American skateboarder Justin Bright is more than 2,600km into an attempt to skate from Mexico to Alaska along a route he designed himself. The 6,760km line follows the Continental Divide and relies heavily on backroads, dirt roads, and local advice.

Bright began the journey in June. His most recent update from November 7 places him in northern Montana, near the Canadian border. He aims to finish in Fairbanks, Alaska.

The Continental Divide is a natural marker across North America that separates the watersheds that drain into the Pacific from those that drain into the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans. This invisible line runs from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic. Along that line run the Rockies, as well as Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks.

The St. Petersburg, Florida native designed his route along the Divide after finding no record of anyone skateboarding through the United States via the Rocky Mountains. His planned line intentionally seeks “forested two-lanes and remote gravel mountain passes that hug the Divide,” though he notes that it frequently gets “modified based on locals’ knowledge or my gut.”

Those on-the-fly tweaks have led to "sidequests" that have become a staple of his updates: unplanned dirt road detours, concert invitations, and brief brushes with local law enforcement.

New Mexico and Colorado

Bright's journey opened with punishing heat in southern New Mexico. After his first 400km or so, Bright reached the town of Madrid in July, where he nearly quit but was revitalized by the small desert community. “The genuine love and connection gave me life. Not quittin' yet,” he wrote.

From there, he climbed into northern New Mexico and pushed toward Colorado.

Bright entered Colorado in mid-July and crossed the San Luis Valley's 200km, boarding past the state’s high peaks. He traded stories with locals, including a man who once cycled from New Mexico to Washington State “in 16 days to chase love.”

Fremont Pass near Leadville, at 3,449m, became the high point of the entire route. The approach required a 50km climb followed by a final ascent into Leadville, America's highest city.

After frequent reunions with friends and trail acquaintances, he continued north across the Rockies, skating over 80km on his biggest days.

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Wyoming

Bright rolled into Wyoming around late August or early September. In the town of Baggs, a local warned him that his planned line was dangerously devoid of water. “Yer gone die, son,” he predicted. Bright subsequently rerouted.

By mid-September, he reached the famous mountain town of Jackson, where a stranger handed him a ticket to see a band who were in town.

“Lady Luck has been following me all across Wyoming!” he wrote. The night ended with a roof over his head, offered by a photographer he admired but had never met.

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A post shared by Justin Bright (@just1nbr1ght)

Encounters with Tour Divide gravel racing cyclists highlighted the variety of human-powered travel on the same roads, with cyclists covering up to 305km a day as Bright pushed much more modest distances on his skateboard.

Crossing Yellowstone

In late September, Bright skated into Yellowstone National Park. A ranger stopped him after less than 20km and informed him that skating was prohibited. “My only option to cross Yellowstone would be to hike,” he wrote.

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A post shared by Justin Bright (@just1nbr1ght)

With no overnight permits available, he walked across the caldera on the Continental Divide trail, covering back-to-back 40km+ days to circumvent the permit zones. Near the north boundary, he managed to “skate a sneaky 33 kilometers” when rangers happened to drive by while he was standing still. More trouble.

Montana

Bright reached Montana in October. “To be quite honest, my route through Montana is becoming more of a patchwork of local advice than the original line I drew through these roads,” he wrote. “Grizzled characters steer me toward dirt paths and sidequests.”

One evening in a local bar featured “Goat Man,” who recounted shooting a grizzly that attacked his dog, and Jesse, a drunken friend who “stormed onto Main Street to settle a fight.”

Bright's early November post places him in northern Montana, still following local recommendations through mining towns and mountain valleys as he closes in on the Canadian border.

Colin O’Brady has begun his attempt to ski completely across Antarctica, or almost completely. The American arrived at Union Glacier last weekend, where he carried out final equipment checks and packed his sled before flying to his starting point.

Tracking data shows O’Brady was flown from Union Glacier to the edge of the Ross Ice Shelf at roughly 79°S -- close to, but not directly on, the coastline. This means that, contrary to what we reported in our season preview, O’Brady appears to be starting on the Ross Ice Shelf rather than on Berkner Island, between the Ronne and Filchner Ice Shelves.

From there, he intends to ski to the South Pole, then turn west and continue to his finish point on Berkner Island.

Massive sled

According to media reports, O’Brady’s sled weighs approximately 225kg. Beginning on the relatively flat Ross Ice Shelf will make this heavy load easier than starting on Berkner Island and having to haul that massive weight uphill through the Pensacola Mountains.

However, unlike the Pensacolas -- which Borge Ousland reported to be largely free of crevasses during his 1996-97 crossing -- the Ross Ice Shelf contains several heavily crevassed zones.

By not starting near McMurdo Station, however, O’Brady circumvents one of the most problematic of these: Minna Bluff, the promontory once used by both Scott and Shackleton as a depot and navigational landmark, but notorious today for extensive crevasse fields.

To avoid this area, O'Brady seems to have started a few kilometers from the coast. In 2023, O'Brady fell into a crevasse elsewhere in Antarctica during a speed record attempt and barely survived.

A mechanical start

Matthieu Tordeur and Heidi Sevestre are now 12 days and 132km into their 3,650km kite-ski crossing of Antarctica from the Russian research station Novolazarevskaya to Union Glacier via both the Pole of Inaccessibility and the South Pole.

The French duo had intended to ski from Mile 0 at Novo but instead caught a 4x4 ride for somewhere over 100km. With heavily loaded sleds and ground-penetrating radar equipment, they felt the risk was “losing a great deal of time and energy in the first few weeks, when our priority is to start doing science as quickly as possible.”

"Favorable weather windows to climb up onto the plateau using only the power of the wind are extremely rare," they added. "The katabatic winds blow toward the coast, straight into our faces.”

So in the end, they set off in convoy aboard two 4x4s for what they described as “a magical crossing of Queen Maud Land.” They passed the silhouettes of Holtana Peak and other mountains before reaching their drop-off point at Thorshammer eight hours later.

Veterans return to Antarctica

Lars Ebbesen and  German adventurer Roland Krueger (with a combined age of 131), are around a week underway into their short sled journey into the heart of East Antarctica’s  Wolf’s Fang Cluster within the larger realm of Queen Maud Land.

From their drop-off near Ulvetanna Peak, the pair plan to ski 250km westward across a rolling ice cap. Their route weaves through rugged nunataks and glaciated terrain previously traversed mostly by climbers rather than skiers.

They describe the region as “one of the most beautiful polar areas in the world for skiing.” The duo will finish at the Norwegian Troll research base.

Other expeditions

Norwegian guide Kathinka Gyllenhammar and her daughter Emma Gyllenhammar are currently at Union Glacier. They are expected to begin their unique journey today. It combines traditional skiing with snow-kiting on a two-way route to and from the South Pole.

Meanwhile, Norwegian expeditioner Sebastian Orskaug began his ski from Hercules Inlet to the South Pole today. He plans to return from the Pole using a ski-sail.

Monet Izabeth of the U.S. is due to fly out to Antarctica on November 18 for a solo, unsupported ski to the Pole from Hercules Inlet. Mexican skier Andrea Dorantes is in Punta Arenas, preparing for her own solo attempt from Hercules Inlet to the Pole.

British veteran Ian Hughes began his solo, unsupported ski to the South Pole today. And UK-based skier Tom Hunt plans to start his speed record bid from Hercules Inlet before December 1, weather permitting.

Stretching for around 2,000km from Washington State to Alaska, the Inside Passage is one of North America’s great expedition kayaking routes. It winds through channels, fiords, and islands along the Pacific coast of British Columbia and Southeast Alaska.

It offers paddlers a rare combination of long-distance expedition potential, rich scenery and wildlife, and maritime challenges that test skill, planning, and patience.

The route

There is no single route. The Inside Passage is essentially a corridor of interconnected waterways, protected in many places by islands, but punctuated by open crossings fully exposed to Pacific swell. A typical kayak journey covers 1,200 to 2,000km, depending on start and finish points.

Many paddlers begin near Anacortes or Bellingham, Washington, and end in Prince Rupert, British Columbia. Some continue further north through the fiords to Ketchikan, Juneau, or Skagway, Alaska.

Earlier this year, 35-year-old Canadian Pascal Smyth paddled 2,202km from Vancouver to Skagway over 72 days. Smyth chose the “sheltered” version of the route, avoiding paddling along the outer coast and around Vancouver Island or around Haida Gwaii, which you could argue would make it more of an “Outside Passage”.

“While paddling along the outer coast would have been gorgeous in some spots, I wanted to stay fairly true to the idea of the Inside Passage,” explained Smyth.

“The west coast of Vancouver Island would have been an awesome challenge, but with the significant exposure to swell coming from the Pacific, it has the potential to cause significant delays due to poor weather,” he added.

The Inside Passage passes through various remote coastal communities, offering the chance for resupply. These include Port Hardy on northern Vancouver Island, Prince Rupert, Ketchikan, Wrangell, and Petersburg. Between them lie hundreds of kilometers of wilderness and channels lined with temperate rainforest, steep granite walls, and wildlife-rich estuaries.

Open crossings

The route is not all sheltered, though. Several open-water stretches test even experienced kayakers.

Cape Caution, at the northern tip of Vancouver Island, is one of the best-known obstacles. On this exposed 20km section, the route leaves the protection of the islands and can face serious swell, wind, and breaking surf. There are no real landing options.

“Cape Caution presented a significant obstacle. I knew this would be one of the sections most significantly affected by adverse weather, so I planned accordingly,” Smyth recalls.

Smyth had resupplied at Port Hardy and holed up nearby when wind and rain hit. Then he raced across Queen Charlotte Strait, which separates Vancouver Island from the mainland at the picturesque Burnett Bay.

“I was fortunate to have outrun the incoming weather system, which brought gale-force winds and huge swell. I spent a few days on land there as well, exploring the beach and feeling relieved to not be out on the water in those conditions,” said Smyth.

Cape Caution

“After a few days, the wind and swell died down, and I rounded Cape Caution. I believe the swell was forecast at 1-2 meters when I paddled past. It was largely a non-issue.

“I knew I could be substantially delayed on that leg, but with the supplies I picked up in Port Hardy, and knowing I had another box of supplies awaiting me in Shearwater, I could afford to wait out the weather,” Smyth said of his tactics.

North of the port city of Prince Rupert, the Dixon Entrance crossing into Alaska is another serious undertaking, with a long fetch, ocean swells, and limited landing options. Smyth chose to stick to the shoreline here and make a short crossing between islands close to the mainland.

“It was a benign crossing, with hardly a ripple on the water,” said Smyth. "That fair weather continued for much of my travels in Alaska. I was very fortunate."

Tides and currents

The entire route is governed by tides that can exceed four meters and generate powerful currents in narrow channels, sometimes up to 10 knots.

“Ideally, I would get to camp exactly at the highest tide and depart on another high tide so that I could minimize the effort of hauling gear up and down beaches,” Smyth said.

“It seldom worked out perfectly. Some beaches are very difficult to land on if not at a perfect tide height, with reefs of boulders presenting a real obstacle to a relatively fragile composite kayak,” he added.

“Some areas with significant currents were the Yaculta Rapids, Gillard Pass, and Dent Rapids, which are close enough together that I was able to effectively treat them as one long section of current, as well as all the channels flowing into, and including Johnstone Strait itself.”

The currents at the mouth of Glacier Bay also presented a significant challenge for Smyth, though he did get a chance to see humpback whales feeding right next to him. "They must have been using the current to funnel fish into their mouths,” the kayaker recalled.

Surf and landings

Landings along the Inside Passage can vary from calm sandy beaches to steep rock shelves and surf-pounded headlands. Technical surf landings may be required in certain areas, particularly near open crossings. Choosing appropriate tide states for landing and launching can make the difference between a controlled entry or exit and a real epic.

“I was able to avoid surf landings for the most part, generally choosing beaches without too much exposure. Burnett Bay is a notable exception,” said Smyth.

Following storms, driftwood can present a serious hazard, either making it hard to land on some beaches or littering potential campsites with broken wood.

“The toughest campsite was one on the North end of Princess Royal Island,” Smyth said. "The large rocks and huge drift logs presented a real challenge, and the steep forest behind had no attractive options. I ended up rigging my hammock above the driftwood, though the slippery logs made that task rather treacherous."

Wildlife encounters

The likelihood of wildlife encounters in the Inside Passage is a major draw for many paddlers. Humpbacks and orcas frequent the channels, as well as sea lions and porpoises. Along the shorelines, black bears and grizzlies forage at low tide, while bald eagles are a common presence.

“I had an unforgettable encounter with a large pod of orcas before I got to Shearwater and innumerable encounters with humpback whales, particularly as I explored Alaska. In Glacier Bay they would regularly feed right next to shore,” Smyth recalled.

“I had a few instances where they would swim underneath while feeding, and I would do my best to give them space. Ultimately, they go where they want and don't seem especially bothered by a little kayak. Though they don't mean any harm, it was still pretty alarming to see a tail rise from the water right beside my kayak,” he added.

Smyth also saw many bears, including seven grizzlies, in the hour before setting up camp.

“That was on Admiralty Island, where the grizzly population is about 1 bear per square mile,” he said. "On that night, as well as a few others, I set up a portable electric fence to give me some extra peace of mind."

Thankfully, the bears showed little curiosity around him. “The bears were quite disinterested in me. I never had any evidence of animals checking out my gear the entire trip.”

Unforgettable journey

Whether paddled in sections or as a full traverse, the Inside Passage demands respect for tides, weather, and distance, and the patience to wait for safe conditions.

As Pascal Smyth reflected after completing his 2,200km paddle, “Though this was a long trip, not a single day felt impossible. I took it day by day and kept at it, doing my best to savor the highs and lows of what proved to be an unforgettable journey.”

This week marks two years since the death and 95 years since the birth of Tom Hornbein, one of the great figures of American mountaineering. Best known for his 1963 first ascent of Everest’s West Ridge and the first traverse of the mountain with Willi Unsoeld, Hornbein left behind more than just a legendary climb.

He also made a lasting contribution to high-altitude climbing technology: the design of a revolutionary oxygen mask that changed the way climbers breathed on the world’s highest peaks.

The problem at altitude

In 1960, during the American–Pakistan Karakoram Expedition to Masherbrum (7,821m), Hornbein experienced the limitations of the oxygen systems of the day.

The Swiss-designed masks (designed for Everest in 1956) that Hornbein and co. used on Masherbrum were hard to breathe through. “When we got up high and put them on, we found ourselves ripping the mask off and gasping for air,” he later recalled.

Ice buildup in the valves, high breathing resistance, and complex designs made them unreliable and exhausting to use in the thin air above 7,000m.

As a trained anesthesiologist and physiologist, Hornbein understood respiration as few climbers did. Where others cursed their equipment, he saw a solvable problem: to design a simpler, more efficient, and more reliable mask for oxygen systems.

The Maytag Mask

Hornbein’s early design called for a single-valve mask that reduced resistance to airflow and eliminated the tangle of inspiratory and expiratory valves prone to freezing.

The concept was elegant: one valve instead of multiple, and the whole unit molded as a single piece of flexible rubber. If ice did form, it could be crushed away with a mittened hand.

The challenge was manufacturing. By chance, Hornbein met Fred Maytag, of washing machine fame, who was recovering from surgery at Washington University Medical Center, where Hornbein worked.

Maytag’s company took on the project, crafting molds and prototypes in its research division. Though better known for producing household appliances, Maytag’s engineers built a mask that would soon help put six Americans on the summit of Everest.

Proven on Everest

Field tests on Mount Rainier in 1962 and in hypobaric and cold chambers demonstrated the new design’s advantages. The Maytag Mask, as it became known, showed dramatically lower resistance to breathing and could be de-iced easily.

When used on Everest in 1963, it performed perfectly. Climbers found it so natural to breathe through that very little training was required.

The simplicity of the design also meant reliability. Where previous models froze solid or clogged with moisture, the Maytag mask kept working in the extreme cold and high winds. It was, Hornbein wrote, “a solution to the problems of high mask resistance and ice accumulation.”

Foundation of modern systems

The Maytag mask became the template for most high-altitude oxygen systems that followed. Later designs incorporated multiple valves and lighter materials, but the underlying principles of low breathing resistance, a one-way valve to prevent rebreathing, and a flexible body that could be squeezed to clear ice all trace back to Hornbein’s prototype.

Hornbein’s work bridged the gap between wartime aviation oxygen systems, which influenced early mountaineering masks, and the specialized mountaineering equipment used by climbers today.

Modern models, such as those made by TopOut or Poisk, still bear a clear lineage to the Maytag mask, refined through better materials and flow regulators but unchanged in their fundamental design.

A lasting legacy

After Everest, Hornbein went on to a distinguished career at the University of Washington, becoming a well-known professor conducting research on respiratory physiology and anaesthesiology. Yet, even decades later, he remained modest about his mountaineering fame. He didn’t want to be known as the doctor who climbed Everest. But his influence in both physiology and the high mountains endures.

Two years after his passing, it is fitting to remember not just the man who stood on Everest’s West Ridge, but the one who helped countless others breathe a little easier on their own climbs toward the roof of the world.

A team of scientists who want to search for Amelia Earhart’s missing plane has announced a delay until 2026. The search was originally slated to start this week but has been postponed due to a combination of permit delays and the approaching South Pacific cyclone season.

The expedition was sparked by satellite images that showed a mysterious object near Nikumaroro Island, about 3,000km southwest of Hawaii and 600km southeast of Howland Island, the destination Earhart and navigator Fred Noonan were believed to be headed for but never reached.

Researchers from the Archaeological Legacy Institute (ALI) have dubbed the find the Taraia Object -- an anomaly within the island’s central lagoon that appears to match the size and shape of Earhart’s Lockheed Model 10E Electra aircraft.

The unidentified object first appeared in 2015 satellite images taken shortly after a cyclone, and scientists believe the storm may have uncovered wreckage long hidden beneath sediment.

The disappearance of Amelia Earhart

Earhart and Noonan vanished on July 2, 1937, while flying from Papua New Guinea towards Howland Island. Despite extensive searches, no confirmed trace of the aircraft was ever found. The U.S. Navy initially reckoned that the plane likely ran out of fuel and crashed into the Pacific Ocean near Howland.

Since then, numerous theories have emerged. One popular theory is that Earhart landed on or near Nikumaroro, then known as Gardner Island, and survived for a time before the aircraft was swept into the sea.

The new lead

Archaeologist Dr. Richard Pettigrew is leading the Taraia Project, supported by Purdue University. Pettigrew was alerted to the anomaly in 2020 after independent researcher Michael Ashmore spotted an aircraft-like shape in Apple Maps imagery.

Later analysis of satellite data from 2009 to 2024 revealed that the object has remained consistent in form and size. The Taraia Object measures roughly 12 to 14m long, similar to the Electra’s 12.2m fuselage.

Boots on the ground

Only manpower on the ground can determine whether the mysterious object is part of an aircraft. To do this, the research team will use drone mapping, sonar, underwater cameras, and metal detectors to document the site. If results are promising, they may try to excavate and recover whatever they find.

Earlier searches unsuccessful

The Taraia Project follows decades of searches for Earhart’s plane. Deep-sea sonar searches near Howland Island in the 2000s and 2010s found no trace.

On Nikumaroro itself, skeletal remains were discovered in 1940, along with a sextant box and fragments of shoes. The bones were initially analyzed in Fiji and described as belonging to a “short, stocky male.”

In 2018, forensic anthropologist Richard Jantz reexamined those measurements using modern techniques and concluded they more closely matched Earhart’s known proportions than 99% of reference samples. However, the original bones were lost, making DNA testing impossible.

More recently, a private company, Deep Sea Vision, announced in early 2024 that it had located an aircraft-shaped object on the seafloor near Howland Island using sonar. It turned out to be a rock formation instead.

Isolated and protected

Nikumaroro’s isolation and strict environmental protections have long complicated fieldwork. The island is uninhabited and surrounded by dangerous reefs that make landing by boat difficult, while securing research permits from the Kiribati government has delayed multiple expeditions, including this latest one.

At age 39, Spanish software developer Javier Carrasco decided to trade the predictability of office life for the uncertainty of the open road.

“You could call it a midlife crisis, or simply the urge to make the most of life before it’s too late,” he said.

Carrasco had lived in Austria for a decade, drawn by the Alps. A lifelong mountain biker who later embraced road cycling, he had made short trips before, “up to a week around Spain,” but nothing major.

Together with his partner, Rebecca (who prefers to keep a low profile), he set off from Italy earlier this year on what is meant to be a year-long cycling odyssey to Central Asia. Eight months later, they have covered 12,000km and climbed over 100,000m.

Balancing work and the road

Before setting out, the pair found a practical way to fund their travels without cutting ties to home. They arranged with their employers to work half-time for two years, but did all their work in the first year. That way, they kept their insurance and a steady, though reduced, income.

They also saved steadily during that initial year on a half-salary. Carrasco maintains a small online presence as Hacker Bikepacker, which, as he puts it, “doesn’t come close to covering the trip’s expenses but does help extend the adventure a bit.”

He chose not to take on remote work during the trip, “so I could really enjoy the journey without thinking about anything else.”

Initially, the couple planned to spend six months climbing in the Andes. But “it felt a bit repetitive," Carrasco explained, "and in the end, the idea that really caught us was cycling to Central Asia to see the Pamir Mountains.”

That single idea expanded into a transcontinental route that carried them across Europe and deep into Asia.

Theirs is not a continuous route: They took a train to Korea, flew over prickly Turkmenistan, and caught the ferry from Greece to Turkey, among other shortcuts. On the other hand, they have cycled through some politically sensitive countries, including Iraq, Iran, and Tajikistan. Some of the most interesting terrain has been the high roads that run across Tibet.

Toward the high plateau

Carrasco and his partner entered China at the end of August and spent several weeks exploring other regions before beginning the long climb from Dali, a historic city in Yunnan province in the country’s southwest. From there, their route led north toward the Tibetan Plateau.

“We were there from the beginning of September until one week ago,” Carrasco said.

The gradual ascent through Yunnan’s rugged mountains allowed them to acclimatize naturally.

Their first culturally Tibetan city was Shangri-La, located in the northern reaches of Yunnan near the border with Sichuan province. Once known as Zhongdian, the city was renamed after the fictional place in the novel Lost Horizon to promote tourism.

From there, the road wound into the remote highlands of western Sichuan, where Tibetan culture predominates and the air grows thinner.

The ride to Litang, a windswept town at 4,000m, took them over passes exceeding 4,700m and into a landscape of grasslands, yak herds, and snowy peaks. “Even seeing monkeys at 4,000m, which we definitely didn’t expect!” Carrasco said.

Tibet

“Most people think Tibet and the Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR) are the same, but that’s not true,” explains Carrasco.

The Tibetan Plateau stretches across much of Central Asia, covering parts of China, India, Nepal, Bhutan, and Pakistan. Within China, it also includes large areas of Qinghai, Sichuan, Gansu, and Yunnan provinces.

Culturally, this vast high-altitude region is known as Tibet and is traditionally divided into three regions: U-Tsang, Kham, and Amdo. The TAR corresponds mostly to U-Tsang and is only accessible to foreigners on organized tours, which makes independent cycling there impossible.

