Wilder Magazine - Volume Four

April - June 2021 //

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

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

Our main features in this fourth edition of Wilder illustrate that outdoor exploration is as much an internal process as it is physical and geographical. Photographer, Bobby Neptune, turns to the outdoors to heal from a personal trauma, exploring Kenya’s wild spaces from the air in his motorised paraglider. Ecologist, Joey Knelman, finds a sense of belonging through berry picking in the Norwegian tundra, and mountain guide, Emily Sullivan, explores her relationship with fear in the outdoors. BASE jumper, Tim Howell, attempts a landmark wingsuit flight on Mount Kenya, and bikepacking enthusiasts, Alba Xandri and Ricard Calmet, cycle 1,000 kilometres across Oman’s Al-Hajar Mountains. We hear from eco-explorer, Mario Rigby, about his epic 12,000 kilometre solo walking expedition across Africa, and profile renowned wildlife and landscape photographer, Gurcharan Roopra, in our new Portfolio series. We also assess the social and environmental impact of an avocado farm on Kenya’s Greater Amboseli ecosystem.

JAN FOX FOUNDER & EDITOR

Front cover: Elephant portrait // Gurcharan Roopra Right: Andalyn Pace navigates Echo Bend on Eagle River, Alaska // Emily Sullivan @wilder.magazine

editor@wilder-mag.com

wilder-mag.com

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In this issue 1. First BASE 13. Here be dragons 29. Out berry picking 41. The Wilder Interview: Mario Rigby 55. Hell or high water 65. Portfolio: Gurcharan Roopra 87. Coffee and dates 101. Superfood vs Super Tuskers

Contributors

Gurcharan Roopra

Emily Sullivan

Joseph Knelman

‘Guch’ was born and raised in Nairobi, Kenya, and was drawn to nature from an early age. After graduating with a degree in automotive engineering, he lived in the UK for 10 years. In 2012, he made the decision to move back to Kenya for good, where he found a passion for wildlife photography.

He honed his skills over time, and is now recognised as one of Africa’s top nature photographers. Guch is determined to help protect the wildlife and landscapes that he photographs, and devotes a lot of time and energy to conservation projects across Kenya.

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.

Joseph is a writer and PhD ecologist who has focused his research on high latitude and elevation ecosystems.

He is currently a Research Affiliate with the Institute of Arctic and Alpine Research at the University of Colorado. He has led trips with National Geographic Student Expeditions for five years, to locations including Alaska, Norway and Iceland. Today, he lives and works in California, USA, at the foot of Mount Tamalpais alongside the coastal redwoods.

Bobby Neptune

Tim Howell

Alba Xandri

Bobby is a photojournalist and film director based in Nairobi, Kenya. His work looks at the pressures facing Africa’s wild spaces and endangered species. He frequently flies his motorised paraglider in the most remote corners of Kenya, and in recent years he has focused on photographing the country’s wild lands from above. He shoots regularly for conservation and development organisations working across Sub-Saharan Africa.

Tim has been interested in travel and adventure from an early age. When he was 19, he worked for two years as a safari guide in South Africa’s Kruger National Park, before joining the Royal Marines in England. After seven years and many international deployments, he left to fulfil his ambition of travelling full-time. He now travels to remote locations across the world as an experienced mountaineer, climber and BASE jumper, documenting his adventures along the way.

Alba is a translator, language teacher and writer who competed often in a range of endurance sports. She now understands sports as a way of travelling and being in the outdoors. She can’t imagine a vacation without her bike and saddlebags. Between 2014 and 2017, she cycled 55,000 kilometres around the world with Ricard Calmet, visiting more than 40 countries. She wrote a book about their trip called ‘La màgia dels pedals’, and Ricard edited a documentary called ‘La febre dels Andes’.

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First BASE Climber, BASE jumper and former Royal Marine Commando, Tim Howell, attempts the first ever wingsuit flight in Kenya WORDS TIM HOWELL PHOTOGRAPHS EWAN HARVEY

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hree years ago, a single picture took me halfway around the world. It was a picture of the cliffs surrounding Lake Michaelson on Mount Kenya. A lone figure stood on the edge of the cliff, looking down to the inky lake. Aptly named ‘The Temple’, these towering yellow cliffs became my fixation, and I wanted to make the pilgrimage there. I managed to BASE jump from the same spot in the photo, but I set a new goal when I looked further up the mountain to the great peaks of Batian and Nelion. I knew I would have to return — which I did two years later. I wanted to be the first person to wingsuit in Kenya, but the experience soon became about much more than just the jump. I got to know my team, explore the grand massif, and learn about the community and my own limits.

I met Ewan at the airport in the early hours. I had already spent a day in Nairobi — enough time to sort out the logistics and supplies for our week up the mountain. Ewan had no time to relax before we were in a taxi heading straight to the park gate. We hadn’t met before, but after years of chatting online, the stars aligned and this trip seemed to be a perfect fit. It’s always daunting to go on an expedition with someone you haven’t met before. But I’ve often found that personality and willingness are enough to make a successful team.

We entered the park through the main gate, allowing me to experience a different side of the mountain from my first trip. That route was littered with old rubber soles from hardy porters and guides, but this trail was frequented by buffalo. Our porter, Steve, led the way at a steady pace, as our heavy loads crushed our shoulders. On the final leg, the sun set behind us, silhouetting the eerie shrubs in the valley.

I paused to admire the view, literally lost for words as the altitude and the 35 kilogram pack on my diaphragm took my breath away.

Previous page: Making my way down to the exit point can be just as scary as the jump. Right: Gaining a little more altitude on day two of acclimatisation.

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The next day we moved to a higher camp, at the foot of the mountain’s imposing, jagged peaks. We could see some of the last African glaciers from our tent, which were a fraction of their size in the photos of our 10-year-old guidebook. It was a drastic reminder of the changing fortunes of our climate. This was a recce day, to gather as much information as possible to make the day of the jump easier and smoother, and to take away as much uncertainty as possible.

The locusts had started gathering, and I received a constant battering from the beasts as we made our way up the never-ending scree slope. It felt like they had a personal vendetta against me. I sat down for a moment to get my breath back, and reached into my side pouch to grab a handful of Haribo, now tinged with the flavour of kerosene. We looked up to the peaks and could see our route.

It was more than a scramble — we would need to climb the route in five pitches, belaying each other as we went. This was a problem, because if I jumped, Ewan couldn’t find a way down by himself.

But problems are just obstacles to overcome. Determination and hard work can solve many issues. If it just requires more work and effort, it’s an easy solution in my mind. The plan was to climb with Ewan to the summit. I would then fly down to camp, drop my kit, run to the start, solo the route back up to Ewan and abseil down with him.

We opted for an alpine start, aiming to be at the base of the climb as the sun was rising. We stumbled out of our campsite, the moon in the clear sky illuminating our path. The southern gully of Point John is equal in quality and aesthetics to any mountaineering route in my local playground of Mont Blanc. The fact that I was in Africa, looking down onto a glacier, just added to the atmosphere of the route. I climbed with a rope, but put myself in the mindset of soloing the route, checking every hold and remembering any moves. I wanted to be as confident as I could for my climb back up after the flight.

Left: Gearing up in the early hours for our ascent of Point John.

