Wilder Magazine - Volume Six

October - December 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.

In this sixth edition of Wilder Magazine, we hear from world-renowned photographer, Nick Brandt, about his latest body of work, The Day May Break, portraying people and animals impacted by climate change and environmental destruction. Our Portfolio series profiles 2021 Hasselblad Masters Finalist, James Lewin, an exceptional young wildlife photographer who has partnered with conservation organisations across East Africa. Also in East Africa, bikepacking enthusiast, Alba Xandri, narrates an epic trip on two wheels across Kenya’s central highlands. Josh Clay gives an insight into the mind and meticulous work of Murray Grant, a skilful Kenyan sculptor of wildlife bronzes. Moving up to the wild isles of Scotland, Aaron Rolph of the British Adventure Collective tackles rough seas in his kayak. Pete Elliott scales the via ferratas, or ‘iron paths’, of the Italian Dolomites, and spends a stormy night on a jagged peak. British adventurer and expedition leader, Oli France, narrates a solo traverse of the frozen surface of Lake Baikal — the oldest and deepest freshwater lake on Earth. Emily Sullivan embarks on a summer journey through deep Alaskan wilderness on traditional Ahtna and Eyak lands. And finally, Kieran Creevy cooks an outdoor feast and paddles calm waters in the Swedish wilderness.

EDITOR & DESIGNER JAN FOX CONTRIBUTING EDITOR TARA KRAMER

Front cover: The frozen surface of Lake Baikal, Siberia // Oli France @wilder.magazine

editor@wilder-mag.com

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In this issue 1. Kayaking the wild isles 13. A light in the darkness 27. Portfolio: James Lewin 43. The Wilder Interview: Nick Brandt 59. Compelled to create 73. Across the beast of Baikal 87. High roads and hippos 101. Silt and sunshine 117. Calm waters

Contributors Aaron Rolph Aaron is an adventure athlete and photographer based in London. He is passionate about championing the amazing outdoor spaces in the UK, and he encourages people to pursue adventures of their own. Always seeking to push the limits, his high-energy and usually self-sufficient trips often involve cycling, packrafting, paddling, skiing or mountaineering — or ideally a combination of them all.

Emily Sullivan Emily is a writer and photographer working primarily in the 35 mm film format. After a decade of guiding summer 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 diverse landscapes inspire her work. Her favourite days are spent climbing, travelling long distances on skis, packrafting, or picking berries and identifying flowers. She lives and works on Dena’ina lands, now known as Anchorage, Alaska.

Oli France Oli is a British adventurer and expedition leader. He specialises in leading groups through hostile places, such as Somalia, the Democratic Republic of Congo and Yemen.

So far, he has travelled to over 70 countries in pursuit of adventure, and has climbed mountains in half of those visited, from Mont Blanc to the highest mountain in Iraq. In 2016, Oli travelled solo along the 8,000-mile mountainous spine of Asia, climbing fourteen mountains along the way.

He often shares his stories at events, and will be rolling out a new series of group expeditions in the coming year.

James Lewin James is a British fine art wildlife photographer and conservationist living in Kenya. He prefers working with wide-angle lenses from unique perspectives, creating a detachment from reality. His black and white images have a timeless feel, but also often carry a message that his wildlife subjects are endangered. James and his art galleries in the UK and US donate 20% of sales to benefit the wildlife that he photographs, as well as the communities on the fringes of wilderness areas.

Kieran Creevy Kieran is an expedition, performance and private chef, writer, International Mountain Leader and aspirant Arctic wilderness guide with more than 25 years of experience leading and cooking in wild environments. He has worked as the team chef on sponsored climbing expeditions, cooked six-course tasting menus with wine pairings from wilderness basecamps, and led clients on mountain journeys across four continents.

Alba Xandri Alba is a translator, writer and language teacher who has competed in a wide range of endurance sports. She now understands sports as a means of travelling and enjoying the outdoors. She cannot imagine going on vacation without her bike and saddlebags. Between 2014 and 2017, she cycled 55,000 km around the world with Ricard Calmet, visiting more than 40 countries. She wrote a book about their epic trip called ‘La màgia dels pedals’.

Pete Elliott Pete is a 27-year-old photographer and writer from the south coast of England. Driven by exploring new places and meeting new people, he is naturally drawn to wilder parts of the globe where the normal constraints of everyday life fall away. He now travels the UK (and hopefully Europe soon) in his converted Ford Transit van, spending his time hiking, camping, swimming, cycling and generally being in the outdoors as much as possible.

Kayaking the wild isles Two friends find solace in Scotland’s rough seas WORDS AARON ROLPH PHOTOGRAPHS BRITISH ADVENTURE COLLECTIVE

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or most, the UK is hardly synonymous with wilderness. Leading the agricultural and industrial revolutions meant relentless deforestation for fuel and land use, all in the name of productivity. With such intensive industries, our population was able to thrive and grow far beyond what most would deem sustainable, thus putting our remaining wild spaces at risk. Growing up in Cumbria afforded me the huge privilege of wide open spaces, and although the areas were heavily managed, I was fortunate enough to reach some wilderness. Now living in the southeast, I can’t help but feel that finding untouched landscapes or wilderness of any kind is completely impossible. Like many, I live in two extremes: spending most of my time in the Big Smoke in order to spend my weekends seeking isolation and much-needed space to think. This time, we’ve traded our running shoes for paddles to explore only some of Scotland’s 700 islands, of which the vast majority are completely uninhabited.

Not uncommon on sea kayaking trips, our original plan to follow the well-documented Argyle Sea Trail was foiled by rough seas and very strong southerlies. But we were determined to make the most of our time in the Inner Hebrides. Fully laden with enough food to sink a ship (hopefully an expression that will not become a reality), we put in at the quaint village of Tayvallich. The wind has really picked up, clearly much stronger than forecasted, making even crossing the relatively sheltered Loch Sween hard graft. My friend and paddling partner Ed, a notoriously stoic man of few words, offers nothing more than a nod as we battle against the whistling gales and splashing waves. We both know this could mean trouble when we get out at sea. We do, however, find some shelter by remaining close to the shore. Despite slow progress against a rising tide, we eventually reach the mouth and undoubtedly rougher seas.

Top left: A pair of fallow deer in the wild.

Bottom left: Finding sheltered waters in Loch Sween.

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Aiming for the Isle of Jura across the sound, we commit to the 12-kilometre crossing in waters that have little protection and boast infamous and complex tidal races. It is a full moon meaning we will be out during spring tides. We make our break for it and test the waters running adjacent to a network of small islands called the MacCormaig Isles. It doesn’t take long before its reputation proves justifiable. There seem to be tidal races running all over, and our boats are being pushed and pulled in every direction. To make things worse the wild Atlantic swell is plummeting down on us, and we frequently lose sight of one another through the waves. I can’t help but find joy in feeling so small as we are tossed around by the raw power of the ocean. Somehow we keep our boats upright, progress roughly in the right direction, and decide to land on the largest island, Eilean Mòr.

As we enter a small, sheltered bay, the waters and my heart rate calm in equal measure.

With the downpours continuing, we spot what appears to be a basic shelter on the other side of the cove. Having resigned to a very wet and wild camp, a refuge to escape the rain and cook decent food is a treat.

None of these islands have been inhabited in decades. The island had been entrusted to the Scottish National Party in 1978, and the then chair, William (aka Billy) Wolfe, took the onus to care for it and build a visitor centre to host the occasional boat trip. Although there are still remnants of a 14th-century chapel, it is clear the island belongs to nature now.

We have our very own island and are treated to a wildlife show even David Attenborough would be impressed by, with countless seals, sea birds, and a family of otters.

Previous page: Moody skies above Eilean Mòr. Left: Big smiles arriving at the shore. Right (clockwise from the top): The basic shelter on Eilean Mòr; A male otter enjoying his catch; Our Zegul kayaks off the water.

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The next morning the air feels settled but fresh, despite the thick clouds still lingering on the hills in the distance. The committing 10-kilometre crossing to Jura provides periods of calm seas intermittently followed by clean but powerful waves and the occasional pod of dolphins. We eventually reach the forested shores of Jura and land on a remote beach. I turn to take in the panorama and am taken aback to see no less than 25 seals staring back at us.

If their curious labrador-like faces weren’t so endearing, it would be an eerie sight. We stretch our legs and have some lunch during another wonderful standoff with the wildlife. Paddling north, we ride the tidal streams, which resemble whitewater rivers more than sea kayaking, and make quick work to the top of the island, clocking 22 kph in places. Ed and I have been known to throw caution to the wind on plenty of occasions, but the next crossing, the Gulf of Corryvreckan would not be one of those times. This narrow strait between Jura and Scarba boasts Europe’s largest whirlpool.

The infamous waters are known to have claimed numerous lives, and almost that of George Orwell. The experience inspired aspects of his acclaimed novel, 1984, which largely was written on Jura.

Although most reports online advise to steer clear of paddling this area, we understand that it is possible for skilled paddlers to cross the strait at slack tide. Hiking uneven and boggy terrain, we reach high ground to observe the condition of the gulf. Although we can clearly see the whirlpool in full flow, it appears from here to be manageable. Having earlier witnessed some of the fastest flowing water I had ever seen at sea, I have no doubt the Corryvreckan is capable of churning out some of the most dangerous waters in the UK. With such complex tidal patterns and underwater topography, timing is everything. Thankfully we hit slack tide just right and cross without issue. Making haste toward our bothy for the night, we land on the pebbled shores of Scarba and breathe a sigh of relief.