The other two regions, Kham and Amdo, were absorbed into neighboring Chinese provinces after Tibet’s annexation but remain largely open to foreign travel.

Despite modern administrative borders, all three regions mostly share a common language, religion, and cultural identity shaped by life on the Tibetan Plateau.

High Roads and hidden monasteries

From Litang, the pair continued north through the remote towns of Ganze and Manigango in western Sichuan, an area of sweeping grasslands and isolated monasteries where Tibetan culture remains deeply rooted.

They then crossed into Qinghai province, reaching Yushu, a major town on the upper Yangtze River. Along the way, they cycled the Chola Pass, “officially 5,050m, though probably around 4,900 according to my GPS,” Carrasco said.

Their highest point overall came earlier in the year on Mount Damavand in Iran, the tallest volcano in Asia at 5,610m, which they climbed before riding into Tajikistan.

Thanks to gradual acclimatization and steady hydration, they avoided any problems with altitude as they moved across the Tibetan Plateau.

One stop on the plateau left a lasting impression: Yarchen Gar, a sprawling monastic community officially off-limits to foreigners.

“We visited without knowing it’s off-limits,” Carrasco recalled. “Luckily, we weren’t discovered until the next day, after we’d already seen everything and taken plenty of photos, which I somehow managed to keep.”

Cold roads and kind strangers

The final stretch across Qinghai province, from Yushu to Golmud, proved to a highlight. This section crosses the heart of the northern Tibetan Plateau, a barren region of high-altitude plains and frozen valleys that marks the transition from Tibetan cultural lands to China’s interior deserts.

“A 200km section of remote gravel roads averaging 4,500–4,600m in altitude, with temperatures down to –10°C and a wind chill of –16°C, even though it wasn’t winter yet,” Carrasco said.

He rode that stretch solo, encountering herds of wild donkeys and Tibetan gazelles, and spotting foxes, wolves, and once, a Tibetan bear in the distance.

As the couple descended toward Golmud, a remote industrial city, the wind returned with full force.

“Near the end of the plateau, we had two days of wind so strong and cold that we simply couldn’t keep riding,” he said.

When a sandstorm hit, locals came to the rescue. “Some locals picked us up in their truck, took us to a half-built hospital where one of them worked as a doctor, and gave us a room for the night, inviting us to eat with them. People were always incredibly kind to us.”

Still pedaling

Eight months later, the journey continues. Carrasco and Rebecca are now in Korea, having taken a train to the east coast of China.

“The plan is to travel for a full year,” Carrasco said. “Though who knows what will happen when the ‘return date’ gets closer.”

The first wave of skiers is heading south to Antarctica next week to begin their expeditions. Compared with last year, there is a higher proportion of longer sled journeys, and notably, no guided teams will set off from the Hercules Inlet or Messner start routes to the South Pole.

Crossings

American Colin O’Brady, 40, is currently in Punta Arenas, Chile, preparing to return to Antarctica for the first time since his aborted attempt at the men’s South Pole speed record in 2023.

O’Brady sparked controversy across the adventure community in 2018 after claiming a full unsupported crossing of Antarctica, when, in fact, he had completed only a partial traverse -- starting and finishing at inner coastlines and following the groomed South Pole Overland Traverse (SPOT) road for around 700km of his 1,700km.

The SPOT road is a compacted route maintained by tractors pulling heavy sledges. It serves as a supply corridor between McMurdo Station and the South Pole, used to transport personnel and cargo. Flags placed roughly every 100m aid navigation during whiteouts, and all crevasses were filled during its original construction. Also importantly for skiers, the route removes the uneven sastrugi that winds typically carve into the snow.

Now, O’Brady appears to be returning to make amends, planning a true coast-to-coast crossing of the continent. He intends to start with a 225kg sled carrying enough supplies to last an estimated 110 days. His route may total around 3,000km.

Ousland's mark

In 1997, Norwegian Borge Ousland became the first person to cross Antarctica solo and unsupported, following a similar route but finishing at McMurdo Station and occasionally using a rudimentary handheld kite known as a ski sail. Ousland skied for 65 days and covered 2,845km. O’Brady is striving to distinguish his latest expedition by suggesting he will travel entirely under human power, with no kite or other assistance.

Antarctic mountaineer and historian Damien Gildea wrote about this latest crossing on social media, “This is like when Ueli Steck went back to Shisha Pangma. If you did it the first time like you said, why are you going back?”

The American has not responded to our inquiries, and Antarctic Logistics & Expeditions (ALE, the continent's sole outfitter) cannot disclose client details. However, recent press coverage linked to a forthcoming Netflix film about his expedition suggests that O’Brady will start on Berkner Island, ski to the South Pole, and then continue across the Ross Ice Shelf to its edge.

Should he again use the SPOT road, however, he risks facing the same criticism as in 2018. Weather permitting, O’Brady is expected to begin his journey within the next week.

Science + adventure

Another team is also finalizing preparations in Cape Town before leaving shortly for Antarctica. Matthieu Tordeur, 33, and Dr. Heidi Sevestre, 37, of France plan to kite-ski from the Russian research station Novolazarevskaya to Union Glacier via both the Pole of Inaccessibility and the South Pole. The Pole of Inaccessibility in Antarctica is the point on the continent farthest from any coastline.

Their 3,650km journey is expected to take around 80 days. Along the way, they will tow ground-penetrating radar equipment to study snow accumulation, ice layering, and to detect subglacial lakes and rivers.

This kite route was originally opened by Sebastian Copeland and Eric McNair-Landry in 2011-12.

Tordeur and Sevestre recently tested their radar system in Greenland, but it remains uncertain whether the 50m long radar array, which will trail behind their sleds, can withstand being hauled across Antarctic sastrugi for thousands of kilometers. Tordeur was formerly the youngest person to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole.

South Pole round trips

Experienced Norwegian polar guide Kathinka Gyllenhammar and her daughter Emma, 21, plan to ski a unique return journey that combines skiing and snowkiting. The mother-daughter pair will ski from Union Glacier camp west to Constellation Inlet, where they will turn around and ski back toward the South Pole.

Once at the Pole, the Norwegians will collect their kites and snowkite back to Union Glacier.

"We look at it as two separate trips, one unsupported and one wind-supported," said the elder Gyllenhammar. Their multi-disciplinary journey will amount to around 2,400km, and they intend to head south next week.

Norwegian Sebastian Orskaug, 44, plans to ski from Hercules Inlet to the South Pole, where he will take a resupply before returning to Hercules Inlet using a ski-sail rather than a kite. Ski sails are handheld fabric wings that catch the wind to pull a skier across snow or ice, and are smaller, simpler, and lighter than kites. They do not require the heavy alpine-touring skis and boots often needed for kiting.

He estimates around 40 days to reach the Pole and 20 days for the return, with 10 planned contingency days. The 2,260km round trip is scheduled to begin on November 14.

Orskaug is a former diver with the Norwegian Navy and a medical doctor specializing in emergency and expedition medicine. He has previously wintered at Troll Research Station, climbed Aconcagua, and crossed the Greenland Ice Sheet.

Fundraising idea

Operating under the expedition name Polar Rideshare, Orskaug aims to combine adventure with science. He is partnering with research institutes and companies to collect samples, take measurements, and test new equipment, describing the concept as similar to CubeSats hitching rides on orbital rockets. The idea is to sell “scientific payloads” that can be carried and deployed during the journey.

Orskaug will also carry a Starlink Mini in an effort to livestream his progress to the South Pole. Having assembled the project in only three months with limited funding, he says the level of interest already generated suggests that the model could offer a sustainable path for future Antarctic expeditions.

Hercules Inlet route

American Monet Izabeth, 35, will set out from Hercules Inlet on November 20, aiming to complete a solo and unsupported ski to the South Pole. If successful, she will become the first American woman to do so. She estimates the 1,130km journey will take 50 days.

Izabeth’s interest in adventure began when she joined a British Army expedition to Mount Kenya to locate the crash site of her great-uncle’s plane. Since then, she has organized and led adventure trips around the world while pursuing her own independent expeditions.

She will turn 36 during the journey, which marks her most ambitious undertaking to date.

Mexican mountaineer Andrea “Andy” Dorantes also plans a solo, unsupported ski expedition from Hercules Inlet to the South Pole this season. She ks aiming to finish in 55 days. Earlier this year, Dorantes completed a crossing of the Greenland Ice Sheet, adding to an already extensive adventure resumé that includes climbing the Seven Summits and a last-degree ski expedition to the South Pole.

Messner route

The sole skier on the 911km Messner Route this season is British adventurer Ian Hughes, 56. He plans a solo and unsupported ski to the South Pole.

A former soldier and deep-sea diver, Hughes has climbed five of the Seven Summits, including Mount Everest, and wants to complete the Explorers Grand Slam within the next two years. He expects to spend 45 to 50 days on the ice, with an estimated start date of around November 20. Hughes will turn 57 during the expedition.

Speed record attempt

Tom Hunt, 27, of the UK, will try to break the Hercules Inlet to South Pole speed record this season. The record was last set on Jan. 11, 2024, when Vincent Colliard completed the route in 22 days, 6 hours, and 8 minutes, nearly two days faster than Christian Eide’s long-standing 2011 time of 24 days, 1 hour, and 13 minutes.

Hunt plans to start before December 1, weather and flight schedules permitting. To surpass Colliard’s mark, he will need to average at least 52km per day over the 1,130km route, skiing solo and unsupported.

His previous expeditions include a three-week solo, unsupported sled journey in Lapland (2023), a joint record-setting win of the 6633 Arctic Ultra (611km) the same year, and a Svalbard east–west crossing in early 2025.

Other expeditions

Veteran Norwegian polar expert Lars Ebbesen, a well-known logistics consultant and honorary IPGA polar guide, will head south next week for a short Antarctic swansong. From the Russian research station Novolazarevskaya, Ebbesen will transfer to the Wolfs Fang runway in Queen Maud Land before skiing approximately 250km to the Norwegian Troll Research Station.

Ebbesen is one of the most experienced figures in modern polar logistics and has completed multiple crossings of Greenland and Svalbard. In 1994-5, he skied unsupported from Berkner Island to the South Pole with Cato Zahl Pedersen and Odd Harald Hauge. During that expedition, Pedersen, who had one full arm and one partial arm amputated, became the first person with a disability to ski to the South Pole.

Three decades after Cato Zahl Pedersen’s journey, Britain's Darren Edwards, 33, who is paralyzed from the chest down, will attempt to sit-ski the final three degrees (333km) to the South Pole. He will be joined by teammates Lucy Shepherd, Matthew Biggar, and Dwayne Fields.

When Netflix recently announced that Alex Honnold would attempt to free solo a skyscraper live in Taiwan, it felt like the modern version of an old story. Before him, Alain Robert, the "French Spider Man” scaled glass towers across continents, chased by police and paparazzi alike. But many decades before either of them brought urban climbing into the mainstream, a more introverted breed of climber was free soloing buildings through the night.

They weren’t athletes or professionals. They were students at the University of Cambridge in England, sneaking out of their dorms and night-time curfew to climb the roofs and spires of their colleges.

Their exploits were immortalized in the 1937 book The Night Climbers of Cambridge written by the pseudonym “Whipplesnaith.”

The beginnings of a secret sport

In the late 19th century, Cambridge may have lacked mountains or real rock to climb, but it was, in a sense, a kind of vertical playground. Mountaineer Geoffrey Winthrop-Young published The Roof-Climber’s Guide to Trinity [College] in 1899, a slim, privately circulated book that mapped the college’s architecture as a series of routes.

His idea was mischievous but not mad, as the university’s chimneys, gargoyles, and parapets provided the perfect outdoor climbing gym without leaving town.

By the 1930s, a new generation had taken up the challenge. The group, which later called themselves the "Night Climbers," operated late at night, moving in silence across the city’s skyline. They scaled the buttresses of King’s College Chapel, traversed the pinnacles of St John’s College, and leapt across the Senate House gap.

Part of their motivation was perhaps simple curiosity and a bit of disobedience. Cambridge was at the time a place of tradition and strict rules, and climbing its walls no doubt became a quiet rebellion.

The 1937 book that emerged from these adventures combined deadpan instruction with photographs that were surreal. Shot with flash at night, the images show ghostly figures clinging to the ornate facades of Cambridge’s most hallowed buildings. Their faces are indistinct, their poses seem awkward yet composed, suspended somewhere between grace and danger.

Around the same time, the Night Climbing Society at Oxford University was also nocturnally clambering up buildings both at the University and in the wider town.

Climbing without ropes

The climbers wore plimsolls for grip and quietness. Ropes were rarely used. They moved with deliberate care, and presumably would have rehearsed routes in their mind during daylight from below, memorizing the angle of each stone and the texture of each ledge.

“As you pass round each pillar,” Whipplesnaith wrote, “the whole of your body except your hands and feet is over black emptiness.”

The colleges’ Gothic architecture, with its spires, chimneys, and cloisters, offered hand and footholds unlike any cliff face. The night added another dimension. It removed the chance of any audience and must have eerily heightened every sensation.

Not just Cambridge and Oxford

Night climbing wasn’t confined to Cambridge. Similar traditions took hold at other educational establishments across the UK, particularly in private boarding schools where steep slate roofs and stone courtyards offered their own temptations.

One participant was the late Arctic scientist Geoffrey Hattersley-Smith, who attended Winchester College as a teenager in the late 1930s. In an unpublished memoir, he recalled how climbing the roofs became a kind of relief from academic pressure:

“I found it a particularly good relaxation to wander the roofs, when I was working rather hard for the scholarship and rising at 6 am each morning to revise my physics and chemistry," he wrote.

Hattersley-Smith also described one close call from his school days:

"There was a memorable occasion when I was climbing with Christopher Longuet-Higgins on the roof of the Museum in the early hours of a morning in summer 1941. Christopher was about to glissade on his bottom down the roof, until I warned him that he would face a considerable drop down the end." 

That warning likely saved his friend from a serious fall. Longuet-Higgins went on to become a Royal Society Professor, while Hattersley-Smith himself explored the polar regions as a glaciologist, geologist, and yes, a climber. Among other first ascents in both the Arctic and Antarctic, he summited Ellesmere Island's Barbeau Peak, the highest mountain in North America east of the Rockies.

Hattersley-Smith also noted that one of the forerunners of night climbing at Winchester College later became a mountaineer of some repute.

"A most notable predecessor had been George Leigh-Mallory of Everest fame. He is said to have displayed his prowess to a visitor by chimneying up a corner of the Middle Gate of Chamber Court."

Real danger

The risk was real, whether at Cambridge or elsewhere. “If you slip, you will still have three seconds to live,” Whipplesnaith wrote.

“Your feet are on slabs of stone sloping downwards and outwards at an angle of about thirty-five degrees to the horizontal, your fingers and elbows making the most of a friction-hold against a vertical pillar, and the ground is precisely one hundred feet directly below you.”

Several climbers were caught by porters and narrowly avoided expulsion. In later decades, others weren’t as lucky. In the 1960s, one student was reportedly "sent down" after being photographed mid-ascent.

Some continue

The tradition didn’t totally die with the 1930s generation. The practice of buildering (urban climbing) is a common pastime of University climbing clubs in the UK, though perhaps not with the same daring as the night climbers of old.

Nonetheless, a 2025 feature in Varsity, a Cambridge student newspaper, describes climbers still scaling the University skyline. Not surprisingly, some of the climbs tend to occur around the time of the student balls.

University authorities, of course, disapprove. Trespass can lead to fines or disciplinary action, and modern safety measures such as alarms and cameras no doubt make the practice harder than ever.

Yet the allure seems to persist, as nobody thinks to look up!

In 2023, 25-year-old German cyclist Max Roving set off eastward from his hometown in northern Germany, aiming to “go as far as I’d like, or can afford.” One and a half years later, he has covered around 20,000km across Europe and Asia, crossing rugged and politically sensitive terrain by bicycle. He travels on under $500 a month.

He has trended east since crossing Europe, taking in countries such as Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Mongolia, China, and Japan. As a break, he has also undertaken some hikes along the way, including to Everest Base Camp and the Langtang Valley on the Nepal-Tibet border.

“I’m more of a traveler than a cyclist,” Roving told ExplorersWeb. “I prefer being off the beaten path, even if I only do 40 kilometers a day and push half of that.”

He has occasionally used air or public transport to bridge gaps in his route. He flew from Oman to Kyrgyzstan and Japan to Vietnam, and took buses or trains through parts of China, mainly due to visa limitations and geopolitical restrictions.

Some of the most interesting areas the German has covered are the unpaved mountain passes of Central Afghanistan, the wind-scoured Altai of Mongolia, and the valleys of northern Pakistan.

Pakistan: From the Karakoram to Chitral

In April 2025, Roving entered Pakistan from China’s Xinjiang province via the Khunjerab Pass, the world’s highest international border at 4,700m. Cycling south through the Hunza Valley, he passed the famous Passu Cones and Lake Attabad, camping beside glaciers and towering 7,000m peaks.

“The scenery here was even more impressive than on the Karakoram Highway in Xinjiang, with some of the steepest mountain faces I have ever seen, right next to the road,” he observed.

From Gilgit, he turned west toward Chitral, traversing the Shandur Pass at 3,730m. The road was dusty, bumpy, and nearly empty. But the solitude was matched by the hospitality of local people.

“The lack of cars allowed me to appreciate the many beautiful valleys, such as the Ghizer and Phander Valleys.”

The journey came with some constraints: Police insisted on escorting him in certain areas near the Afghan border, for example.

“Shortly before I reached Chitral, the officers told me that they would have to accompany me...something I’m not a fan of, so I decided to skip this bit by bus instead,” he wrote.

Roving also explored the Chapursan Valley, a remote 70km corridor reaching the Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan. Landslides and rockfall often block the road. The German managed to avoid these, but he did get caught in a snowstorm and had to shelter while rocks tumbled onto the road from the steep mountains above.

Central Afghanistan

Roving entered Afghanistan in May 2025 via the Torkham border crossing from Pakistan.

“I had the privilege of exploring Afghanistan on my bicycle, something which wouldn’t have been possible (or advisable) for the majority of the past 40 years,” he wrote on his website.

“The Taliban is trying to encourage tourism, which makes you want to believe that they are confident in having the country under control,” he wrote.

“This encouragement also means that there is no risk of ending up as a political prisoner, which is a possibility in Iran or Russia if you’re traveling on a Western passport.”

He secured a rare all-province travel permit from Kabul’s Ministry of Culture and set out toward the Hazara heartlands in central Afghanistan. The unpaved route was far from easy. He faced steep climbs, rough tracks, and headwinds.

Roving was drawn by both the remoteness and the human encounters. Most people he met were Hazara (an ethnic minority with Turkic and Mongol roots) and spoke Dari. But many rural people were illiterate, so even Google Translate was of no use.

“I’d recommend either learning both languages to some extent, or make an audio recording of the translation output when you have internet, so you can play it when you don’t, he wrote.”

Taliban checkpoints required regular inspections of his travel permit. In one instance, near the town of Tarkhuj, he was taken to a local security office. “They checked my photos and WhatsApp messages,” he recalled. “But they remained respectful and eventually invited me for lunch.”

His central Afghanistan leg totaled around 460km, but it wasn't without hazard.  A speeding car struck him on his last day, but he walked away with only minor bruises, and his bike was also unharmed.

The Mongolian Steppe

Earlier in his global travels, Roving had crossed from China into western Mongolia, entering a landscape he described as “untouched nature, clear rivers, and perfect camping spots everywhere.”

The crossing led him into the Altai Mountains, a sparsely populated region of Kazakh herders and shamanic traditions.

“Only 20 percent of roads in Mongolia are paved,” he noted, “For me, this makes it much more enjoyable, as I only came across a handful of cars a day.”

Pushing his fully loaded bike through sandy tracks and over 3,000m passes, Roving encountered the isolation he had long sought.

“Camping won’t ever be an issue in Mongolia,” he wrote, “as long as you manage to avoid the early-summer thunderstorms.”

A river-crossing mishap left him with a deep foot cut, his first injury of his travels. “It made me rethink traveling without a first-aid kit,” he admitted.

He rested in a village while the wound healed, sharing tea with curious children and watching herders move their livestock at sunrise.

He noticed how the ethnic Kazakhs of western Mongolia preserved traditions that had long been lost across the border in Kazakhstan. Shamanism mixes with moderate Islam, and despite cultural differences, everyone “seems to get along.”

After 700km of rough dirt roads, he reached Bayan-Ölgii, a province in the west of the country, just in time for Naadam, Mongolia’s national festival of wrestling, archery, and horse racing.

“It felt a bit like a state fair,” he wrote. “I thoroughly enjoyed the show nonetheless, especially after cycling through the remote countryside for weeks.”

The road ahead

Roving’s 18-month ride has been defined not by speed, but by immersion. “I much prefer meeting people in all the different countries, different cultures, and, of course, the landscape, because with a bike you can go almost anywhere," he says.

After recently closing his Asian chapter in Uzbekistan, he has now moved on to Africa, where he plans to cycle down the west coast.

A French ultra-distance cyclist has been released from custody in Russia with a fine after almost two months in prison.

The Pogranichny District Court in Russia’s Far East found Sofiane Sehili guilty of illegally crossing the border from China. It imposed a fine of 50,000 roubles (around $615) and ordered his release from the jail where he'd been held since September 2.

Sehili, 44, had been attempting to complete a 17,500km solo and self-supported ride from Lisbon, Portugal, to Vladivostok, Russia, aiming to become the fastest person to cross Europe and Asia by bicycle. He set out in early July, aiming to cycle through 17 countries in around two months.

As Sehili approached the final few days of travel, he tried to reenter Russia from China through a frontier post open only to train and bus traffic. Before China, his route in the east had taken him through Georgia, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Mongolia, with several deviations into Russia en route.

A risky crossing

At a remote frontier post, Chinese officials told Sehili he could only cross by taking a 20km train. Refusing to do so, the Frenchman rode through rough woodland and along the railway line to reach the Russian border post on his bike.

Sahili presumably took this unorthodox route because the train journey would have ended his self-supported status and any record he would have claimed at the end. He was immediately arrested and accused of an illegal border crossing.

While trying to sneak across a border would land you in trouble in any country in the world, six weeks in jail -- with no assurance that his detainment will end -- is harsh. Also, he wasn't trying to sneak across; he presented himself at the border and had an e-visa for Russia. It was just the wrong sort of border post.

Record in sight

According to his GPS tracker, Sehili had covered 17,728km, averaging 280km per day, with just 179km remaining to Vladivostok. His elapsed time stood at 62 days, within striking distance of the existing Eurasia record of 64 days and two hours, set by Germany’s Jonas Deichmann in 2017 at a time when travel in Russia for Westerners was not as fraught with political consequences.

A thriving hub for adventure

Before Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine, the country and its network of Russian-operated expedition logistics were a thriving hub for adventure. Each winter, for example, sledders would head to Siberia to traverse frozen Lake Baikal.

Likewise, many aspiring North Pole skiers relied on the floating ice station Camp Barneo as their launch point for reaching the Pole. However, a combination of political tensions and changing ice conditions has kept Barneo closed since 2018.