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After two hours of climbing, we reached the summit at Point John. Straddling the pinnacle at 4,883 metres, we were able to view our surroundings from a new perspective. Now I had to find an exit point. Abseiling down the southern side, I used my laser range finder to calculate my flight. I spotted a potential exit point, but it would need a strong push to clear a ledge that jutted out 60 metres below. I still wasn’t sure if I was going to jump, but I geared up anyway — my way of managing time. The weather window is often small; jumps can be lost or won by minutes, so being as efficient as possible is always important. Although, gearing up must also give me a subconscious prompt that I’m planning on jumping. It’s important to think rationally and take all emotion away from high-risk decision making. It’s easier said than done, but experience counts for a lot.

I abseiled back down the fixed line to the edge of the cliff, restricted in my wingsuit. My legs and arms were now zipped up in the colorful body bag. I steadied my breathing, precisely placed my feet and listened to the wind. I counted down from three, and with one foot in front of the other, gave a solid push from my right foot — not enough to compromise my body position but enough to clear the ledge below. After an initial drop, the wingsuit pressurised and I started gaining forward momentum. These mountain playgrounds of towers, gullies and glaciers often have complicated airstreams that hinder my flights with turbulence. It’s always best to play it safe, so after cornering a tall tower called Midget Peak, I made a straight line for our campsite.

Right: Where the hard work starts — trying to find a viable exit point. Following page: The point of no return.

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Intuition tells me when to pull my parachute. I judged the topography of the terrain and reached back to pull the pilot chute — an air anchor which pulls out the main parachute.

A life-affirming jolt followed, as 260 sq. ft of fabric slowed down my flight from 160 to 30 kmph. I quickly unzipped my wingsuit so I could reach my toggles and control the canopy.

I was lower than I wanted to be, and the complicated winds were at my tail, sending me into a hazardous boulder field with speed. I scanned the ground for a suitable landing spot among ankle-breaking rocks. I pulled my toggles to flare the canopy, ran off the landing and came to a halt as my canopy lost pressure and slumped to the floor. I also felt like slumping to the floor. I had done it, but I didn’t feel fully satisfied.

It was a successful jump, but I also felt like the margin was too fine. Wingsuiting on expeditions is intimidating. I have to change the level of risk I’m willing to take, and maybe this was a step out of my comfort zone in such a remote location.

I dumped my gear back at the tent, only keeping my helmet, harness and abseil device. I looked back up to the peak where I had just jumped from. I felt accomplished, but the day was not over. I was looking forward to seeing Ewan again, and we could only celebrate when we were both back down at base camp. After three years of planning, I had finally achieved my goal of becoming the first person to wingsuit BASE jump in Kenya. One project leads to another, an idea grows from experience. After talking to the local guides and spending five days on the mountain, I’m already planning my return.

Tim created a short video of his Mount Kenya wingsuit flight, which you can watch here. timhowelladventure.com

@tim_howell_adventure

Left: Our route to the summit, SE gully of Point John 4,883 m asl.

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Here be dragons Photographer, Bobby Neptune, turns to Kenya’s wild spaces to heal from a personal trauma, leading him on a journey of internal discovery WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS BOBBY NEPTUNE

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first heard the words Beyond This Place, Here Be Dragons in an old Sydney Pollack film, where one of the characters warns the other they are in uncharted territory and should be careful. It was used in the context of exploration to make us aware of the unknown.

The second time I came across the phrase was in a US Forest Service fire watch tower, in Northern Montana’s Flathead National Forest, about five miles from the Canadian border. There was a device in the middle of the watch tower that was used to range and bear fire locations. When you turned the device to face toward Canada the maps were blank, and somebody had creatively written ‘Here Be Dragons’ onto the blank spot that made up Canada’s end of the forest. It was a simple and comical gesture referencing back to a generation of exploration that had long past. It was also meant as a joke about the apparent indifference the US Government showed toward a forest fire on Canada’s side of the border.

What I didn’t know at the time was the significance the phrase would play in the coming years of my life, as I started to explore the far reaches of Africa’s wild spaces with my motorised paraglider. And, little did I know that it would continue to teach me the way forward in the midst of my darkest hour.

I first came to Africa in 2008. For someone who grew up on the monotone great plains of middle America, Africa was a departure far from any known constants I could imagine.

It was a land of immense colour, contrast, vibrancy, life and death. A place where emotions could run the spectrum from joy and elation to despair and tragedy at a moment’s notice. It was a place that encouraged deep feelings and then went on to destroy them in the same instant.

Previous page: Flamingos on Lake Magadi in southern Kenya. The reddish pink to the right is a soda mixture which is harvested and refined to be used for cooking, glass-making, detergents and other everyday life applications. Left: Above the Ewaso Nyiro River as it deltas into Lake Natron on the Kenya-Tanzania border.

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Throughout the first half of my photographic career here, I spent my time shooting for NGOs, in conflict zones and in refugee camps. I photographed people in the midst of their own traumas, or filmed them reliving their traumas for whatever story we were producing. I sat behind the camera, somewhat shielded from their own experiences. I was just an onlooker, not a participant. I lived a comfortable life in Nairobi, far from these traumas, and I was always able to maintain enough distance to not live in a constant state of empathic distress.

I would often come back from a week shooting in the refugee camps and drive straight up to northern Kenya. It was my partner, Kim, who introduced me to the wild landscapes of Kenya’s far north; filled with lion, leopard, culture and more than anything, loaded with mystery. Mystery is magnetic to me. I can never get enough. Kim knew it and she constantly planned trips up north.

The time in these wild places helped lift my spirits after so much time in the dark corners of the world. They had a sort of rhythm to them, a beating drum of life that reminded me of the way the world was meant to function.

In 2017, Kim and I started to notice large-scale environmental changes occuring. We’d spent so much time in this wilderness that we started seeing small, nuanced signs of change. Then, after a large drought, wildlife numbers plummeted and we saw how long it took for the landscapes to even begin to recover.

We hatched a plan to start photographing these landscapes from above, and looking at the changes and pressures they were facing. We would start with the rivers, then move to the savannahs, then to the mountains. We wanted to photograph it all. A few years prior, I had been trained on a motorised paraglider. My flight experience was fledgling, but enough to get up in the air and look at these same landscapes from above. We started doing a few expeditions. I would fly, she would drive the car. I would land and tell the stories of what I’d just seen. She shared the same sense of adventure, and the siren call of my stories from above drove her mad with jealousy. More than anything, she wanted to be next to me in the air. She wanted to fly.

A few months passed and we were able to get her a tandem flight in western Kenya with one of the top paraglider pilots who was visiting from Europe.

Shortly after takeoff, their paraglider crashed in the valley below and both her and the pilot were killed in the accident.

Right: The Ewaso Nyiro River winds through the Shompole ecosystem in southern Kenya. Following page: Filled with tales of journeys long past, lived on through names littering the trails such as Shipton, Mackinder and Tilman, Mount Kenya’s glaciers will soon join the ranks of folklore as they are receding at unprecedented rates.

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At her memorial, choking back tears, panic and every other unknown emotion, I told the audience: ‘This is Here Be Dragons territory.’ This is uncharted. This is where none of us have ever walked. The grief, the trauma, the pain, the tears, the loneliness, the isolation. This is our exploration, and it may be the most difficult exploration many of us may ever dare to face.

I learned later that trauma and grief are both as much universal as they are individual. By that I mean, many have walked the road before and there are sometimes cairns set by others who have come before you along the trail; but the process is fully unique to the individual. Some days the cairns help; other days they just can’t.

For most of us outdoorsy-type of people, there is a siren call toward exploration and adventure. We jump at any chance to put a new pin in the map because with every external and geographic discovery, there is also a process of internal discovery that coincides. This is why we are always curious about what lies over the next hilltop. It’s never so much about the hilltop as it is about the change the hilltop affects

inside of us. For me, exploration is as much an inward looking event as it is an outward looking geographical expedition.

