January - March 2021 //
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In this issue 1. Shocks and slides 11. Running the Rockies 23. A record run on Mount Kenya 37. Running for rangers 49. The Wilder Interview: John Kamanga 59. Nine nights in Namibia 75. Bikerafting the Brooks 87. Wild cooking in the Caucasus 103. Gorillas in the mix
Shocks & slides An attempt on Scott Peak WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS EMILY SULLIVAN
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On the glacier, the ice is grey and tacky, textured by silt. On day two we pass countless more ‘otter slides’, and comment on how scrappy the glacier looks. I’ve dreamed of this trip for years — a pilgrimage to a peak that bears the same name my father did — and I’ve studied maps and satellite imagery enough to understand that major changes are now taking place. Though I’m anxious about the heat and the state of the planet, I will myself to enjoy the weekend. I’m still in a beautiful, remote landscape with my close friends, chasing a longtime goal.
year?’ This is not my first objective to get shut down by Alaska’s extreme climate ramifications. Nor is it the first time I’ve ruminated on the urgency of climate change. In fact, I work in environmental advocacy, fuelled largely by climate justice. But it’s the first time I’ve felt the insurmountable fear that it’s too late to fix the damage we’ve done. This feels different. My mind turns to the frontline communities that must have processed these fears years ago. I think about homes that have been or will be destroyed by wildfires. And I wonder when climate deniers will eventually feel what I felt on that scree slope in the valley. I know that the movement will continue, and I’ll keep advocating for a just transition to a regenerative economy. Though doubts may creep in, the stakes are too high to give up the fight.
Our lunch break is punctuated by pops and bangs like firecrackers as the ridges overhead shed loose rock. We’re grateful to have a wide berth from the steep slopes above. The three of us watch in awe as boulders careen downslope, kicking up dust in the midday sun. Doubt ‘It’s the first time I’ve felt creeps in again, but we have a safe travel corridor ahead. the insurmountable fear So we push on towards the that it’s too late to fix the glacial cirque, stopping peridamage we’ve done. odically to watch impressive This feels different.’ shows of rockfall. Nearing the flank of Scott Peak, we navigate a scene of waterfalls, cliffs, and precarious icefalls. At the firn line, we eye the bergschrund we still need to cross. It sags and yawns above us — a menacing mouth, waiting to swallow one of us up. Though we’ve had doubts about our mission since departing the park bus, we’ve pressed on. We’ve come so far. At this point we might as well put boots on the snow. After a brief deliberation we transition to pants, crampons and harnesses, doubtful that we’ll use them. About ten minutes of isothermal snow travel confirms our nagging suspicion: the route ahead is unsafe. We’re here just days too late, and Scott Peak evades us. I spend much of the return trip processing my climate anxiety. Turning back is the definitive right choice, and normally I’d shrug, ‘Scott Peak will be there next year’. But this time I wonder, ‘will the Sunset Glacier be there next
Adrienne Marie Brown writes in Emergent Strategy about shocks and slides in today’s unstable society. Shocks are ‘acute moments of disruption’, and slides are changes which are ‘incremental by nature’. She advises to harness shocks in order to direct slides. My climate anxiety is a shock, and I’m sure I can use it to re-energise my advocacy, hopefully contributing to a slide towards a more sustainable future. Peace comes and goes as we travel down the valley. I notice my favourite wildflowers dotting the tundra, and I don’t cry when we cross through the mudslide again. We walk in our sports bras, and I wrap my shirt around my head to protect me from the sun. At lunch I watch my friends boulder around on a small cliff near the Thorofare. I’m grateful that they pressed on with me this weekend despite our many doubts. Though we didn’t reach the peak this time, I know that if we try often and push far, our likelihood of summiting increases — a lesson for advocacy, life, and adventure. www.ejsullivan.net
@emelex
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Running the Rockies Jenny Tough tackles an unsupported 950 km run across the Canadian Rockies, as part of a solo mission to run across a mountain range on every continent WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JENNY TOUGH
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A record run on Mount Kenya Three Kenyan athletes attempt to clock the fastest time up Africa’s second tallest mountain WORDS JAN FOX PHOTOGRAPHS ENDA
