching the end was bittersweet. Tired, hungry, and covered in sand, I looked forward to seeing my loved ones again, but was also slightly sad to leave nomadic desert life behind. As I climbed into the Land Cruiser for the journey back to Khartoum, the words of the famous British desert explorer, Wilfred Thesiger, echoed in my head: ‘I knew instinctively that it was the very hardness of life in the desert which drew me back there … In the desert I had found a freedom unattainable in civilization; a life unhampered by possessions, since everything that was not a necessity was an encumbrance.’ totheendsoftheworld.co.uk 68

Night-watch WORDS ANDREAS FOX PHOTOGRAPHS ANDREAS FOX & SHAUN MOUSLEY

ne of my favourite trips as a guide will always be one of my formative ones. I was an apprentice trails guide, backing up one of the most experienced walking guides on the continent. We were running a five-night wilderness trail in Makuleke, on the border with South Africa, Zimbabwe and Mozambique. We each carried all the food and equipment we needed on our backs, with flocculent and disinfectant to help us safely collect water each day — be it from holes dug in the dry Limpopo River bed, or natural springs muddied by wallowing buffalo. We carried no tents, because a deliberate aspect of these trails is the ‘night-watch’. Having found a relatively safe sleeping spot each night, we would build a tiny fire and lay out our sleeping mats and bags in safe proximity to each other. We were a group of eight people and divided the night up into shifts, starting around 9 pm and ending at dawn. The shifts were rotated each night, to ensure you never got the same one. If you sensed a potentially dangerous animal was coming too close, you woke up the group. We carried no technology, including watches and phones, so had to tell the time by the movement of the stars or our body clocks. Amazingly, the shifts always seemed to work, as the last person never had an extra long or short watch. One night, I was gently woken up by the person on shift before me. I calculated that it must have been around 11 pm. He whispered his briefing as I boiled water on my camping stove for a cup of coffee. He had heard a leopard chuffing and a few spotted hyena whoops, but nothing too close. I added a twig to the fire to keep it lit, but no larger than a candle flame. My colleague tucked himself into his sleeping bag and I settled down on a nearby rock, torch in hand.

Photo | Shaun Mousley

An important part of the watch was to do it alone. Even if someone else was awake, they were to leave you be, not just to concentrate on the task at hand, but also to allow the most powerful aspect of the trip to sink in — the reflective opportunity. In the first few minutes I had already heard the leopard again to the north, and some distant lions toward the Luvuvhu River. Then, a bellow of a lone bull buffalo at a natural spring below us. The rumble of an elephant gave the herd away. They had silently walked in to drink and pushed off the buffalo. We had positioned ourselves to sleep on a rocky outcrop, around 50 m above a main path that led to the spring. It was our water source for our dinner and next morning’s walk onwards. It also meant there was likely to be more wildlife to listen out for. I checked the position of my reference stars against a tree canopy and figured that my hour was nearly up. But then the leopard started calling again. It roared repeatedly every two minutes or so, closer each time. I figured that it was a territorial male on patrol and he was on the path that would take him straight past us. Despite the darkness, I could visualise his progress and sure enough, when he must have been right alongside us, he called again, before descending down to the spring, taking a few minutes to drink and then carrying on with his mission. I have no doubt that he would have sensed us, but saw no threat. It was past midnight by now and it was my birthday, which I had kept a secret from everyone in the group. I tip-toed over to the person who was due on shift after me. I didn’t need to wake her up though, the leopard had done that for me. She smiled and let me go to bed. There was no need for a debrief.

Andreas Fox runs privately-guided safaris across SubSaharan Africa, with bespoke itineraries focusing on privacy, experience and adventure. As a Director of The Original Ker and Downey Safaris — the longest-existing safari company in the world — he can set up exclusive mobile camps anywhere in Kenya. Click here to find out more, or email info@andreasfoxsafaris.com

Trail de Akagera:

The conservation of experience The first Primitive Trail in Rwanda’s Akagera National Park was conducted in 2018 by the Africa Trails Co. Seasoned Trails Guide, Brenden Pienaar, recounts the story of the ‘Trail de Akagera’, emphasising the importance of the most endangered phenomenon of our time — the experience of wilderness PHOTOGRAPHS BRENDEN PIENAAR & AVALON MEDIA AFRICA WORDS BRENDEN PIENAAR