It was Kim who always checked to make sure I was exploring the mountain ranges of my spirit as much as the geography around me. She asked me to find more of hope, more of joy, more of contentedness. She endlessly and frustratingly pushed me to keep my adventurous spirit in check with the rhythm of my own emotions.

How was I going to make a way without her?

In the months that followed the accident, my feet were earthbound and all the stages of grief would become my most unwelcome bedfellows. I left Africa, partly wondering if I would ever come back. I spent time away, I travelled a bit. I did my best to recover. But how do you even begin to make sense of that sort of loss?

My counsellor keeps telling me that it takes anywhere between three to six years to properly grieve a loss or recover from a traumatic life-altering event. I think that number is traumatic in itself. Six years is a long time.

Top left: Zebras kick up dust in southern Kenya. Bottom left: Poling through the mangrove forests of Gazi bay along Kenya’s South Coast. Home to lots of different bird and fish species, this forest is among the last few left in the region.

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The one thing I did take from counselling was how important rhythm is in recovery from trauma. I’m not good at rhythm, but I did remember the adventures Kim had introduced me to years before, and how being in wilderness had helped me make sense of my time in the refugee camps. The rhythms I found there were much bigger than me, and helped show me a way forward.

I jumped back into my harness and started flying again. Apprehensively at first, but soon pieces started to come together. I found myself spending as much time as I could on the paraglider, in the most wild places I could get to. One expedition led to another, and I felt some of the weights begin to lift.

In the Western world, we control most things in our environments. We can change the temperature in our house, we can switch on and off the lights. We can even control what food we eat all year long, because we can ship it around the world on an airplane. We are in control.

Nature provides us with an antithesis to this.

When we’re in the wild, we can’t switch on the lights whenever we want. We don’t have control over when the sun rises, or what the temperature is, or what the weather is doing. We don’t have control over the direction the elephants move, or when the lion roars.

There is a rhythm of life, death, sunrise and sunset that plays out in the beautiful story narrated by the natural world every day, and there is nothing we can do to control it.

I think part of the problem with being in control of everything is that when something does go terribly wrong, the responsibility of that wrong falls on us. If we buy into the lie that we are in control, then our outcomes are our own responsibility. But if we can concede little bits of our control to the rhythm of the wild, then I think we will find so much more healing in our humility.

Right: Evening light cuts through the dust from a herd of elephants moving through the Shompole basin in southern Kenya.

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In the place where we scattered Kim’s ashes, the wind blows from the east down into the Rift Valley, out across Lake Baringo and up the escarpment on the other side.

From there it carries on west to Uganda, then over and through the warm and humid rainforests of Congo, and finally meets the Atlantic Ocean. I assume it spins and tornados through the doldrums, spreading out into a million billion tiny particles as it covers the whole of our blue planet. In the moment we spread Kim’s ashes, they went soaring into this very wind. It was beautiful, and I couldn’t help but think that now nothing would go unexplored. No stone would be unturned and no valley unseen. She is a part of the wind now. Free to run infinite around the world.

That’s how I want to live my life. Not scared that any dragons lie beyond this place, because I‘ve seen for myself. I want to know that internally, just as much as I know it externally. I want to look back on this life when I’m 80 or 90, and be exhausted by the amount of stories I’ve lived and the amount of life I’ve experienced. I want to know I made the most of joy, of hope, of sadness, of grief, just as much as I want to swim in all the oceans or see the North Pole.

When a paraglider inflates, the front strings go tight pulling the leading edge into the air. The ram air pockets fill with air and give the paraglider the form of a wing. It’s a rather simple concept. Each time it inflates, I imagine Kim, lifting it up and pushing me toward the sky. I think that’s part of life. We soar on the wings of those who have come before us. Their dragons become our norms. Our dragons become the next generation’s starting point. bobbyneptune.com

@bobbyneptune

Left: Marania farm in Timau, on the slopes of Mount Kenya.

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They are 100% natural and 100% recyclable.

Head to vuarnet.com to learn more and shop their range of sport and lifestyle sunglasses.

Out berry picking Finding new perspectives and a sense of home in the Norwegian tundra WORDS JOSEPH KNELMAN PHOTOGRAPHS EVAN COBB | JOSEPH KNELMAN

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ike a dutiful naturalist, I observed from a distance. The locals strode up the mountainsides at the edge of town and plopped down in the middle of tundra scrub, groping about the vegetation. Here, planted around bilberry patches, they plucked blue orbs out of the otherwise meagre-looking landscape. As the days trudged toward mørketid, ‘dark time’, when the sun would not rise above the horizon, the tundra surroundings of my new home felt increasingly desolate.

Yet, as the Norwegians had revealed, tiny treasures might be gathered from unexpected places, even in darkening times.

A few months earlier, I had spent two hours flying due north from Oslo, edging further toward the top of the globe. Somewhere, several degrees of latitude above the Arctic Circle, my new home came into view: the small town of Tromsø clinging to an island in the middle of a fjord. I travelled here from the US to spend the year working with an agricultural research institute, but at least half of my baggage (and the resulting overage fees) accommodated three pairs of skis, hiking gear, and ambitions of adventure. I stepped outside after some 18 hours of transit into a cool summer afternoon; the straw-coloured light of the midnight sun warmed the boundless blues of sky, water and mountains that encircled the town and ensnared my imagination.

‘How will I ever leave’, I thought.

Day by day, the parade of the sun marched to the south, leaving behind confetti of faded magenta fireweed petals to litter the ground.

People tended to making life koselig, an expression of ‘cosiness’ that one might attain with a mix of candles, hot chocolate, and wool socks. By now I had planned to be busy with social engagements, holiday julebord celebrations and spending weekends with newfound friends at their family hytte, seasonal cabins. But no such engagements had come to fruition. Any sense of Norway as an idyllic home was quickly setting with the October sun, which now sunk below the horizon around 3pm.

Previous page: The midnight sun // Evan Cobb. Right: Landscape in Jotunheimen National Park // Evan Cobb 31

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One aspect of feeling at home in Norway, however, is protected by law. Allemannsretten, the right to roam, is a law allowing Norwegians access to their outdoor environment as a shared home, even backpacking or camping across private lands (with some rules about doing so respectfully). Beyond their houses, Norwegians head to mountains, valleys, and fjords as a setting to convene with family and friends, and — of course — kvikk lunsj chocolate bars. In these outdoor places, I found Norwegians were more generous with eye contact and vocal utterances with a passing stranger, such as the chipper ‘hei hei’. Whether on the mountainsides at the edge of town or right outside my front door, the trails and fresh air were one space where connection with locals seemed attainable even as folk turned inward for the winter.

I occupied my surfeit of alone-time in these outdoor spaces alongside an abundance of fall berries, particularly blåbær, bilberry.

These diminutive arctic shrubs were ubiquitous, scattered beside footpaths in town and painted across outlying mountainsides.

The most abundant patches were along the sides of the fjord and beyond, where the tundra took hold and a scrubby carpet of vegetation was splashed with scarlet swatches of bilberry plants.

Vaccinium myrtillus L goes by many names: bilberry, European blueberry, or as it is locally known, simply blåbær. It is closely related to a variety of well-known berries of the same genus like lingonberry, huckleberry and cranberry. Associated with subarctic regions globally, bilberry is widespread in northern Norway, with a deep garnet red interior that sets it apart from its paler but closely-related North American blueberry counterparts. Bilberry makes the most out of impoverished conditions. Though bilberry plants encounter short growing seasons and limited resources in their tundra and heathland homes, they are the exemplar of making the most of what you’ve got. The scrubby plant soaks up every last photon of the midnight sun and assembles its bulbous fruits well into the fall, securing great bounty in an austere setting.