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enyan athletes have dominated distance running for over 50 years, since Naftali Temu won the six-mile gold at the 1966 Commonwealth Games in Jamaica. But this dominance is still chiefly on the track and on the road, and not within elite trail and ultra running circles. The global popularity of competitive trail running has skyrocketed in recent decades, but the sport hasn’t had the same kind of influx of East African runners as we saw with road racing in the ‘90s and 2000s. A simple reason for this is that it doesn’t have a big enough financial draw, with many major events offering no prize money at all. There has also been a broad recognition of the need for greater diversity and inclusivity in the trail and ultra scene. Over the last few years, though, there have been encouraging signs in Kenya of a growing local interest in trail running. In addition to the long-running Lewa Safari Marathon, held within the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy and regarded as one of the toughest marathons on the planet, we have also seen the establishment of a number of ultramarathons (with routes longer than the traditional 42 km). In 2018, the For Rangers Ultra was launched — a gruelling 230 km race across five wildlife conservancies in Laikipia. And in 2020, also to raise funds for the For Rangers Charity, the inaugural UltraMARAthon was held, a 50 km race across wildlife conservancies in the Maasai Mara. The primary objective of all three of these events is to raise funds for conservation and community development, but they have also widened the region’s interest in extreme off-road running, and demonstrated Kenya’s suitability as a host of unique ultras. Another ongoing event aimed at raising the country’s trail running profile is a series of fastest known time (FKT) attempts up Mount Kenya — Africa’s second highest peak. The event has been organised by a Nairobi-based company called Enda, manufacturers of the first Kenyan-made running shoe. As well as a novel way of promoting their brand, Enda came up with the idea to support a few of their sponsored athletes — Kenneth Kemboi, Sussy Chebet and Alfred Moindi. These talented Kenyan runners usually rely on earnings from city marathons all over the world, but most races have been delayed or cancelled because of the coronavirus outbreak. So they turned to Enda for help, who recruited several co-sponsors for the Mount Kenya FKT attempts — apparel maker Janji, GPS watch brand Coros, and athletic hydration and lighting company UltrAspire.
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he setting is the wide grasslands of the Masai Mara. Endless plains stretching south to the Serengeti, where the legendary herds of wildebeest roam. Masai herdsmen have wandered these great plains for centuries, and perhaps it was only a matter of time before more humans figured they should sample this epic journey. So, in the midst of a global pandemic, a little over one hundred intrepid runners joined an inaugural effort to cover a 50 kilometre stretch of iconic Mara landscape. In doing so, they would not only attempt to fulfill their own personal goals, but crucially each would make a stand for the rangers who work to protect this precious resource.
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From my home in the Mara, I’d witnessed firsthand the significant drop in tourism earlier in the year, as revenues from park fees dried up. Wildlife conservancy budgets were suddenly slashed as these shortfalls began to bite. I determined that within this disaster lay opportunity, and out on one of my daily runs back in June, the concept of the UltraMARAthon was born. Kenya is renowned for the sporting prowess of its runners, and what better way to celebrate this talent than over a rigorous route through the wildlife conservancies where so many live and work? Over the next few months, the Mara community pulled together in an effort to showcase this ecosystem, and in doing
so, raise funds through the For Rangers Kenya charity. The Masai Mara Wildlife Conservancies Association — the umbrella body for this rangeland — also played a critical role in getting everyone on board. The traditional Masai landowners could proudly lay claim to hosting the first ultra run in this region of Kenya. And so the December day came with the runners assembling at dawn for the final briefing. As we limbered up, we were full of anticipation to cover this great transect of Mara wilderness, knowing each of us would need to dig deep to find the stamina to sustain our bodies for what lay down the track. In our heads our
individual game plans played out — working the water stops, calorie top-ups, pacing — for what would be a mega five-to-seven hour effort. We finally set off with a burst of pent-up energy, early enough to catch a hyena or two heading home after their nocturnal roaming. Once we were on the course there was plenty of time to soul-search about what drives us to take on such challenges. What mix of personal achievement, community involvement and passion for this sport had brought us here today? Both as individuals, weaving this into our personal journey, and as a collection of people united by a common desire and purpose. 40
The Wilder Interview:
John Kamanga PHOTOGRAPHS GUY WESTERN // SORALO
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Namibia Nine nights in
On the surface, Namibia is a country of inhospitable plains and vast arid lands. It is one of the least densely populated countries in the world, with such an extraordinary sense of space. Scratch beneath this exterior and you will discover a land of unparalleled beauty, with astounding animals, ancient cultures, and some of the world’s tallest sand dunes WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JEREMY FLINT
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Stunning, too, are the ghostly white pan and ancient trees of the nearby Deadvlei. Dotted with striking camel thorn trees that have stood for hundreds of years, rising from the white clay against a backdrop of soaring terracotta dunes and a cloudless blue sky, it is a photographer’s paradise. Standing in this impressive desert landscape at dawn, it felt like I was on another planet.