Photo | Avalon Media Africa

y torch light connected with the heavy hoof falls of an eland bull, that determinedly cantered past as we sat on the ground around a small fire. The close proximity at which he skirted the Trails group raised suspicion. I stood up and took a few steps away from the fire to cast some light towards Kilala Plains. There were two more sets of eyes reflecting back from a thicket nearby. ‘We’ve got company’, I told Jackson, as the pale shapes of two male lions appeared in my binoculars. Nobody knew these lions better than Jackson, one of the park’s more experienced Field Rangers, who had been tasked with monitoring the population since their reintroduction in 2015. The two male lions were now striding leisurely towards us as Jackson and I held our position in front of the group. We had become liable companions of Akagera National Park’s most recent reintroduction — Homo sapiens. Akagera National Park’s history is Rwanda’s history. It is a story of rebirth and resilience. Just under 25 year ago, this protected area was on the verge of being lost forever. While peace was being restored after the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi, the park’s demise was just beginning. Refugees returning to Rwanda after the genocide were battling for their own survival. They turned to the forests for timber, wildlife for protein and the fertile savannahs for their livestock. The park’s wildlife was displaced by tens of thousands of long-horned cattle. There was no way of separating human activity and the wildlife that occupied this landscape. More than 300 lions were hunted to local extinction, and the rhino population was decimated too. The park’s ecological integrity was profoundly jeopardised, along with the employment opportunity and the further benefits of tourism. Its value was diminished to the point of barely existing at all. Considering its history, Akagera National Park’s current position is near miraculous. Since the African Parks Network, in partnership with the Rwanda Development Board, assumed management of Akagera National Park in 2010, they have achieved tremendous conservation and tourism success. This includes re-erecting the park’s western fence,

essentially halting poaching activity, reintroducing Eastern black rhino and lion populations (becoming a ‘Big Five’ destination) as well as growing tourism revenue to the point where the park is currently 90% self-financing. Along with habitat (wildlife) conservation and community engagement, tourism has been a key driver in unlocking the much-needed economic benefits for those that live around Akagera National Park. In 2019, more than 50,000 guests visited Akagera, which represents a tourism revenue increase of 1,150% since 2010. I first travelled to Akagera National Park in 2016 to assist with counter-insurgence tracker training (anti-poaching) prior to the reintroduction of 18 eastern black rhinos from South Africa. The grandeur of the landscape captivated me immediately. So too did the spirit of Jackson and the rest of his Field Ranger core. Their desire for knowledge and commitment to the cause of the park was outstanding. During those few weeks, we got to know the landscape and the people who benefit from it extremely well. From the papyrus-choked lakeshore in the east to the high-lying grassy hills in the west, there was a sense of inspiration. ‘The terrain lends itself to a Primitive Trail’, I suggested to Jes Gruner, the Park Manager, on the final night of a heartwarming visit to Rwanda. Understandably, the black rhino reintroduction was the priority, and almost two years passed before we made contact again. It was an email from Jes: ‘Bwana, do you still want to walk in Akagera?’. Obviously there was more to it, but that is the only sentence I remember. It was followed by my swiftest email responses ever. ‘Yes!’, I replied. So began an incredible journey of establishing the park’s Primitive Trail — ‘Trail de Akagera’. A Primitive Trail is a completely immersive experience during which participants carry everything they require for the duration of the multi-day Trail in a backpack. With no tents, no technology and no extras, each night is spent under the stars with participants sharing the responsibility of ‘watch duty’. Primitive Trails offer an alternative tourism model with