Left: A bilberry, or blåbær, plant along a mountainside footpath // Joseph Knelman 34

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In a place where I knew no one else, hikes to find bilberry brought the company of others picking berries nearby. With pleasant and peaceful foraging alongside others, the treks to bilberry patches along the fjord brought me feelings of solace and connection, even as an outsider. Beside the bounteous bilberry, I came to know Tromsø’s tundra surroundings in a new (quickly disappearing) light.

At the start of November, I learned of another berry on a three-day backpacking outing with the local fjellgruppa, mountain group.

The excursion on the auburn, fall tundra was marked by candle-lit cabins, reindeer herds, matpakke (a packed lunch only considered complete with brown cheese and chocolate), and topturs — hikes to local summits. On the last evening of the trip, we sat inside a backcountry cabin playing cards beside the hard-fought warmth of the fire. At the advice of a Norwegian, we went outside to see some of the first northern lights of the season.

I adjusted my winter hat to fit more snuggly, and we filed outside without a word as if to not scare the nordlys away. Our puffy winter jackets brushed and rustled in the stillness.

I glanced around, my eyes shooting to the light of glinting candles, the pulsing stars, the vague wisps of white clouds sailing above … all deceptions. I stared into nothing, the dark of the night, looking for a swirl of brilliant green I had never seen before. I scanned the horizon and craned my neck upward, straining and squinting as if that might help. The Norwegians beside me waited and pointed up when it appeared. ‘They’re not very good tonight, but those are the northern lights.’ To them the display was lamentably lackluster; to me, it was Norway opening up and saying ‘velkommen’, finally.

Previous page: Hiking the trails above Lake Gjende in Jotunheimen National Park // Evan Cobb. Left: A typical DNT cabin at Gjendebu at dusk // Evan Cobb

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On our last day of the backpacking trip, in which we would hike directly out of the vast tundra into town — a wonder of Tromsø’s geography — one Norwegian pointed out a small tundra plant to me. The leaves, oversized for its stature, framed a single plump and polished orange berry, raised up as an offering on a stem. The berry vaguely resembled a raspberry (a bundle of drupelet sections) but for its colour and a more rotund, globular shape. Multe or cloudberry, I was told. Probably one of the last of the season. My hiking friend deferred the dining experience to me. I plucked the limited riches and plopped the berry into my mouth; it yielded an earthy sweetness, northern Norway distilled into the juice and flesh of a berry.

I savoured the flavour redolent of the nordlys and candle-lit cabins, walks with new friends on the tundra, clear meltwater streams, finding abundance in unlikely places. Cloudberry is so valued in the region that knowledge of the berry’s locations is held close to the chest. I, too, held onto this discovery of cloudberry, an experience of place I had searched for since arriving in the north.

Not surprisingly, in Norwegian ‘Å være på bærtur’ — to be out berry picking — is a colloquial expression. It means to not understand something, to just not get it. Admittedly, even after a year living in Norway, I may still be out berry picking in my understanding of the place. I do know, however, that backpacking among the bilberry and cloudberry turned out to be the very best way to feel at home there. For all the frustrations of feeling unsettled in a new country, perhaps there is an even deeper, fulfilling connection in something we must forage to find.

Right: A view of Lake Gjende in Jotunheimen National Park // Evan Cobb

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The Wilder Interview

Mario Rigby PHOTOGRAPHS MARIO RIGBY

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n late November 2015, on his 30th birthday, Mario Rigby quit his job in Toronto and boarded a plane to South Africa. Over the next two years, he walked 12,000 kilometres across the length of Africa, from Cape Town to Cairo. Travelling at a speed that allowed him to connect, he forged a greater understanding of the communities and landscapes that he encountered along the way. He was also frequently alone, in extreme and unforgiving environments. He suffered through the solitude, and came close to dying through dehydration. But the trip ultimately gave him a purpose: to inspire others through sustainable, human-powered expeditions, and to advocate for greater diversity in the outdoors. Since his epic Africa trip, he has kayaked the length of Lake Ontario, and cycled 7,300 kilometres across Canada.

Mario was born on the Turks and Caicos Islands and spent his childhood in Germany, moving to Canada when he was 16. He seemed destined for a career in athletics, competing for his national team in track and field, and running against greats like Usain Bolt. But when that dream didn’t materialise, he stepped away from the track in search of a new direction. It was this period of inner exploration that led him on his path to Africa, and his journey as an explorer.

Mario spoke to Wilder about his African expedition, about what it means to be a modern-day explorer, and his upcoming Caicos Challenge.

Wilder: Aside from the very physical nature of your adventures, your career now as an explorer is a considerable shift from your days as an athlete and fitness instructor. Talk us through that transition, and the inspiration behind it.

Mario: I’ve always been in love with the outdoors. But I went through a really dark stage when I was 29 years old. I was supposed to qualify for the Olympics and compete for my country, but that didn’t end up happening. So I had these crushed dreams, and I just began working on a regular job, not fulfilling my highest purpose. I started to look for things that mattered to me, and one of them was exploration. I wanted to research exploration, but my degree in kinesiology wouldn’t support that.

I was interested in storytelling, in knowing other people’s stories — particularly people whose stories don’t usually get told. I began looking at Africa and thought that it was completely underrepresented in the world. I felt that the best way for me to understand the lives of many Africans would be to walk beside them, from village to village, city to city.

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Where did the idea of the Crossing Africa expedition come from?

When I was a kid, I was always teased for being quite dark-skinned. The rest of my family isn’t as dark as me. I never understood why being dark was a joke and a bad thing, and why that was related to being African. I was born on the Turks and Caicos Islands, but when I was one I moved to Germany. I lived there for about a decade, before moving back to the islands. So I had these two completely opposite cultural experiences.

My brother and I used to watch this great TV show called Black Panther, which nobody really watched at the time. In the third episode, the young prince T’Challa went on a walkabout before becoming the king of Wakanda. He walked the length of Africa to understand his continent and his people, and he encountered a lot of interesting things — the wildlife, the golden sun, the red soil. He said that he could only be a leader when he returned, when he understood his people. I thought that was really inspiring, and I wanted to replicate that in a way, to make my own story.

So I decided to walk the length of Africa, too, to learn about its cultures and traditions, and to learn about humanity. It would also set me up to lead in my own industry.

Like all your expeditions, your Africa trip was completely human-powered; you crossed it all on foot, with the exception of Lake Malawi, which you kayaked. How did that aspect of the expedition shape your experience?

A South African police officer actually once asked me: ‘Did you run out of petrol?’ I decided to do it by foot because I wanted something challenging, to push myself to the next level. And I felt like that would be the ultimate challenge. It’s also something that not a lot of people have done.

There was a sustainability aspect to it, too — I wanted to promote a sustainable future for the world. I’m not saying that everyone should walk, but I was more of a mascot for a sustainable future, especially in terms of energy development and transportation. It also gave me the chance to reverse the narrative of Western people coming to remote parts of Africa and helping them out. This time it was the other way round.

Right: Meeting Samburu women by the side of the Great North Road in Kenya.

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What are some of your fondest memories of the journey?

Some of my best moments were being with rural communities on clear starry nights, all sitting around a fire, looking up to the Milky Way and being accepted by everyone around me. When no one spoke English, and I didn’t speak their language, but we just got along.

For me, that was a groundbreaking point. It was incredible. That’s what I hoped to experience when I first decided to walk across Africa.