Top left: Enjoying the ride. Bottom left: Tidal currents in the Gulf of Corryvreckan.

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The water is too clear to resist a swim before enjoying some food and a whisky in front of the fire. Still under the grasp of the gulf, we wake to an early alarm to head for the mainland in beautiful but eerily still waters. With dense fog rolling in, it is impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins; we are well and truly in the whiteroom. Navigation is more demanding, but breaking trail through these silver glassy waters feels like we’ve entered a whole new world. The serenity is only broken by fleeting dolphins, flocks of birds and our ever-present entourage of seals. The cloud eventually surrenders to the overpowering morning sunshine, and we land back on the mainland to finish a trip of a lifetime. We faced rough seas, high winds, heavy rain, dense fog, and I loved every single moment. @aaronrolph | @britishadventurecollective With support from Zegul Kayaks.

Top: Glassy waters on the Knapdale peninsula. Left: Ed relieved leaving the Gulf of Corryvreckan behind.

Right: Calm after the storm.

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A light in the darkness Pete Elliott scales the iron paths of the Italian Dolomites and spends a stormy night on the summit of Cima Cadin WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS PETE ELLIOTT

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he grandeur of the Italian Dolomites is a pull factor so strong that adventurers from all over the globe descend upon this magnificent mountain range. It’s difficult to describe the Dolomites without using superlatives. It’s a spectacular alpine destination, with unmistakable pale jagged peaks and sweeping green valleys.

In early July last year, I travelled to Italy with my good friend, Heikki, in his dainty red VW Transporter called Cherry. Our trip coincided with a summer heatwave, so we were blessed with bright sunshine on most of our mornings in the Dolomites. We spent our days hiking in the humid heat across surreal mountain landscapes, and searching for icy alpine lakes to plunge into. Because it’s a popular ski resort in winter, the entire mountain range is well connected with lifts and roads. For me, this is perhaps the only downside to the Dolomites.

I’m drawn to wild mountain spaces, where I can take breathtaking photographs and appreciate my insignificance beneath soaring summits. Heikki and I hiked for miles into the mountains, only to see — to our dismay — people jumping off a nearby chairlift. We needed to find a way to avoid the crowds.

A via ferrata, or ‘iron path’, is a route with fixed protection that helps travellers move safely through the mountains. For those with a strong sense of adventure and a head for heights, they are a superb way of exploring the Dolomites, and gaining access to the more remote limestone peaks. Via ferratas date back to the 19th century, but they were particularly pertinent during the First World War, when there was intense fighting in the Dolomites. In early 1915, Austro-Hungarian forces took up strategic positions in the mountains to shelter from the looming threat of the Italian army. Both sides spent the following years constructing via ferratas to move quickly across the daunting peaks.

Clockwise from the top: Via Ferrata Ra Gusela; Scaling Via Ferrata Merlone; Our view at sunset of Rifugio Nuvolau on the ridge.

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We began our tour on two beginner routes: Via Ferrata Ra Gusela, and Via Ferrata Averau. Ra Gusela was good fun and led us to Rifugio Nuvolau — one of the oldest refuges in the Dolomites. We carried on along the more technical Via Ferrata Averau, navigating a short 100-metre bolted section, before scrambling up to the summit for sunset. We stood in awe as the setting sun painted a canvas across the dusk sky. The towering peaks around us glowed deep red, before twilight beckoned the stars. We sipped our beers as a reward for our efforts, enjoying the peace away from the crowds.

We didn’t have the summit to ourselves for very long, as a few local climbers appeared behind us. To our bemusement, they weren’t carrying any climbing equipment at all, devaluing our achievements that day. But we had still accomplished our mission to avoid the masses, and the via ferratas had a grip on us. With a sense that luck was on our side, we plotted to roll the dice again and take on a more demanding route.

The following day we drove to Lake Antorno, winding through mountain passes with some intimidating hairpins. After some research and a good night’s sleep, we settled on Via Ferrata Merlone, heading up to the summit of Cima Cadin. This via ferrata is longer than the first two that we tackled combined, so we debated carrying our sleeping bags and spending the night on the precipice of Cima Cadin. We pored over contradictory weather forecasts, but opted to take our sleeping gear with us anyway. A sense of nervousness rushed over me, as I eagerly anticipated a night in the mountains.

Left: Cima Cadin towering over Heikki.

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We set off in the heat on a relatively straightforward hike to Rifugio Fonda Savio. As we twisted and turned up to the hut, saw-edged silhouettes revealed themselves to be the commanding crags of the Misurina group; each a behemoth in its own right. They are among the most aesthetically pleasing but perilous peaks — a strange dichotomy.

We reached the hut around 4pm. We had evaded the daily afternoon thunderstorm, but the forecast predicted another in the night. A group that had just descended the Via Ferrata Merlone advised us to allow four hours to summit and climb back down. But, having seen other climbers camp on Averau the night before, we decided to take our chances and make the final decision on the summit. We followed a path away from the hut, and our route became clear. An exposed 400-metre rock face stood between us and Cima Cadin.

My hands were clammy, but my apprehension soon turned to excitement as we put on our helmets and negotiated the network of ladders

and fixed ropes that wind up to the summit.

The route is very secure but also exposed; there were a few sections that really got my blood pumping. After an hour or so of exhilarating climbing, and as our surroundings began to glow golden in the evening light, we reached the jagged summit of Cima Cadin.

The view was just as breathtaking as the night before. All of society’s discords melted away, and now the mountains were all that mattered.

We had an incredible view of the most iconic peaks in the Dolomites, Tre Cime Di Lavaredo, which I had rarely seen photographed from this side. We got the stove going for a very scenic dinner, and made the decision to spend the night on the summit.

After snapping some shots of the sunset, we turned in for the night. Clouds with streaks of grey drifted above the Austrian border in the distance, hinting at wilder conditions to come.

But I lay content in my sleeping bag, exhausted from the early mornings and late nights of photographing in the summertime.

Top left: The view back down to Rifugio Fonda Savio while descending Via Ferrata Merlone. Top right: Stove on, preparing dinner as golden hour begins. Right: Rifugio Fonda Savio. Following page: Taking in the view from Cima Cadin.

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At around 3am I was woken up abruptly. Even with my hat tucked tightly over my face, there came a brilliant flash that flickered and illuminated the night sky. Bleary-eyed, I peeled up my hat, and my jaw dropped. There was another shock of white across the sky like an almighty camera flash, casting a spotlight on the most famous peaks in the Dolomites. I wondered how safe we really were.

Heikki was awake, too, so I jumped out of my sleeping bag, grabbed my camera and tripod, and sat next to him to watch the show. We didn’t hear any thunder, and as predicted, the storm was around 80 miles from us on the border and moving away. In no danger, we just sat in awe as the flashes of lightning illuminated the distinctive Tre Cime Di Lavaredo.

I spent an hour capturing what are now some of my favourite photographs, before clambering back into my sleeping bag as the storm moved on. A few hours later, we woke up to another stunning sky at sunrise. I sat next to Heikki again, but instead of running around trying to capture a thousand different compositions, I set up the tripod behind us and simply enjoyed the moment. It was a fitting end to a memorable Dolomites adventure.

To learn more about the history and routes of the via ferratas of the Dolomites, head to komoot.com. pete-elliott.com

@pete_ell

Left: The incredible light show above Tre Cime Di Lavaredo.

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Portfolio

James Lewin James Lewin is a self-taught, British fine art wildlife photographer and conservationist focused on African wildlife. He found his eye for photography after discovering his passion for conservation in Kenya. In this edition’s Portfolio series, James takes us behind the lens of some of his most recognised images, including the latest photographs in his collection WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS JAMES LEWIN

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The Orphans of Reteti Namunyak Conservancy, Kenya Reteti Elephant Sanctuary is the first community-owned and run elephant sanctuary in Africa. Reteti rescues orphaned, abandoned, injured and trapped baby elephants. After being safely rescued, the journey back to the wilderness in which they were found begins immediately. Over a roughly three-year period, they will learn all the necessary survival skills and become strong enough to venture freely once again.

The logistics required to make this moment happen were not straightforward and, in fact, none of the elephants had ever been to the rock as it’s located a few kilometres away from the sanctuary. These orphans are on a strict feeding schedule; we timed the journey to the rock so that they could feed on arrival, allowing us a 20-minute window before they would have to return in time for the next feed.

I interpret the rock painting by the talented street artist, Mantra, as a symbol of remembrance for the lost parents of the orphaned elephants. The rock has historically been a hideout for elephant poachers, but today it is a place where community members, elders, visitors, and now orphaned elephants gather.

It is a powerful message of what we are all capable of changing if we put our minds to it.

I wish each of the orphans the best of luck, and I hope to cross paths with them again in the future, back in the wild.

Fujifilm GFX 50s 45-100 f4 — 1/500 at f7.1 ISO 500 at 45mm 20% of all print sales of this image (link at the end of the article) will be donated to the Reteti Elephant Sanctuary.