Sehili’s release comes amid strained French-Russian relations and a rising number of Westerners detained in Russia. It’s not only political figures who have been affected; adventurers have also found themselves caught in the fallout.

In 2022, British adventurer Charlie Walker found that out in 2022, shortly after the war began, when he spent a month in a Russian prison for "conducting journalism while on a tourist visa" while on a manhauling expedition along the frozen Lena River. Reflecting on his experience, he noted, "I won't be rushing back."

A warning to other adventurers

Sehili's arrest serves as a reminder that for most Western adventurers, Russian travel remains a gamble.

As well as potential bureaucratic issues, any traveler spending time there and contributing to the local economy risks being accused of supporting the war effort, making the ethics of pursuing adventure in Russia questionable.

One commenter on Sehili’s last Instagram post before his arrest wrote:

"The attempted record by Sofiane Sehili is an impressive human feat, but it raises important questions. The idea that sports can exist in a vacuum, detached from geopolitical realities, is a dangerous illusion, especially when Europe is under attack.

To celebrate a personal victory in a country currently waging war, while ignoring the context and the human cost, could be seen as deeply selfish. It's a sad lesson that a desire for personal glory can blind us to the moral complexities of the world we live in. Sometimes, the universe has a way of reminding us that our actions and their consequences are interconnected, a concept some might call karma."

In another country, Sehili might not have spent six weeks in jail for his unorthodox crossing, but in today’s Russia, such risks are an unavoidable reality for any outsider seeking adventure.

After 480 days and 7,810km of paddling, 24-year-old Peter Frank has completed a canoe journey around most of the Great Loop the “wrong way.” Beginning and ending in Escanaba, Michigan, the U.S. adventurer dubbed the Pirate Paddler wrapped up his journey on October 20.

The Great Loop is a roughly 9,700km circuit through the Great Lakes, the Mississippi River, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic coast. It's typically traveled by cruise boats in a counter-clockwise direction.

That route follows prevailing currents and winds, making it the more logical choice. Frank chose instead to go clockwise, forcing him to paddle upstream for 3,472km.

Frank began on Lake Michigan, paddling through the Great Lakes and the Erie Canal before descending the Hudson River to the Atlantic. From there, he followed the Intracoastal Waterway down the East Coast, navigating past the Carolinas and into Florida. He then crossed into the Gulf of Mexico, up the Mississippi River, and eventually back north to Michigan.

Small gap

He couldn't quite close the loop under his own steam. Paddling against the current in on the Mississippi in Wisconsin this past August proved too much, due to floodwaters draining into the river. Reluctantly, he caught a car ride for 350km and started paddling again just north of St. Louis on the Illinois River. In 2022, Frank canoed that missing section of the Mississippi, so his complete loop has taken place over two separate journeys.

"It was physically impossible to cover 218 miles of the Mississippi upstream due to flooding rains in Wisconsin north of where I was," he explained to ExplorersWeb. "That had also been tested by a long-time upstream canoe racer the week before...He reported it being impossible...It simply wasn’t the year; it required seasonal luck that I just didn’t have."

No official database of completions

Frank suggests he is the youngest person to complete a solo circumnavigation of the eastern United States, and the seventh person to have paddled the Great Loop, as well as the third to have done it clockwise, though there is no official database of completions. He describes his journey as solo, though he regularly met supporters en route, who offered provisions and, in some cases, an overnight stay.

At age 14, Frank was struck by a car while hiding in a leaf pile and was told he would never walk again. After a year and a half of recovery and physical therapy, he defied those odds. By 17, he had ridden a unicycle from Wisconsin to Arizona, raising money for the organization that supported his family during his recovery. That sparked a passion for long journeys that later led him to the canoe. Somewhat poetically, he completed this latest journey 10 years to the day after the car accident.

Hurricanes and headwinds

Frank’s journey was far from smooth. Over nearly a year and a half, he faced hurricanes, cold temperatures, headwinds, and even an alligator encounter in Florida that forced him to alter his route. When there were obstacles on the rivers or conditions were too rough on lakes, Frank portaged, dragging his canoe on small wheeled cart. On a recent day, he portaged 38km, and his total portaging reached 477km.

“I came out here to challenge myself and test the limits on what’s possible,” Frank wrote in a social media post the day before completing the journey. “I didn’t do this for riches, fame, or attention, [but] for my personal growth as a human being.”

The Pirate Paddler

Frank’s distinctive pirate-like clothing, made from loose natural fibers, became a defining image of the expedition. What began as a playful idea quickly turned into a practical choice. Finding modern outdoor gear uncomfortable, he drew inspiration from the clothing of sailors of centuries past, whose garments were designed for constant exposure to the elements. The only part of the outfit chosen purely for fun, he admitted, was the pirate hat.

Sticking to principles

Along the way, he turned down multiple sponsorship offers that clashed with his values, refusing to advertise or monetize his journey.

“All sponsors had donated equipment that I cherry-picked because I believed in their passions and what they stood for,” he wrote on social media. “I had been offered thousands of dollars to advertise crap to you that you don’t need.”

That authenticity clearly resonated with his large online following, who watched his progress unfold in real time, although he remained skeptical about sharing the experience digitally.

“Social media can take away from that experience tremendously,” he wrote. “I wanted to give more than I took, and I hope that was the case.”

With the journey now complete, Frank plans to rest and write a book chronicling his journey in full detail.

“Carry in your heart what you took from it,” he told his followers. “Go outside, put your phone away, dress like a pirate, go, and live.”

Most climbers learn on rock or at the gym, but 26-year-old American Noah Kane started with trees in Costa Rica, where he spent much of his childhood. He did not climb up the branches as a curious kid would, nor use the rope techniques of an arborist or canopy scientist. He climbed a tree like a rock climber.

After dropping out of film school, Kane, then 19, decided to head back to Costa Rica and the Monteverde Cloud Forest, where he reconnected with old friends Rafi Vargas and Izzy Moore and started climbing.

“This is where climbing actually started for me,” explained Kane. “I was like, ‘Oh, here are these old friends of mine. They’re doing this thing called climbing.’ ” He added that at the time, “They didn’t even really know that rock climbing really existed.”

Now six years later, Kane and his friends have pioneered climbing on strangler fig trees in Costa Rica and released a widely viewed documentary on this esoteric but wonderfully different type of climbing.

Strangler figs

Kane and his pals aren't climbing any old tree, such as backyard conifers or maple trees. "The type of tree that we're climbing is called a Strangler fig. It basically is a type of tree that starts out by growing on top of another tree."

The Strangler fig begins life high in the rainforest canopy. “It gets pooped out by a monkey or a bird in the canopy, grows, and sort of starts its life as an epiphyte [a plant that grows on another plant but is not parasitic]."

"It gets out its nutrients from the clouds and arboreal soil up there, grows its roots down to the main soil, gets access to all that superfood of nutrients, and then just grows a crazy trunk around the existing tree,” he said.

He explained that this process gives the tree its name. “So it gets the name Strangler fig because people thought that it strangles the existing tree. There’s actually some interesting evidence that maybe it doesn’t expedite the death of the other tree. It just uses it for support.”

Perfect for climbing

In the cloud forest, Kane and his partners climb mainly on private land during the dry season, from January to May. Cloud forests occur in high mountain regions where clouds and mist linger year-round. The constant moisture creates a cool, humid environment that supports a wide diversity of plant and animal life.

They climb barefoot to minimize damage. “We’re climbing barefoot, mostly out of an ethic of trying to protect the tree as much as possible,” Kane said.

He notes that the approach also toughens their feet over time. “I’m sure you could devise some sort of, like, leather moccasin that could also work, but once you climb quite a bit on the trees, you really get these tough calluses,” he added.

Strangler figs don’t have a solid trunk but rather a lattice of vines fused together into what Kane called “really strong wood.” Even vines as thin as a bicycle handlebar can hold his weight.

Natural protection

“The easier tree, you know, it will have more handlebars you can wrap your arms around, your fingers around. And so we’re wrapping slings around those full-on handlebar sections of the trunk. Sometimes they’re really easy to access. Sometimes, they’re kind of connecting against the old tree."

"You’ve really got to kind of shove the sling in and work it out,” he said, describing how they protect their climbs using natural anchors such as slings or knotted rope known as a monkey's fist, instead of metal hardware.

“It kind of feels like traditional rock climbing, in the sense that you’re using the natural protection of the tree,” Kane explained. “We’re certainly not drilling in bolts or adding any other gear, but it also has this kind of sport climbing feel, in that it feels pretty safe once you get that protection.”

He added that the trees' dense wood makes falls less risky than they might sound. “If you’re protecting anything really bigger than your wrist, it’s pretty much going to hold a fall...It’s really confidence-inspiring. And we’ve taken some big falls.”

Overhangs

Watching Kane's videos, it's clear this isn't delicate climbing. He likens it more to muscular crack and off-width climbing. "Probably my strongest experience with a tree was on a tree called the porcupine tree, and it's featured in loads of my films," says Kane, now a filmmaker despite dropping out of film school.

"It has the really iconic seven-meter layback, so you're sort of pulling on a pinchy tufa structure, putting your feet just on vertical bark, pretty much pulling and pushing as hard as you can. And that's just sort of one of the most iconic sort of individual portions of tree climbing that we've ever found."

Some of the trees even go beyond vertical and overhang significantly, thanks to the unique way in which Strangler figs wrap around their hosts. Kane doesn't tend to grade the climbs in traditional rock climbing standards, but has a sense of how they compare to grades on rock.

High in the canopy

Most of the Strangler figs that Kane climbs are doable in a single rope length, with few trees stretching higher than 40m. Though the trees naturally thin out towards the canopy, the lattice-like structure of the Strangler figs provides a lot of stability, so when the wind blows, the structure twists rather than sways violently.

He once spent a night high up in the canopy in a tent rigged up across branches, as the tree contorted itself beneath him throughout the night.

While Strangler figs exist in other parts of the world, Kane is happy focusing on Costa Rica for now. He's wary of encouraging too much activity in a sensitive rainforest, but he has held a few low-key tree-climbing festivals, and occasionally collaborates with professional climbers.

"I think it's super cool, super fun and and I hope that if folks are really interested in coming down and trying it. We're usually pretty open to taking people out."

Jacob Pepper, 41, completed a 9,334km thru-hike of the Eastern Continental Trail (ECT) late last month. Setting out from Key West, Florida, on January 1, the American reached Hay Cove in Newfoundland, Canada, on September 30. Over 273 days, Pepper spent 250 days on the trail, climbing a total of 231,495m in elevation.

Having previously worked in a corporate law firm after college, Pepper turned to thru-hiking after seasonal work in the charter boat industry and a stint working on the Deepwater Horizon oil spill.

Since starting out on the Appalachian Trail in 2020, he has covered more than 26,000km on foot in the past five years, completing iconic routes such as the Pacific Crest Trail, Colorado Trail, Florida Trail, Arizona Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail. But the Eastern Continental Trail is the longest and most rarely done of them all.

The Eastern Continental Trail

“The ECT had also been in the back of my mind since I did the Appalachian Trail the first time, because it's part of it,” he told ExplorersWeb. “I met some kids that year who were doing it, and I was like, 'What are you talking about? You're going all the way up the east coast of North America, and it's over 5,000 miles?’”

The mammoth trail is a link-up of seven already established trails, including the well-known Appalachian Trail, and the less-publicized International Appalachian Trail, which connects Mount Katahdin in Maine to the Gaspé Peninsula in Quebec.

• Florida Keys Overseas Heritage Trail — 174km
• Florida Trail — 2,268km
• Alabama Road Walk — 322km
• Pinhoti Trail — 565km
• Benton Mackaye Trail — 97–129km
• Appalachian Trail  — 3,535km
• International Appalachian Trail — 2,543km

The ECT has no official record of how many hikers have completed it. In 2024, Madison Blagden suggested she was only the second woman and ninth person overall to finish the route. Endpoints vary, with some hikers finishing at Quebec’s Gaspé Peninsula and others continuing, like Pepper, to Newfoundland. One website tracking voluntary submissions lists 40 finishers, beginning with John Brinda in 1997.

Snow in the subtropics

Pepper experienced nearly every North American climate, from subtropical heat to progressively wetter and cooler conditions. His time on the trail featured unpredictable weather, particularly at the start.

“You're starting in the Florida Keys, which is like, subtropical. It's beautiful. When you hit the trail, you're wearing shorts, you're getting sunburn, you're in the islands, it's like, 'Man, this is going to be easy'.”

That early comfort didn’t last, though.

“It snowed in Florida, which is just unheard of,” Pepper explained.

From there, he faced freezing rain, frequent thunderstorms, and long stretches of wet and cold conditions were common in the southern states.

His trail name became "Bad Timing" because Pepper had picked a year to hike the ECT when the thunderstorms and rain just kept coming.

Recurring health issues

Despite suffering a serious neck injury in a 2022 car crash that left him at risk of paralysis with any future whiplash, he has since put many thousands of kilometers on his legs. Remarkably, it wasn’t the old injury that troubled him on the Eastern Continental Trail, but a mysterious gastrointestinal illness that cost him nine days on the hike.

"I passed out in broad daylight, right next to the trail, for eight hours," Pepper said of one occasion of the mystery illness.

"It felt like somebody was grabbing my intestines and squeezing them. You know, there was this crazy cramping, inflammation, bowel inflammation going on, and it was terrifying. I didn't know if I was going to wake up in the hospital. I didn't know if I was going to be able to finish my hike.”

Six pairs of shoes

Over the 250 days of hiking, Pepper averaged a whopping 37km a day, and over 50km on some days. Over time, he has developed a more efficient walking gait, he says, that reduces the burden on his feet. As a result, he wore through only six pairs of trail shoes, stretching them out to nearly 1,600km per pair.

Like many thru-hikers, he ruthlessly edited his pack weight, carrying just around 4kg without food and water, and resupplying along the way. With a neck injury to manage, traveling ultralight was particularly important.

“Typically, there’s a town within reach of the trail every 150 kilometers max. On the Appalachian Trail, it’s almost like every other day you can access something,” he explained.

Sticking to ultralight principles, Pepper cold-soaked his meals, foregoing a stove and hot food. Not surprisingly, he spent hundreds of days eating a trail favorite - mashed potatoes.

Pepper had to make several boat crossings -- for example, from mainland Nova Scotia to the island of Newfoundland, where he finished.

Hiking mainly solo

On previous thru-hikes, Pepper had spent long sections bonding with other trail goers, soaking up the camaraderie that only time on the trail can foster.

The biggest takeaway from through hiking is the depth and intensity of real human connection that you can make in that context. When you are broken open, totally exposed to reality, and you're sharing that survival with other people, it's hyper bonding. And I've always said that, thru-hiking is an accelerated existence. You live an entire lifetime in the course of a trail. You are born, you live, and you die...When you share that with other people, you are bonded with them for life.

Pepper chose to hike solo on the ECT, though, joining others for only a day or two. He shared one 50km stretch of the Appalachian Trail with another hiker, who remained about 160km behind for the rest of the journey. The two stayed in regular contact via smartphone, maintaining a sense of connection while respecting each other’s independence -- what thru-hikers call “hiking your own hike."

Fulfilment through hiking

For Pepper, the highlight of the Eastern Continental Trail came not at the finish line, but in a quiet moment of reflection in Quebec. After enduring some of the toughest days of the hike, he camped below Mont Matawees and took time to appreciate where he was.

“I parked it at this gorgeous overlook for a full hour and just stared out at the St. Lawrence River,” he said. “It was really hitting me that I was actually accomplishing my goal, and that this beautiful moment was my life.”

That pause, he explained, captured the essence of why he hikes. “It’s rare on these long hikes that I have the opportunity to really sit, meditate, reflect, and appreciate the moment in full,” Pepper said.

“I’ve hiked 16,500 miles [including the ECT] so that I can feel fulfilled in this life, in this body, in this reality, and it’s those moments that make it worth it.”

A new study conducted over 44 years in Alaska has revealed that avalanches can cause major declines in mountain goat populations -- declines which can take the goats a generation to recover from.

“Avalanches transform mountain landscapes in major ways that can be both beneficial and deleterious,” said wildlife ecologist and lead author Dr. Kevin White of the University of Alaska Southeast.

White and colleagues used long-term monitoring data from 600 tagged mountain goats across 14 sites in Alaska from 1977 to 2021.

They also studied in detail a subset of 421 of the goats at four sites between 2005–2021. These goats were fitted with VHF/GPS collars and monitored monthly to determine their survival rates and the cause of death.

Avalanche deaths were confirmed when carcasses were found buried in avalanche debris or within the path of an avalanche.

The researchers took the long-term data from 1977-2021, which gave a picture on survival and reproduction, and combined it with the shorter-term data (2005-2021) on avalanche deaths. This let them model how avalanches affect goat populations in this part of Alaska.

Why are goats hit by avalanches?

Mountain goats are part of a broader group of alpine hoofed mammals found in 70 countries and are very well-adapted to life in the high mountains. However, their survival depends on avoiding predators such as wolves and bears. So they spend much of their time on steep, craggy slopes where predators struggle to reach them.

But these seemingly safe cliffs come with their own dangers. Even sure-footed goats can slip -- it happens -- and these cliffs may be prone to avalanches. Managing this balance between safety and risk is challenging, as avalanche hazards are often invisible and triggered by weak layers buried deep within the snowpack.

How much do avalanches impact goat populations?

In a previously published analysis, White and colleagues reported that during an average year, around 7% of mountain goats in Alaska die in avalanches. In more severe years, this can rise to 22%.

Long-term population models in this study estimate that the goat population can grow 1.5% during an average avalanche year, and 7% in years with no avalanche deaths. By contrast, during a severe year, a population can decline by as much as 15%.

The researchers estimated that after one of these severe avalanche years, it can take 11 years or 1.5 mountain goat generations for the population to return to normal. That's assuming that another severe avalanche year doesn't occur in the meantime.

“The naturally slow growth rates of mountain wildlife mean...a ‘bad’ avalanche year can set a population back by a generation or more, while a ‘good’ year only offers a relatively small, incremental boost,” said White.

What does the long-term look like?

The researchers suggest that the changes in population from avalanches recur with every generation and aren't rare, one-off events. They speculate that climate change may lead to greater avalanche risk in the future for these iconic mountain animals.

Avalanches can also impact their predators, including bears, wolves, and eagles.

White and his colleagues don't offer any practical suggestions, but it seems obvious that management of land use and hunting in mountain goat regions such as Alaska should consider avalanches in their calculations to maintain long-term populations. This might include adjusting or pausing hunting after high-mortality winters to give herds time to rebound.

On October 1, Alaskan climber Balin Miller, 23, died when he accidentally rappelled off the end of his rope. Miller had just completed a roped solo climb of a route called The Sea of Dreams on El Capitan in Yosemite when he fell over 700m to his death.

News of Miller's demise initially spread via a few climbers who were in Yosemite at the time, before the mainstream media picked up the story. They latched onto the fact that the young Alaskan's climb was being livestreamed on the social media app TikTok.

The Metro newspaper in London crowed, "TikTok climber falls to his death at Yosemite during livestream while fans watched," and the Daily Telegraph ran with "Climber livestreamed moment he fell to his death from Yosemite cliff." Other outlets dubbed Miller an "influencer" and a "TikTok" climbing star.

The livestream

While the mainstream media often gets details of adventure news wrong, these headlines were particularly egregious since Miller was not livestreaming himself, nor was he a TikTok star. Instead, his death was livestreamed to hundreds of people by a TikTok account handle named @mountainscalling.me.

The account owner, who calls himself Eric (no surname), recently posted that he is a "Yosemite super fan" and that he was filming climbers using a long-range scope after attending an event in the park. As Eric did not know the climbers, he referred to them by the color of their clothing or equipment.

Miller became known as "Orange Tent Guy" to those who tuned in over the course of his multiple days on the route.

In Eric's post, he also stated that Miller was not involved in any of the livestreaming and that he believed Miller was not an influencer.

An accomplished alpinist

To anyone in the climbing world, this last statement came as no surprise. Miller was an accomplished alpinist from Anchorage, Alaska, known for his bold solo ascents and dedication to pure alpine style.

Four months before his death, he completed the first solo climb of Mount McKinley's Slovak Direct, finishing the route in three days. Miller free soloed nearly the entire climb.

His achievement earned praise from top climbers, with Colin Haley calling it “super badass,” and Mark Twight reacting, “Holy shit.”

In the months before, Miller completed a string of solo climbs in Patagonia and the Canadian Rockies. In January, he climbed Californiana (5.10c; 700m) on Cerro Chalten, then moved on to solo Virtual Reality (WI6) and the demanding Reality Bath (VIII, WI5/6) in Canada.

What went wrong?

On October 1, viewers of Eric’s livestream watched Miller begin climbing around 10 am as he approached the final pitches of the route.

“We were all cheering for him and wanted to see him summit,” he said.

Near the top, around 1 pm, Miller’s haul bag became stuck lower on the pitch. Eric said that Miller went down to free it but accidentally rappelled off the end of his rope. Eric and Tom Evans, who had been taking photos of other climbers nearby, called 911, prompting a rescue operation.

Veteran El Capitan soloist Andy Kirkpatrick has climbed the same route and suggested that Miller’s fall could have resulted from a few small mistakes made at the very end of an exhausting climb. After finishing the final section of Sea of Dreams, Miller rappelled down to free his haul bags, which had become stuck on the wall below.

In the process, Kirkpatrick writes that he may have shortened his rope earlier when dealing with the complex rope system for both hauling his gear and climbing solo. When the bags jammed again and he descended to fix them, Miller likely assumed the rope was still long enough to reach.

Kirkpatrick suggests this was “the last thing he wanted to be doing so close to the top,” and that Miller was probably tired, relieved, and ready to be done. But as he rappelled, the end of the rope, hidden below an overhang, slipped through his belay device before he could react.

Does climbing have a social media problem?

After watching the video of Miller’s fall, copies of which sadly remain online, Andy Kirkpatrick wrote: “This film, these people, this world we live in — the virtual one — cheapens death, the loss of this young, amazing life recycled into nothing more than content, something to pass a few seconds before swiping onto something else in an otherwise spiritually empty day.”

In that context, it’s not surprising that some mainstream outlets, unfamiliar with the nuances of climbing and perhaps too eager for headlines, wrongly portrayed Miller as an “influencer” who live-streamed his own death. Yet they prompt a broader question for the climbing world: How does the pursuit of generating views and engagement shape the way risk and mortality are presented by some climbers?

YouTuber and elite rock climber Magnus Midtbo’s widely viewed and criticized solo climb of the Matterhorn with limited preparation and alpine experience, and free soloist Lincoln Knowles’s rage-baiting humor about falling, are just two recent examples of how some climbers use social media to amplify the drama of risk and drive engagement.

Miller’s death doesn’t fit into that trend, but it highlights how a culture that prizes dramatic online storytelling can be misinterpreted and how easily tragedy can be flattened into spectacle in the endless cycle of online content.

When climate journalist Alec Luhn found himself stranded in the Norwegian mountains with a broken leg this summer, he resorted to desperate measures, drinking his own urine, eating moss, and even sipping blood from a popped blister. He’s not alone in such extreme acts. Aaron Ralston, the hiker who famously amputated his own arm to escape a boulder, reportedly also drank urine. And TV adventurer Bear Grylls has turned the practice into a signature move during his staged survival challenges.