And what were some of the most challenging moments?

The most challenging aspect was overcoming loneliness — when I didn’t have a partner with me, or when there weren’t many people around me. It was usually the early stages of loneliness that were the worst. At first, it became almost unbearable. I’m a very social person, I like to be around people. I also like to be alone, but not with such isolation. It took about a week for me to start getting used to it. Everything was now on me. The onus was on me to survive, to push harder. No one was there to watch the route for me, so I had to just do it by myself. That really taught me a lot about self-preservation and motivation.

How did you stay motivated through those low points?

There are very few black explorers, and I felt like I was riding on the shoulders of a lot of people in a field that many would say I shouldn’t be in. Even within the black community, many would ask: ‘Why are you doing this, this is a white man’s sport?’ And I would simply say: ‘What are you talking about, this is a human sport.’ We all explore. Africans have left Africa to populate the world. So I felt a lot of pressure not to fail. I was more afraid of failing than dying.

Left: On the sand dunes in Colchester, South Africa.

Following page: Trekking through the bush near Jeffreys Bay, South Africa.

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Exploration is a very loaded concept, historically. What does it mean to be a modern-day explorer?

Explorers have had different purposes throughout human history. The first ones had to look for resource within their immediate surroundings. Around 70,000 years ago we had an ice age, and that’s probably one of the reasons why we left Africa, because the air was drier and the deserts began to expand very quickly.

So explorers became very necessary at that time — the ones who would go out to understand the terrain, and learn how to survive.

And then we had the emperor explorers like Mansa Musa and Genghis Khan, who had all the wealth in the world, and who would travel around broadening their empires. They were followed by the likes of Christopher Columbus and Galileo, who searched for opportunities to enrich their nations, or themselves.

Explorers in the past have exploited humanity, particularly indigenous communities. All they did was put them in a picture frame and comment on how beautiful they were. But we can learn from indigenous people, who have lived in their regions for tens of thousands of years. So that’s where my interests are right now, in the human and sustainability aspects of exploration.

You have also said that a key motivation of your expeditions is to represent diversity in the outdoor industry. What else can be done, in your view, to make the industry more inclusive?

I think it’s definitely an effort that’s not isolated within the outdoor industry, but an effort that has to be shared throughout society. That means ensuring that underprivileged people have access to the tools to go out and explore the world. People who I think we are transitioning to a live in poverty are often afraid of the outdoors, world where we need explorers because it is something for a number of different that they don’t necessarily know about. reasons. One is to explore new

Getting close to our time, there are the so-called ‘Firsts’, and I use quotation marks here because there’s always a question of whether they genuways to live sustainably — to inely are the firsts. In the When I travelled acoss find a relationship between record books, we have Malawi, the country was humans and the environment. the first to climb Mount going through a terrible Everest, circumnavigate drought, and it was the the world in an airplane, and so on ... Now I same in South Africa. Many people did not think we are transitioning to a world where realise that it was happening at such an abwe need explorers for a number of different normal rate. But it was not their fault — it’s a reasons. One is to explore new ways to live consequence of the capitalist system. I don’t sustainably — to find a relationship between think there’s anything wrong with the capitalhumans and the environment. There’s really ist system, in a general sense, but it can very no difference, we are part of the environment, easily spiral out of control when there’s no cap and I think as an explorer it’s important to on it. So the more people are knowledgeable understand and preach that. We also have exabout the outdoors, the quicker we will find plorers who try to connect humanity together. solutions, and live more in sync with Earth.

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Tell us about your next big expedition, the Caicos Challenge, and the motivations behind it.

The Caicos Challenge is a traverse across the Turks and Caicos Islands, where I was born. There are a number of reasons why I want to do this. The first is because it’s my home, where I learnt the thrill of adventure.

It’s where I do all my diving, swimming and running. There is also a rich history in the islands, beyond what many people realise.

Christopher Columbus founded the Turks and Caicos Islands before any other place in the far west. He never stepped foot in North America, he just stayed within the Caribbean, essentially. He was looking for a passage to lead to Asia, and he actually almost made it through the Panama channel. When he landed in the Turks and Caicos Islands, he saw the Lucayans, the indigenous people who lived there. Of course, shortly after he arrived, 90% of their population was decimated because of disease and enslavement.

Anyway, I’m going too deep into this story …

Another reason why I’m taking on the challenge is because I love the human-powered aspect of it. There will be five disciplines of sport across the eight main islands: running, swimming, kayaking, cycling and hiking. I also wanted to express the importance of sustainable development on the islands. The population is only about 44,000, and the ecosystem is so delicate and unique. We are hoping to film a lot of the expedition as well, and a large component of it will be scientific research-based. We’ll have interviews with scientists conducting research on the coral reef systems, for example. So there will be a unique story wherever I am on the islands.

To follow Mario’s Caicos Challenge, and to learn more about how you can get involved, head to mariorigby.com, or follow Mario on Instagram.

Left: At Point Lenana (4,985 m), Mount Kenya’s third highest peak.

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Hell or high water Experienced mountain guide and adventurer, Emily Sullivan, explores her relationship with fear and how it relates to her time in the outdoors WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS EMILY SULLIVAN

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here isn’t much I can do to stop my boat from flipping. I’m too late to throw a good brace, and I know I’m going for a swim.

The first rule of swimming a rapid is to hold on to your gear. I don’t swim often, but when I do, I try to hang on to my paddle, grab my boat and self-rescue. This rapid isn’t going to allow any of that. It’s a solid Class IV, and it’s running higher than the last time I was here.

Immediately separated from my gear, I fight to keep my head above water. Get your feet out front — that part is easy. I move into defensive swimming position and use my arms to try to keep some semblance of control. But the river is in control, and I surface and sink a few more times in the churning water. All I can hear or see are the waves that engulf me. I’m not sure how many seconds pass before Paul is able to reach me in his kayak. ‘Grab the handle!’ Relief. My muscles relax. Moments later, Paul deposits me on the side of the canyon, and Cam paddles over with my packraft and paddle in tow. I pull my gear up onto the rocks, and take deep, measured breaths. I’m safe. I’m okay.

As I recover from my first swim in a Class IV rapid, I’m surprised to realise I wasn’t afraid while being tossed around by the river. My body was tense but my mind was calm as I focused on keeping myself in position. I wasn’t in control, but I wasn’t out of control. There was a skilled team of boaters waiting below me, with no major hazards in the way. I wouldn’t be on this river if I wasn’t confident that our group could run it safely.

But now, shivering as I climb back into my boat, my throat tightens. I remember that we have another, more technical rapid to run next, and that thought paralyses me.

At home, a note on my refrigerator reads: ‘Provisions for the next time you do something that scares you. As a wise woman once said, “There’s no reason I don’t got this.”’ The note is tattered and hastily scrawled. A piece of packing tape runs across its centre. It arrived in the mail a few years back, taped to a box of peanut

butter crackers and a packet of recovery drink.

The snacks are long gone — a product of pushing my boundaries, I suppose. But this piece of paper makes me smile, and I keep it on display as a reminder of the words that once carried me up an exposed ridge in Wyoming.

Ever since I have pursued technical sports, fear has been my known companion. Whether skiing, climbing, or boating, I’m naturally drawn to progression. There’s always a higher summit, steeper line, or bigger river on the horizon. And while I don’t ever plan to reach the highest, steepest, or biggest, I remain motivated to push my boundaries in a calculated manner. I am committed to skill development and safe progression, but each time I dip a toe outside of my comfort zone, I become reacquainted with fear.