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Lethal Looks Maasai Mara, Kenya I was immediately drawn to this lioness. She is one of the most beautiful lionesses I have ever seen, so I felt her face should be the critical component of the image, with no need to include anything else. Cloudless mornings can often be a challenge, but it played a role in the success of this image, as it allows for a strong instant connection.

I captured the frame using a remote camera that poses complications with wild lions. I have found that they either pay the camera no attention, or decide they want it for themselves. Unfortunately, it is more often than not the latter that results in the best images.

For this reason, I use a customised protective box and make my attempts early in the morning when lions are most active. Then, it’s just a matter of time before they get bored, and I can retrieve the camera to see what was captured. On this occasion, it was a success.

Nikon D810 35mm f1.8 — 1/500 at f10 ISO 250 20% of print sales in support of the Mara Elephant Project.

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The Queen of Tsavo Tsavo, Kenya It’s impossible to prepare myself to come faceto-face with a Big Tusker elephant. Each time I do, it feels like the first time. I am left in total shock, and am instantly teleported to times long ago where sights of Big Tuskers were more common. I have never encountered another animal or human that commands such instant silence and respect from all around. Yet, today there are fewer than 25 Big Tuskers across the entire African continent. Once prized by hunters as trophies, today prized by poachers for overseas markets. They are on the brink of existence.

In April, I partnered with Tsavo Trust and spent a week with a monitoring team following the elephant photographed, called Dida. Tsavo can be a tricky location to photograph, with much of the landscape covered in thick bush. Waterholes can sometimes offer opportunities if you can get into position before the elephants arrive to drink. Without Tsavo Trust’s knowledge, this portrait would not exist.

To me, Dida represents hope and the resilience of nature when given a chance to thrive. It is remarkable that creatures not so different from mammoths still exist in 2021, despite our best efforts over generations. My sincere appreciation and thanks go to Tsavo Trust for their years of dedication to keeping these last Big Tuskers alive in the wild. Today, they monitor over 30 ‘up and coming’ emerging tuskers that will become the Big Tuskers of tomorrow.

Nikon D850 35mm f1.8 — 1/800 at f8.0 ISO 320 20% of print sales in support of Tsavo Trust.

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The Huntress of Namiri Serengeti, Tanzania Over the course of a week in Serengeti, we encountered 19 different cheetahs, but this moment is perhaps my fondest memory of all. We found this female cheetah on the hunt, searching for her next target. However, it’s the brief moments in nature with elements of calmness and silence that I search for. In such moments, it feels as if the clocks have been paused, with nothing else existing but me and the subject. I find myself totally connected, and can take the image. These few-and-farbetween moments pass by in a matter of seconds, but to me, they feel like minutes that stay with me forever. Termite mounds are dotted across the vast plains of Eastern Serengeti, providing the perfect vantage point for cheetahs on the hunt. They also form an idyllic stage for intimate portraiture that assists in an undisturbed connection.

For cheetahs to have a future, we have a lot of work to do by creating awareness around the world of how threatened they have become. I hope that my portrait can help to do so, and raise funds for The Serengeti Cheetah Project. Their dedicated research can lead to a fine-tuned conservation strategy to better protect cheetahs across Africa as we advance into a more uncertain future.

Nikon Z7II 70-200 f2.8 — 1/2500 at f6.3 ISO 320 20% of print sales in support of The Serengeti Cheetah Project.

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Colossal Craig Amboseli, Kenya I wanted my portrait of Craig to be different from anything I had taken before, which is why I chose to visit the Amboseli Ecosystem in October, when the dust becomes the defining feature of the area. I used a remote-controlled camera to not disturb him with a vehicle blocking his path. However, when he heard the first click of my camera, he stopped, causing the ultra-fine Amboseli dust to rise around him.

I took five photographs before he continued walking towards a water source nearby.

I see the end photograph as an almost biblical scene, with Craig appearing to stand within the clouds. What could be a better setting for one of the largest and most famous elephants on our planet?

Nikon D850 35mm f1.8 – 1/1000 at f8.0 ISO 250 20% of print sales in support of Big Life Foundation.

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Drought Tsavo East, Kenya This is one of the most dramatic photographs that I have ever taken, and I am the first to admit that luck plays a crucial part in the success of the image. This is the beauty of working with nature; moments constantly change and are full of surprises. There are so many different elements to the photograph, allowing us to engage with the scene for considerable time.

The fighting zebras are clearly the main focus,

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with the billowing dust as they rear up in battle.

But the locusts were definitely the biggest surprise for me; I had no idea they were there until I viewed the file on my computer afterwards, and they play an important role in the composition. They fill a void preventing a looseness to the scene while leading our eye around the photograph. The two zebras are not fighting for females; they are fighting because times are

tough, with almost no food and limited water in the area. And so, the locusts have another significant role in that they help to communicate the story of how difficult a drought is for the wildlife. As they fly away from the scene, it suggests that there is nothing left in this barren landscape. The dramatic skies above also aid in telling this broad narrative. But, most importantly, they create the perfect stage for an epic fight.

Nikon D750 24mm 1.8 — 1/3200 at f7.1 ISO 320 20% of print sales in support of Tsavo Trust.

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The Gentlemen’s Club Chyulu Hills, Kenya Finding myself just two metres from such giants while they were drinking as if I was not there is a memory that will stick with me forever. One Ton, on the right, is one of the largest 20-or-so elephants in Africa. He is without doubt the King of The Chyulu Hills, and he is greeted with an immense amount of awe and respect by all the animals and humans who are 41

lucky enough to lay eyes on him. Meeting a Big Tusker in the 21st Century is nothing short of a miracle and a privilege to behold. This image would not have been possible without Richard Bonham, the co-founder and CEO of Big Life Foundation, who knows this elephant better than anyone. Their friendship has grown for more than two decades. One Ton often visits

Richard to have a drink in what used to be a swimming pool, which created the opportunity for this photograph. The making of the image is one of my favourites of all time. It is an indescribable feeling to sit beneath an elephant of this size; so close that I felt the air leaving his trunk, and the splashes of water as his trunk swashed around before taking another drink.

Nikon D810 70-200 f2.8 — 1/400 at f8.0 ISO 250 20% of print sales will be donated in support of Big Life Foundation. If you would like to purchase a print of any of the images featured here, head to cricketfineart.co.uk if you are in the UK, or head to igifineart.com if you are in the US. 42

The Wilder Interview

Nick Brandt PHOTOGRAPHS NICK BRANDT

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ritish photographer, Nick Brandt, has been capturing Africa’s wildlife and landscapes for two decades. He was first drawn to the continent after visiting Tanzania in 1995, while directing the video for Michael Jackson’s Earth Song. Six years later, he embarked on his first, decade-long photography project — a trilogy of books to memorialise the vanishing natural grandeur of East Africa and its escalating destruction.

The titles of the three books, which he finished in 2013, formed a complete sentence: On This Earth, A Shadow Falls, Across The Ravaged Land.

Driven to do more to stop the destruction of East Africa’s wild spaces, Nick co-founded Big Life Foundation with conservationist, Richard Bonham, in 2010. Today, Big Life works to protect over 1.6 million acres of wilderness in the Amboseli-Tsavo-Kilimanjaro ecosystem.

Since 2016, Nick has published three more books. The first, Inherit The Dust, records the impact of man in places in East Africa where animals used to roam. The project that followed in 2019, This Empty World, addresses the escalating destruction of the African natural world at the hands of humans. And his latest body of work, The Day May Break — released in September 2021 — is the first part of a global series portraying people and animals impacted by environmental degradation and destruction.

Wilder’s editor, Jan Fox, recently asked Nick about this latest book, The Day May Break, and about the stories of the humans and animals that he photographed for the project.

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Can you tell me a bit about the focus of The Day May Break, the global series that it forms part of, and the message that you hope it conveys?

My previous series, Inherit the Dust and This Empty World, addressed habitat destruction and biodiversity loss due to humankind.

However, I could no longer ignore the biggest crisis of all: climate breakdown, which will negatively impact every living creature on the planet, including humans, of course.

The fog in the photos is symbolic of the natural world that we once knew rapidly disappearing from view. The animals and humans are photographed together in this fog, in the same frame, because simply, we are all denizens of the same home: our actually very small and very endangered planet. We are connected in this time of unprecedented crisis.

How did the idea for this series come about?

Pre-Covid, I was beginning to prep a more elaborate project photographing in California. I have lived there for pretty much my whole adult life, and have been increasingly horrified by the rapid destruction of most of the most beautiful parts of the state in the last seven years, due to the mega-fires, intensified by climate breakdown. In fact, this included my own property, which was hammered in 2018.

But then Covid-19 came along. And the fog, which was a visual motif I already planned to use — an echo of the smoke from the wildfires — took on a sudden extra resonance: that we are all currently living in a kind of limbo, not knowing when the end is in sight. Ironically, given the extra challenges of photographing during Covid, I felt that I needed to make the project global, given the nature of climate breakdown. Kenya and Zimbabwe happened to be open by the time I was ready to start photographing in October 2020.

Left: Halima, Abdul and Frida — Kenya, 2020.

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Could you tell me about the people in the photographs, and their stories?