Does this desperate act of drinking your own pee actually work, or is it just a survival myth that refuses to die?

Stories like Alec Luhn's can make it seem as if drinking urine is a legitimate survival tactic when water runs out. But these survivors may have lived despite their choices, not because of them. We rarely hear about the countless others who tried similar methods and didn’t make it.

This selective storytelling is an example of survivorship bias, a tendency to focus on the rare success stories while overlooking the many failures that never make the headlines.

Drinking urine is not new

There has been documented use (drinking, applying it to skin or gums) of human or animal urine dating back to ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome, though modern science provides little to no evidence that it offers any real health benefits. In fact, research suggests that drinking urine can pose significant health risks rather than deliver healing effects.

Ancient traditions often attributed remarkable powers to urine. In Ayurvedic medicine, it was thought to treat ailments such as allergies, digestive issues, skin aging, and even cancer.

The Roman poet Catullus reportedly believed urine could whiten teeth, likely because of its high ammonia content. Before the invention of glucose test strips, physicians once tasted urine to detect sweetness, an early and rather unpleasant method of diagnosing diabetes.

Surprisingly, "urine therapy" continues to this day, with celebrities and even NFL players and boxers chugging on their own waste fluids.

What about survival scenarios?

When stranded without water and with only a bit of food (a minor source of hydration), survival time is uncertain. Depending on hydration levels, the environment, and the amount of physical activity, a person may last only three to seven days without water.

Yet many people in desperate situations turn to drinking their own urine within a few days. In 2017, for example, Mick Ohman survived a mere two days stranded in the Arizona desert before resorting to his own urine after running out of water and beer.

There’s a certain logic to drinking urine early, when it’s about 95% water and 5% waste like urea. But even fresh urine contains small amounts of bacteria such as E. coli, which can cause illness. Filtering with a hiking water filter might reduce bacteria, but each time urine passes through the body, it becomes more concentrated with salts and waste, increasing strain on the kidneys.

Like seawater, repeatedly drinking urine backfires: The body loses more water flushing out waste products than it gains. The result can be worsening dehydration, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and dangerous electrolyte imbalances.

Professor Mike Tipton, an expert in human physiology and survival at the University of Portsmouth in the UK, advises against turning to urine for hydration.

“You should also not drink urine in this [a survival] situation, because it will also contribute to salt building up in your body. The second important factor is to conserve body fluid.

The body of a 75kg person contains nearly 50 liters of water, and in a survival situation where dehydration is your greatest threat, conserving this water is crucial.

The body helps. With a body fluid loss of 1% of body weight and consequent decrease in blood volume and increase in salt concentration, the body increases the production of the anti-diuretic hormone that lowers urine production by the kidneys.

You can provoke this response by drinking nothing in the first 24 hours of a survival voyage.

At the same time, it is important to do as little as possible. Try to minimize heat production by the body, which will mean less sweating.

In short, by the time you’re dehydrated enough to consider drinking urine, the urine will be so concentrated that it’s just too salty. Then drinking your own pee will more likely harm than help.

What to do instead

When your water bottle runs dry, there are smarter moves than sipping urine. A solar still is one of the oldest and simplest survival hacks: dig a shallow pit, drop a cup in the center, cover it with plastic, and weigh the middle with a rock. The sun does the rest by evaporating moisture from soil or plants and condensing it into clean, drinkable drops. It won’t fill a bottle fast, but it could keep you alive when every drop counts.

There are other tricks, too. Wring dew from grass with a T-shirt at sunrise, catch rainwater in anything that holds shape, or pull moisture off leaves with a plastic bag tied around a branch.

In the rainforest, vines can drip surprisingly clean water, while in coastal zones, seawater can be evaporated and condensed using makeshift setups. Of course, the best move isn’t to move at all. Find shade, slow down, and let your body hold onto the water it’s got. If you must travel, travel at night, avoiding the sun during the day by digging a pit and lying in it, if no other shade is available.

The deep guttural roar of a stag echoed across the loch, rolling from one valley to another. I lay in my tent, half-awake, the sound somewhere between a bear and a large cow. All night, these alpha-male performances counterpointed the quiet, shadowy hulks of mountains, as stags traded auditory blows from one valley to another.

Earlier that week, I’d set out for six days of solo packrafting across the waterways of a region known as Assynt in northwest Scotland. This was my first packrafting trip, and by now, I'd shaken off my early jitters. Traveling solo with limited open-water experience carried some risk, but the two-kilo packraft offered a new way for me to explore one of Britain’s most revered mountain landscapes.

Packrafts first appeared in the 1980s as inflatable boats light and compact enough to carry in a backpack. Originally used by a small community of Alaskan adventurers, they offered a new way to link rivers, lakes, and trails on long wilderness journeys. The packraft is arguably one of the most innovative developments in outdoor gear in the past 30 years.

The packraft revolution

The early oval designs were made for quick turns in whitewater rather than straight-line travel, but today's narrower models track much better. A packraft would give me flexibility in navigating Assynt's landscape, which is dotted with nearly 700 lakes, known locally as lochs.

There are almost no footpaths here, and the ground is a blend of bog, tussocks, and undulating rocky ground, so one of the best ways to travel is by water.

The trip began with a 10-hour drive north from my house in the Midlands of England. Big, multi-armed motorways eventually shrank to a single ribbon of road. Leaving my car in the hamlet of Elphin for the week, I walked down the road to Loch Veyatie, my entry to the mountains.

Before launching the packraft, my nerves tightened a little, a mix of my inexperience and the headwind whipping the loch. I'd done my homework, practiced on local streams and lakes, and read up on packrafting. I'd even -- don't laugh -- analyzed a packrafting fatality list and written about it.

On open water, for example, you needed to avoid getting separated from your raft after a capsize. To mitigate risk, I leashed my paddle to the raft to give me a better chance of holding onto both if things turned south. I also strapped my 15kg backpack securely in the bow.

A dicey beginning

Still, the first hundred meters on the water were tense, as waves slapped the raft broadside. Progress remained hard-won and slow because of the wind, but eventually I found a rhythm. After three-and-a-half kilometers, I pitched my tent on a stony beach, with the mountain of Cul Mor rising to the left and Suilven’s shark-fin ridge dominating the horizon to the right. I was underway.

For 20 years, I'd wanted to travel the far northwest of Scotland, ever since clapping eyes as a teen on a photo of Suilven in a hiking magazine. The peaks of the Assynt and Coigach region aren't tall by global standards. Even in the UK, they don't have the prestige of, say, the Munros. But what the area lacks in height, it makes up for in wildness and mystique.

Assynt sits within the Northwest Highlands Geopark, a UNESCO-recognized area with some of the oldest rocks in Europe. Lewisian gneiss in the loch-strewn lowlands is around three billion years old, while the Torridonian sandstone peaks of Suilven, Cul Mor, and Stac Pollaidh are relatively young, "only” a billion years old.

These isolated mountains rise abruptly from the lowlands, creating a place that feels ancient, empty, and unlike any other mountains in Europe.

Possessed

Scottish poet Norman MacCaig, who claimed to have been “possessed” by the landscape of Assynt, once wrote:

Glaciers, grinding West, gouged out
these valleys, rasping the brown sandstone,
and left, on the hard rock below — the
ruffled foreland —
this frieze of mountains, filed
on the blue air — Stac Polly,
Cul Beag, Cul Mor, Suilven,
Canisp — a frieze and
a litany.

For centuries, crofters (subsistence farmers) eked out a living here, fishing and grazing sheep. Many of those settlements closed during the 18th and 19th centuries, and today, the area is sparsely populated, with more deer than people and more ancient ruined walls than intact homes.

A glacial pace

The next morning, I launched into the loch again, despite the unsettled weather, but quickly realized how strong the headwind was. Progress was glacial. It took more than half an hour to cover one kilometer. Eventually, I gave up and set out on a punishing overland detour over boggy tussocks and sodden ground. Instead of trying to stick to the rocky shoreline and risk getting cliffed out, I cut inland, closer to Suilven and its steep,  unwelcoming flanks.

In the afternoon, I reached a faint path skirting the next body of water, Fionn Loch. The trail was little more than a waterlogged line through bog, but it offered direction. By 3 pm, I had pitched camp on a stony beach. For a second day, I had covered a modest distance, just eight kilometers of considerable effort. The silhouette of Cul Mor loomed across the water as I made dinner and dried what kit I could.

Clear skies and calm water

Although the start of my journey had been slow, the low wind and clear skies in the forecast should now improve progress. Portaging three kilometers from Fionn Loch to the larger Loch Sionascaig, I soon found that dragging the empty raft like a sled while backpacking my gear was the most efficient method. The ground was mainly bog and grass, so it was unlikely I'd puncture my boat.

By late September, Assynt is a land in transition. The heather begins to fade, bracken reddens on the hillsides. The craggy shoreline and slight hint of salt in the air (the sea was only a few mountains away) gave a distinctly maritime feel. Easy paddling across Loch Sionascaig took me past small islands along the shoreline. The larger islands look inviting to camp on, but I'd read they were often tick-infested, and dense low bushes left little room for a tent.

Better progress

The water smoothed out as I portaged to a small loch and lochan -- more pond than lake. I'd made better progress in the benign conditions and camped on a beach with deer prints etched in the sand. A stag in rut called out from a small woods nearby.

At night alone in a tent, the roar of another stag carried across the water, answered from another glen. It felt ancient and raw, a sound that belonged entirely to this landscape.

On the clear, cold morning of the fourth day, the surface of Sionascaig lay mirror-still. I deliberately paddled into every inlet to soak in the landscape, rather than hurrying past as I often do when long-distance hiking or skiing.

Moments of awe

The view from my packraft was cinematic. The silvery water reflected the sandstone towers and heather slopes above. I rarely feel awe in the mountains, but here I was, experiencing the most perfect autumn weather, a scene so undeniably Scottish -- crystal water, green glens, and grey mountains. Like the stags the night before, the land was roaring evocatively.

If you've ever heard a lone bagpiper blast out a tune, you'll know there is something about Scottish culture that stirs the soul. To me, it's not the people that drive this, it's just a reflection of the landscape. It makes you want to sing and dance a highland jig. I guess that's what I'd call my version of awe.

Although I had two days left, across Ffion Loch and then back to Loch Veyatie, I was already sold on this means of travel. It had its gripes, as all travel does -- dragging the empty raft on those portages too short to deflate and reinflate it, for example.

But the ease of water travel without a pack weighing me down was addictive. In winter, I enjoy skiing while pulling a sled for the same reason. It didn't even bother me much that I didn't climb a single peak. Suilven, the mountain that had drawn me to this part of Scotland all those years ago, would have to wait for another visit.

Homeward bound

I wondered why I had spent years chasing more distant, exotic places when, in truth, I could not imagine a more rewarding adventure. Assynt felt like home. That afternoon, I drove 40 minutes south to the small village of Ullapool. I bought fish and chips and ate them overlooking the sea, thinking about how my father had visited 58 years before on his own hillwalking adventure.

During the long drive home the following day, I still carried the glow of Assynt as I sang along to my new favorite highland folk band.

Loic Cappellin, 26, of Switzerland is attempting a human-powered journey from the Arctic to the Amazon. He began in early 2025, skiing through northern Sweden and Norway. He then cycled 7,000km through Europe to the Mediterranean, where he crossed to Morocco.

Each stage has been a test of endurance, but the third leg, across the Moroccan desert, proved to be the most demanding so far.

Cappellin's plan was to traverse roughly 1,000km of desert from the oasis town of Boudnib, on the fringe of the Sahara, to the Atlantic coast. It was a natural continuation of his overland route south, connecting Europe to Africa and setting up the next chapter: sailing across the Atlantic. But unlike the bike roads of Europe or the frozen mountains in Norway, the Moroccan desert threw up additional challenges beyond heat: rocks and bureaucracy.

“The terrain was much rockier than I had anticipated,” Cappellin told ExplorersWeb. “I had already been in this region before, but not on this exact route. From the satellite imagery I had studied, I hadn’t judged it would be so rugged."

"As a result, the wheels of my cart were damaged as early as the second day. The cart’s center of gravity was too high, and with the full load, it tended to sway. Even though I had reinforced wheels, they bent under the pressure.”

Heat and weight

The summer heat added another dimension. Starting on August 8, temperatures reached 50°C every day.

“I consumed on average 15 liters of water per day — around 12 liters to drink, with the rest used for cooking, washing, and keeping my bottles cool by wrapping them in cloth -- a local technique known as the Berber fridge," Cappellin explained. "At maximum, I carried 85 liters of water, which pushed the cart’s weight up to an estimated 160kg."

"Physically, it was brutal," he added. "Coming straight off 7,000km on the bike, my body was not used to pulling such weight, and I suffered from severe back and hip pain for the first two weeks.”

This part of Morocco, between the High Atlas to the north and the dunes of the Sahara to the south, is a harsh transitional zone of rocky plains, wadis, and military-controlled valleys. After his first 150km, Cappellin was spotted by the police. At first, they only observed from a distance, but their presence soon became constant.

Tent lost

“This second part [of the crossing] was marked by the loss of my tent. I hadn’t secured it properly to the cart, and it fell off. Someone passing by picked it up. With the help of a local, I managed to find a replacement tent that got me through another 260km.”

By then, the mercury was hitting new extremes. On August 22, Cappellin recorded his hottest day: 52°C. A few nights later, he was jolted from sleep by authorities.

“I was forcibly woken up by police and relocated to what they considered a ‘safer’ place -- a roadside café.”

As he attempted to continue toward the Iriki Lake region, a dry basin on the edge of the desert, he was blocked outright.

“I was intercepted by the Royal Gendarmerie in a 4x4. They considered my attempt too dangerous and refused to let me continue, even after I presented my experience, the kilometers already covered, and my emergency equipment, including two SOS beacons. The breaking point was when they showed me a photo of a foreign motorcyclist who had been found dead in the region just weeks before. I had to yield and rethink my route.”

Police escorts and altered plans

From then on, Cappellin was never out of sight. Police on motorbikes tailed him by day. At night, they sometimes posted guards near his camp.

“I ended up with a 24-hour police escort, including a night guard posted next to my camp. That was the limit for me.”

The restrictions forced him onto main valleys and paved roads. His cart overturned repeatedly on broken ground, but he eventually made it to the city of Tata, in southwestern Morocco, where he had hoped to switch to a bicycle. None were available, however.

In the town of Akka, also in the southwest, worn down by the constant surveillance and logistical hurdles, he decided to abandon the cart entirely.

“With the help of the former mayor, I finally found a city bike for a reasonable price. Completely unsuited for adventure use, but it did the job. I left the cart behind and rode the last 300km to the Atlantic coast. To my relief, once I was on the bike, the police left me alone.”

Riding on a basic town-style bike loaded with equipment, food, and water was far from easy.

“Riding 300km on what was essentially a ‘bakery bike,’ loaded with 30kg of gear plus a backpack, was another challenge altogether. But on September 26, after 1,000km from Boudnib, I reached Sidi Ifni and officially closed this desert stage.”

The next leg

“This leg was much more demanding than I had imagined, not only because of the terrain and climate, but also because of the constant interventions from the authorities,” Cappellin told ExplorersWeb. "Still, I was deeply touched by the kindness and generosity of the Moroccan people, who helped me along the way."

The Moroccan desert stage provided both a physical and psychological challenge. Crushing heat, bureaucratic roadblocks, and improvisations with unsuitable gear. Yet Cappellin’s persistence carried him to the Atlantic.

Now, the focus shifts to the ocean. After skiing, cycling, trekking, and cart hauling, Cappellin is about to enter new territory. “Sailing is completely new to me, so I am excited to gain experience and face this new chapter of the journey.”

He will cross the Atlantic on a skippered sailboat to continue his goal to link the Arctic to the Amazon under human power.

German long-distance traveler Katharina Kneip, 35, is now well underway with the Canadian leg of her multi-year journey around the Northern Hemisphere by wind, foot, and ski.

Since leaving Germany in January 2023, she has covered more than 4,300km by hiking, kayaking, and skiing across northern Europe, before sailing to Svalbard, Greenland, and Iceland, where Kneip spent the winter, later completing several long-distance treks.

ExplorersWeb last reported on Kneip in July, when she landed in St. Lewis (a remote community in southern Labrador, part of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador), after sailing from Iceland to Greenland and then across the Labrador Sea. On arrival, Canadian immigration officials initially issued her a six-month stay -- too short for her planned 10,000km crossing to Alaska on foot.

Eventually, Kneip and her sailing companions sailed to Lewisporte, Newfoundland, where she prepared extensive documentation outlining her plans. Her application was successful, and she was granted a two-year stay in Canada.

“It took a while for it to sink in. This is really happening, being underway in Canada is my home for the next two years,” Kneip said.

Crossing Newfoundland

Kneip quickly sent her winter gear ahead to Ottawa, Ontario, where she plans to arrive around December, then began walking 300km across Newfoundland. The trek took 10 days in unusually hot and dry conditions.

“It was incredibly hot, 35˚C. All the marshland was dried out. Some people wrote me like, ‘Oh, why don't you have a water filter if you're short on water?’ But there was literally no water,” she told ExplorersWeb.

Despite the heat, she found support in rural communities.

“While I was sweating and walking through the incredibly vast landscape, past countless flowers and caribou, accompanied by singing birds, mosquitoes, and many other animals, something else happened that I would never have imagined...the incredible helpfulness and enthusiasm of the people here.”

Finishing her trek at Corner Brook, Newfoundland, in early August, Kneip hitched to Nova Scotia with a Belgian sailing couple, landing in Cape Breton.

Nova Scotia and New Brunswick

By then, large wildfires had forced the closure of trails across the province and parts of New Brunswick.

“Everything was closed, no hiking was allowed, no wild camping. I had to skip my hiking plans for Cape Breton.”

With trails closed, she followed rural roads westward, walking stretches of 60 to 100km with no houses or cell service.

Accommodation remained a challenge. Campsites were scarce and expensive, so Kneip often relied on local hospitality.

“That was actually maybe the best experience so far, meeting all these people...[They] told me all their family history and invited me in, gave me food. I've never eaten so much bacon in my life.”

Once in New Brunswick, she followed ATV tracks after fire bans were partly lifted. She reached Bathurst on August 16, after about a month. From there, she walked the 150km Nepisiguit Mi’gmaq Trail through northern New Brunswick.

Moose season

The timing coincided with moose hunting season, which added new risks.

“I've never seen so many dead moose in my life," she recalled. "Like, really, every car...and truck had moose on the back, and so I didn't want to stay in the woods during dawn.”

From northern New Brunswick, she continued to Edmunston, near the New Brunswick–Quebec border. Here, she is currently resting with hosts from a travelers' hospitality network.

Looking back, she described her east Canadian stage as more social than nature-focused. “It became much more of a cultural walk than a nature walk.”

Funding a a global journey

Kneip’s ability to sustain such a long journey rests on years of financial preparation, frugal living, and occasional outside support. She isn't allowed to work while in Canada, so she relies entirely on advance planning and resourcefulness.

“I've been planning, meaning saving, for about three years before I started. I dedicated my whole life to save money,” she said.

Kneip worked multiple jobs. “I worked full-time in two jobs and got some artist grants also.”

She avoids relying on sponsorships or heavy social media promotion.

“I could do much more on social media, I guess, like in terms of having more followers...[but] that is something that I don't want to do. It was very clear to me that I want to be independent from that.”

Ottawa and beyond

Kneip’s immediate plan is to continue west to Ottawa via a mix of hiking and bicycle trails, including repurposed railway lines.

Once she reaches Ottawa in early winter, she will head west across vast northern Ontario to Winnipeg, aiming to arrive in late April. She then continues heading west across Canada, ultimately turning north to Alaska.

From there, she hopes to sail across the Bering Strait into Russia to continue her trek. Given the unknowns of travel in Russia and the difficulties of hiking across that country for what will surely be years, she will have to surmount many logistical issues. As a last resort, she could sail to Japan and trek across China or other Asian countries instead. In any case, it will be several more years before she reaches her finish line back in Germany.

Antarctica is usually unoccupied except for scientists, wealthy tourists, and adventurers. Surprisingly, though, a small number of children have entered the world there. The exact figure is difficult to pin down. Some sources list 11 births, mostly at Argentina’s Esperanza Base and Chile’s Eduardo Frei Base. One child was both conceived and born in Antarctica.

Even these remarkable children, however, don't carry Antarctic passports, because Antarctica isn't a country. The children take their parents' nationality.

The first 'Antarctican'

The first documented birth was Emilio Marcos Palma, delivered on Jan. 7, 1978, at Argentina’s Esperanza Base. His mother, Maria Silvia Morello, flew there late in her pregnancy as part of an Argentine initiative to strengthen its territorial presence.

Palma weighed 3.4kg at birth. His father, Captain Jorge Emilio Palma, was head of the Argentine Army detachment at the base.

Most sources recognize Palma’s birth as the first on the Antarctic mainland. Palma was also entitled to British overseas citizenship, as the UK also claimed that part of Antarctica.

Marisa Delgado

Just months later, on 27 May 1978, Marisa de las Nieves Delgado was born at Esperanza Base, during a storm when winds reached 150kph. Delivered by Dr. Carlos Galceran with help from her father, Sergeant Nestor Delgado, she weighed 3.42kg. Newspapers announced her as “The First Woman of Antarctica.”

Although she returned to Buenos Aires as a baby, Delgado told The Press, “My memories aren’t of playing in the snow –- but it’s my story, it’s in my identity.” She often introduces herself as Marisa “de las Nieves” Delgado, meaning “of the snows.”

In 2000, Delgado returned with the Argentine Antarctic Program, describing it as “the opportunity to begin the search for my identity.” Her parents were among the first families to overwinter at Esperanza, and she calls them “pioneers.”

Now living in New York, Delgado co-founded the Native Antarctica Foundation with fellow Antarctic-born Argentinians Jose Manuel Valladares Solis and Maria Sol Cosenza.

“Our lives are not a footnote in a scientific record,” she says. “We should view Antarctica not just through a microscope, but through a human lens.”

Today, pregnancies are not permitted at Antarctic bases, which Delgado believes could mean hers is among the last generations born there.

“I do not think anyone would allow it today,” she says. “It’s sad because it means we would have witnessed the end of our community.”

Ruben Eduardo de Carli

On 21 September 1979, Ruben Eduardo de Carli was born at Esperanza Base. His father, Eduardo Francisco de Carli, was a 26-year-old army technician tasked with setting up a radio station, while his mother, Maria Rosario Cuccaro, was a kindergarten teacher. Today, de Carli lives in Buenos Aires.

De Carli recalls his birth was “complicated.” He was born at eight months after a difficult delivery, and midwives initially believed he was stillborn.

Francisco Javier Sosa

Just weeks later, on Oct. 11, 1979, Francisco Javier Sosa was born at the same base. His father worked as a cook, and his mother was a professor of Antarctic history. Sosa later moved to the United States, where he worked as a cook in Florida and raised three children.

