October - December 2021
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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
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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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. 18
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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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.
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
High roads and hippos Alba Xandri and Ricard Calmet cycle across Kenya’s highlands WORDS ALBA XANDRI PHOTOGRAPHS RICARD CALMET
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.
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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. 120