LUCKNESS, WINNIE AND KURA ZIMBABAWE, 2020

The people in the photos have all been badly affected by climate change — some displaced by cyclones that destroyed their homes, others such as farmers displaced and impoverished by years-long severe droughts. A couple of the people in the photos — Kuda in Zimbabwe, and Robert and Nyaguthii in Kenya — even saw their children swept away in the floods, tragically never to be seen again.

Before Cyclone Idai hit, Luckness was employed and lived an uneventful life. But the cyclone destroyed her house, and she and her two children were swept away by the waters. One of her two children suffered a spinal fracture, which has left her permanently disabled. Currently, Luckness and her children are living in a makeshift camp for displaced people affected by the cyclone. Cyclone Idai was a terrifying harbinger of what climate change will bring in the coming years: more frequent high-intensity storms. And with that comes, of course, more destruction.

So there were varying degrees of trauma involved, but despite their hardship, the people and the animals are all survivors. And there lies hope and possibility.

In Kenya, we worked with people in Nanyuki in central Kenya, who had been forced to move there to find any kind of job due to losing their homes, farms or livestock due to years of extreme drought or flooding. In Zimbabwe, we actually looked in a large number of different areas, and brought them from far and wide to the sanctuaries.

For your previous project, This Empty World, the images were composites of two moments in time, taken weeks and months apart. But for The Day May Break, you captured single images of humans and animals sharing the same space at the same time — and that was possible because the animals have been habituated to varying degrees. What are the stories of some of these animals, and birds?

I feel that any photo should tell the story of both humans and animals, and not give precedence to the animals, so here are some stories from the book.

Kura was just three years old when he came to Wild Is Life (he was eight when photographed).

He had been rejected by the Chinese for shipment of about 35 young elephants to China, and was one of three that Wild Is Life negotiated the release of. All of them had what was perceived as imperfections that resulted in their rejection: damaged or partially missing trunks, and in the case of Kura, a very badly broken leg, the cause of which is unknown.

The two other elephants were eventually able to move up to Wild Is Life’s Zimbabwe Elephant Nursery in a park in the west of the country, near Victoria Falls. But because Kura’s leg was so damaged, it was felt that he would not be able to manage the rough terrain at the release site, or cope with getting into a fight with another bull. Meanwhile, Kura is very gentle with all the younger rescued calves, and is a great teacher.

Photographed in Zimbabwe, at Wild is Life, in November 2020.

Right: Luckness, Winnie and Kura — Zimbabwe, 2020.

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JAMES AND FATU KENYA, 2020 James used to own a five-acre farm in central Kenya. He was successful and ‘life was good’.

But years of long droughts made making a living harder and harder, until 2015, when bankrupt, he was forced to move with his wife and child and look for a job of any kind.

This formerly proud, independent farmer has been reduced by climate change to being a casual labourer in the county market.

Fatu is one of the last two northern white rhinos in the world. When Fatu and her mother Najin die, the species will be extinct. Once upon a time, the northern white rhino’s range extended through central Africa. But decades of poaching have taken its toll. And this is the tragically inevitable conclusion.

Fatu and her mother, Najin, were both actually born in captivity, and had been living, along with two males, in Dvůr Králové Zoo in the Czech Republic. In 2009, the four rhinos were moved to Ol Pejeta Conservancy in Kenya in the hopes that they would have a better chance of breeding. However, there was no successful breeding, and Sudan, the last male, died in 2018. In the meantime, Ol Pejeta has around-the-clock armed security for Najin and Fatu.

So now, complex in vitro fertilisation procedures — never before attempted in rhinos — are conducted several times each year in a final attempt to keep the species from going extinct.

Photographed in Kenya in October 2020, at Ol Pejeta Conservancy.

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KUDA AND SKY ZIMBABWE, 2020 It was March 31, 2019. The heavy rains and winds came unexpectedly. And then came Cyclone Idai. Kuda’s family lived in a low-lying area in eastern Zimbabwe, so they were the hardest hit. The floods and avalanches destroyed everything in the village. Kuda, her husband, and three children were all swept away. Kuda managed to swim and reach her home, but the cyclone had destroyed everything. Six months pregnant at the time, Kuda suffered a miscarriage.

Two of her children were never found.

Currently, Kuda, her husband, and their one surviving child are living in a makeshift camp for displaced people affected by the cyclone. When interviewed about what happened to her, a year and a half after later, she said not to worry about her. She said that nowadays, ‘my life is like a ripened banana’.

Sky is four years old, a southern African giraffe. She came from a farm south of Harare. The original wildlife there was nearly all killed by new settlers, leaving just two giraffes.

Due to her age and perhaps also trauma, she had been unable to raise her own calves: when she had a calf, they always died because she did not feed them. The farmer called Wild Is Life to come and help. At the sanctuary, the calves Sky and Missy were raised until they were well enough to survive on their own.

The southern African giraffe, of which, as of 2021, there are less than 30,000 remaining in the wild, is listed as threatened. Across the whole continent of Africa, there are barely more than 100,000. Shockingly, in Zimbabwe, giraffes are not a protected species; hunting, the removal of animals and animal products from a safari area, as well as the sale of animals and animal products is permitted.

Photographed at Wild is Life, Zimbabwe, November 2020.

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PATRICK AND HARRIET ZIMBABWE, 2020 Patrick has been a fisherman in Zimbabwe for five years, but the declining water levels in Lake Chivero are now making it difficult for him to continue fishing. The fish catches for the day have dramatically declined. Patrick is also a farmer, but like many others, the ongoing drought has affected his crops.

Harriet has lived at Kuimba Shiri for 35 years, rescued when she was just a chick as a result of deforestation. As with many of the birds rescued by Kuimba Shiri as chicks, they would not survive if reintroduced into the wild.

Photographed at Kuimba Shiri Bird Sanctuary, Zimbabwe, December 2020.

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RICHARD AND GRACE ZIMBABWE, 2021 Originally a maize farmer and cattle owner, extended droughts from 2010 began to dramatically impact Richard’s livelihood. All of Richard’s cows died from disease. He turned to farming tobacco to survive. Richard now struggles to provide for his family and send his kids to school. Richard feels the reduction in rainfall has been caused not just by climate change, but also by the clearing of forests for the production and curing of tobacco, leaving vast barren stretches of land.

Grace — a bateleur eagle — was rescued by Kuimba Shiri Bird Sanctuary as a chick 40 years ago, due to the clearing of large areas for cattle farming across Zimbabwe. As a result, the bateleur range is mainly restricted to the big game parks, and bateleurs are now listed as endangered.

Photographed at Kuimba Shiri Bird Sanctuary, Zimbabwe, December 2020.

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How did the people photographed find the process? I imagine it must be quite intimidating to stand, sit and even lie down in front of a camera with a rhino or an elephant close behind you…

Every single person photographed was incredibly calm, gracious and patient in the presence of the animals. This was because the keepers/ carers in each conservancy/sanctuary were clearly very connected to the animals, and confident regarding their behavior. So even when one of the sitters was nudged by one of the rhinos, they didn’t flinch. The challenges were not the animals, nor how the people responded to them.

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The challenge was the weather, with some weeks spent with extreme heat, dry winds, and sun. It meant that I was often only able to photograph in the 30 minutes before and after sunset. So it was a testament to everyone involved — both human and animal — that we generally managed to get one photograph in such short windows of opportunity.

What is the significance of the single, dangling light bulb, and very basic, or makeshift, furniture?

The props in the photos represent the barest bones for living — a chair, a table, a bed. And for light, a single bare light bulb.

Were the images shot on film or digital?

On this project, I had to photograph medium format digital, because the fog, created by water-based fog machines on location, was different in every frame. This meant that at the end of each session, I had to check that the fog was the right balance for the people and animals. (I don’t like to look at frames until the end of the session — I like to be purely in the moment, only looking through the viewfinder.)

Finally, have you already made any plans for the next locations and subjects of the global series?

I’m trying to get organised to do the research now. There are many places that I want to go to, but it needs to be where there are sanctuaries and conservancies that have habituated long-term animals rescued for environmental reasons, that are sufficiently habituated that human strangers can be photographed in close proximity to them.

To purchase a copy of the book, The Day May Break, and for exhibition dates and locations, head to nickbrandt.com.

Above: Behind the scenes of The Day May Break.

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Compelled to create Kenyan sculptor Murray Grant has forged a career depicting in breathtaking detail and vitality the animals that he has lived alongside all his life WORDS JOSH CLAY PHOTOGRAPHS MURRAY GRANT | HILARY HURT | ANDREAS FOX

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late-green teardrops of Acheulean era hand axes and glinting shards of obsidian are reminders of an almost continuous human presence on El Karama Conservancy spanning more than a million years. Situated in the heart of Laikipia, a region of sweeping vistas, rolling hills, fertile plains, and unique flora and fauna; it is a place that has always captivated the human imagination. Landscapes shape the behaviours and appearances of those that inhabit them. In the case of Murray Grant, this landscape has compelled him to devote his life to shaping and sculpting the iconic wildlife he shares it with.

Formative experiences As a boy, stalking and hunting animals were significant features of his upbringing. At that time, legally harvested game was an important and abundant source of protein for everyone who lived on the ranch. The repeated process of watching, tracking, and dissecting these animals unwittingly provided him with much of the sculptural education necessary to truly understand his medium.

