January – March 2022
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Shifting perspectives Stories of resilience from Pakistan’s Karakoram Mountains, where communities are adapting to a changing climate WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS YAN KACZYNSKI
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rom sandy beaches to snow-capped peaks, through empty deserts, enchanted rainforests, moon-like volcanic landscapes, lush tropical canyons, sand dunes, black lava fields, and ancient pine forests. This archipelago seems to host every corner of the planet ... and some sights from another world.’ This is how Matteo Minelli described his creation, the Gran Guanche — a jewel of a cycling route across the Canary Islands. It’s a route that enables visitors to discover the archipelago’s changing landscape, cultural and historical heritage, starry skies and the vastness of the ocean. After reading Matt’s description, who could resist a bikepacking trip to the Canaries? We definitely couldn’t, so we flew to Arrecife, on the island of Lanzarote. My riding partner, Ricard, and I felt that the best way to start the route was by visiting the man who had designed it. We pedaled from the airport to the area where the route begins, and further on to Matt’s hostel in Nazaret. We didn’t know if we would arrive before dark, but the desire to meet him meant that our path was illuminated for a while by the little lights of our headlamps. A smiling Matt opened the door of a typical Lanzarote white house that had been converted into a hostel. We immediately started talking about the route, bicycles, the island and life. Matt is Italian, and he treated us to an excellent pasta with clams, drizzled with a good white wine. We had time to exchange experiences and, above all, to learn about the inspiration behind the Gran Guanche. Matt has always been keen to show his friends that the Canary Islands offer far more than just mass tourism, beaches and partying; that there are also fascinating natural and rural sides to the islands that most people don’t see. So, during the Covid lockdown, he devised the route of the Gran Guanche.
Previous page: Riding through pine tree forests. This page: Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Lanzarote.
Mountains of Heaven A remote adventure in the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS AARON ROLPH
The night was long, cold and uncomfortable, as is so common before proper acclimatisation has taken place. Facing south, the sun greeted us early, and I emerged from our tiny tent to thaw myself out in the warm rays and get the coffee on. After a leisurely breakfast, we started ascending the ridge along a beautiful mixed climbing and scrambling route. Alex and I both moved well, and we called it a day after navigating the ridge to an unnamed 4,400-metre peak. Taking a moment to admire the vistas, I couldn’t help but wonder why the 4,000ers in the Alps were so sought after, and why the summit we stood on didn’t even have a name. The lure of the dominant Djigit (5,170 m) was ever-present. The peak that we successfully ascended provided the perfect vantage point, and after careful consideration we decided to aim for Djigit’s north east ridge. To our knowledge, it was a route that may have never been climbed before. The following morning, we descended the glacier at first light until we reached an incredibly complex crevassed stretch with numerous weak bridges to traverse. We eventually opted to climb the ridge’s steep icy slopes directly, avoiding the worst of the messy glacier in the heat of the day.
Left: The snowy ice pitch up to Djigit Peak. Top right: Awaiting much-needed warmth from the first sunlight. Bottom right: Advanced base camp. Following page: Negotiating the rocky ridgeline.