Our river crew is patient. The temperature is about zero degrees Celsius, and we all have cold hands and feet. But the group waits as I scout the next rapid. Below me, the river boils and churns, dropping steeply before pinching between two huge boulders. I’ve run this rapid before. But with higher water and my body tense in the cold, I’m not sure I want to do it again. The thought of another swim grips me. I look around the canyon, desperate for an exit strategy.

‘Is there a way to portage?’ I ask.

‘It would be easy to walk out to the road from here — it’s just up the hill.’

‘Okay, I might’, I reply, ‘I can go alone — I’ll be fine.’

Everyone in the group offers their understanding and some words of encouragement, which only makes my decision harder.

Over many years of communing with fear in the outdoors, I’ve learned which kind of fear is ‘productive’ and which kind means it’s time to turn around. Today’s fear isn’t menacing. My intuition isn’t shouting that conditions are dangerous or that I’ve taken on something too big. Today’s fear is familiar — it says: This is hard. It involves risk. But you’re probably going to do great and be glad you tried. There’s only one way to find out.

Previous page and left: Approaching the Class IV Echo Bend rapids on a cold and clear fall day on Eagle River, Alaska.

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On the East Ridge of Buck Mountain, I follow Alec as he dances his way up a personal playground of huge granite slabs. My friend is tall and graceful. He’s never afraid, and he’s quite fond of heights. I, too, am enamored with the ridge, but I am also frightened by it. Alec is naturally drawn to the most exposed and committing route, so I follow him dutifully. Just days ago, we summited the Grand Teton together. I feel strong and capable, even at this altitude.

The route is exposed and involves some fourthand fifth-class moves above a long, sheer drop.

I have to talk myself into committing to some of them. Though I’m confident in my ability to move through this terrain without falling, fear clutches my chest at each exposed crux. Now and then, doubts creep in. I talk to myself as needed and stop to take deep breaths. Alec flits and floats across the rocks without a worry, waiting patiently for me at the trickier spots.

A few nights ago, camped at 11,000 feet, lightning struck the peaks surrounding our tent for hours on end. There is little safety in a lightning storm at altitude, and Alec listened then as I processed my fear out loud. Now, as we move through boulders in the sunshine, he smiles as I speak my fears once again. Alec never doubts me, though I doubt myself from time to time.

After a few tricky sections, we move quickly towards the peak. On the summit, we lie in the sun and laugh at my nervous energy. I’m an introvert, except when I’m afraid. If I’m scared, I’ll tell anyone who will listen.

Once I’m back home in Alaska, Alec sends me a video from our climb on Buck Mountain. I’m surprised to watch myself move confidently along the ridge. My body is strong, my face tense and determined. ‘There’s noooo reason I don’t got this’, I tell myself loudly, climbing without missing a beat. In the video, I hear Alec laugh with admiration. And so a mantra is born.

Previous page: Leaning forward and paddling strong, Sarah Bobbe warms up for bigger water ahead in Eagle River’s glacial waters. Right: Alec surveys incoming clouds from a perch on Buck Mountain’s east ridge.

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Growing colder by the minute in Six Mile canyon, I look at the river ahead. I look up at the canyon walls. And I look over at Paul, who is now my personal guide.

‘I know I can do this’, I tell him. I wish I could count the number of times I’ve said these exact words, known them to be true, and still remained terribly afraid. ‘I’m just not sure I want to.’

‘I know you can, too.’ He grins at me. ‘You’re a badass packrafter!

You can follow right behind me. You’ll do great.’

‘Right on your tail?’

‘Right on my tail.’

I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and nod. ‘Ready?’ Paul begins to inch out of the eddy. It’s now or never if I want to follow.

I grab my paddle. I remember that my skills are dialed — I’ve worked hard to reach this point.

‘There’s no reason I don’t got this’, I say to myself, and I push away from the bank.

Story from Dena’ina Lands and Tséstho’e and Shoshone Lands. www.ejsullivan.net

@emelex

Left: A moment of calm on the turquoise waters of the Chickaloon River, Alaska.

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Portfolio: Gurcharan Roopra Since returning to his roots in Kenya in 2012, ‘Guch’ has earned a reputation as one of Africa’s top wildlife and landscape photographers. He spends much of his time in Kenya’s parks and conservancies, and often pledges his images in support of conservation causes. In this new Portfolio series for Wilder, Guch gives us the stories and specs behind some of his favourite images WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS GURCHARAN ROOPRA

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Intergalactic Earth Lake Magadi, Kenya It was midday when I took this photo, from a helicopter above Lake Magadi. A strong wind was blowing towards a small island, causing the algae on the opposite side to swirl in the water, creating a beautiful spiral.

Nikon D5, Nikkor 24-70 f/2.8 f/4.5, 1/1600, ISO640, 70mm

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Soul Silhouette Oserengoni Wildlife Sanctuary, Kenya As we enjoyed our sundowners, we got a call from a ranger who said that a clan of spotted hyenas was in pursuit of a wildebeest nearby. We scrambled into our vehicle and rushed to the scene, and found that the wildebeest had already been taken down. The sun had set by this point, but the kill was backlit by another vehicle, allowing for some really unique shots. I managed to capture the silhouette of a hyena, and the steam rising off the carcass.

Nikon D5, Nikkor 400mm f/2.8 f/2.8, 1/200, ISO1250, 400mm

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Still Reflections Amboseli National Park, Kenya It was a clear morning in Amboseli, and I was on my way to the airstrip. I glanced out of the window and noticed a small cluster of flamingos wading in line with Kilimanjaro. I thought it would have made an amazing photo, but I missed the opportunity and drove past. I looked back and spotted a different group of flamingos walking in the same direction, so I quickly stopped my Land Rover, hopped into the passenger seat and started shooting. I’ve been back to the same spot many times since that trip, but this photo has been hard to beat.

Nikon D850, Nikkor 24-70 f2.8 f/16, 1/320, ISO160, 66mm

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Silt Stream Lake Magadi, Kenya In December 2019, we organised a helicopter trip over Lake Magadi. The rains were heavy that year, and as we flew over it was clear that the area was flooded, creating new flows into the lake. The rainwater filtered in streams of light-coloured silt, which against the dark lake water produced a wonderful silky pattern, visible only from the air. With a flock of flamingos flying low across the lake beneath us, our timing was perfect. We were lucky to witness it.

Nikon D5, Nikkor 70-200 f/2.8 f/6.3, 1/1250, ISO100, 70mm

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Giants Roam Free Olare Motorogi Conservancy, Kenya For a trip to Kenya’s Maasai Mara, I designed a custom remote-trigger device that my guides had nicknamed ‘Kobe Cam’. We watched this gorgeous elephant for a while, and decided to try our luck positioning the cam along the path ahead of him. He strolled past it just as we had anticipated, with the setting sun behind him.

Nikon Z7, Nikkor 14-30 f/4 f/9, 1/400, ISO100, 14mm

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Charging Solio Ranch, Laikipia, Kenya This is probably my most misunderstood photo. The rhino spotted my camera and wandered closer to investigate. The closer it got, the more it snorted, blowing into the dust and creating this amazing drama for the photo. When I released the shutter, the rhino was a bit startled and all the flies on its back took off, adding even more drama. I absolutely love this shot!

Nikon D850, Nikkor 24-70 f2.8 f11, 1/500, ISO320, 24mm

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Selfie Maasai Mara, Kenya Another photo from the ‘Kobe Cam’. I dropped off the camera and walked away, hoping the cubs would interact with it. Within seconds, they bounded over to the Kobe with intrigue, and quickly started playing with it. Not knowing what the camera would capture, I just kept taking photos, as their mums watched on unconcerned nearby. You can imagine the state of the Kobe once they eventually wandered off and I collected it. There wasn’t much damage, just a lot of slobber from licks and kisses.