‘Getting your hands on those joints,’ he said, ‘really helps you picture how all those muscles behave together when looking at a moving animal. It informs what pulls what, what is solid, what is supple or has tension on it, which bits have power, and which are flexible. The more you know and the more familiar you are with the anatomical side of things; the more information plays out in your brain as it interacts with your eyes when you observe these beautiful animals walking in front of you.’

If he wasn’t out in the bush observing wildlife, he would be drawing with his mother, Lavinia

Grant. Formally trained at the Chelsea School of Art, she is a brilliant wildlife artist in her own right. Her masterful use of colour touches on the soul of the myriad creatures and plants of Kenya she has depicted and written about in numerous books and paintings. Her house is as much a work of art as it is a home. The walls are filled with canvases, drawings, and watercolours of places visited, people known, and things seen, as well as innumerable artefacts and objects collected from over sixty years of life in the bush.

Grant credits her for encouraging his artistic talents as a boy: ‘She has quite a purist approach to her natural history studies and paintings, in that she never used photography much and discouraged me from copying other people’s photographs or paintings whenever I was trying to draw something. I think that was a way of sharpening one’s direct powers of observation.’

This discipline and desire to train the eye to understand what it sees, echoes words by Frederic Remington, the great sculptor of the old American West, who declared that ‘the artist must know more than the camera.’ Grant would certainly agree, saying, ‘I think that with all the interface now between technology and sculpture, it is still important to not lose sight of the basics behind animal art, which are time spent with your subject, sketching from life, and a thorough understanding of anatomy.

This often just comes down to working with a knife and not minding getting your hands a bit bloody.’ But he is also the first to acknowledge that adopting new and innovate technology can help the modern artist learn more about their subjects and take their craft to the next level.

Top right: The El Karama landscape. Bottom right: Sketching from life in the Aberdares, Kenya.

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The Kingdon connection A gift from his mother early in his career gave his understanding of anatomy a more rigorously scientific dimension. She gave him a complete set of Jonathan Kingdon’s six volume epic: East African Mammals. First editions of these books are gold dust today and regarded by many as indispensable guides to understanding African fauna. What sets these books apart are Kingdon’s sketches and illustrations. Their precision and beauty are revelatory complements to his measured and highly researched prose.

‘The way Kingdon is able to accurately capture a mammal’s anatomy and represent it as a drawing in a useful manner is pretty unmatched. His amazing and totally unique approach to his studies of wildlife were a real source of information and inspiration for me. His volumes have definitely influenced the way in which I approach and prepare to sculpt my animals.’

The Kingdon connection does not end there. In a charming event of sculptural serendipity, Grant’s bronzes are forged at Pangolin Editions by Jonathan Kingdon’s son, Rungwe. Based in England, it is widely acknowledged as one of Europe’s leading foundries for sculpture art.

Sculptural nemesis For many artists, there are often particular subjects that they are drawn to time and again.

For Grant, the leopard and the buffalo are two animals that never stray far from his consciousness. One of his earliest and most indelible experiences with these elusive cats occurred when his father caught an old leopard in a box trap that had made a habit of killing calves and sheep on the ranch. ‘In those days, the way of dealing with them was to trap them and then move them to a national park or area where they wouldn’t come into conflict with humans.’ Grant points out that this is now an outdated method and no longer happens on the conservancy, but he remembers that ‘being able to see a leopard up so close ignited a respect and passion for these predators. Standing only feet away from the sheer ferocity and beauty of that leopard made a huge impression on me.’ The obsession with buffalos comes from a robust admiration for their impressive power and belligerent temperament, moulded through years of tracking them on foot. There is also the small matter of Thunder; a buffalo with almost mythically large horns who just so happens to live on the conservancy.

It is the leopard, however, that Grant considers his ‘sculptural nemesis.’ He explains that ‘the leopard is the ultimate challenge because it has an extremely powerful, well-defined, supple musculature, obscured underneath a flexible, highly camouflaged, spotted coat. So, it is very tricky for one’s brain to grasp anatomically what is going on when you see one in front of you.’ Grant happened on a novel and imaginative method for getting closer to them than even that boy, peering tentatively at the snarling sea of spots, could have ever dreamed of.

Clockwise from top left: Aberdare leopardess; Thunder in El Karama; Sculpting Thunder with the help of an elephant.

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Reflections in the forest After being shown a video on YouTube of animals and in particular, leopards, reacting to themselves in mirrors placed in the forests of Gabon, Grant realised this could be the perfect, non-invasive method for viewing wildlife in their natural state at El Karama. But it was in the Aberdare Mountain Range with its peaks of dragons’ teeth and curious creatures beneath, that Grant was able to really gain precious footage of leopards. He explains that leopards are more relaxed there compared to El Karama, so afford themselves more time to stare at the mirrors. He thinks this is because there they are the top predator and do not have to be perpetually wary of lions.

His first cunning plan was to alter the windscreen of his Land Cruiser so that it would fold out on hydraulics. He explains that ‘in the forest, you will typically see a leopard in front of you, so if you are relying on a roof hatch or leaning out the window, you will lose your opportunity. By having the windscreen open, I could get much better quality photographs far more quickly.’

Grant constructed the mirrors himself (you might notice a recurring theme here), gluing the glass to plywood held by a metal frame. This ensured that in the event of a cantankerous buffalo deciding to greet its reflection with a crashing head-butt, the glass would crack and not shatter, preventing any potential injury. This happened on one occasion and sometime afterwards, the footage revealed a male leopard, who was a frequent visitor to this mirror, now staring wistfully at the broken contraption as if disappointed to no longer be able to gaze at his reflection.

These camera traps have been a fascinating insight to a secret world.

Recently at El Karama, they documented the progression of a mother leopard raising her two cubs with enchanting sequences of them scrapping beside the river, glaring at wood-hoopoes, and even playing with a shoe that had floated downstream. This has added tremendous value to understanding the health of the leopard population on El Karama because the cameras have allowed the guides and rangers to identify and monitor them individually. It has also improved the guest experience because guides can talk about leopards on a personal level, knowing their habits and family dynamics.

‘From a sculpting perspective, it has been completely revolutionary because the mirrors draw the leopard in. The camera traps have played a huge part in gathering information that would otherwise be forever behind closed doors. I can place them at any angle, multiplying a hundred-fold the amount of information I can have at my fingertips.’

Top right: An intimate view of a male leopard in the Aberdares. Bottom right: Bronze sculpture of an Aberdare leopard.

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Led by the land It is not just sculptures that Grant has created here on El Karama. He also built an award-winning eco-lodge lodge and later a studio in a secluded spot along the Ewaso Ngiro River, which acts as El Karama’s gently meandering western border.

Here, the boundary between wildlife and human life is blurred. From a distance, it is only the thatched roofs peeking through the gently undulating canopies of acacia and boscia species that give any indication of human habitation. Bushbuck, dik-dik and waterbuck are frequent antelope interlopers, ducking and slinking through the undergrowth. When walking around the lodge, it soon becomes apparent that this is a place constructed with the careful eye of a person who truly understands the form and function of the natural materials they work with.

Gnarled Acacia nilotica trunks contort and curl around buildings to form columns, table legs and archways. They were themselves salvaged from the conservancy after they were broken by the trunks of elephants. These natural features are complemented by Grant’s sculptures and his mother’s paintings which adorn the interiors. It is a combination that encourages guests to engage with the details of the bush on a visual and tactile level, fostering a deeper appreciation and understanding of the landscape and its animals.

Left: Sunset on El Karama.

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Another of Murray’s subjects, Tim the elephant, one of Africa’s largest ‘Super Tuskers’.

Tim sadly died of natural causes in early 2020. He is cast in bronze on the right.

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A dedication to detail This eye for detail has been a defining characteristic of Grant’s bronzes. He says that ‘misplaced or incorrect detail is what is disturbing on a piece of sculpture, but correct detail is the expression of the animal in its purest form. The challenge for me as a sculptor is to represent the animal in its typical or even sometimes their atypical position, and a true depiction of that animal is why I strive for anatomical accuracy. It is an interface that I am constantly varying when finishing a piece.’ It is this detail which delights and educates the observer, prompting them to see things they may have not noticed previously, like the gentle indents and ripples on a greater kudu’s spiralled horns, or the way in which mud cakes on the supple back of a buffalo.

Grant explains that in order to depict his subjects in such detail, ‘an important aspect of my process is the initial immersion and inspiration phase. I am not afraid to travel to the furthest corners of this continent to study my subjects. Be it a Lord Derby’s eland in Cameroon, or a lowland bongo in the rainforest, or a gemsbok in the Kalahari Desert. That inspiration phase is crucial because it must carry me as a sculptor through many hours of sitting and manipulating Plasticine into the shape of the model. For example, the detail on a particular elephant’s skin often requires hundreds of hours of studio time and this excitement must sustain me to the end of each project.’

Spending time with Grant, it is clear that he is an artist who truly lives and breathes his craft. Whether he’s fashioning bows, fly rods and toys for his daughters, drawing up plans for new buildings, or engrossing himself in the study of an animal, he is a man who is compelled by a desire to create. Earnings from early sculptures allowed him to build the lodge, which generates conservation fees that are crucial to the continuation and preservation of the conservancy. Without this revenue, it would be very difficult to protect the wildlife that is under increasing pressure with every year.