Reflecting on his unique birthplace, he later said, “Having been born in Antarctica meant a lot because it is unique...I was not able to visit the place where I was born.”

Silvia Analia Arnouil

In January 1980, Silvia Analia Arnouil was born at Esperanza Base to Petty Officer Oscar Arnouil and his wife. Her delivery was attended by doctors Ruben and Mabel Pariggi.

Jose Manuel Valladares Solis

On 24 January 1980, Jose Manuel Valladares Solis was delivered at Esperanza under unusual circumstances. His parents (his father was an Army Colonel) had traveled south after a fire damaged the base’s facilities. With little equipment available, because of the fire, doctors improvised using a nebulizer as a surgical aspirator (often used to assist via suction with difficult births) during the delivery.

Valladares has since reflected his belief that his birth was not driven by politics.

“I agree with the opinion of the Japanese journalist Eiji Roppongi, who interviewed me in 2003 and stated that my birth was my destiny, not because of political interest in Argentina, not because my parents chose the place, but because God wanted it that way.”

Lucas Daniel Posse

On Feb. 4, 1980, Lucas Daniel Posse was born at Esperanza Base to Sergeant Marcelo Posse, a mechanic, and his wife Maria Rosa Domínguez.

Maria Sol Cosenza

In 1983, Maria Sol Cosenza was born at Esperanza and lived there until she was six months old. Later settling in Mexico, she studied social communication. Reflecting on her unusual beginning, she later said, “I am proud of having been born in a magic land, as I see it, and it makes me feel special.”

Chile joins the story

Chile also recognized the value of encouraging families at its Antarctic outpost. On Nov. 21, 1984, Juan Pablo Camacho Martino was born at the Eduardo Frei Base on King George Island.

Unlike Palma, Camacho was both conceived and born in Antarctica, making his case unique. Within weeks, Gisella Cortes Rojas was also born at the base, followed in January 1985 by Ignacio Alfonso Miranda Lagunas, the most recent birth recorded on the continent.

Timeline of Antarctic births

• 7 January 1978 – Emilio Marcos Palma (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 27 May 1978 – Marisa de las Nieves Delgado (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 21 September 1979 – Ruben Eduardo de Carli (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 11 October 1979 – Francisco Javier Sosa (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 14 January 1980 – Silvia Analia Arnouil (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 24 January 1980 – Jose Manuel Valladares Solís (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 4 February 1980 – Lucas Daniel Posse (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 1983 – Maria Sol Cosenza (Esperanza Base, Argentina)
• 21 November 1984 – Juan Pablo Camacho Martino (Eduardo Frei Base, Chile)
• 2 December 1984 – Gisella Cortes Rojas (Eduardo Frei Base, Chile)
• 23 January 1985 – Ignacio Alfonso Miranda Lagunas (Eduardo Frei Base, Chile)

By establishing family life at their stations, both Argentina and Chile sought to underscore their territorial claims in a region governed by the Antarctic Treaty. Families endured storms, fires, and isolation, but their presence was presumably seen as proof of national commitment.

Since the mid-1980s, no further births have been publicly documented. Today, Antarctic programs prioritize safety and logistics, and pregnant women are not sent to the remote bases.

James Baxter, 65, has cycled across Africa from Namibia to Tanzania in 119 days. On September 5, the British adventurer stepped into the Indian Ocean to mark the end of his 5,639km journey.

Baxter's route also took him through Botswana, Zambia, and Malawi. ExplorersWeb last wrote about Baxter as he crossed into Malawi.

After leaving Zambia, Baxter crossed Malawi from west to north and pushed through the varied landscapes of central Tanzania to the Indian Ocean. His most recent legs describe a region of contrasts -- from remote mission stations to bustling markets, dense jungle to dry savannah, and the warmth of strangers encountered along the way.

Central Malawi

On July 30 (Day 82), Baxter crossed from Zambia into Malawi at Mchinji. Almost immediately, he noticed the difference -- red-brick houses, roadside kilns, and vibrant markets spilling onto the roads. His first days carried him through Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, which he found soulless. From there, he descended toward Lake Malawi. By 3 August, he was at Nkhotakota, a port town on the shores of the lake, where he watched the Mwela winds whip the lake into whitecaps.

Topping up calories with fried cassava, a starchy root vegetable. Photo: James Baxter

From there, he cycled north along the lake, through Ngala on August 5 (Day 88), and reached Nkhata Bay the next evening. He rewarded himself with two rest days on August 7-8 (Days 90–91) at a lodge, snorkeling among colorful cichlids and exploring the lively town markets, before preparing for the long climb into Malawi’s northern highlands.

North Malawi

The next morning, on August 9 (Day 92), Baxter faced a tough 1,000m climb from the lakeshore to Mzuzu, the capital of Malawi's northern region. The following days carried him through steep, forested country, past rubber plantations and into Livingstonia, where a century-old mission station, with its hospital, church, and university, left a lasting impression on the Briton. Baxter was still heading north, tracing the shore of Lake Malawi from a distance.

From August 10–15 (Days 93–98), Baxter worked steadily north, past fishing villages strung out along the beaches, their nets full of the same cichlids he had marveled at underwater just days before. Markets were rich with tomatoes, cassava, and dried fish, while children chased alongside his bike in fascination.

By August 15, he reached Karonga and crossed the Songwe River into Tanzania, trading his last kwacha (the currency of Malawi) for shillings and sitting down to a hearty plate of rice and beef stew.

West Central Tanzania

Baxter’s Tanzanian chapter began on August 16 (Day 99) with a grinding climb into lush highlands. Here, he saw a society in transition: farmers growing not only for subsistence but also for markets, investing in timber, tea, and rice. The cycling was punishing, with endless ascents and descents on dirt tracks, but the energy of the villages kept him moving.

Over the following days, he continued through the Kilombero Valley, surrounded by timber operations and rice paddies, tallying more than 10,000m of ascent and descent in less than two weeks.

By August 29 (Day 112), Baxter had reached the small town of Mbingu, where he found refuge with Franciscan sisters at their Spiritual Center.

East Central Tanzania

On August 31 (Day 114), Baxter turned east from Ifakara, a town in the center of Tanzania, and set his sights on the Indian Ocean. The challenge was the infamous T1 highway, Tanzania’s main artery inland from Dar es Salaam. Here, he often shared the road with convoys of roaring trucks.

At times, he found relief on parallel dirt tracks, and in Morogoro, he passed beneath the impressive cloud-draped Uluguru Mountains, their fertile slopes feeding the markets below.

Finally, on September 6, Baxter rolled into Bagamoyo, once a hub of the East African slave trade. Carrying his bike into the surf, he dipped his wheels in the Indian Ocean, closing a 119-day odyssey across the continent.

Greenland’s brief summer sledding season is drawing to a close, with two guided crossings of the ice sheet done and one independent team still on the ice. Elsewhere, a two-man team made a short kite journey on the southern part of the ice sheet in preparation for an upcoming Antarctic expedition later this year. All teams noted significant challenges with meltwater.

A classic east-to-west crossing

Dutch polar guide Henk-Jan Geel led a ski crossing of the ice sheet from east to west. The team included three male clients from the Netherlands and one female client from the United States. The five-person party reached Kangerlussuaq after 26 days of travel, including two rest days, on September 9.

The crossing started at Isortoq on the East Coast and finished at point 660 near Kangerlussuaq, following the classic east-to-west route. After a few days of navigating the initial icefall, the team made rapid progress.

“From day three, we managed to make 25 kilometers a day,” explained Geel. "I was thinking okay, the first 10 days we do like 20 kilometers a day. The second 10 days, we do 25, and then after that, we'll see. But [this group] just went on.

More polar bears

In recent years, polar bears have become more visible on both coasts and have occasionally ventured onto the ice sheet itself. Geel’s team took full precautions, including bear watches, firearms, and flares, although no bears or tracks were encountered.

“The first night, we had a bear watch. And at some point, you just have to decide, well, what are the odds?” said Geel.

His team experienced milder temperatures compared to previous crossings he has guided, with significant meltwater, particularly on the west coast.

“The temperatures were warmer than two years ago,” he told ExplorersWeb. "At that time,] we experienced -32˚C. This time, the coldest we recorded was -18, -19 during one morning. During the day, it was -6˚, -7˚. Some of the days, it was even above freezing, especially in the beginning. So we had some melt, which concerned me, because there was a lot of melt in western Greenland."

In their final week, the team encountered flowing rivers and meltwater lakes as they descended toward Kangerlussuaq. These features required significant detours and careful navigation.

“We have seen at least four rivers still flowing,” Geel said. He had scoped out the most obvious rivers by using satellite imagery before hitting the ice.

"Two years ago, I still remember that we crossed a river, which by then was dry and frozen, and went down through the riverbed and up the other side. But this time, the river was still flowing,” Geel continued.

To avoid wet feet, the team carefully navigated around the streams, carving through the ice. They also had to be mindful of crevasses, which were visible and easier to navigate thanks to the lack of fresh snow.

In the footsteps of Nansen

A six-person team led by guide Kathinka Gyllenhammar of Ousland Explorers completed a ski crossing of the ice sheet from Isortoq on the east coast to Nuuk in the west. Following the historic Nansen route, the journey lasted 35 days and finished two days ahead of schedule on September 17.

In the early stages, the group negotiated crevasse fields and the lower icefall.

“[We] started off with getting stuck in a crevasse area, but we backtracked and went around it,” the team reported.

By Day 4, conditions improved, and they were able to ski consistently.

“The sun shone in the blue sky all day, and after half the day, we were rewarded… There is a lot more snow melted than usual. So it has been trekking till here.”

Over the next week, the team advanced steadily up onto the plateau, often in clear weather.

“We did 28.5 kilometers today in beautiful weather and great conditions,” one entry noted.

Sweaty days

Their diary also described unusually warm days: “First part of the day was sweaty with pants on and the last half of the day was sweaty without pants on! We skied in just our Brynje netting!”

Periods of volatile weather slowed progress, and on Day 10, the group reported rain.

By September 2, the team had reached the highest point of the ice sheet, 2,633m. The descent toward the West Coast presented greater challenges.

“We have gone through more crevasses today than I have ever done [in a] day ever before!” Gyllenhammar wrote. “Several of us have gone through the ice on the rivers today, so we have a lot of wet feet. Magnus went in almost to his hips!”

After leaving the ice, the expedition continued across moraine and river valleys. Using a packraft to cross flooded rivers, they trekked through the final valleys before reaching Nuuk, completing a full coast-to-coast crossing of Greenland.

An independent journey

A third group remains on the ice, an independent three-man team made up of Jordan Manning and Stafford Tyrrell of Ireland, and Ole Nilsen of Norway. They began from Isortoq after sailing there from Bergen, Norway, aboard Tyrrell’s small sailboat. They plan to finish their journey at Disko Bay on the West Coast.

Henk-Jan Geel made contact with them while on the ice. When his team reached the former U.S. radar station DYE-2, Tyrrell’s group was about six days behind. By the time Geel’s party arrived in Kangerlussuaq, the gap had widened to around 10 days. Geel offered to cache spare provisions, but Tyrrell’s team was carrying 35 days of food and chose to continue. There has been no update yet on their arrival in Disko Bay.

Training for Antarctica

French adventurer Matthieu Tordeur, formerly the youngest person to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole, returned to Greenland with glaciologist Dr. Heidi Sevestre for a brief science-focused snowkite journey.

The pair set out from Qaqortoq in southern Greenland, covering 635km by kite before finishing near Kangerlussuaq on the west coast. Their goal was to test a custom-built 50m ground penetrating radar system that will be used in Antarctica later this year.

Tordeur told ExplorersWeb that the journey was mostly about scientific testing. However, it also revealed striking changes in the ice in the five years since Belgian polar traveler Dixie Dansercoer died in a crevasse accident on the ice sheet.

“I was...at exactly the same GPS location at the end, near Kangerlussuaq," said Tordeur. "And we had so many meltpools this year that we didn’t have five years ago.”

They also had unseasonably warm weather and lots of rain.

"We had rain at 2,400m of altitude, and it was not like small drops of water,” Tordeur said. "It was proper rain, and we were totally wet."

Helicopter lift required

Because of crevasses at the start and extensive melt lakes at the finish, the pair could not enter or exit the ice sheet entirely under their own power and so took a helicopter. This experience of significant melt corresponds with a report from Henk-Jan Geel. He told ExplorersWeb that another kite team in the southern part of the ice sheet was helicoptered out (pre-planned) due to extensive meltwater.

Daytime heat also forced a shift in schedule.

“It was so warm during the day, and the snow was so soft, that we switched to night kiting,” Tordeur explained. “We had the stars above our heads, and we even had some northern lights.”

Despite the challenges, the pair achieved their main objective of testing radar equipment. Next, Tordeur and Sevestre will head to Antarctica at the end of October for an 80-day, 3,650km snow kite journey, pulling ground-penetrating radar to study snow accumulation rates and ice layering and detect subglacial lakes and rivers.

Every year, mountain rescue teams from the Rockies to the Scottish Highlands issue the same warning: Adventurers should be self-reliant and responsible for their own safety. The message usually follows another late-night helicopter evacuation of a stranded hiker.

As digital tools have seeped into the outdoor world, paper maps and compasses have slipped out of many backpacks. For confident navigators with backup batteries and redundant systems, that’s not necessarily a problem. But for those less skilled with aligning digital navigation with the land in front of them, relying solely on a smartphone or GPS can turn from convenience to liability.

Online guidebooks and navigation apps have reshaped long-distance trails in the United States, encouraging some hikers to outsource decision-making to their devices. At times, the results are comical: Hikers who walk a few feet off the path because that's where their GPS insists the “real” trail was. At other times, wayward digital advice becomes dangerous. In Scotland, people have followed Google Maps straight into precarious terrain.

Now with artificial intelligence (AI) increasingly offering to plan holidays and travel itineraries, some travelers are turning to AI to plan their wilderness adventures. This summer, veteran Swedish adventurer Mikael Strandberg was trekking in Kyrgyzstan's Karakol Valley with his two daughters when he came across two young men who he learned had planned a 7 to 9-day trek entirely using AI.

Trek planning with ChatGPT

The two men, who were from Saudi Arabia, wandered into Strandberg's camp late one day, as darkness fell. The first indication that something was off was when one of them erected a very small tent.

“They had these tents where they couldn't stretch out, that you buy your kids when you're going to go down to the beach. And that was a suggestion from AI," Strandberg explained.

"They didn't find the brand they were looking for,” he continued, "so they took something that looked like it. It also became apparent that their fuel allocation had been recommended by ChatGPT."

“They asked AI, how much fuel do they need to take for nine days, because we can't carry too much. Okay? So AI thinks, ah, we will help them by telling them what they want to hear,” said Strandberg.

“They had two small gas bottles for nine days,” said Strandberg, who was not judgmental but concerned about their welfare. “They hadn't even been able to pull out the stand on the stove that you screw on...So they put a pot on it...in the morning, and obviously it fell over.”

Overloaded and undercooked

Further conversation revealed the two men had done a few day hikes, but never a multi-day hike in a remote area. So when AI suggested meager food rations and unnecessary items to weight down their packs, they were none the wiser.

“They had something like 25 to 30 kilos of weight in the backpack...[but] they brought five kilos of food between two people, including snacks, for nine days.”

They also had no paper maps (they're hard to find in these post-Soviet regions) or navigation skills, relying on AI and GPS, which had plotted routes that Strandberg suggested were ill-advised. When back home, the 63-year-old Swede tried out ChatGPT for route planning himself to test out its accuracy.

“What I got back was just rubbish," he said. "So I asked my AI buddy, why are you doing this, this is dangerous? He didn't answer immediately because he was offended. And then he came back. 'I just wanted to make you happy. I just gave you something which was quite close.' It was 25 kilometers off. So you have to be able to ask the right questions.”

A worked example

Unlike the Saudis’ trek in remote Kyrgyzstan, many trails are well documented online. When I asked ChatGPT some basic questions, its answers were surprisingly close to my actual experience. This suggests that the usefulness of AI depends heavily on the trail and the trekker.

I tested out ChatGPT by asking it the following question: How many kilos of food do I need to hike the Arctic Circle Trail in Greenland, and how much fuel do I need to take? In a rather long-winded answer, AI estimated that I would need 6-8kg of food and one 230g gas canister.

When I hiked an extended version of this trail over 11 days in 2023, I took 7kg of food and a 230g gas canister, and a smaller spare. In this case, ChatGPT's advice was pretty good. Perhaps with the right questions and route, AI is a useful starting point as a planning aid for those experienced enough to discern fact from fiction.

A cautionary tale

Returning to Kyrgyzstan, when the two Saudi men left camp, they struggled to cross the nearby river, and so one of Strandberg's teenage daughters helped them across. The Swede had bid the two Saudis farewell, pointed them in the direction of the nearest road, and suggested they rent horses and a guide. Perhaps not surprisingly in this tale, they had little money on them to pay for guides and horses, having entrusted ChatGPT to plan the trip finances.

The veteran Swedish adventurer does not know what became of the two men, and they may well have safely found their way back to civilization with a few tales to tell at the local watering hole. But his experience with these two novice hikers serves as a cautionary tale on the potential risk of handing over adventure and expedition planning to AI if you have little experience in the field.

In June 2006, three men shouldered packs heavy with food, light on everything else, and pointed themselves across the empty wilderness of northern Alaska. Their goal was simple -- to walk as far as possible with no resupplies, caches, hunting, or fishing, just their clothing and equipment, willpower, and the calories they could carry.

Roman Dial, an Alaskan backcountry legend and now retired Professor of Biology and Mathematics at Alaska Pacific University, called it the longest wilderness walk in America by fair means. With him were Ryan Jordan, a gear obsessive from Montana and publisher of Backpacking Light, and Jason Geck, an Alaskan adventurer and a Professor at Alaska Pacific University. They named the project the Arctic 1000, a nod to the kilometer count if they made it all the way.

Their line began at the Chukchi Sea on Alaska’s western coast and ran east through the Brooks Range to the Dalton Highway, around 1,000km with no resupply. Along the way, it crossed America’s most remote point, roughly 190km from the nearest road or habitation. They carried everything they needed on their backs with zero foraging and zero outside help. Dial started with about 25kg, using ultralight gear to keep his base weight to around 7kg.

Dial finished after 1,000km and 23 days and 8 hours. Jordan exited earlier due to injury, and Geck left on day 21 due to prior commitments. That evening, Geck and Dial slept in a hotel, and he and Geck ate in a restaurant, trading some remaining food for a cheeseburger. Dial pushed on to do the final 113km in a day and a half with his now very minimal pack.

The equation of maximum range

Dial had been wrestling with the “how far, how fast, how heavy?” puzzle since Alaska’s early wilderness races and his days as a mathematics grad student. Back then, he noticed a harsh truth: Every extra half-kilo on his back cost him roughly a kilometer a day. Lighten the load, and you could go farther. Add weight and you’d slow down, no matter how fit or hardened you are.

That observation eventually became a mathematical model, thanks to Dial’s skills with numbers. It’s simple enough to scrawl on the back of an envelope and is built from three pieces:

• Effort (MAX): How far you could walk in a day with nothing on your back.
• Comfort (b): your base gear weight.
• Food ration (f): how much food you need each day.

Subtract your Max effort from your comfort load, and you get what Dial calls your Animal Factor (A).

That number is the “engine” you bring into the field. From there, some further math can be used to work out the furthest distance you can cover before the balance between food weight and walking speed tips against you.

A worked example

Take a hiker who can cover 50km in a day with no pack. Their Max is therefore 50. Let’s say their backpack and gear excluding food (what Dial calls comfort) weigh just 5kg, and they plan to eat 0.7 kg of food per day. This hiker’s Animal Factor would be 45 (50-5).

Dial's subsequent formulas can be used to estimate out how far this hiker can cover as well as how many days it might take him.

• Maximum distance possible = Animal Factor squared, divided by four times the daily food.
  45²/(4×0.7) = 723km
• Time to walk that far = Animal Factor divided by twice the daily food.
  45/(2×0.7) = 32 days
• Food carried at the start = Animal Factor divided by two.
  45/2 = 22.5kg.
• Total starting pack weight = base gear plus that food.
  5 + 22.5 = 27.5kg.

So, this hypothetical hiker, starting with a 27.5kg pack, could theoretically walk about 723 km over 32 days, an average of 22.5km per day.

If the same hiker increases his food from 22.5kg to, for example, 40kg, he will be out there longer -- 57 days -- but cover less ground, only 286km, an average of 5km/day.

Testing the theory

The Arctic 1000 was the ultimate test of that theory. The first week was hard, thanks to comparatively heavy packs, knee-deep tussocks, and cold river crossings. Every evening meant cooking on a wood stove or open fire, a tarp staked low against the wind, and a shared sleeping quilt for two of the three.

Their diet was also quite minimalistic. Olive oil in soft bottles, almond butter, chocolate bars, ramen, and mashed potatoes. Each man carried close to 100,000 calories worth of food and planned to burn thousands from their own bodies. Dial, then 45 years old, lost around 6.5 kilograms over the course of the walk.

A careful balance

Carry more food, and they may have been too weighed down. Carry less, and they would not have been fueled adequately to maintain their pace. Somewhere in the middle is that razor’s edge where wilderness travelers can walk the farthest with what they can carry.

Dial's initial calculations and aim for himself was to walk 850km in 17 days. The Arctic 1000 confirmed this was possible and a little more. Of course the model doesn't factor in psychological factors, and it only crudely estimates physiological capacity.

For Dial and his companions, that razor’s edge stretched across northern Alaska. It wasn’t just about walking a thousand kilometers; it also helped to test if Dial's maths could be lived out in practice in the backcountry. It was about answering the question that had intrigued Dial since his wilderness racing days. How far can a person go on nothing but what’s on their back? One thousand kilometers later, Roman Dial had his answer.

On September 4, a six-strong team of mostly Canadian paddlers brought their canoes ashore in Waskaganish, a Cree community on James Bay. They had completed a 1,200km journey that began three months earlier in Tadoussac, Quebec, where the Saguenay River meets the St Lawrence.

Their route traced a line across lakes, rivers, and portages that once formed a vital artery of the fur trade, linking the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the shores of the Arctic Ocean.

The 97-day expedition, led by 33-year-old guide, writer, and adventurer Bruno Forest of Tadoussac, started on May 31.

"When I left for this expedition, I left my home by walking," Forest recalled. "I went to the beach, and then we left for 1,200km. I didn’t have to take a car, it was directly into the canoes. This project was a mix between a passion for history and a passion for adventure, the outdoors, and canoeing."

Following those before them

Long before the French fur traders pushed west, these rivers were highways for Indigenous nations such as the Innu, Cree, and Atikamekw. They trapped and hunted on their ancestral lands, then gathered at the watershed divides to trade goods such as beaver pelts, shells, stone, and later, European tools.

"There was already a big trading system," Forest explained. "It was accentuated when the Europeans arrived with merchandise that the natives appreciated…and eventually some explorers in the 17^th century, like Father Charles Albanel and Louis Jolliet, went all the way to Hudson Bay."

The route north

In the first weeks, the team paddled along the Saguenay River and into Lac Saint-Jean, a large lake that acts as a gateway to the north. This section is dotted with towns and fishing cottages, providing opportunities for the team to resupply and visit local communities. But beyond Lac Saint-Jean, the expedition entered wilder country.