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The Wilder Interview
Jonas Deichmann
A lot of people have run marathons, so I think the scale of the running leg is what people will be able to grasp the most. How did you manage the mental challenge of running a marathon day after day, for 117 days? The mental challenge is about being able to see the finish line long before you are there. After I set off, marathons one and two were the hardest for me, because I hadn’t run for seven months. In the evening, I was pulling myself up the staircase with my hands. I was basically crawling. If you are in this situation, and you start to think OK this is marathon number two, and I still have 118 ahead of me, then that’s extremely demotivating, right? But in my mind, I was always just focusing on the next 20 km, where there would be a restaurant with tacos and chocolates, and where I would be happy again. That was the only thing on my mind, and from there I went on to the next one. So in a way, it was kind of a taco run. I broke down the big goals into smaller ones, and 120 days later I was at the finish line. That is the big secret: you need to set yourself small targets that you are always sure you will reach. That’s the only thing that matters. The swimming leg must have been trickier, because you didn’t have the same physical targets to aim towards. Would you say that was the toughest part of the triathlon? Definitely. I’m not a swimmer. I’ve never swum long distances before, so I had no idea what I was doing. And swimming is super tough because you get a lot of injuries from the salt water. You swallow water all the time, you have to deal with the waves and the currents, and the sleeping spots are horrible. On the bike and when I was running, if I didn’t find any sleeping spots I could run or cycle another 10 km and find one. But I was so slow when I was swimming, and I wanted to find somewhere to stop within the next kilometre. Often what I did find was horrible. I just slept on some rocks. So the mental aspect is much more difficult while swimming. Cycling or running, there is always something to see, and to
distract yourself with. I listened to music as I ran. But swimming, there was nothing, just water. It was incredibly boring. You sometimes swam at night as well. That must have been terrifying. It was. I never really got used to it, and I tried to avoid it if I could. It was usually a mistake when I found myself in the dark, from miscalculating the time because of a strong current or something like that. I couldn’t find a sleeping spot in time, so I just swam in the dark. It’s a terrifying feeling, especially when you are off the coast. Once I found myself 3 km off the coast, and it was pitch black. I was out there in the water, thinking I really shouldn’t be here. What impact did each leg of the journey have on your body physically? The three legs were completely different challenges, and my body changed depending on the situation. On the swimming leg, the main physical challenge was the cuts from small rocks — open wounds, basically, from the salt water and my wetsuit. It was a lot of pain caused by the elements. I’m a cyclist, so for the first time in my life I got some muscles in my upper body. So I put on a bit of weight during the swimming leg. Cycling was super easy for me, to be honest. I even put butter in my coffee to get some fat. So I maintained my weight in Siberia. Then for the running leg, the challenge again was different. From an endurance perspective, I could easily do it. But the main challenge was the impact on my knees and ankles after several marathons. I got super thin; I lost more than 10 kg running. So I basically lost all the muscles and weight I had gained in my upper body, and my legs also got very skinny. But the weight loss was absolutely necessary, because 1 kg less weight was 1 kg less impact on the body. After marathon 100, I felt stronger than marathon number 10. There was some tiredness, of course, but the effect of the conditioning and training was bigger.
Previous page: Braving brutal blizzards in Russia // Ravir Film. Right: Cycling through winter // Markus Weinberg. Bottom right: Approaching the end of the swimming leg in Dubrovnik, after 456 km in the water // Markus Weinberg 53
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t’s 6:30 in the morning and we have already been up for three hours. Two hours go by without any signs of wildlife. Nyozmoi and Gulizor scope the dusty ridge through their binoculars, looking for traces of creatures that have been in these mountains long before humans arrived. They choose to adopt the pace of nature, and continue to wait patiently while others begin collecting ripe figs for breakfast. It’s their first time in the backcountry watching wildlife. There seems to be nothing worth paying attention to, until Nyozmoi directs our eyes to a rock perched on the ridge. And there it is, a
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female markhor with her kids, totally still. We all stop and watch this wild goat — a species that not so long ago was speeding towards extinction as a prime target for poachers and illegal trophy hunters. Since establishing conservation projects in the range of the Tajik markhor, local hunters have been able to help the population increase by managing sustainable subsistence, trophy hunting and tourism in the area. So the sight of one now is definitely worthy of our attention. It’s something worth roaring about. During and after Tajikistan’s civil war from 1992 to 1997, poaching increasingly affected the