He hopes that through sales of his art, and through the many families that visit and are enchanted by the lodge and its landscape, the conservancy will continue to thrive for generations to come. murraygrantbronzes.com

@murraygrantbronzes

Top left: Lord Derby’s eland sketch. Bottom left: Lord Derby’s eland in bronze.

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Across the beast of Baikal A solo traverse of the frozen surface of Russia’s Lake Baikal — the oldest and deepest freshwater lake on Earth WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS OLI FRANCE

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t all started with a camel burger in Somalia. At least, that was my conclusion as I lay in a UK hospital bed a week later. I had contracted a dire concoction of illnesses. First, shigella, which causes fever and dysentery.

Then meningitis, the onset of which made me feel like my brain might explode through my skull. I have never been so ill, and for a time I worried I might be fatally unwell.

It was early December 2019. I was forbidden to leave my room, and anyone who entered was entirely clad in protective clothing. My mind could barely focus on anything but the pain within it. I heard a report from a radio in the corridor, with rumours of a new disease emerging in the Far East. Then, a cold draft from the window reminded me of Siberia.

In three months, I had planned to embark on my most demanding expedition yet. My goal was to cross the full length of Lake Baikal, the world’s largest freshwater lake, which sits in the heart of Russia. Measuring 400 miles across, it is forty times the length of England’s largest lake. Each winter, as temperatures plummet below minus 40C, a thick slab of surface ice encrusts the mile-deep lake.

Like eating dubious burgers, it’s a journey which poses many risks. The ice, while one metre thick in parts, is constantly moving, cracking and shuddering in inordinate plates. This movement leaves swathes of ice rubble as big as cars. There can be massive open-water channels, and jagged four-metre-high pressure ridges. Thermal springs create treacherously thin ice in parts, and some remote sections are one-hundred miles from civilisation. Gale-force winds are commonly channelled along Baikal by the surrounding mountains, bringing blizzards and whiteouts.

Though inhospitable, Lake Baikal holds a mystical beauty scarcely seen anywhere else. Its crystalline water hardens in magical patterns of cracks, spirals and bubbles. Local shamans view Baikal as a living beast, which thunders and roars. Such a place, with bone-chilling cold, immense scale and untold dangers wrapped in local mythology, commands a deep respect.

Only the foolhardy would travel there unprepared. History holds countless stories of people suffering an icy grave in the black depths of Lake Baikal.

Left: Lake Baikal’s blue ice.

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My legs looked thin and weak when I returned home from hospital. I had shed two stone, lost much of my fitness, and still endured crushing headaches and shallow lungs. Bad news compounded my physical decline, as I learned that my trusted expedition partner was dropping out of the trip, and a crucial source of funding had fallen through. As my mind ebbed from its haze, my focus remained gripped by Lake Baikal. I could not let it go.

Going solo brought doubtful questions from loved ones, but a whole new tier of preparation. From satellite phones, ice picks, and piles of cash for emergency Russian helicopters, to dark breathless evenings hauling a sled around a wet field in northern England.

If I was going to do this, I could not afford to leave anything to chance.

Three months later in early March 2020, funding secured, kit prepared, and body primed for the challenge, I was deposited on the frozen lakeshore in the bleak Siberian village of Kultuk. It would be sixteen days before my feet would touch solid earth again. Stepping out onto the ice was a sight I had imagined countless times before. I was entrusting my life to the merciless forces of nature.

For months, nightmares plagued me in the small hours of the night. Each vision had me breaking through the ice never to be seen again. Alone on this expedition, I would have nobody watching my back, nobody to haul me free. Only a rapid self-rescue could prevent frostbite, or something much worse.

Though alone, I did have the company of a 60 kg sled. This contained everything I needed to support my journey. On bare ice, I would use screw-in spikes in my boots to gain traction.

On the snow, I’d skid along on skis. I planned for my days to be long, bordered by dawn and dusk, and to spend my nights camped on the ice itself.

Right: Trapped air bubbles in the frozen lake surface.

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On day one, adrenaline helped me to cover 28.5 miles. It was further than planned, and I felt a burst of confidence. As I checked my GPS position that night, however, it barely looked like I’d started. The sheer scale of Lake Baikal was beginning to dawn on me. My route would traverse the western flank of Lake Baikal. I would cut from cape to cape, rather than tacking along the deep lakeside bays. Often, I would be miles from shore. In the south, it is not unusual to see cars, hovercraft, and skaters using the ice for travel and recreation.

In the northern half of the lake, however, there is virtually no civilisation, and there were reports of deep snow.

I set my second camp a mile from the town of Listvyanka, securing it with a dozen ice screws, but a bright day had given me false confidence. At midnight, a gale-force wind erupted, scouring the ice like a freight train. My tent was pummelled. I lay within it, my body now a crucial part of its structure. Spindrift accumulated inside the porch, the tent canvas bellowed, and the poles began to bend. It was a mistake I would not make twice. In the evenings that followed, I would not rest until I had built a protective snow wall around my tent.

As the days ticked by, I averaged a marathon each day, and carved out an efficient routine. I would journey for 12 hours, taking momentary breaks to refuel; part of my 6,000-calorie daily diet. Evenings were spent melting snow, rehydrating meals, sending progress messages, and planning for the day ahead.

While my snow walls had dealt with the wind, it was the ice which now kept me awake at night. Sundown always brought a sudden twenty-degree temperature drop. The ice responded with a nightly orchestra of bangs and echoes.

Many restless nights were spent praying not to be swallowed by the lake.

Top left: A snow wall built to protect my tent from the wind using thin slabs of wind-blown snow.

Bottom left: An ‘ice road’ used by cars and hovercraft, and a great highway to trek along. Following page: Strong winds blowing spindrift across the ice.

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After seven days I approached Olkhon Island, a 45-mile landmass marking the halfway point.

By now, the soles of my feet throbbed from my 50,000 daily steps, my achilles were swollen and my hips and back ached from hauling the sled. My body was in a period of adaptation, from that of a globe-trotting expedition leader specialising in hot and hostile places, to one of frozen sled-hauling soloist.

The small towns near Olkhon Island provide the last easy escape routes off the lake. There was only emptiness for the next 200 miles. I got some rare bars of phone signal and decided to video call my wife, Emma, before leaving civilisation behind. What happened next would flip my expedition on its head.

‘I’m pregnant.’

As I squinted into a phone screen, balaclava clad and with ice-encrusted islets behind me, I felt nothing but pure delight. My wife stared back from our bed where she had just awoken.

An instant pull of responsibility overcame me.

I had an urge to be back at home with Emma, and to share in this excitement. As my phone signal faltered, I was back on my own in freezing Siberia and feeling a very long way from home.

That night, I set camp by a small island, thinking it might shield the wind. It was a bad decision.

Overnight, my tent was rocked by terrifying booms, cracks and shudders, almost every thirty seconds for hours on end. I desperately feared that the ice below me might become rubble at any moment, and myself, another of Baikal’s victims. At 2am, my sense of danger peaked. I had to move, right now.

I swept everything into my sled and donned my warmest clothes. I was ready to go, but where? South was a faint glimmer of the last village, a final gateway to home. I was going to have a baby! Then I looked north, to a black emptiness pitted with broken ice and deepening snow. In that moment, I decided to do it for the little one.

Top: A rocky islet near Olkhon Island. This is where I stood as I learned that my wife was pregnant. Right: An expanse of ice rubble. This was extremely difficult terrain to cross, and could be quite dangerous.

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With every northward mile, the temperature dropped and the snow deepened. Taller mountains gave momentum to brutal blizzards. After a big 33-mile day, my progress began to falter.

In its remotest expanse, Lake Baikal almost pushed me to breaking point.

The weather was strangely warm, just above zero, leaving the snow heavy and wet. Gales brought icy torrents across the lake, and my hefty sled which once skimmed across the bare ice, now acted like an anchor in my wake. My pace slowed to one-mile an hour as my skis collected large clumps of snow.

Every forward motion challenged my sore body and lonely mind. I felt it might take an eternity to cover the remaining 75 miles.

For a second, I remembered my emergency helicopter fund, and then I shook my head. This is what I had signed up for, and I had already come so far. Suffering is an elemental component of challenging expeditions. It is one of the things we seek, but we never quite know when it will arise, and it has a habit of arriving in our weaker moments. Depleted, I trekked on.

Four days later, as smoke and golden lights signalled civilisation, I knew that my epic journey was almost complete. I had held many doubts and fears about this expedition. As a polar novice, my relentless planning had paid off. I called my wife to share that I was nearing Nizhneangarsk at Baikal’s northern tip. I was soon to become one of very few people to trek the full length of Lake Baikal solo, and I had done so four days quicker than I had planned.

At the end of our short call, Emma revealed the news that Covid-19 was rapidly seizing the world and there were only a few days left to get out of Russia. I needed no additional excuse to race home. I would soon turn thirty. If my twenties had been about wild expeditions to high-risk places, my thirties would, in part at least, be about my next generation.

Oli mapped his route across Lake Baikal and created a Collection with photos and more information about the trip on komoot.com. oliverfrance.com

@oli_france

Left: Standing at the finish line in Nizhneangarsk after covering 405 miles, and completing my expedition.