From the lake, they pressed northwest into waters flowing toward Chibougamau, a large town in northern Quebec. Here, the challenge intensified. The team had to battle upstream, often unable to paddle at all.

"We were literally climbing a mountain in terms of altitude, going upstream on rivers with a big flow of water," Forest explained. "We were mostly walking in the river on rocks…sometimes going up rapids just hauling our canoe."

Portages were hard. Trails that once served traders had long been reclaimed by the forest, so the paddlers often had to hack their own.

"Sometimes we would recognize the old traces of the portage that was now taken back by forest," Forest said. "And then we would pass with axes, with saws, and create a new portage, sometimes for two kilometers, cutting all the trees so the canoes could pass on our heads."

The rivers were swollen from summer rain, and the hard work continued, with the team pushing upstream for the first half of the route. Eventually, they reached the height of land, a watershed divide that First Nations used for centuries as a meeting point to trade. From this point, rivers began to flow north toward James Bay, and the character of the journey changed.

Liberation

"When we started to go downstream, something liberated in us, and we were suddenly having fun. It was not easy, but it was a more human, accessible travel, more comfortable.”

The descent carried them through Lac Mistassini, the largest natural freshwater lake in Quebec. The lake is notorious for its winds, and local Cree had warned them of its dangers.

"On that lake, it’s a big deal. You can’t go if there’s wind," Forest explained. "There’s an island they call Manitouk. They told us you should never point at that island because the wind will rise and be very bad with you."

However, Forest and his team had no issues, paddling 50km in a day as they crossed the lake in calm conditions.

From Mistassini, the canoes followed rivers north and west into Cree territory until finally reaching the salt waters of James Bay. At various stops, the team discussed the region's history with local families.

"They recognized some parts of their history in our travel, and it helped so many stories emerge," Forest said. "We met a lady named Jane Voyageur, whose great-great-grandfather was a voyageur [early French and French Canadian fur traders] for the Hudson’s Bay Company."

Reviving Tremblay Canoes

One of the most interesting aspects of the expedition was the team's choice of boats. Instead of modern Kevlar or fiberglass, the team paddled cedar and canvas canoes built in the style of the Tremblay Canoes of Saint-Félicien, on Lac Saint-Jean.

Founded in 1914, the Tremblay company supplied working canoes for prospectors, hunters, and northern Indigenous communities until its closure in 1981. They were, in Forest’s words, "the last canoes of the fur trade route."

Determined to honour that tradition, Forest tracked down five surviving Tremblay artisans now in their eighties and nineties and interviewed them about their craft. He even wrote and published a book about the company’s history to prove his seriousness to them. That effort persuaded one craftsman to reopen his old workshop.

"I asked him, would you accept building canoes again for this great expedition that we planned? And he accepted," Forest recalled. "I took care of finding the materials and the wood, and he cleaned his workshop. I was his helper all last summer, and he taught me how to build the canoes. We made five, and repaired an old one, so we had six in all."

The cedar and canvas canoes proved both resilient and fragile. Their wooden frames flexed through rapids, but the canvas skins needed nightly patching with tape. "Sometimes we took on so much water that the canoe was full, and we were just floating in it. [But] in some ways, they were the best canoes I’ve ever used."

An Innu connection

Ten paddlers set out on the expedition, ranging in age from 21 to 62. The plan was for eight of them to complete the full distance, while two joined as ambassadors from the Innu community for the opening stretch. In the end, six paddlers -- three women and three men, all Canadian except for one from France -- reached Waskaganish. Three others withdrew along the way because of physical difficulties, including a back injury.

Francis Bossum, from the Innu Nation of Mashteuiatsh, only joined as an ambassador for the opening week, alongside his father, Stacy. But the young paddler quickly decided he wanted to continue.

"During the week, Francis [Bossum] decided that he would like to stay with us, and we were very enthusiastic about it. He was a very good paddler and a good companion," Forest recalled.

Bosum’s presence lent the expedition more than just muscle. As an Innu, his participation was a reminder that these routes predate European contact, that they were first and foremost Indigenous pathways.

After the journey

"When we arrived, everybody cried," Forest said of the final landing in Waskaganish after the 97-day journey. "It was so strong, what we lived together. It was very intense."

Plans are now underway for a documentary film, public events, and a book. For Forest, the goal is not only to document a feat of endurance, but to honor the memory of those who came before on these historic fur trading routes.

In 1911, Robert Falcon Scott and Roald Amundsen set out for the South Pole with little knowledge of nutrition, physiology, or psychology. A century on, modern Antarctic trekkers benefit from advanced training, tailored nutrition plans, and cutting-edge gear such as carbon and Kevlar sleds, synthetic insulation, GPS navigation, and freeze-dried rations. Yet despite these innovations, the basic physical and psychological demands of dragging heavy sleds across the ice remain the same.

Now, thanks to a growing body of research, scientists are beginning to understand what these journeys do to the human body. A paper published late last year in the journal Sports Medicine pulled together data from 12 scientific papers spanning three decades of Antarctic expeditions.

The international team of researchers combed through nearly 2,000 studies across seven online research databases, winnowing them down to only those that met strict criteria: human expeditions (failed or successful) on the Antarctic continent, trekkers sleeping on the ice, and both men and women over 18. Out went tourist trips, overwintering in research stations, or staged endurance events.

The studies

Data from 54 polar travelers and expeditions remained, all from the early 1990s onward. Because some studies reported on the same expedition multiple times, there were only 42 unique study participants (21 men and 21 women) in the final sample. These participants had skied, manhauled, or snow kited across distances from 600 to nearly 5,000km.

The studies included well-known expeditions, such as Rune Gjeldnes' 90-day crossing of Antarctica by snow kite in 2005-6, and Ranulph Fiennes and Mike Stroud’s 95-day partial ski crossing of the continent in 1992-3.

The review only focused on Antarctica, while Arctic and North Pole expeditions tend to be colder, more arduous, and more technically demanding; the researchers did not mention why they focused on Antarctica.

Researchers from the included studies followed the trekkers before, after, and, in some cases, during expeditions. Measurements included drawing blood, analyzing saliva and urine, running bone scans, taking skinfold measurements, and analyzing cortisol in hair samples. In their tents or back home, some trekkers filled out psychological questionnaires and took part in interviews.

The findings are an interesting puzzle. Even with rations exceeding 5,000 calories a day, Antarctic trekkers lose weight, bone density shifts, and hormones regulating appetite drop. Beyond physiology, the review also highlights the mental resilience and teamwork required for an Antarctic expedition.

Weight loss unavoidable

One of the review’s clearest findings is that weight loss seems unavoidable. Men and women alike finish expeditions lighter, often with reduced fat. Changes in lean tissue (muscle, body water, organs) are a little unclear and may differ by sex.

Even when diets provided 5,000 to 6,000 calories per day -- double what most adults consume -- trekkers burned through the calories, and more. Appetite was impacted, with hormones like leptin (which suppresses hunger) and adiponectin (which stimulates hunger) dropping during and after expeditions. This suggests the body’s signals to regulate appetite could weaken just when energy is most needed.

The amount of weight loss varied widely, no doubt as a result of different diets and journey types. The six-man Spear-17 team, who completed a partial crossing of Antarctica (resupplied at the Pole) in 2017, ate 6,500 calories per day, and only lost a modest 7% body weight. Whereas Fiennes and Stroud, who were pulling heavy sleds of over 200kg at the start of their expedition and averaged 5,100 calories per day, lost around 15% body weight.

Bone density was another focus. Women on an expedition hauling 80kg sledges over 1,700km saw reductions in trunk, rib, and spine density. These losses were reversible, but the changes underscore the toll of weeks hauling heavy loads.

Cardiovascular and hormonal changes

The review also highlights cardiovascular and hormonal changes. In one study, heart monitors showed an increase in parasympathetic activity (the body’s relaxation mode after stress or danger) and heart rate variability (variation between heartbeats, generally the higher the better) post-expedition. This suggests the body’s nervous system can recalibrate after weeks of stress.

Antarctica rises from sea level to a high polar plateau of over 3,000m. The thin, cold air produces hypobaric hypoxia, a state of reduced oxygen usually associated with mountaineering. Trekkers ski uphill in this state for weeks while facing temperatures down to around -30°C.

Unlike in the Himalaya, there is no Sherpa support, and no camps stocked with cached food. Everything needed for weeks on the ice -- fuel to melt snow, high-energy rations, clothing, and electronics -- rides in the sled. The review concluded that prolonged exposure to reduced oxygen reduces aerobic capacity (fitness), but the researchers did not present the data for this from the individual studies.

Hormonal results were mixed. Cortisol, the stress hormone, was measured in blood, saliva, and even hair. Some samples showed increases, others no change.

Psychological findings

In Antarctica, the mind must endure isolation, monotony, and the disorienting brightness of 24-hour daylight. Six studies reported challenges and strengths. Women in particular were found to experience disrupted sleep patterns and changes in mood. One male trekker experienced altered cognitive function. While overall anxiety levels did not shift, researchers noted an increased risk of disordered eating following expeditions and low levels of stress before departure in a female-only team.

Group dynamics emerged as another important theme. Among women-only teams, shared values around leadership, teamwork, and personal growth contributed strongly to success. Decision-making was shown to be highly collaborative, with individuals bringing different skills and perspectives to team discussions.

Lessons beyond the ice

The parallels to space flight are clear. Like astronauts, polar trekkers live in confined, isolated, and potentially dangerous environments where physical and psychological resilience must hold up under a lot of stress. Understanding how the body adapts to Antarctic extremes may help scientists prepare humans for future manned space flight missions to Mars or extended stays on the Moon.

The review calls for more research. With only 12 studies and 42 unique participants, evidence remains limited. Some of the observations presented in this article result from only one or two studies.

Alan Davison has completed a 6,800km solo kayak journey he calls “Australia’s longest inland paddle.” He began in Condamine, Queensland, near Brisbane, on April 10 and finished at Coorong, South Australia on August 23, after 136 days on the water, including 19 rest days.

The Australian native paddled through autumn and winter, tracing the Condamine, Balonne, Bokhara, Darling, Murrumbidgee (via a lengthy detour), Murray, and Coorong river systems.

His route largely followed the inland rivers of the Murray–Darling Basin, a vast watershed covering more than a million square kilometers of southeast Australia. This basin is both the country’s agricultural heartland and, for paddlers, a labyrinth of rivers, lakes, and floodplains.

Davison is an accomplished kayaker who has completed multiple source-to-sea descents of the country’s major rivers, including the Murray (2,500km), Darling (1,600km), and Murrumbidgee (1,200km). He has also paddled the rarely navigated Lachlan River and the Great Darling Anabranch, likely achieving first modern descents.

Condamine and Upper Balonne

Davison set out from Warwick, in southern Queensland, where the Condamine River rises on the western slopes of the Great Dividing Range mountains.

Initially, Davison had to chase a small flow of water downstream, and Beardmore Dam, which shuts its gates in winter, would soon cause the water to drop so low that it would be unnavigable if he didn’t reach it in time.

“I was over a week behind this flow, so the first leg was a sprint, with my fingers crossed that the trip wasn’t going to end prematurely at St George, where the dam is located,” he wrote on social media.

This meant racing to stay on a moving flow of water. Too far behind, and he’d be left scraping his kayak along dry sandbars. Too far ahead, and the water hadn’t arrived yet.

There were plenty of hazards along this first leg. Davison faced 24 weirs, 38 portages, 6 farm or road crossings, and 8 low bridges. The portages meant unloading the boat and dragging or carrying it around the obstacle. Davison often faced dozens of these in a single day. This section in total took around 16 days and covered nearly 1,000km.

The Balonne Minor and Bokhara

Davison reached the Upper Balonne River on April 23, and continued onto the Balonne River and then the Bokhara. This section cuts through the Culgoa floodplains, a network of creeks and minor rivers that only flow after rain. When dam releases of water upstream were suddenly reduced, Davison found himself on the edge of a failed expedition.

“Possibly a bit foolhardy, but I decided to push on. Below here, I had no phone coverage other than Hebel [satellite]," said Davison. "I had to make most decisions purely based on the river conditions that I was seeing.”

Unlike coastal kayaking, inland paddling in Australia means weirs, dams, and sudden floods. Kayaks are ideal in this terrain because they are narrow and efficient, able to slip into shallow creeks or push against slow upstream currents.

He managed to continue onto the little-used Bokhara River, where paperbark trees turned the river into an obstacle course.

“On the worst day, I had to do around 50 portages and likely around 150 difficult traverses through the canopies; 3 or 5 point turns, pulling myself over logs, breaking off branches to open a path through, scraping on mud around the edge,” Davison explained on social media.

This was slow-motion paddling with no current to help, and constant dragging and maneuvering.

“Challenging and exhausting paddling at times, but an enjoyable and rewarding section overall. Only minor PTSD from the paperbarks,” Davison reflected afterward. Despite the obstacles, this roughly 500km section of the journey took 10 days.

Barwon and Darling

By May 6, Davison had completed the Bokhara and continued east on the Barwon and Darling Rivers, which flow for 1,700km through outback country before joining the Murray. This section is notorious for swings between bone-dry stretches and areas of flood.

Davison arrived just behind a moderate flood and caught it downstream. With the floodwaters, he could leave the narrow river channel and paddle across flooded plains.

He missed out on the vast Menindee Lakes, which had not filled, but he still seemed to relish the landscape.

“Most of this section down is characterized by a wide river channel with high banks lined with red river gums and black/yellow box trees,” said Davison.

For a solo paddler, floods bring both opportunity and risk. The water is faster and there are more route options, but that has to be traded off with debris, snags, and unpredictable currents. This section in total took Davison 24 days and covered nearly 1,700km.

The Murrumbidgee Detour

By June 2, Davison had reached the Murray River. Instead of continuing down the Murray, Davison turned upstream into the Murrumbidgee River, one of the Murray’s key tributaries. His aim was to see how far a kayak could be pushed against the current.

“Curiosity if this was possible was the main driving factor for this rather long detour,” he wrote.

The Murrumbidgee is a heavily regulated river, delivering irrigation water across the  agricultural region in New South Wales. In summer, flows can surge above 10,000 megaliters a day, but in winter they drop, making for exhausting but possible upstream paddling.

“As luck would have it, I had a good low flow for much of the upstream trip.”

Even so, he faced rapids and had to walk his kayak through fast-flowing shallow sections. “I ended up walking three of these above Narrandera, the only portages outside of the weirs.”

The detour added over 2,500km to his trip, and took 52 days, testing endurance rather than navigation. “The rather consistent flows ended up making the trip fairly monotonous… That said, it was a physically challenging and rewarding detour.”

Lower Murray and Coorong

By July 24, and after seven rest days, Davison was back on the Murray, which is Australia’s longest river. For Davison, the final leg was a test of patience.

“The lower Murray was mostly paddling on long weirpool reaches where there was no noticeable flow apart from some relatively short sections where you need to pay attention even to see the water moving.”

He still found beauty along that route, though.

“The main highlights from this section are the multicolored cliffs/banks above Renmark and towering sandstone cliffs below. Some of the best riverscapes in the country,” he wrote.

At the Murray Mouth, the river empties into Lake Alexandrina and the Coorong, a lagoon system behind a line of coastal dunes. For the inland paddler, this was a rare taste of salt and surf. This last section of the mammoth journey took 24 days and covered 1,032km.

Completing a vast inland paddle

Over 119 paddling days Davison averaged nearly 57km per day, with a longest push of 120km in 15 hours on the Darling. After 6,800km, on August 23, Davison stepped out of his kayak having completed what must be one of the longest inland paddles ever undertaken in Australia.

Canadian athlete Adam Mertens has completed a unique alpine traverse in Bow Valley in the Canadian Rockies, combining trail running, roped climbing, free solo climbing, scrambling, and even paddleboarding.

Mertens took 70 hours and 20 minutes to complete the 146.53km loop he has dubbed the Bow Valley Cirque. The route includes a huge 11,181m of elevation gain.

Last year, Mertens attempted the Bow Valley Cirque on the same weekend, but didn't manage to close the full loop, finishing 20km and several peaks shy of his target. "We set these dates in May, basically the exact same weekend as last year, with the hope that we would get a weather window to do it," Mertens explained to ExplorersWeb.

"All summer has been super rainy. I don't think we've had three straight days of sunshine until the last two weeks, where it's been 30°C and so hot that I was a little bit worried it was going to be an issue. But we had spectacular weather on that first morning."

Day one: Cascade and Rundle traverse

This time around, the 32-year-old Bow Valley resident started his mammoth effort at 2 am on August 30 at Johnson Lake in Banff National Park. Running alone in the dark, he headed north to 2,998m Cascade Mountain, where he joined a friend. Together, they summited six-and-a-half hours later, having taken a technical route that included 5.10 roped climbing as well as some simul climbing.

"We were able to complete that first section an hour faster than last year. We did a little bit more simul climbing, just by knowing the route better and traveling lighter. So it went super smoothly," Mertens explained.

From Cascade, Mertens descended into Banff and made his way (with a friend in support) to the next big target, the Rundle traverse. This nearly 25km traverse takes in around 2,500m of elevation gain, includes class 4-5 scrambling with some rappel sections, and requires climbing skills beyond typical trail running.

"I came into Banff feeling really good, really strong. We got to the ridge of Rundle, where we climbed the Rundlehorn. It's a really classic introductory multi-pitch route that goes at 5.5, so we soloed that."

By 6 pm, Mertens was on the 2,948m summit of Mount Rundle and charged on into the evening, completing the majority of the traverse alone. At this point, he was around four hours ahead of last year's marker. He descended off the east end of Rundle to a break in the chain of mountains that envelop the loop, and slept for three hours at Whiteman's Pond.

Day two: Ha Ling, Big Sister, Wind Ridge, and Grotto

As refreshed as possible after only three hours' sleep, Mertens headed off into the darkness at 4 am. He was bound for Ha Ling, a 2,407m peak scooped out of the limestone bedrock. Mertens again teamed up with a friend to climb the technical northeast face.

"We simul climbed the majority of the route, pitching out the cracks. It's a route that I've probably done a dozen times. It's certainly real rock climbing, and I wouldn't consider being on there solo, but lots and lots of bolts too, which makes it easy to protect and simul climb," Mertens explained.

Mertens was on the summit of Ha Ling by 7 am. Next, he moved on to Mount Lawrence Grassi and then the three peaks known as the Three Sisters, reaching the most prominent of Big Sister at 12:30 pm.

"The next section is one of the most miserable, up and over the Big Sister, and then down to Wind Ridge. It's got some exposed scrambling up the north side of the Big Sister, and some incredibly exposed down climbing," Mertens reflected.

The terrain didn't ease up on the next section, known as Rim Wall. "I think it's on the map as Rim Wall W2, it's like a sub-peak of the Rim Wall. And it's probably the part of the whole circuit, to my knowledge, that is the most intimidating. It's exposed."

Mertens completed that exposed section solo, including a difficult section of down climbing. "I hope to never have to do it again. I was able to scurry over to Wind Ridge and meet people, and from there, it's one of the most spectacular trail runs in the Bow Valley, running down off Wind Ridge. Pink Floyd filmed the video for learning to fly on this ridge," Mertens said.

He picked up a support crew to reach the summit of Wind Ridge by 3:30 pm. "It was really sweet to get to high-five a bunch of different friends and see familiar faces."

The fact that Mertens was deep in alpine terrain, yet in view of his hometown and everyday life throughout the loop, was not lost on him: "While I'm dancing around on ridge tops for three days, other people are navigating long weekend traffic in the valley, and I'm just oblivious to it."

A little behind his projected time now, Mertens hared down Wind Ridge, hitting the valley floor to pick up a paddleboard for the Bow Valley River before heading for the next peak, Grotto, named after a grotto-like cave that contains ancient pictographs.

Joined by another friend, Mertens headed up the east ridge of Grotto, hiking, scrambling, and rope climbing to reach the summit an hour before midnight.

"I had a moment there feeling I had overblown the difficulty of this thing, because everything had, to that point, felt easy. My body felt good. I was having back-to-back long days with my friends in the mountains," Mertens said.

By 12:40 am on day two, Mertens was down from Grotto and catching another measly three hours of sleep. This would later prove invaluable. "I wasn't suffering like I felt I should be for how much I had hyped the overall mission. That was coming, but I didn't know that at the time."

Mertens felt fitter than last year's attempt after a summer of groundwork in the alpine, so he was in good shape for another early start at 5:20 am. He pushed up to the summit of Mount Lady Macdonald (2,606m) in a little under two hours.

"We got to the summit ridge of Lady MacDonald, which is quite iconic. It's a knife-edge ridge but within the realm of scrambling. A lot of people experience that [route], but to experience it at sunrise with nobody else on the mountain except for some of your closest friends, was pretty special."

He dispatched Mount Charles Stewart peak without issue by 10:30 am, and was down at Carrot Creek on the valley floor not long after midday. "The pack was a little bit lighter, so we could move kind of unencumbered through that last section down to Carrot Creek," said Mertens.

This was where Mertens stopped a year ago, and here he stood twelve months later with the opportunity to close the loop. Only a few more peaks and a little over twelve hours of travel stood in his way. Most of this section was unknown to him because of wildlife restrictions.

The temperature climbed to 28°C as Mertens tackled Mount Pechee, Girouard, and Inglismaldie. Once again with a friend in support, Mertens skirted the chossy true summit of Pechee, which requires an out-and-back hike, and would break up the continuous line of the loop.

Too much risk?

The connecting ridge to Mount Girourard (2,995m) was a "technical, beautiful ridge," leading to scree on the approach to the summit. On descent, Mertens anticipated hard scrambling, but instead he and his teammate were forced to rappel before edging across an unexpectedly exposed ledge above a 1,500m drop.

"It was the point on this whole traverse where I really questioned whether it was worth it. It felt like I had put myself and my partner in a position that was beyond the level of risk that I wanted to take on," Mertens reflected. "I was able to belay my partner across, and we immediately got hit with [the threat of] lightning, and our heads started buzzing...everything started to buzz."

Unscathed, Mertens pressed on and reached the final summit on the loop -- Inglismaldie -- at 9 pm. Next, he descended to Johnson Lake and closed the loop at 12:15 am on September 2. After 70 hours, Mertens was done, his "perfect backyard adventure" complete.

"It had the makings of a really good goal, where the outcome was not guaranteed, where you knew there was going to be compounding fatigue and moments of wanting to quit, and that's only exacerbated by the fact that you're in view of your house and the comforts that you have. So it presents a challenge that I think is really unique."

Mertens’ Bow Valley Cirque pushes the boundaries of what’s possible in the Canadian Rockies -- an ambitious linkup blending endurance, technical skill, and risk management. For him, the reward wasn’t just in the finish, but in testing the edge of possibility in the mountains he calls home.

Archaeologists have long studied rock art to determine the underground movements of early humans. They know humans were there, but not how man made these remarkable journeys into the darkness. A new paper published last month has shed light on how humans explored deep inside the Etxeberri cave system in the Western Pyrenees 16,000 years ago.