Nikon Z7, Nikkor 14-30 f/4 f/4, 1/400, ISO400, 14mm

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New Challenges Westgate Conservancy, Samburu, Kenya I spent a few months preparing for this project — testing out a range of flash triggers and alternative gear to make it work. I finally made it out to Westgate Conservancy and arranged a photo shoot at night with Lerresh (pictured) and a number of other traditionally-dressed Samburu warriors. It was the first time that I went on a mission to photograph a subject that didn’t meet my usual ‘Must have a tail’ criteria.

Nikon D850, Nikkor 24-70 f/2.8 f/4.5, 1/200, ISO100, 34mm

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The Approach Nairobi National Park, Kenya I was driving out of the park one evening, when I came across these three young lionesses. I drove further up the road, set up the camera, and waited. As they approached it, the two at the back were perfectly positioned between the legs of the first lioness. Unfortunately, the third one was obscured a bit by the ridge behind her. The unit used to trigger the camera remotely is custom-built, based on a pro RC transmitter — which is a specialised converter that matches the language of my Nikon SLR. Nikon D850, Nikkor 20mm f/1.8 f/5.6, 1/60, ISO500, 20mm gurcharanroopra.com @gurcharan

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For Rangers is a campaign founded by Sam Taylor and Pete Newland to r 1,500 rangers have been killed in the line of duty over the last 15 years Rangers teams mainly raise funds by taking on gruelling expeditions to dem raised over three million US Dollars, which has been channelled towards To learn more about the story of For Rangers and their previous and upco

raise awareness of the struggles and hardships that Africa’s rangers face protecting the continent’s wildlife. s — more than the number of British servicemen killed in both the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. The For monstrate solidarity, and in recognition of the challenging work of the rangers they support. So far they have rangers’ health and life insurance, orphan fund kits, equipment and general items to improve their welfare. oming expeditions, head to www.forrangers.com. You can also click here to donate on their JustGiving page.

Coffee and dates Bikepacking enthusiasts, Alba Xandri and Ricard Calmet, cycle 1,000 kilometres across Oman’s Al-Hajar Mountains WORDS ALBA XANDRI PHOTOGRAPHS RICARD CALMET

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man, officially the Sultanate of Oman, is on the southeastern coast of the Arabian Peninsula, and is the oldest independent state in the Arab world. Strategically located at the mouth of the Persian Gulf, it shares its borders with the United Arab Emirates, Saudia Arabia and Yemen.

Apart from its location, and some information from Wikipedia, we didn’t know much else about Oman. It was starting to become known within the cycling community, but there was very little existing route information. We also knew a bit about the Al-Hajar Mountains, or the ‘Rocky Moutains’ — a 700 kilometre natural barrier dividing the desert and the Arabian Sea. They are high mountains, reaching 3,000 metres above sea level.

We did all the research we could and were sure that we would have an unforgettable experience, of epic landscapes, challenging trails and empty roads. And we were right.

Our first contact with an Omani was a cheerful taxi driver who took us from the airport to a hostel we had booked. He was keen to chat to us, and told us all about the history of Oman and the weather in the weeks ahead.

Our accommodation turned out to be more of a mansion than a hostel, with five rooms.

Our room was adjacent to the kitchen and another room with an interesting guest — a funny parrot that woke us up in the morning with a shrill call of ‘Shower, shower!’. So, with happy faces, we started pedaling through Oman.

Ricard had devised a route that would take us to the most mountainous areas of the Sultanate, following dirt tracks where possible.

We had been warned about the gradients of the tracks and roads, said to be steeper than 20% in places. From the capital, Muscat, we cycled out to Jebel Shams, the ‘Mountain of the Sun’. Over the first few days, we had the pleasure of cycling along huge asphalt pavements along the side of the roads, wide enough to fit a car. It was over the weekend, and there were families out having picnics.

Previous page: Riding through rocky and harsh terrain.

Right: Climbing up to Jebel Shams.

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Our first big climb of the trip, which confirmed that the gradients in Oman were no joke, was at Wadi Bimah — ‘Snake’s Canyon’. I couldn’t recall a climb so steep, anywhere in the world, with the exception of Peru, maybe. I wondered then, and still do now, whether we’d have been able to cycle to the top with more than just our essentials strapped to our bikes.

As we climbed, we received many examples of generosity from Omanis. Everyone who passed by offered us water and food, or to ask if we needed anything else. Despite being a very arid country, finding water wasn’t a problem for us at all. Where there were houses, there were mosques, which were always reliable sources of water. At one point on the climb, a couple of passers-by invited us for kahwa (coffee) and dates — a delicious combination that we had never tried before, but would enjoy many more times on the journey. ‘Coffee and dates’ is synonymous with hospitality in Oman.

About halfway up, we were surprised to come across a football pitch with artificial grass — a very intense green against a backdrop of arid mountains. We learnt later that it had actually been constructed by Audi for an advert.

Once at the top of the pass, we pitched our tent in the fading light. A shepherd greeted us from a cliff edge in the distance. He hopped from stone to stone in a worn pair of sandals, moving in harmony with his animals. Far below, the call to prayer echoed through the valleys from some remote mountain village.

We sat still and listened to the ‘song’ of the muezzin. It was a magical moment.

Over the next few days, we headed to Wadi Ghul, a meandering valley known as the Grand Canyon of Arabia, lying below the great walls of Jebel Shams. We climbed up to Jebel Shams on Christmas Eve, and spent a cold but memorable night under the stars.

Left: Discovering the stunning Wadi Ghul. Above: At the top of Snake’s Canyon, where we were invited to eat and drink. .Following page: The artificial football pitch in the mountains, constructed by Audi for an advert.

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We continued to be amazed by the generosity of the Omani people we met along the way, who never expected anything in return for their hospitality. Such generosity generates an urge to reciprocate, but we never know how. We often feel helpless when people do so much for us and we do so little for them.

In the ancient city of Nizwa, an Omani man invited us to have lunch at his house. He left us alone in a room, despite our insistence for him to eat with us. According to their tradition, guests enjoy food more when left alone. After a while, our host returned and introduced us to his family — his young wife and two little children. His wife was charming and polite.

From time to time, we glanced at each other while her husband talked to us. They were looks of understanding that spoke for themselves. Being a woman in Oman must be one of the toughest things in the world.

The following day, we cycled across a stretch of plains on our way into the mountains. As we pitched our tent that night, a young man called Amam approached us. He told us that we would be his guests, and asked what time we wanted dinner. We said we had everything we needed, but he insisted, and came back after an hour with skewers of lamb and vegetables, raw white turnips and bread.

He spread out some plastic sheets for us to sit on, and installed a light plugged into a battery.

As we ate, he said that he had broken his nose six times as the goalkeeper of his village football team, and that one day he would travel to Thailand or Iran to have surgery. He explained that surgery would be cheaper in India, but that he didn’t like Indians because they came to Oman and took the jobs of the Omani. We didn’t know how to respond to that, but we knew that Amam had a big heart.

Above: At night in the fish market in Nizwa. Right: A stall at the Nizwa souk.

Following page: A kind driver on the Salma Plateau.

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In the morning we headed to the Salma Plateau, an inhospitable place where the main source of income is from goats. Here, the men were no longer dressed in the dishdassa, the typical white, ankle-length robe. Living conditions weren’t easy, and for the first time we saw women working as goat herders. We noticed that they didn’t like us stopping to watch them, so we kept pedaling uphill.