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High roads and hippos Alba Xandri and Ricard Calmet cycle across Kenya’s highlands WORDS ALBA XANDRI PHOTOGRAPHS RICARD CALMET

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n the days before our trip to Kenya, I was flipping through a book about Africa. It contained captivating stories of a cyclist who had crossed the continent from north to south in the 90s. It was a true adventure, and a dream for us. I don’t know if it was a premonition or a coincidence, but in the chapter on Kenya I had hidden some dried petals of a red rose that meant a lot to me years ago.

It was a good omen: Kenya would be a great adventure.

We had access to a bikepacking route created by two friends who are passionate about cycling — Tristan Ridley, from the UK, and Eric Nesbitt, from Kenya, who runs a bicycle shop and tour company called Rift Valley Odyssey. Some sections of the route were not yet fully linked, but the day before we caught our plane, we received a gpx file with a few notes that guaranteed us an adventure in every way. For the majority of our trip, we would be cycling above 1,700 metres asl. We thought it was the perfect plan, and we set off on our journey to Kenya.

We cycled out of the capital, Nairobi, a city of more than four million inhabitants, where cyclists have no place and where you are engulfed in big grey clouds of car fumes.

Thankfully, the landscape changed after 20 kilometres, and we found ourselves pedalling amid tea plantations, eucalyptus trees, and blood-coloured clay soil. The crowded streets of Nairobi felt far away, and we were alone on the hills.

Top left: In the shade of the Kijabe Forest. Bottom left: Resting by a roadside kiosk. Right: Life in the Kenyan highlands.

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On the second day we reached 2,720 metres, one of the highest points on the route, before winding down to Lake Naivasha. The scenery was greener than we expected, and the joy of observing wild animals from the bike began. Along the roads by the lake, we passed giraffes, zebras, warthogs and antelopes. The highlight, though, was at night, when bold hippos grazed around our tent.

The days that following continued to be beautiful but hard at times, switching between good tracks and stony trails as we passed through the Soysambu Conservancy — a real jewel of our route. Here we cycled along the shores of Lake Elmentaita, dotted with thousands of feeding flamingos. Locally, the flamingo is considered to be a very positive spiritual symbol, and I felt that they were a colourful reminder to celebrate beauty and fun in life. It was a moment to feel gratitude.

Later that day in Soysambu, we pitched our tents in one of the wildest places we have ever camped in. With nobody else around, zebras kept us company during the darkest hours. Buffaloes browsed in the distance, and monkeys were drawn to the scent of our dinner. Our fire kept us warm, and provided a sense of security from the wild animals around us. We let the dry wood crackle until the fatigue of the day caught up with us, and it was time for bed.

Right: Cycling along an ancient river bed in Hell’s Gate National Park, by Lake Naivasha. Following page left: Navigating the dense Mau Eburu Forest. Following page right: A street vendor selling roasted maize by the road.

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The days went by and our route took us through remote and unique places. Lake Baringo — a paradise for ornithologists — seemed to be the ideal location to spend a couple of nights, and to gather strength for what would be the most intense climb of the route. Well-rested, we grinded our way back up to above 2,200 meters, and camped by a small police station in the village of Mochongoi. Here we met some friendly locals, who made us feel part of their community.

We continued along the most remote stretch of the route, on the Laikipia Plateau. There were few resources in the tiny villages that we passed, so we had to plan well for food and water. In some areas we found no shops at all, and we couldn’t even stop for a snack of ugali — a staple food made from maize flour. But Laikipia gave us the opportunity to see more wildlife, and to live with some Maasai rangers.

The rangers are dedicated to protecting elephants and other animals from poachers, and also protecting neighbouring communities from roaming wildlife. They kept watch at night at our campsites, to make sure the animals didn’t stray too close. Thankfully, our lively fireside conversations distracted me from the wildlife around us. After hours of talking, we realised that we shared the same values in life, even though a world separated us.

Left: The rangers who kept watch at our campsite. Top: A typical camping spot in the bush. Following page left: A cormorant perched on a submerged tree in a swollen Lake Baringo. Following page top: A scenic gravel track in Baringo. Following page bottom: A boda boda (motorcycle) wades through the mud after a heavy downpour.

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At one point on our journey, we had to change our route to avoid an unexpected local conflict. But in doing so, we then travelled across landscapes that took our breath away on more than one occasion. These were quintessential African landscapes — remote, arid and authentic.

As we neared the end of our trip, we looked back on the moments we enjoyed the most — elephants crossing the path in front of us, meeting a tribal chief called Emily, watching hippos pop their heads out of the water, and seeing my first wild rhino. We are still digesting our amazing trans-Kenya bikepacking route. We are tired, but our souls are full of energy. Africa, we will be back!

Alba Xandri @alba_xandri | Ricard Calmet @erreka Right: A classic Kenyan gravel road. Top: A windswept acacia on the Laikipia Plateau.

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The attraction to the natural world is in our genes.

Set on the foothills of Mount Kenya, Olepangi Farm provides a tranquil retreat for guests to reconnect with nature. Designed by one of the world’s experts on biophilic design, each of our built spaces resonates with our inherent need to affiliate with our natural environment. Olepangi is for those of us who seek a true sense of place in their surroundings.

Head to olepangifarm.com to learn more.

Silt and sunshine A summer journey through deep Alaskan wilderness on traditional Ahtna and Eyak lands WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHS EMILY SULLIVAN

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typically wouldn’t sign up for a week-long float trip without doing weeks of my own research in preparation, but when invited on a last-minute float trip from Chitina to Cordova on the Copper River, how could I refuse? I packed my bags in a hurry and met the crew in Chitina. They had already floated from the headwaters of the Nizina River in Wrangell St. Elias National Park, and I was excited to join the floatilla for the second leg of the journey. This trip is popular amongst Alaskans and tourists alike, but in July 2020 we were the first group to float the Copper.

We didn’t see any other humans on our journey, due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

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The Copper River watershed covers over 26,000 square miles of traditional Ahtna and Eyak lands, and is one of the last intact watersheds in North America. It provides critical spawning habitat for salmon, a key source of Alaska’s ecosystems and traditional economies. On the second day of our trip, still 70 miles from the ocean, we began to notice seals swimming playfully in the river’s glacial waters, chasing salmon inland. The river itself often feels like an enormous bay, and with an annual average discharge of 63,600 cubic feet per second flowing between steep mountains, its massive nature is hard to describe.

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We travelled slowly, covering 10 miles a day on average. This allowed us to embark on daily adventures, like navigating the smaller raft up sloughs and across lakes to find swimming holes and cool off from the summer heat.

On this particular day, we made a best guess based on topo maps, and it paid off. We later caught red salmon in the slough and cooked them over an open fire for dinner.

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A massive sandbar, eight miles long and a few miles wide, lies between the Copper and Bremner rivers just above their confluence. Despite the danger of camping in a windstorm after sunset, we couldn’t pass up the incredible views at the south end of the island. After a driftwood bonfire and burrito dinner, the sun dipped below the horizon and we hunkered down in our tents, which quickly filled with silt. We laughed at ourselves in the morning, bathing in a nearby creek to remove the silt from the nooks and crevices of our bodies.

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About 30 miles upstream of the Copper’s mouth, the river opens into Miles Lake, created by meltwater from the massive Miles Glacier.

The lake is famous for gorgeous views of both the Miles and Childs glaciers, but infamous for the howling winds that often whip across it. Much of our lake crossing was too silty to see but a few hundred yards ahead. Once we neared the western side of the lake, closing in on the Childs Glacier, the winds subsided enough for us to see the ice ahead. Despite the winds, the lake crossing remained a highlight of the trip as we rowed passed icebergs and out of the silt storm.

At our final campsite across from the Childs Glacier, we met two ecologists at their US Forest Service field camp, who enthusiastically welcomed us and confirmed our group to be the first to pass through all summer. All night, the glacier creeked and groaned, a wall of ice looming just a half mile from where we slept. At around 1am, we caught an impressive calving event as ice crashed into the river below.

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On the final leg of our journey, we left the glacier views behind to travel through a wide alluvial flood plain. As the river braided into multiple channels, seals became more plentiful, playing near our boats and welcoming us to the coast. We reflected on our great luck being the only people for hundreds of miles, enjoying a week of sunshine and silt on the mighty Copper River. ejsullivan.net

@emelex

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Calm waters Kayaking and wild cooking in the Swedish wilderness WORDS KIERAN CREEVY PHOTOGRAPHS LISA PAARVIO

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ense forest hems us on both sides, sun flickering in streaks of light. Gravel and twigs crunch under tyres. Behind us, nestled in foam lie two hulls of Kevlar and carbon, our transport for the next four days. Unloading the trailer and pickup, we lay our dry-bags, duffles and food supplies. Our kayaks loaded with care, Johan proposes an interlinked set of lakes, creeks and rivers for our journey. We listen intently. He’s a local, and a wilderness expert with more than 40 years’ experience. His words are precise, chosen with the care that comes from a lifetime lived outdoors.

Packing the map away in a waterproof cover, we wriggle into the cockpits, and finalise our meeting point, four days hence. Dark water flows over the bows of our kayaks as we glide down the bank. Slipping into the liquid medium, our pace alters. No longer rapid motions, but something languid, more akin to a yogic flow. Core, back and arm muscles work in concert. Catching, pulling, and feathering, each dip of a blade propels us forward, skimming over unseen depths.