Using laser scanning, 3D modeling, mapping, and archaeological evidence, Spanish researchers have pieced together how they believe Magdalenian people (Late Palaeolithic hunters and artists) navigated this challenging cave system, described as one of the most extreme examples of prehistoric caving.

The Etxeberri cave system

The Etxeberri cave system lies in the French Pyrenees at 448m and was largely unexplored until the 1930s because of its complexity. Cavers needed modern caving equipment such as powerful lighting, ropes, anchors, and protective gear. Somehow, prehistoric artists journeyed deep into the Etxeberri without any of this.

In the 1950s, cavers found a painting of a small red horse on their way out of the cave. In the ensuing decades, cavers have discovered 77 pieces of rock art, including depictions of horses, bison, ibex, and abstract drawings.

Archaeologists reckon that these were painted using charcoal or clay, sometimes mixed with crushed bone. Other markings may have been engraved into the soft cave walls.

A difficult descent

To reach the deepest parts of the cave, prehistoric artists faced a host of difficulties. Around 90m from the cave entrance, there are underground lakes which flood during wetter periods. Beyond that, there is a tight crawl way which opens sharply into a two-meter drop to the "Hall of Paintings."

Further into the system, a 7m drop leads to the "Room of the Sinkhole." At the farthest point from the entrance, a 16m sinkhole dubbed the "Sinkhole of the Angel" lies surrounded by a perilous ledge where ancient people have engraved horses.

The rock art is concentrated in two places. The first is the Hall of Paintings, a relatively accessible and open chamber where the images are easy to see, likely serving as a more public gallery. Cavers found the second collection in decorated fissure and sinkhole zones, which are extremely difficult to reach, narrow, and hazardous. Here, only a few people could have viewed the figures at a time, suggesting these spaces were reserved for private or ritual activities.

How did they get down there?

The team of archaeologists used high-resolution scanning devices and analysis of the spaces within the cave, as well as pigment stains and tool fragments, to reconstruct the routes the Magdalenian cavers likely followed.

They also simulated the lighting the Magdalenian cavers may have used and estimated average body sizes at the time to determine the movements required (e.g., crawling).

The resulting analyses suggested that the early rock artists broke obstacles such as stalagmites using flint tools, chimneyed (pushing against both walls) down vertical drops, crawled through tight passages, slid down shorter drops, and edged along exposed ledges.

Though there is no evidence of the Magdalenian using rudimentary ropes, the Spanish researchers didn't rule out the possibility, given that rope remains rarely survive 16,000 years of decay. The researchers did cite possible corrosion marks near a ledge as an indication that people may have used a wooden beam to anchor a rope. To light the way, researchers suggest that the Magdalenians used torches made from juniper, pine, and even bone.

Why risk it?

The presence of rock art and the hazardous nature of these subterranean adventures suggest that the Magdalenian weren't looking only for shelter or safety. Instead, the caves seem to have symbolic and spiritual importance. Descending the cave would have taken courage, planning, cooperation, and technology (early torches).

This example in the Etxeberri is a remarkable reminder that adventure is ancient. Sixteen thousand years ago, artists braved darkness and danger not for survival, but for meaning, just as the Ancestral Puebloans (Anasazi) later scaled sheer cliffs to build their dwellings in the American southwest. The urge to explore extreme places above and below ground runs deep through human history.

The all-female team who call themselves the Hudson Bay Girls have completed their 80-day canoe expedition from Grand Portage on Lake Superior to Hudson Bay. Americans Olivia Bledsoe, Emma Brackett, Abby Cichocki, and Helena Karlstrom, all in their early twenties, arrived at their finish point of York Factory on August 13 after 1,900km of paddling.

The four began their journey at the end of May and followed traditional waterways first traveled by the Anishinaabe First Nations people, and later by French fur traders in the 18th and 19th centuries to connect remote trading posts across the Canadian backcountry.

Last month when we updated, they had passed through Voyageurs National Park, a region named for those fur trade routes. They then paused to resupply at International Falls, Minnesota, a border town on the U.S.-Canada border.

Before reaching their next waterway, called Lake of the Woods, they paddled most of the Rainy River, which forms part of the border. In two days, they covered a demanding 70km stretch through shallow water, followed by a shorter 53km push.

From there, they paddled north across Lake of the Woods, where they "learned the hardships of...a site that had over 200 ticks at it," they wrote on social media. "We paddled some days with tough headwinds and even encountered a mama bear and her cub swimming right in front of us," they added.

On the far side of the lake, the crew resupplied in the city of Kenora, Ontario. After months of expedition rations and long days, they treated themselves to "the best junk food, ice cream, and fresh fruits we could find. We even went crazy with a big tub of marshmallow fluff."

Challenges on the Winnipeg River

Next came the Winnipeg River, but access proved complicated. Due to backcountry travel restrictions because of wildfires, the group had to wait 10 days for permits.

"We were not permitted to get off the water during the day, and we had to make it to each of our designated shorelines to camp at night," they lamented. "Because of limited front country camping options, we spent up to 15 hours on the water every day."

Despite the setback, they covered 320km in just four days to reach Lac Du Bonnet, a town northeast of Winnipeg, where they resupplied again.

After resting, they set out on Lake Winnipeg, the 11th-largest freshwater lake in the world. Their progress along its exposed eastern shore was relatively smooth, despite storms and an injury to one woman's arm.

"We did our best to manage the hurt arm, battling high winds, major swells and rolling storms," they wrote. "We got through massive water crossings and got a miraculous break in our biggest 6-mile crossing."

Along the lake, they reported spotting bears almost daily. One evening, they frightened off a curious bear with their "classic clapping method."

On another, they shared the shoreline with three moose, and one night they awoke to wolves. "We had the daylights scared out of us when a wolf howled right next to us in the middle of the night while we were in camp."

Hayes River to Hudson Bay

After 17 days, they finished crossing Lake Winnipeg and turned onto the Hayes River, a 480km wilderness waterway flowing directly to Hudson Bay. The river tested their canoeing skills with low water levels, exposed rocks, and rapids.

"Shallow sections were riddled with canoe biters," they recounted, using the paddlers’ term for rocks that can split open canoe hulls.

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"This often led to narrow technical lines and caused us to have to make quick decisions while running with plenty of bow steering," they continued.

Although strong winds slowed them on the river’s lake expansions, generous locals lifted their spirits by providing food and shelter. One treated them to butter tarts, a rich Canadian pastry prized by backcountry travelers for its calories and flavor.

Final push to York Factory

Their final update before reaching Hudson Bay described tackling 45 marked rapids on the Hayes.

"Technical lines put our skill and decision making on the forefront," the foursome reflected. They also came across the abandoned gear of a 2016 German expedition that had not made it through unscathed, including a "completely bashed boat."

Details of the last stretch remain sparse, but the team pushed through a 17-hour final day, covering 88km to York Factory, the historic Hudson’s Bay Company trading post at the mouth of the river, where they completed their journey.

Since the birth of the modern packraft in the 1980s, these small inflatable boats that fold into a backpack have opened up a range of terrain for wilderness travelers. What began as an Alaskan niche, with adventure racers and trekkers strapping rafts to backpacks, has grown into a global adventure sport.

The early, more cumbersome boats with limited manoeuvrability have evolved into rafts capable of running class five rapids and cruising through remote tidal fiords. You can now see packrafters on rivers and open water from Patagonia to Japan. But as the sport expands, the number of accidents and fatalities has inevitably grown.

Author of the seminal The Packraft Handbook and Alaskan native, Luc Mehl, has been keeping a list of packrafting fatalities. The entries stretch back to the 1990s, when deaths were almost entirely clustered in Alaska. Now, they scatter across continents.

The numbers

In the past few months alone, three paddlers have drowned on three continents: a 25-year-old in the French Alps who was navigating a picturesque slot canyon; a 35-year-old in Colorado who capsized in Class III+ water and never resurfaced; and a 69-year-old in Japan, an experienced boater paddling alone on a whitewater course, who became trapped in a recirculating water feature known as a "hole."

Mehl’s database records 32 known packrafting fatalities, all involving men (where sex was known) between the ages of 25 and 79. These incidents have occurred across the globe, including in the French Alps, the United States (Colorado), Japan, Australia (two separate rivers in Western Australia), Chile, New Zealand (two separate incidents), the Sweden–Norway border, Russia’s Tosna River, Taiwan, and British Columbia, Canada.

Recent years, particularly 2024 and 2025, have seen an uptick in cases.

Common themes

According to Mehl’s list, a handful of recurring patterns stand out. The most common is separation, with paddlers losing contact with their boat or their partners. Whether caused by strong currents, high water, wind, or inexperience, this scenario appears in the majority of cases and often proves deadly.

Going out alone is another frequent factor: at least fourteen deaths involved solo paddlers. One entry notes simply that the paddler was "effectively solo," underlining how isolation magnifies the risks.

Equipment issues and inadequate protective gear appear to contribute to around a third of fatalities. Some paddlers set out without enough (or ill-fitting) safety gear, such as not wearing a personal flotation device or drysuit. In Taiwan, one victim "removed his life vest during a swim" and never resurfaced. In British Columbia, another attempted a whitewater run in a packraft "not intended for whitewater," a decision that proved fatal.

Cold water and entanglement

Cold water has also played a major role, contributing to ten deaths. Some victims suffered cardiac arrest or hypothermia after immersion. Cold water was related to fatalities in Alaska’s glacial rivers, Russia’s Tosna River, and during open crossings in Greenland and Argentina.

Entrapment or entanglement hazards also figure, with multiple cases linked to paddlers being caught in locations where the river left no easy escape. These include foot entrapments, undercut rocks, and recirculating hydraulics or "holes." Paddle leashes also created fatal tangles in Russia and Japan.

Medical events unrelated to drowning are rare but not absent. In Chile, a 40-year-old man died suddenly of a heart attack while on the Río Ñuble river. Weather has played its part as well, with strong winds leading to separation from the raft, presumably due to waves causing a capsize.

Finally, one Australian case on the Colo River highlights the danger of pinning, where Mehl suggests the victim may have been pinned against a rock.

Preventive strategies

Although Mehl’s database is informal and relies on inferences drawn from public reports and personal communications, it offers valuable insight into the factors that most often lead to packrafting tragedy. Writing on his website, Mehl suggests there is "a concerted effort to efficiently develop a 'culture of safety' for packrafters in the hopes that we can skip the history of incidents that our peers in other water crafts have experienced."

The lessons that emerge are clear. Packrafters are likely to be safer when they travel with others, wear proper protective gear such as a personal floatation device, helmet, and drysuit, and take the time to learn about water dynamics, hazards, and self-rescue techniques. Taken together, Mehl’s work and the patterns he identifies offer not only a sobering record of past accidents but also a steer on how to keep the sport safer as it continues to grow.

A pair of Japanese data scientists have published a paper exploring whether artificial intelligence (AI) can predict mountaineering accidents.

The paper's senior author, Dr. Yusuke Fukazawa, claims that their model gives climbers "a better understanding of the risks associated with their planned actions, enabling safer decision-making and preparation."

Fukazawa adds that by tailoring risk assessments to each climber’s unique situation, "our model offers personalized safety recommendations...instead of the traditional, one-size-fits-all warnings.” The paper appeared in the International Journal of Data Science and Analytics.

To the casual reader and mountain enthusiast, these snippets from the press release will mean very little, so we've dug deeper into the paper to give you a clearer perspective.

What did they do?

Authors Sato and Fukazawa argue that most previous research has relied on surveys and accident data to explain why a mountain incident happened. These used details like the climber’s personal characteristics, the equipment they carried, and the terrain where the accident took place.

Instead, these authors focused on predicting the type of accident a climber or hiker might face using only the information available before a trip.

They considered four categories of accidents: falls from a height, falls on flat or gentle slopes, fatigue-related incidents, and cases of becoming lost or disoriented.

Using records from 2,596 mountain accidents in Nagano Prefecture, Japan, between 2014 and 2023, they extracted data such as the date, season, time of day of each incident, weather, the hiker/climber’s demographic information (sex, age group, party size). They matched this up with information about the mountains sourced from Wikipedia pages, including terms like “ridgeline,” “snow,” and “famous peak.”

Sato and Fukazawa then converted these details into short, structured sentences. For example: "December 15, 2019, winter, around noon at 11:00, weather: clear. Male, middle-aged, 40s, party of 4. Northern Alps, Mt. Nishihotaka, features ridges and ridgelines."

A range of particular AI methods were then used to see which could most accurately predict the type of accident from this "planning-stage" text data.

What were the findings?

The best results came from the Japanese BERT model (a type of AI language model), which correctly estimated the type of accident in about 57% of the accident cases. The model was also able to highlight which words were most linked to each type of accident. For example:

• Falls from height: “morning,” “Hotaka” (a steep peak)
• Ground-level falls: “noon,” “Yatsugatake range”
• Fatigue: “late afternoon/evening,” “older”
• Disorientation: “snow,” “fog,” “night,” “solo”

The analysis comes with some real-world caveats, though. The model was fed actual weather conditions from the accident reports, information a climber or hiker wouldn’t know before heading out, so its performance could differ when using forecasts.

Some mountain descriptions pulled from Wikipedia (which weren't presented in the paper) could have included phrases like “steep and dangerous ridge,” which might have given the model clues too close to the actual accident outcome.

The data set also covered only accidents, not the countless safe days out in the mountains, so it can’t tell whether a factor truly raises risk or just reflects where people like to go.

In addition, the model was also never challenged with different time periods or mountain regions.

What's the take-home message?

Put simply, the study suggests that with the right planning details, such as the date, route, group size, weather forecast, and basic information on the mountain, an AI model can identify patterns linked to different types of mountain accidents.

The premise becomes less abstract when you imagine it embedded in a hiking app. Sato and Fukazawa propose that if the AI model detected a high risk for a specific type of accident, the app could respond with tailored advice, such as checking gear, adjusting the route, or rethinking the timing.

In practice, such a system could run quietly in the background, analyzing a hiker's plans alongside forecasts and trail data, then flagging risks for situations like disorientation on a solo hike in poor weather, or fatigue on a long afternoon ridge walk in the heat. Timely prompts delivered via an app could encourage hikers and climbers to start earlier, pick an easier route, or carry extra food or gear.

While experienced mountain goers may scoff at the idea of relying on AI technology, the 2024 survey of 764 Pacific Crest Trail hikers reported that 99.2% used an app for route planning and navigation.

For now, though, these AI models remain an interesting concept rather than a proven safety measure. Without further development on larger datasets in different countries, and later real-world testing with app integration, it would be premature to conclude that this sort of AI model can reduce the risk of accidents in the mountains.

Next week, Americans Kyle Sprenger, 23, and Jacob Myers, 27, will travel to southeastern Alaska to ski 430km across the Bagley Icefield, often cited as the second-largest icefield outside the polar regions.

The two aspiring guides will fly from the small settlement of McCarthy to a remote landing strip near the Tana Glacier in Wrangell–St. Elias National Park. They will start skiing straight from the flight onto the glacier’s western tongue.

"From our most recent aerial survey, the firn line is sitting at around 4,000 feet," Sprenger told ExplorersWeb. "So for the first two full days, we’ll be ascending on crampons through a broken hard ice environment before reaching the Icefield."

The firn line is the point at which hard and exposed glacial ice gives way to snow cover. The duo will access the Bagley Icefield via the Tana Glacier. Once on the snow-covered section, they anticipate good skiing and aim to cover over 20km a day.

"We’ll access the Bagley via the western lobe of the Tana Glacier, cramponing bare ice, weaving through wide-open crevasse fields, and traversing ice-cored moraines — essentially fields of debris underlain by active glacial ice that conceal crevasse-like geomorphology, requiring diligent travel," Sprenger wrote on social media.

Size debate

The Bagley Icefield is cited in several sources as the second-largest non-polar icefield in the world and the largest in North America. Some call the adjacent Kluane Icefield the world's largest non-polar icefield, while others attribute that to the one in Southern Patagonia. It seems to depend on how a continuous icefield is defined. At any rate, the Bagley is big -- 200km long, 10km wide at its widest. It narrows as Sprenger and Myers ski east.

"Atop the Bagley proper, we’ll enter what may be the most extraordinary glacial environment on Earth: a river of ice stretching 127 miles long, up to 6 miles wide, and nearly 4,000 feet deep, flanked by the tallest coastal mountains on the planet — forming a frozen corridor between Mount Logan and Mount Saint Elias, North America’s second and fourth-tallest peaks," wrote Sprenger.

Further east, the pair will ski onto the Hubbard Glacier via a narrow col between two exposed ridgelines. "We’ll descend via the Hubbard before reaching the expedition crux -- the steep and very narrow, less than two miles wide, Art Lewis Glacier," said Sprenger. "We know it to have dense crevassing in places and parts of which sit above the firn line, so any cracks may be bridged over."

Switching from skis to boats

The descent of the Art Lewis will lead them to the fast-moving Yakutat Glacier, which terminates in a vast calving front in a glacial lake. From there, they will inflate their packrafts and paddle.

"Here...[we'll] float for about 45-50 miles through the terminal lagoon and the ominously-named, though gentle, Dangerous River," says Sprenger.

"We’ll pull out as the river transitions into vast tidal flats near its mouth at the Gulf of Alaska and transition back to moving on foot. We’ll hike this last leg of the expedition, only about 15 miles, along the ‘beach’ back into the town of Yakutat."

All told, the expedition will cover around 430km through both the United States and Canada. Sprenger notes that they’ll have to call the Canadian Border Patrol on their satellite phone to report their entry into the country."

They will travel primarily through Alaska’s Wrangell–St. Elias National Park and Preserve, and in Canada, through Kluane National Park and Preserve.

"It’s not by any means a record-breaking expedition, but it’s one that will allow Jacob and me an opportunity to further grow in the adventure space and gain more experience," said Sprenger.

It's never entirely summer in Greenland, at least not by southern standards, and several ski expeditions are heading onto the Ice Sheet with their sleds. Summer and early fall combine challenging meltwater, fractured terrain, shifting winds, and sudden cold snaps.

In mid-August, the lower icefalls on the east coast churn with streams and rivers. Progress here can be slow, with deep meltwater channels, rough ice, and crevasses dictating the route. Higher up, snow cover evens out, and teams can make better time as they ski toward the high point of the Ice Sheet. But winds remain fickle under the influence of colliding weather systems from Canada and the Iceland–Greenland corridor.

By late August, the first cold fronts arrive. Rivers contract into trickles, and lakes on the inland ice begin to freeze. On the descent to the west coast, the ice becomes more fractured. Meltwater gullies and sheer-sided riverbeds, some 15m deep, turn travel into a slow puzzle. By mid-September, days are markedly short, the Ice Sheet begins to lock down for winter, and the season for crossings closes.

In the spirit of Nansen

Crossing the Greenland Ice Sheet in the fall dates back to the very origins of Arctic sledding, with Fridtjof Nansen’s pioneering 1888 summer-fall expedition. This year, Kathinka Gyllenhammar of Ousland Explorers is guiding five skiers along the Nansen route from Isortoq to Nuuk. Among the clients is Ali Riza, who earlier this year became the first Turk to ski to the South Pole.

The Ousland team spent the past week in Tasiilaq preparing food, fuel, and gear, and checking stoves and rifles. On August 14, they left by boat under clearing skies. Once ashore in Isortoq, they hauled loads through steady rain to the access glaciers. By evening, they had reached the Ice Sheet.

A second group is also starting from Isortoq. Four Arctic Adventure clients led by Henk-Jan Geel will attempt to ski to Kangerlussuaq. After a windy morning boat ride from Tasiilaq, they arrived at Isortoq, then carried 400kg of equipment over rocky ground to the Ice Sheet. Along the way, they bumped into other expeditions, including Gyllenhammar’s team. They are now established on the ice and preparing to move further inland.

An independent journey

The third group of skiers is an independent three-man team of Jordan Manning and Stafford Tyrrell from Ireland, and Ole Nilsen from Norway. They are beginning an unsupported crossing of the Ice Sheet. They sailed from Bergen, Norway, aboard a small sailboat.

From there, the team will ski west toward Disko Bay on the west coast, where their five-person boat crew will pick them up in early September.

“We then hope to sail back to Ireland in the middle of September, but if we’re too late, I’ll freeze my boat in the ice in Greenland,” said Tyrrell.

The group is unsponsored, "just 3 guys going for it," as Tyrrell put it.

Arctic travel has always been expensive, but even more so now in Greenland, under new, stricter insurance rules. The Greenland Expedition Office now requires $139,000 in search-and-rescue coverage for groups like Tyrell's, and $39,000 or $83,000 for individuals, depending on location, with the higher figure applying north of 78°. Policies must also guarantee direct reimbursement to the Danish or Greenland government for any evacuation, even those caused by negligence.

The tighter requirements have led major insurers like IF Insurance to pull out, leaving expeditions scrambling for alternatives and adding another financial hurdle for small, independent teams.

A scientific journey

French adventurer Matthieu Tordeur, once the youngest to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole, is back on the Greenland ice with glaciologist Dr. Heidi Sevestre for another science-driven snowkite expedition. Last summer, the pair covered 1,500km from Kangerlussuaq to Qaanaaq, gathering data on snow density and pollution.

 

This season, they’ll snowkite around 800km from Qaqortoq in the south to Kangerlussuaq on the west coast, towing 50m of ground-penetrating radar to test the system ahead of a longer future journey.

Loic Cappellin is already over 8,100km into a multi-discipline expedition, traveling solely by human and wind power from North Cape in Norway to the Amazon.

The Swiss adventurer began his journey in late January by skiing 1,100km south to Hemavan in northern Sweden. There, he hopped on his bike and cycled 7,000km across Europe, eventually reaching Morocco.

"I’m now about to start a 1,000-kilometer trek on foot across the Moroccan desert, heading toward Agadir, where I plan to set sail for South America," Cappellin, 26, told ExplorersWeb. "Once there, I’ll attempt to cross French Guiana through the Amazon rainforest, also on foot."

The expedition, which Cappellin has named Metis, draws its inspiration from an ancient Greek word meaning resourcefulness, practical intelligence, and adaptability.

"That’s exactly what I’m trying to develop through this project: learning to deal with the unexpected, operate independently in extreme environments, and strengthen my decision-making abilities," he explains.

Cappellin’s route is designed to test his skills across three of the world’s most extreme terrains: the Arctic, the desert, and the rainforest. Between these environments, he will use only a bike and a sailboat to transition.

"It’s not about breaking records, but about living a kind of real-life masterclass, improving my abilities in these environments, building self-sufficiency, and testing my long-term resilience," he says.

The ski stage

For the first stage, Cappellin skied with all of his food and equipment in a sled from North Cape to Hemavan over two months. In winter, northern Norway and Sweden have limited daylight, and the Swiss adventurer faced the full range of conditions typical of the region: deep cold, storms, and heavy snow.

"One of the most intense parts was the Finnmarksvidda plateau, which I decided to cross quickly during a short weather window," he said. The plateau is an old postal route that runs between the Norwegian coast and Finland, where temperatures often reach -30˚ to -50˚C.

"I skied up to 12 hours a day, covering 35 to 45km per stage. And at night, under the northern lights, it was simply magical."