Photo | Avalon Media Africa

which to explore Africa’s national parks and wild spaces. It’s a shift from the spectatorship of the ‘colonial’ safari and encourages participation in nature. No infrastructure development is required and the activity is seasonal, providing the area of operation with enough time to recover from an already negligible impact. Primitive Trails could therefore provide economic justification for wild (undeveloped) spaces, and may be incorporated into wilderness zoning and wilderness management plans in the future. Wilderness areas are under severe threat, and are of critical importance globally for maintaining biodiversity and large-scale ecosystem services such as carbon sequestration. They also provide baselines for assessing current and future man-made environmental impact. Essentially, they are the ‘control’ sites for the large-scale human experiment we currently have in progress on our planet. In September 2018, I returned to Akagera with mentor and friend Robert Bryden to start preparations for the Trail recce. Robert was influential in the establishment of the Mphongolo and Lonely Bull Backpack Trails in northern Kruger National Park in 2009 and 2011 respectively. Together we carefully studied the maps and decided to agree with the landscape and her contours. Most of Akagera’s geographic features are situated south to north, so it made sense to align the Trail accordingly. Based on many years of patrols, Jackson knew most of the wellwalked animal paths across the park, and was an incredible asset in laying out a more precise route, especially where the contours did get steep. Some of the other route considerations included the dense vegetation, and the high concentration of animals that the Trail groups were likely to encounter along the lakeshore, such as buffalo, elephant and hippo. It posed an unnecessary risk, so was subsequently avoided. The lakeshore also has an extensive road network and interaction between the Trail groups and self-drive visitors will negatively impact on both parties’ experience. We wanted the Trail to avoid as much of the existing infrastructure and activity as possible. 80

The concept was to showcase wild spaces and their intrinsic qualities, such as remoteness, quietude, inspiration and opportunity to reflect. This would also provide the Primitive Trail Guides with a greater set of ‘tools’ with which to facilitate the experience. The Trail Guides conducting Trail de Akagera have a naturalist’s integrated knowledge, and interpret ecology in a way that stimulates the rediscovery of relationships. Ultimately, the primary objective of the Trail was to provide access to the most endangered phenomenon of our time — the ‘experience of wilderness’.

Photo | Avalon Media Africa

Following the five-night, 60 km Trail recce we were satisfied, and our preparation for the reintroduction of sapiens into their natural habitat was almost complete. For nearly the entire history of our species — around 200,000 years — humans have lived as foragers in savannah ecosystems. Due to a very recent series of developments (including an agricultural and industrial revolution) we began to fundamentally change our relationship with nature. We have placed ourselves outside of nature and above all else. The progressive loss of human-nature interactions has become known as the ‘extinction of experience’. It may yet prove to be one of the key environmental concepts of our time. Not only does this loss reduce the important benefits that people gain from these interactions, but it also undermines their support for pro-biodiversity policies and management actions, and thus plays an important role in shaping the future of biodiversity.

Photo | Avalon Media Africa

Akagera National Park and Africa Trails Co. have therefore taken on the ambitious task of reintroducing Homo sapiens into their natural habitat for the benefits associated with humans in nature. The reintroduction will be ongoing during August, September and October, which is aligned with the best season to appreciate this inspirational landscape. Trail participants have been dubbed the ‘Hunter-Gatherers of the 21st Century’. The experience of walking through a wild landscape in a small band, carrying only essential belongings on your back, is to become a hunter-gatherer of the 21st century. Drawing on the ‘wild advice’ that emerges on Trail, you become a hunter for meaning and gatherer of values. Trail de Akagera endeavors to rewild the human imagination. The lions veered off to our left and it soon became clear that they had no interest in us beyond their natural curiosity. They were on route and happened to encounter us along their way. There was no conflict; we were sharing space on the savannah once more. As the lions passed, it was time for the first shift of ‘watch duty’. All the Trail participants crawled in under their mosquito nets and settled in for the night, leaving the watchman on duty alone at the fire. ‘Don’t worry, I have it all under control’, he proclaimed tongue in cheek. So too did Jackson and myself. Our pioneering reintroduction was a success. The first commercial Trails were conducted in October of 2018. It is time to make nature a verb. Africa Trails Co. info@africatrailscompany.com www.africatrailscompany.com @africa_trails_co Lowveld Trails Co. admin@lowveldtrails.co.za www.lowveldtrails.co.za @lowveld_trails_co

A night on Ololokwe

WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS PETER NDUNG’U

Camping on the summit of an icon of Kenya’s ‘Big North’