Wildlife abounds; a water-dance of loons dive in search of fish, dragonflies buzz our kayaks, and somewhere below us, flit shoals of perch, bream and pike. We navigate our way through the myriad of inlets and sheltered coves, grateful for the opportunity to travel and explore again as a team.

A scream cuts through our daydreams. Instantly, we’re on high alert, eyes scanning the skies above for a sign of the eagle we’ve just heard. It’s close, no more than two hundred metres away, wings cupping the air as it comes in to land. We paddle into a thicket of reeds on a nearby island, beaching our kayaks. In seconds, Lisa is out of the cockpit, waterproof pack in hand with her cameras.

Perched high in the canopy of a sparse pine, the eagle’s nest is in the perfect spot. Camouflaged by their downy feathers, two chicks are almost completely hidden. The sole signs that they’re even there are tiny movements, visible only with a zoom lens. Photos captured, it’s time to leave the eagles in peace. We take a looping course, careful not to intrude too close to their tiny island.

Top left: The eagle coming in to land. Bottom left: Loaded kayaks.

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We’re on the water no more than a half-day, but already the wilderness and rhythmic exercise has put paid to any minor cares. We’re immersed in the present; the only task in the next few hours is to find a wild camp. Rounding a spit of land a few hours later, we find a perfect space. Gently shelving banks make it easy to land, and in the clearing is a tiny scrap of flat ground, just enough for our tent.

Our lives get stripped back to the essentials: cooking, eating, sleeping, washing, exercising.

Our phones are there for alarms and quick location updates only. The next morning, our alarms become superfluous.

‘What the hell! It’s only 5am!’ The slanted light has hit Lisa squarely in the face. I’m on the other side of the tent, so have a tiny element of shade, but she’s right. It’s too damn early!

More sleep is now impossible. With no flysheet overhead, we have an unobstructed view all around. Twenty metres away, the lake is millpond calm, shades of gold and blue reflected in its surface. We’re itching to pack up and slide our kayaks into this liquid mirror.

Unfortunately, between us and our goal, lies a hoard of thousands, hungry for our blood.

They hover mere millimetres away, wings whining plaintively. Locked in a detente, separated by gossamer mesh, we wait for the first signs of wind. Ripples start to appear on the lake, shattering the mirror calm. With the wind, it’s safe to leave the tent, and get on with our day.

First order: coffee, breakfast and a morning dip. With the summer’s warmth, the lake is a balmy 23C. Fast broken, in dry clothes and kayaks packed, it’s time to move on. Snapping spraydecks tight onto cockpit rims, we slide quietly off our overnight camp, back exploring.

Each curve in the lake, creek, and island gifts us with new experiences and memories: foraging for tiny wild bilberries metres from the shoreline; building a small, safe, bushcraft fire from scratch; talking late into the evening, the northern latitudes granting us with light far into the night; trying to learn how to fish with rod and reel, and making a total mess of this essential skill.

Top: Island camp. Right: Early morning mist on calm water. Following page: Exploring a hidden creek.

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One moment that really stands out, mid-portage between two of the lakes, was coming across an imposing stone and wood building, it’s massive wooden corner posts gnarled and darkened with centuries of wear. We want to find out more about this place, but it’s shut tight. Just as we’re about to give up, the local postal delivery arrives. Barn doors creak open, the scent of freshly ground rye, barley and spelt wafts out. It’s a water-powered mill.

Speaking with the owner, it’s obvious he views his job and livelihood as but one part in a long chain. He’s the fifth generation of millers, his great, great grandparents having bought the mill from the previous custodians more than 150 years previously.

On the last afternoon, with thunderclouds fast approaching, we battle hard to make headway up the lake. Little ripples are starting to morph into waves, their flow pushing hard against our hulls, necessitating full rudder lock to stay on course. A hundred metres from shore and the wind dies, we’re in the lee of the land, protected. Gliding onto a sandy beach, our water journey ends.

Driving back to Johan’s farm, and a night in a handmade wooden off-grid cabin, we can’t help but be amazed and impressed with how lucky we were to have travelled across such a pristine environment. On our journey, we were less than forty-five minutes drive from a big city, and only ten or twenty kilometres from the nearest village, but there was no sign of plastic trash, cigarette butts or food scraps littering the banks of the lake.

This is how all our wild spaces should be! Take only memories; leave no trace. We don’t fill our houses, apartments or offices with trash, so why is it deemed acceptable to do so to our wild places?

Coming from Spain, Lisa and I can see the positive impact that Allemansrätten (the right of public access) has on the landscape and the people. The people have an emotional investment and obvious respect for the land, and treat it with the care it deserves.

As a result, they are granted legal rights that don’t exist in many other countries.

That leads to an interesting chicken and egg question. Which comes first? Treat the land with care and respect and be granted rights to public access, or be granted rights, then act responsibly. I would argue that the former creates a deeper investment from us, and is harder, but offers a longer lasting solution.

Clockwise from top left: Fifth generation miller; Tools in the mill; Our off-grid cabin.

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Making a fire outdoors For the full experience, try to cook the dishes on the following pages over an open fire or on a barbecue. Obviously, if you’re making an open fire in the outdoors, you need to follow a few very important rules.

1: You either need permission to have an open fire or have checked with local regulations.

2: You only really need a side plate to dinner plate size fire to cook these dishes; any larger and you’re just using extra fuel for no immediate gain and you may exhaust usable wood in that area.

3: If you’re cooking over an open fire, make sure that the wood you’re using isn’t going to impart an unpleasant taste to your food. For preference, therefore, I’d recommend apple, ash, beech, birch, crabapple, chestnut and oak.

If you’re cooking over an open fire, moderate the heat imparted to the food allowing the wood to cool to coals or by height/distance — the higher/further you are above/away from the fire, the lower the heat. This might sound obvious, but you’d be amazed at how many people stick skewered sausages directly into a flame, blackening the skin yet undercooking the insides.

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Recipes Smoked fennel, charred sweet peppers, baby potatoes with goat’s cheese crumble, sea salt and wild thyme Ingredients: 10-12 baby potatoes 1 large bulb of fennel 6-8 baby, sweet peppers 2 tbsp crumbly goat’s cheese Pinch sea salt Few spring wild thyme

Equipment Collapsible grill and fire pit Fireproof gloves Flint and steel Dry wood Sharp knife and chopping board Plates, knives and forks

Method: First, set up your fire, making sure it’s safe to do so. Once it’s at the right temperature, start with the potatoes. Tip: If you want to speed the process, parboil the potatoes in water in advance, then finish them on the fire. Once the potatoes are cooked, slice the fennel.

Place the fennel and peppers on the grill and allow the skin of the peppers to char. This can be removed after, and gives the peppers a lovely smoky taste. Chop the potatoes, fennel, and skin the peppers.

Place on plates, top with goat’s cheese, herbs and sea salt. Serve.

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Caramelised nectarines, rough oatcakes with dulce de leche, blueberry balsamic Ingredients: 150g oat flour + extra for dusting 2 tbsp olive oil 1 tsp sea salt 1 tsp ground black pepper Water 2 tbsp dulce de leche 2 large nectarines, halved and stoned.

2 tsp blueberry balsamic

Equipment Small bowl Collapsible grill and fire pit Fireproof gloves Flint and steel Dry wood Sharp knife and chopping board Plates, knives and forks

Method: Mix the oat flour, salt, pepper and olive oil in a bowl. Slowly add water until you have a thick dough — it should be stiff enough to form a ball. Dust the chopping board with a little oat flour. Break off a golf ball sized lump of dough, flatten with your hands to a 5mm thick disk and dust again. Repeat until all the dough is used. Cook the oatcakes on the fire, remembering to flip at least once. While the oatcakes are cooking, place the four nectarine halves on the wire grill and cook over the embers until soft and lightly caramelised.

Finely slice the nectarines.

To serve: Place an oatcake on a plate. Spread a little dulce de leche on the cake.

Top with sliced nectarines. Add a second layer of oatcake, dulce de leche and nectarine. Drizzle some blueberry balsamic. Serve with some espresso.

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General advice for foraging Permission: Make sure you are legally allowed to forage in that particular area, or if you’re on private land, get permission from the landowner.

Identification and knowledge: positive identification and knowledge of the plant is essential.

• Knowledge of which plants/fruits/nuts are edible and how to correctly identify them.

• Only harvest if you can correctly identify the plant and the surrounding area is not contaminated.

• Many plants are highly poisonous and can cause death if consumed.

• Many edible plants have poisonous look-a-likes.

• It’s important to know which part/s of each plant are edible.

• Some plants are only edible after careful preparation, e.g. cooking, washing, removal of sections.

• Some plants are only edible at specific times of the year/growth cycle.

Sustainable harvesting: where, when and how to forage.

• Only pick when a plant is abundant.

• Use sharp scissors for preference, or a sharp knife.

• Only harvest in patches, as you need to leave plants for regeneration and its continued survival.

• Try not to remove flower or seed heads unless sourcing these specifically.

• Plants form a vital part of the ecosystem, and many animals, insects and other organisms rely on them for survival.

The law: Familiarise yourself with the law regarding wild plants as some species are protected due to being rare, fragile, under threat or form a vital part of the ecosystem.

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