That night we camped on the stony plateau, in an area dotted with tall tomb towers. The towers are estimated to be between 4,000 and 5,000 years old, but they haven’t been studied in-depth. Oman was a closed country until the 1970s, and after that it suffered a civil war. We picked a spot for our camp near a cluster of the well-preserved towers, sheltered from the wind. Luckily we found a firepit with four stones and a pile of firewood. We had no idea how it got up there.

The bonfire was enchanting, under a clear, starry sky. We were often too fatigued from travelling by bike and setting up camp to light a fire. But that night was different. We just watched the flames and relaxed, taking in our surroundings.

The following day, we cycled to the highest point of the Salma Plateau, and then pedalled straight back down to sea level — a descent of 2,000 metres in a single run. We reached the Arabian Sea, marking the end of our mountain adventure. Oman had been on our bucket list for years, and it didn’t disappoint — from the wild camping and beautiful mountains, to the delicious food and warm temperatures. Above all was the generosity of the people we met along the way.

Alba’s riding partner, Ricard Calmet, created a short film about their Oman trip, which you can watch here.

Alba Xandri @alba_xandri | Ricard Calmet @erreka

Left: Riding past the tomb towers on the Salma Plateau.

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Superfood vs S Kenya’s avocado industry is thriving, but a new the collapse of an

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Super Tuskers farm in a crucial wildlife corridor could lead to entire ecosystem

JAN FOX

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T

he evolution of the avocado from misunderstood ‘alligator pear’ to ‘green gold’ has been well documented. Stemming from the surge in popularity of Super Bowl guacamole in the 1990s, and firmed by the recent rise of the clean eating movement, the value of the global avocado market is forecast to reach more than 17.9 billion US dollars by 2025. But beneath this rich exterior are some hard truths of international agribusiness. For some of the avocado’s largest exporters, this spike in production has come with social and environmental consequences. In the mountains of Mexico’s Michoacán State, rising avocado prices have fuelled illegal deforestation, and extortion of farmers by criminal organisations such as Los Caballeros Templarios (The Knights Templar). In Chile’s dry Petorca Province, the diversion of water to irrigate vast avocado plantations has caused a regional drought. And now, near Kenya’s famous Amboseli National Park, a new avocado development has sparked a turf war within a crucial wildlife corridor.

Local communities and conservation organisations have been angered by the creation of a 180-acre avocado farm in the heart of the Kimana Wildlife Corridor — an important strip of land enabling the free movement of animals between neighbouring wilderness areas. Kenyan agribusiness firm, KiliAvo Fresh Ltd, started work on the farm last year, with approval from the National Environmental Management Authority (NEMA). Opponents of the development raised concerns about its impact on the fragile Greater Amboseli ecosystem, and on the Maasai communities that rely on open rangelands for their traditional pastoral livelihoods. In the face of this pressure to revoke KiliAvo’s licence, NEMA issued the firm with a stop order so that it could review the case. KiliAvo challenged that decision and continued to prepare the farm, clearing it, fencing it off, drilling boreholes, and laying irrigation lines to water rows of avocado saplings. Work has now stopped following a ruling at the National Environmental Tribunal, where the case is ongoing.

Left: An aerial view of the KiliAvo farm after ploughing. Above: Unripe avocados. Following page: Another aerial view of the KiliAvo farm after clearing of natural vegetation.

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The establishment of the farm is indicative of the expansion of Kenya’s avocado industry in recent years. Already the eighth-largest global producer of avocados, its exports of the fruit jumped 33 percent to 127 million US dollars in the year to October 2020, according to the Fresh Produce Exporters Association of Kenya. County governments have been encouraging farmers to grow avocados because of the high local and international demand, and because they don’t require much labour to maintain. But as farmland expands across Kenya, wild spaces are being constricted.

The Kimana Wildlife Corridor is already surrounded by a patchwork of farms — something that KiliAvo have pointed out in statements to the press. This includes a nearby 120-acre vegetable farm that was permitted in 2019, which has since grown to 540 acres. Agricultural development is allowed in the region, but only in distinct zones. Land use in the area is governed by two management plans — one focused on the corridor and another on the entire Amboseli ecosystem. Local landowners and conservation organisations have stressed that the KiliAvo farm isn’t within a permitted agriculture zone, and so contravenes both of these plans. A representative of one of these organisations — Big Life Foundation — told me that the farm’s approval would set a precedent

for further development within wild spaces that are already under pressure: ‘The area is a critical part of the link between Amboseli and the community rangelands to the east of it, through Kimana and further on to the Chyulu Hills and Tsavo West. Closure of this vital wildlife corridor would lead to an increase of human-wildlife conflict, and would compromise the viability of globally-significant wildlife populations that depend on freedom of movement across this arid landscape.’

At its narrowest, the corridor is just 70 metres wide, and funnels the animals that use it across a busy tarmac road into the 5,700-acre Kimana Sanctuary. Among those that frequently pass through it are huge bull elephants with tusks that almost graze the earth. There are very few of these iconic ‘Super Tuskers’ left on the planet, and the Greater Amboseli ecosystem is one of their last key habitats.

Elephants, in particular, roam vast distances across this landscape in response to seasonal fluctuations in water and resource availability. The swamps within the Kimana Sanctuary provide a vital year-round source of water, especially now that competition for resources between wildlife and humans in expanding farmlands is at an all-time high.

Above: Grant’s gazelles trapped against the KiliAvo fence. Right: Tolstoy, one of Africa’s remaining big tuskers // Jeremy Goss. Following page: A line of bulls in the Kimana Sanctuary within the Kimana corridor // Jeremy Goss 107

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The avocado farm’s water footprint is also a cause for concern. It’s a notoriously thirsty crop, although its average footprint is difficult to estimate. Plantations around the world require varying amounts of ‘applied water’ to grow — which is irrigation water, and not rainfall or moisture in the soil. On one end of the scale you have very humid places like the Philippines, where farmers barely have to irrigate.

And on the other end you have extreme cases like Petorca, in Chile, which is very dry. There it takes an average of 320 litres of applied fresh water to grow a single avocado. Critics of the KiliAvo farm have warned that industrial-scale irrigation in Kimana would put further strain on a drought-prone ecosystem.

The aquifer that is being tapped to irrigate the avocados is also a key source of water for the local communities in the area. The bulk of the land within the corridor is taken up by conservancies belonging to Maasai landowners, who want to retain their existing pastoral lifestyle. Agricultural developments will threaten the viability of these community conservancies, and fragment the rangelands that local communities rely on.

KiliAvo have said that their farm would provide employment within the local communities, particularly for out-of-work tourist workers during the coronavirus pandemic. It remains to be seen whether this employment would directly benefit local landowners, or a rapidly swelling nearby urban population of jobseekers from elsewhere in the region. The vocal objection of local landowners to the development suggests the latter.

The region is still heavily reliant on a conservation and ecotourism industry that supports thousands of jobs, and that generates tens of millions of dollars for the local and national economies. Kenya’s avocado industry is growing, but it pales in comparison to the revenue brought in from tourism.

So the outcome of the case at the National Environmental Tribunal is critical for the Kimana Wildlife Corridor. If the farm is approved and a dangerous precedent is set for further land subdivision in an already fragile wilderness, it could lead to the collapse of an entire ecosystem. With so much at stake, it’s vital for the farm’s impact to be thoroughly assessed.

Left: The genes that create such special tusked male elephants in Amboseli are present in many females too — this is Sadie who is 56 years old // Jeremy Goss

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