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That evening, the ritual of sorting gear begins. Just enough clothing to keep us warm and dry, with some spares for those ‘in case’ moments. Winter sleeping bags have expanded in the house, which now have to be tightly stuffed back into our dry bags. We won’t be eating freeze-dried meals on this trip, only Georgian-inspired dinners and breakfasts. Food canisters, silicone pouches and dry bags get packed with food for three days. Morning comes all too early. We briefly question our career paths, but the magnetic pull of new mountains is all the incentive we need to get out the door. One wild ride up a twisting mountain road in that rattling Lada Niva to our drop off point, and we’re alone! Just us and an amphitheatre of peaks, radiant under starlight. Shafts of gold break the horizon and we pause for some morning tea and fresh bread. Time to soak up a little heat. We head deeper into the hills on worn goat trails, our snowshoes and ice axes still packed. Though we’re almost at 3,000 metres and it’s minus twenty, the snow is sparse and patchy. We encounter the first signs of long habitation in this wild corner of Georgia. A ruin of a shrine, its stones worn smooth with centuries of age. Late in the day, we chance upon a perfect spot for our first camp. The spur widens enough for a comfortable pitch. In the midst of setting up camp, my stomach growls. Time to make dinner. Cocooned in layers of silk and down, we fall asleep to the deep silence of remote winter peaks. Plumes of breath swirl and dance above me in the light of my head torch. I can hear Lisa curling deeper into her sleeping bag. It’s my turn to make breakfast. First order of business: thick, hot coffee. Easing my way through the narrow door, the fly sheet slithers and crackles in the cold. The sting of freezing air causes an involuntary cough. Burying my face into the hood of my jacket I jog on the spot to create heat. With coffee made, and grateful mumbles of thanks from inside the tent, I can get to work prepping our breakfast. 94
After a few kilometres we met up with the trackers, who said that the gorillas we were searching for were a stone’s throw away behind a screen of bamboo. I knew what was coming, but nothing can prepare you for such a close encounter with animals so critically endangered, and so human-like. It’s easy to appreciate the fact that they share 98% of our DNA, as they gaze at you impassively. After our initial encounter with the dominant male — a silverback called Munyinya — the group dispersed into the forest. The wrestling youngsters, a one and a three year old, shadowed Munyinya the entire time. We chased after them for the majority of our precious hour, scurrying up and down slippery slopes, hopping over narrow streams, nursing nettle stings, hacking through dense bamboo thickets and escaping giant ant nests. Munyinya eventually perched himself precariously on top of a flimsy bamboo tree, and the toddlers carried on play fighting on the surrounding branches. While gorilla numbers have grown over the last few years, the protected forests of the Virunga Massif are increasingly under pressure. Sadly, this motivated the Rwandan Development Board to double the price of gorilla trekking for foreign visitors to an eye-watering $1,500. There’s no doubt, though, that these funds are being put to good use, including in anti-poaching efforts, reforesting the park’s buffer zone, and supporting adjacent communities. As long as the visitors keep coming, and the fees are reinvested wisely into the park, Rwanda’s gorillas should continue to thrive. @jan.m.fox
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