mountain ungulate species. Especially in the Pamirs — the eastern part of Tajikistan where the landscape is dominated by some of the highest mountain peaks in the world — food was insufficient, arms were easily accessible, and hunting regulations were not enforced. Predators, such as snow leopards, starved or were killed when turning to domestic animals for prey. Since then, poachers have come to understand that intensive hunting will do more harm than good. It affects their own hunting opportunities and threatens wild animals with cultural value in local traditions. According to local legend, the snow leopard is pari or mergich — a holy and powerful being that needs
to be propitiated to ensure the success of summer herding and dairy production, as well as successful hunting. Community rangers who gather under the Hunting & Conservation Alliance of Tajikistan (known today as ANCOT, the Association of Nature Conservation Organizations of Tajikistan), patrol the land to prevent poaching. Their goal is to stabilise and increase wild ungulate populations, as well as to support and increase the number of local snow leopards. Previous page: The Panj River forms a natural border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. Above: Nyozmoi and Gulizor enchanted by their first sight of wildlife. 60
Portfolio
Clement Kiragu Clement Kiragu is a Kenyan storyteller, photographer and cinematographer. His goal is to use his knowledge to create powerful visual impacts through African wildlife films. In Kenya, he is also a Canon Ambassador, and leads private photo safaris across the country. In this edition’s Portfolio feature, we go behind the lens of some of his most recognised wildlife images. WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS CLEMENT KIRAGU
Cloud of Dust Maasai Mara, Kenya It was a warm September evening in 2018. I was with my photo safari guests on the bank of the Mara River, hoping to see a dramatic crossing before the day ended. Instead, a herd of zebras started gathering by the river. The sun was behind a very dark cloud, and I remember wishing for the cloud to pass so we could get some lovely rays of light. Then, just by the river, I spotted the tail of a lioness, and I immediately advised my guests to shift their attention to her. She sprang to action as anticipated, and it was a dramatic photographic opportunity. The hunt failed, as they often do for lions. You could almost feel her disappointment as she sat hunched over, alone in a cloud of dust. Canon EOS 1 Dx Mark II 1/3200 sec; f/6.3; ISO 800
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White gold Axel Carion navigates the lithium-rich salt flats of the Atacama Desert WORDS AXEL CARION PHOTOGRAPHS DAVID STYV
Beasts without and within Jan Fox takes on the ultraMARAthon — a stunning 50-kilometre footrace across the wilds of Kenya’s Maasai Mara WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS ANGAMA | PLATCORP HOLDINGS
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shuffled along the straight gravel track, straining every ounce of energy I had left against the relentless wind. Parched grasslands stretched to the horizon either side of me, and a cluster of zebras eyed me curiously as I trudged by. I was deep in a spectacular wilderness, but it was no distraction from the sharp pain shooting up my calves. What am I doing here? At the start line, 44 long kilometres earlier, I was in a much better mood. A crowd of carb-loaded runners chatted and stretched anxiously, waiting for the Race Director’s orders. The start would be delayed, he announced, to allow the helicopter above us to drive an oblivious herd of elephants off the course. It was a reminder that this was no orderly city marathon. It was the UltraMARAthon — a gruelling 50-kilometre race across the wildlife-rich plains of the Maasai Mara. Over 200 competitors had signed up to test themselves and experience this stunning corner of Kenya on foot. It was also a creative way to raise funds for organisations protecting the Mara’s wildlife, and supporting the communities on the ecosystem’s fringes. The sun broke over a rounded hill behind us, and the plains turned to gold. I readjusted my trail vest, its pockets swollen with energy gels, and fiddled with my cheap running watch to hurry its GPS lock. Most of the runners spread along the start line were tackling a quarter or half of the course as part of a relay team. I stood on the far left of the line, with 20 others who would be braving the full 50 kilometres. I couldn’t help but size up all these red-race-number runners beside me. There were some familiar faces: super fit amateur ultra enthusiasts who I knew would eat up the miles. As a newbie to any competitive distance above a half marathon, it was difficult not to feel intimidated. I had to remind myself that I was there to beat the course, and no one else. The biggest mistake I could make would be getting lulled into another runner’s race. It would be a long day; I had to just relax and enjoy the ride as much as possible. Previous page: Cheering on a runner at the 37 km mark. This page: The start line at dawn.