enya’s Great North Road is true to its name. Also known (somewhat less romantically) as the A2, it stretches for 775 kilometres from the heart of Nairobi to the town of Moyale on the Ethiopian border. Beyond the congested outskirts of the city, it winds through the central highlands around Mount Kenya, and then descends into the vast arid shrublands of the north. It’s a great way to experience Kenya’s varied landscapes, and was the ideal route for my first trip out of the city after a lengthy COVIDinduced lockdown. We didn’t follow it to its end in Moyale, though. Our destination was roughly around its middle, on top of one of northern Kenya’s most iconic landmarks — Mount Ololokwe. This ancient rocky outcrop isn’t the region’s tallest mountain, but it’s certainly its most recognisable. Ololokwe means ‘wide head’ in the local Samburu language, and with a top half of smooth, rounded rock it’s clear to see why it was given that name. Because the Great North Road leads directly to it, it’s also impossible to miss. Our plan was to spend a night at an eco-camp called Sabache at the base of the mountain, before hiking up and camping on the summit. To get to Sabache, we veered off the main road and followed a dirt track through a forest of sweet-scented acacia tortilis trees. The camp is well-positioned in a broad valley between Ololokwe and two smaller adjacent peaks. Its 11 traditional safari tents are spread out around a thatch and stone kitchen and dining area, and those higher up have wide views back down into the valley. After a six-hour drive, it was great to have a hot shower in the open-air bathroom behind my tent — except for the split-second of panic when I spotted the ‘monkey-scaring’ stuffed toy leopard perched above the toilet.

In the evening we enjoyed a fireside dinner, and planned the morning’s trek up the mountain. Our Samburu guide, Lemaiyan, told us it would take three hours to reach the summit, along elephant and cattle paths. We all retired to our tents early to prepare. At around 3 am I was woken up by a sudden racket. A troop of baboons was alarm-calling — their frenzied barks echoing across the valley. I doubt whatever spooked them was stuffed. At dawn I was woken up again by a commotion below. More high pitched calls, but this time by young herders driving their donkeys towards a stream. The steep valley sides amplified the clopping of hooves on the dry, rocky riverbed. We all gathered our supplies and met at the starting point of the hike. Campers up the mountain have to be completely self-sufficient, although we would be accompanied by a group of porters to help lug our equipment. The initial stretch of the climb was particularly steep. We weaved up the eastern slope along dusty, well-trodden paths, stopping frequently to take in the views and hydrate. There were clues everywhere of the other creatures that had used this route. We wandered past dry mounds of dung, and trees stripped of their bark by elephants. I’m often amazed at the terrain that elephants can navigate. The paths up Ololokwe seemed far too steep and narrow for such large, ungainly animals. 90

The distance between rest stops shortened as the morning’s heat intensified. Eventually our climb levelled out, and our surroundings began to change as we neared the summit. It soon became clear what was drawing the elephants here. Across the top are patches of cloud forest, sustained by moisture-laden air currents that swirl above the mountain. Around the forests are natural springs — near permanent sources of water for wildlife and livestock. Lemaiyan told us that cattle can graze for as long as four months up here in the dry season. We continued through a dense stretch of cedar forest. Along the way, Lemaiyan pointed out various plants used as medicine by the Samburu. We then stumbled across a small tipilikwa shrub with a tower of stones stacked within a tangle of branches. We each placed our own stone onto the pile and made a wish, as is tradition for first time visitors to this sacred mountain. Nearby was a palm-like tree with dark green fronds and yellow corncob-shaped cones. We spotted more of them as we trekked across the summit. These were Matthews Cycads, endemic to Kenya and with origins stretching back 280 million years to a time before dinosaurs. Because the montane forests in this part of country are isolated by the arid lands that surrounds them, they have been allowed to evolve in their own direction. So these cycads are true living fossils. 91

We emerged from the forest onto a gradual slope of exposed metamorphic rock. We’d been climbing for over three hours, so we knew we couldn’t be far off our campsite by the mountain’s southern edge. The smooth rock finally flattened, and then suddenly disappeared and revealed the most spectacular view. We shed our backpacks and gazed out over northern Kenya. The straight Great North Road cut across winding seasonal rivers, and vast blotches of white and red soil. Thermalling vultures occasionally drifted into view, before vanishing again below the edge of the cliff. Our exhausting climb was soon forgotten.

In the evening the weather shifted, and it rained for the first time in five months. Strong winds battered our tents throughout the night, and Lemaiyan left our camp to take shelter in a nearby cave. At dawn, the summit was cloaked in a blanket of fog. I wandered as far as I dared to the edge, and watched a faint orange glow appear through the haze. Every few minutes I got a glimpse of the landscape, before another white screen swirled up from below. It was as if the mountain had only offered the view the day before as a reward for our climb, and I would have to come back to see it again. It won’t be long before I return to claim my prize. For more information about Sabache Camp and hikes up Ololokwe visit sabachecamp.com, or email info@sabachecamp.com.

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