Further south, Cappellin joined the marked and well-known Kungsleden trail, though this came with much more elevation gain as it passes through the mountains of northern Sweden.

The bike stage

Cappellin reached Hemavan in Sweden on March 25 after 58 days. Here, he rested for a couple of weeks before starting the bike stage on April 7. His route appears to have taken him down through Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, France, Spain, and then into Morocco, which he reached on August 3.

"I knew this wouldn’t be the wildest part of the expedition, but it came with its own set of challenges -- especially the need to bivouac every night, even near big cities, and to stay mentally connected to the adventure despite being in densely populated areas," Cappellin said.

"I took my time, listened to my body, and made sure I’d arrive at the edge of the desert in decent shape. Of course, the fatigue is starting to build up."

The next stages

In Errachidia, Morocco, he took a few days off while awaiting new gear for the next phase of his journey. On August 8, he began a 1,000km foot crossing of the Moroccan desert to Agadir. For this leg, he’ll carry his supplies on a steel cart built by a friend who’s a metalworker.

"I’ve been wondering a lot about the kind of terrain I’ll encounter, and whether the cart will hold up once it’s fully loaded -- but I’m really looking forward to getting started and finding out," Cappellin shared.

Once in Agadir, Cappellin will board a sailboat and cross the Atlantic to French Guiana. "This ocean crossing will be a new experience for me and a chance to discover an environment I’ve never encountered," he said.

From French Guiana, Cappellin will enter the rainforest alone for a one-month trek.

"This will be the final stage of the expedition, and probably the most demanding, both physically and mentally," he said. "I have deep respect for that environment, and I want to approach it with humility."

In 2010, art dealer and former fighter pilot Forrest Fenn published a poem in his memoir hinting at the location of a hidden treasure chest filled with gold and rare artifacts. Over the next decade, thousands of people combed the Rocky Mountains for the estimated $2 million prize. Some abandoned homes and relationships to join the hunt, and five searchers even lost their lives.

The mystery came to an end in June 2020, when Jack Stuef, a medical student from Michigan, quietly found the chest and informed Fenn. Two years later, the contents were sold at auction. Fenn passed away not long after the discovery. To this day, the exact location of the find has never been publicly confirmed.

Yet over time, details have surfaced through lawsuits, freedom of information requests, and message boards. Some believe the evidence points to a single location: Nine Mile Hole, a quiet stretch of river in Yellowstone National Park, and one of Fenn’s favorite fishing spots.

A rebooted treasure hunt

The Fenn treasure hunt drew global media attention during its peak, and the story has found new life with the release of the Netflix docuseries Gold & Greed: The Hunt for Fenn's Treasure.

One of the central figures in the series is Justin Posey, an American software engineer who spent years pursuing the chest without success. The documentary, in part, follows Posey’s journey. It includes the time he spent hunting with his brother, who later killed himself before the treasure was found.

Gold & Greed gave viewers a taste of Posey's long obsession with Fenn’s famous treasure. His search ranged from the warm waters of Ojo Caliente, New Mexico, to the mountains of Glacier National Park, Montana. After Fenn’s hunt came to an end, Posey decided to launch a treasure hunt of his own. He had one simple goal: to share “the thrill of heading into the wilderness to look for a treasure,” he wrote.

Buried since 2023

This "treasure chest" is already hidden and is filled with gold, precious gems, rare coins, and “a bitcoin wallet that’s increasing with value every month.” And as Posey puts it, “You just might be the person who finds it.”

Posey had mulled the idea for years, but serious planning began in 2022. By 2023, he undertook two separate journeys across the American West, covering more than 15,000km to hide the treasure. During both trips, he severed all digital connections to avoid leaving any traceable data.

According to Posey's website, the first trip served as a reconnaissance. On the second, he hid the treasure somewhere along the route, and he intentionally extended the journey to help obscure the true location. Every aspect, from selecting the site to designing the verification process, seems to have been meticulously planned by the American.

At the end of the Netflix series, which first aired in March, Posey tells viewers about his new hunt. He later released a book and set up a website to provide more information.

What's up for grabs?

Posey suggests he is legally unable to disclose the total worth of the treasure, but that doesn't make it any less real.

“This is not a parable or a metaphor,” he writes. "It's a real, physical treasure sitting somewhere out in the American West right now. Whoever finds it will hold gold, gemstones, and rare artifacts.”

The Netflix series filmed the treasure inside a leather briefcase, but that was only for display. “When you find the actual treasure, its container will be immediately recognizable," says Posey. "I've intentionally kept the true container's identity secret.”

And to clear up any confusion: “No, it is not hidden in the Fenn chest, and you don't need any knowledge of the Fenn treasure hunt to recognize the container,” he added.

Weighing roughly 27kg, the chest supposedly holds multiple Suisse gold bars (each worth close to $100,000), gold flakes and dust, and a host of coins, including Gold Britannias, Austrian Gold Ducats, Canadian Gold Maple Leafs, and American Gold Eagles.

Priceless artifacts

Posey also states that the chest also contains large emeralds, rubies, and amethysts, along with historical artifacts from the 3rd-century Kushan Dynasty, the Crusades, the Byzantine Empire, and the Persian Shi’ite Buyid Dynasty.

“I included one of the oldest coins ever made by man during the Lydian empire around 561 BC,” he promised.

There's also a meteorite and Forrest Fenn’s dragon bracelet, studded with emeralds, diamonds, and rubies.

He included a cryptocurrency wallet as a bonus. “The crypto wallet is a secondary feature, not the main prize. It will grow as book sales increase.”

Its public address allows anyone to track its balance. The private key to access the cryptocurrency is partly with the treasure. Whoever finds it will receive clear instructions and any support needed to access the cryptocurrency portion. But Posey has words of caution: “Important: When found, protect the private key portion in the treasure. Don't photograph it or share it with anyone -- it's as valuable as cash.”

How do I find it?

Posey encourages hunters of his prize to start with his map (above) of the American West, which doesn't exactly narrow things down! For a little more help, the American has included a poem on his website, which he states "unlocks my treasure hunt."

Like Fenn, he too has written a memoir, but it focuses on his own treasure hunting. The book, Beyond The Map's Edge, apparently offers readers additional insights and different perspectives that searchers may find valuable, but it's not required to participate in the hunt. A convenient money maker perhaps.

The final clues are also buried within Posey's appearance on the Netflix series, though the staff and producers working on Gold & Greed weren't told of the location of Posey's chest or what the clues were.

"Not a soul knows the location except me. The steward has no knowledge of where the treasure is hidden. No one knows but me. No one," he writes forcefully.

What if you strike lucky?

The American treasure hunter has created a verification system. Whoever finds the chest has 30 days to contact an unnamed steward, who can match the chest's contents to a digital fingerprint.

The successful finder should make haste, though. "Miss that window and you'll lose out on the Bitcoin, the legal rights to the treasure, and probably a decent night's sleep fretting about it. So don't delay, dear finder!" Posey explains.

As with Fenn's treasure, the finder(s) can remain anonymous. Posey states that the steward will make an official announcement through his website and verified social media channels once a successful find has been properly verified.

One of the criticisms of Fenn's original hunt was that the finder remained anonymous and no details on the location were released. It caused Fenn and his family to face online threats, stalkers, home invasions, and lawsuits. As a consequence, Stuef revealed his identity.

To date, no one has found Posey's treasure, but his website states that on August 4 several searches had solved at least the first two clues in the poem, and some hunters have been within 60m of a checkpoint, which will indicate that hunters are on the right track.

When we’re not outdoors, we get our adventure fix by exploring social media and the web. Here are some of the best adventure links we’ve discovered this week.

The Greatest Traveler You’ve Never Heard Of:  J.R. Harris, a lifelong New Yorker, began his journey as a solo traveler in 1966 with a 7,200km road trip from Queens to northern Alaska. That trip sparked a lifetime of adventure, leading him to travel the world more than 13 times. He is an author and serves on the board of the Explorers Club, where he also leads diversity efforts. Now in his 80s, Harris is still planning new solo trips.

The First Non-Stop Flight Across the Atlantic: In the spring of 1919, four teams gathered in Newfoundland to compete for the first non-stop transatlantic flight. Jack Alcock and Ted Brown ultimately triumphed, flying a modified Vickers Vimy plane from Newfoundland to Ireland. Though overshadowed by Charles Lindbergh’s later solo crossing, their pioneering flight earned them acclaim from the likes of Amelia Earhart.

National Geographic controversy

Why Did National Geographic Disappear Its Own Documentary About A Queer Climate Scientist? The National Geographic film For Winter centered on a queer climate scientist’s quest to drill an ice core on Mount  Logan. After a triumphant showing at the Banff Mountain Film Festival, its global screenings were unexpectedly dropped. Some crew members didn’t even learn of its disappearance until contacted by adventure journalist Eva Holland.

A group of scientists, including expedition member Seth Campbell, sent a letter of protest to the National Geographic Society on May  28, expressing their “considerable disappointment” and stating that without restoration of the film, the Society “is no longer a trusted member of the scientific community.”

On June  6, they received a brief reply from National Geographic’s chief science and innovation officer, stating only that “something came to light” after the film’s completion, prompting their decision not to air it. No further explanation was given.

More and More Tourists Are Flocking to Antarctica. Let’s Stop It from Being Loved to Death: Tourism in Antarctica has risen sharply, from under 8,000 visitors annually in the 1990s to nearly 125,000 in 2023–24. This growth threatens fragile ecosystems through trampling, invasive species, wildlife disruption, and high carbon emissions. Existing regulations lack enforceable limits, prompting experts to call for stronger tourism oversight.

Boxing with cougars

A Man Punched a Cougar in the Face and Lived to Tell About It: A man working in British Columbia encountered a cougar when the animal approached him and clawed at his torso. He responded by punching the cougar in the face, causing it to retreat. The unnamed man apparently escaped with only minor scratches. Wildlife experts say his reaction aligns with recommended guidelines.

My Son Went on a Solo Hike and Never Came Home:  In July 2014, Cody Roman Dial, the 27-year-old son of Alaskan explorer Roman Dial, set out alone into the coastal rainforest of Costa Rica’s Corcovado National Park for what was meant to be a challenging multi-day hike. Days passed, and he did not return. In his memoir The Adventurer’s Son, Roman Dial reflects in vivid detail on the harrowing moment he realized his son was missing and the desperate day he began the search.

Last month, Pascal Smyth completed a 2,202km kayak journey from Canada to Alaska. Smyth, 35, set off from Vancouver on May 1 and reached the coastal city of Skagway on July 18. The wilderness journey took 72 days, including 15 days on shore, either resting or windbound. That averages 38km a day when on the water.

Smyth's route followed the Inside Passage, a network of largely protected waterways stretching up the Pacific Northwest coast. “The Inside Passage is, by its very nature, quite a sheltered route,” Smyth explained. “There are some areas where exposure to the might of the Pacific is unavoidable.”

For the British Columbia resident, this initially meant navigating from the calm waters behind Vancouver Island to the open coast around Cape Caution, which left him vulnerable to the Pacific. Yet, once past this exposure, he regained some protection from the open ocean.

While he had a background in hiking and camping, Smyth’s kayaking experience was more limited. He started paddling in 2018 and quickly immersed himself in the sport.

“I dove into paddling pretty intensely, becoming a Sea Kayak Guides Alliance of BC certified guide at the start of COVID, and have since gotten my Paddle Canada Level 3 certification,” he said.

Harnessing the wind

The unpredictable weather was one of the main challenges. For much of his journey, he was fortunate to encounter sunny days and favorable southeast winds. To take full advantage of these conditions, he brought along a Falcon Sail, a lightweight rig that stows easily when not in use. “I was able to use it often, which was a great help on longer days,” he said. Still, some stretches were more demanding than others.

“I had to wait a few days of bad wind just out of Port Hardy before racing across Queen Charlotte Strait,” he recalled. “Once I reached Burnett Bay, I spent a few more days waiting for the next weather window. While on the beach at Burnett Bay, I got to enjoy the sight of a gale bringing huge swells crashing upon the beach. I was happy to look at those big waves from the safety of shore, and was appreciative that my landing and launch were both in waves of one meter or less.”

Even when he wasn’t paddling, Smyth was immersed in the beauty of the coast. “Southeast Alaska, particularly Glacier Bay, was absolutely gorgeous,” he said. “Paddling through icebergs to look at glaciers, all the while hearing the sounds of humpbacks feeding all around, is a pretty unique experience.”

Smyth also encountered a pod of orcas on the central coast.

A journey through history

But the landscape was only one part of the experience. The coast is steeped in a rich history, from Tlingit petroglyphs etched into the stones near Wrangell to remnants of old industrial sites along the British Columbia coast.

“My favorite, though, has to be the cabin at Burnett Bay, which was constructed from driftwood by a paddler many decades ago,” Smyth reflected. “It’s been maintained by visitors throughout the year, and flipping through the logbooks revealed many familiar names.”

As Smyth continued his journey, the history of the land continued to unfold. One particularly memorable moment occurred on Admiralty Island, known for its high population of brown bears.

“One day, I saw a huge male grizzly, then two separate groups of mothers with two cubs each. All within about an hour of getting to camp,” he recalled.

To feel safe with wildlife nearby, Smyth set up a portable electric fence. “You can be sure I used it that night.”

Now that he's back home in British Columbia, Smyth is already dreaming of the next journey. "Perhaps the south coast of Newfoundland, or maybe Haida Gwaii. Circumnavigating Vancouver Island is another classic. So many to consider!"

Zimbabwean-born adventurer Nick Ray, 61, has completed a 1,600km walk between the four cardinal corners of Scotland. Ray arrived at his finish point of Dunnet Head, the northernmost point of mainland Scotland, on Saturday.

On May 1, the veteran adventurer started at the Mull of Galloway in the southwest of Scotland. He walked northeast to Peterhead, the easternmost corner, before heading back inland through central Scotland to the westerly extreme of Ardnamurchan Point. From here, beginning July 6, Ray hiked north toward Dunnet Head.

Ray kayaked 4,800km around the coastline of Scotland in 2022-3. In 2015, he kayaked a 2,900km route around Scotland, visiting every lifeboat station along the way.

For this long-distance walk, the former outdoor instructor chose to avoid much of the coastline he had previously paddled. Instead, he explored the country’s interior, such as the Flow Country, a large area of peat bog in Caithness and Sutherland, in northern Scotland.

Hard times prompted adventure

Ray lives with chronic clinical depression and survived a suicide attempt in 2019, where he jumped from a ferry into the tidal waters of a sea loch. A year ago, he also faced a stint in hospital with clinical depression and further thoughts of suicide.

During his 2022-3 kayak around the coastline of Scotland, Ray suffered what was initially thought to be a suspected stroke, later diagnosed as Bell's Palsy.

“My own journey through the darkness has taught me that there is hope and strength in seeking help and support,” he told the John O'Groats Journal.

Simple joys

Ray’s social media posts throughout the journey tell of the simple joys of life on foot. “Walking close to 1,000 miles has been good for me. You can see I’ve lost weight! I’ve also lost a lot of mental angst weight, too!”

Along the way, he met other walkers, battled midges and poor weather, and found moments of peace in the solitude of the Highlands.

“The scenery was incredibly beautiful and the heather glorious,” he wrote. “I’m so fortunate to have enjoyed this amazing three-month experience.”

His route from the west took him through the Pentland hills near Edinburgh and across the famous Forth Road Bridge into Fife, along the Tay Estuary. Turning inland, Ray headed into the Cairngorms.

In central Scotland, he crossed the remote and striking Rannoch Moor near Glencoe, and later in the northwest, he climbed Ben Resipol, a long-held goal.

Rain, bog, and insects were frequent companions, with posts like: “Today, I’ve been assailed by midges...If I stopped walking for a brief moment, I was covered in them. Thank goodness for my headnet.”

Rediscovering joy

Beyond the physical challenge, Ray’s Four Corners expedition also served as a personal journey of recovery. Around a year earlier, he had been admitted to a psychiatric ward. “Where I am right now, 630 miles into my four corners expedition, is a testament to the fact that recovery is possible.”

From coastal cliffs to moorland bogs, Ray’s path was shaped as much by weather and footsoreness as by planning. “It’s going to be a self-care day. I’ve a raging headache & shivery ague. Plus, it’s not the weather to walk across Rannoch Moor.”

But his resilience remained constant. “After a day in heavy squally rain & trudging through interminable bog, there’s nothing like getting the tent up, donning warm dry clothes, and making a restorative hot drink.”

The journey ended just after midday on August 2, with Ray’s arrival at the Dunnet Head lighthouse.

Nick Ray’s Four Corners walk wasn’t only about reaching geographic milestones. It was, in his words, about rediscovering joy. “This undertaking is more significant than my others. At the age of 61, I’ve rediscovered joy.”

British adventurer James Baxter is over 80 days into a 6,000km cycle across Africa. The journey, from the Atlantic Ocean in Namibia to the Indian Ocean in Tanzania, is part of a wider project to complete seven adventures on seven continents. Africa is number five.

Baxter, 65, is not a fan of adventure hubris and suggests that the journey is more cultural and spiritual than athletic or ego-driven.

"There are no sponsorship deals, no ostentation, no publicity," he wrote on his blog before setting off. "Instead, the journeys should be made quietly without fanfare and with a degree of humbleness. The aim of the journey is to let the continent’s nature and culture absorb you so you learn from it and let it quench your curiosity...It should be a spiritual journey like that of a wandering sannyasin [a Hindu mendicant]."

The Briton crossed over into Malawi last Wednesday, "after a quite fantastic Zambia. Friendliest people on the planet...I am sad to leave but elated I can come back sometime," Baxter told ExplorersWeb.

From cart to bike

Initially, Baxter had planned to haul a cart carrying all his food, water, and equipment across arid landscapes like the Skeleton Coast and the northern Kalahari. First, he designed a wooden prototype, which was too fragile and had too steep a pulling angle. Next came a more refined and robust steel-framed version.

Over time, though, Baxter began to have sleepless nights as the reality of slowly hauling a heavily laden cart dawned on him.

"Would the cart hold up and would it be a dreadful burden to pull under the hot sun, would I get attacked by animals during the night, would I be safe from people who saw my cart as a bounty chest?" he wondered at the time.

Baxter is no stranger to long, arduous journeys. In 2024, he became the oldest person to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole via the Hercules Inlet route. He has also spent over 40 years adventuring around the world, including a 250-day journey skiing and kayaking the length and coast of Norway in 2009.

Eventually, Baxter abandoned the idea of dragging a cart and fixed on cycling across the continent from west to east. He started in Namibia, crossed into Botswana, Zambia, Malawi, and then finally Tanzania.

Namibia

From May 27 to June 8, the opening leg of Baxter's ride across Africa, Baxter covered around 900km from his starting point at the coastal city of Swakopmund to Grootfontein in the northwest.

His route passed through fogbound Atlantic coastline, bone-dry desert, sunlit savannah, and cultivated farmland. He followed a quiet rhythm of early starts, long gravel tracks, and surprise wildlife encounters.

Baxter's daily distances ranged from 70 to 100km, with steady elevation gains and the occasional headwind. Farmsteads often offered guesthouse accommodation, and sightings of baboons, warthogs, kudu, and oryx became routine. He spent nights with local families or camped between game fences and bushveld (woodland).

For all its natural beauty, Baxter reports that northwest Namibia revealed a deeper social complexity. Much of the land he traversed was privately owned, often by white Namibians, reflecting an uneven legacy of land distribution that still shapes the region. While this leg of the journey brought warm welcomes and engaging conversations, these were largely limited to the white population.

As Baxter approached the city of Grootfontein, the open landscape gave way to large-scale agriculture. On June 4, 26 days into the journey, the Briton passed through a quiet border post. This was the start of a more remote leg through rural Botswana.

Botswana

Baxter then began a six-day push through Botswana’s remote northwest, covering over 350km between the border and the town of Maun.

The first few days were on sandy, unmaintained tracks lined with cattle posts, termite mounds, and scattered bush. Deep sand made cycling slow, and sections had to be pushed, not ridden.

The road east improved gradually, and on June 8, Baxter reached Sehithwa, a quiet village near the long-dry basin of Lake Ngami. After a short rest, he covered the final 100km to Maun on June 9, riding into the town’s traffic and roadside bustle. Here, Baxter took several days to rest and enjoyed a walking safari tour.

The next leg headed northeast, toward the town of Kasane, close to the border of southern Zambia. He reached it on June 26, 46 days into the ride. As in Namibia, Baxter wild camped and stayed in accommodation offered by helpful locals.

Zambia

Baxter entered Zambia around June 25, beginning a leg that would take him across the country from west to east in around four weeks. The western section was remote and sparsely populated, marked by long stretches without amenities and basic infrastructure.

Water was often available, but food resupply was irregular, and accommodation was limited to wild camping or church-run rest houses. Despite logistical challenges, Baxter rode steadily over manageable terrain.

In central Zambia, the terrain grew tougher, especially approaching and descending into the Luangwa Valley. As he neared the Malawian border, Baxter encountered more settlements and busier roads. Although infrastructure improved slightly, much of the region remained rural and agricultural. On the final stretch toward the Mwami Border Post, Baxter passed through more densely populated areas.

Malawi and next steps

On July 30, Baxter crossed into Malawi from eastern Zambia. However, he soon discovered that a key stretch of his intended route through a large wildlife reserve is off-limits to cyclists because of the risk of encountering elephants. This meant he needed to completely rethink his route across central Malawi.

Instead of cycling through remote backcountry roads as originally planned, Baxter has opted for a safer and more direct alternative: riding southeast to the capital city (Lilongwe) and continuing along quieter rural roads toward Lake Malawi.

Though this new route is more populated and less adventurous, it avoids busy truck corridors and allows him to maintain his commitment to traveling independently without relying on lifts.

With the new plan in place and logistics sorted, the Briton is now ready to continue his trans-African ride through the heart of Malawi.

When we’re not outdoors, we get our adventure fix by exploring social media and the web. Here are some of the best adventure links we’ve discovered this week.

Closer to the True Heart of Things: Late one afternoon in a remote bothy deep in the Scottish Highlands, outdoor writer Alex Roddie encounters a hiker on a lifelong quest, someone whose unassuming purpose resonated far beyond their personal journey. As twilight takes hold, stories unfold over the flickering warmth of the fire, and Roddie finds himself questioning the true motivations behind adventure.

One Came Back: When friends Mitch Fichten and Evan Russell paddled down the Pelly River in late October, they expected wilderness and solitude. Instead, a surprise freeze-up and blocks of river ice the size of cars forced them ashore. What began as a scouting mission ahead of spring gold prospecting became a test of survival, and only one of them returned to tell the tale.

Demystifying Jaws

To Save a Predator, Maybe You Have to Get Close. Very Close: Free-diver Ocean Ramsey embraces intimacy with one of nature’s most feared predators. From swimming alongside great whites, tiger sharks, and bull sharks, she aims to dismantle decades of Jaws-inspired fear. The new Netflix documentary Shark Whisperer follows her mission to reframe these creatures as complex and misunderstood.

What Will Drone Transport on Everest Mean for Sherpas?: Everest expeditions are now using drones to transport ladders, oxygen tanks, ropes, and even rubbish across the Khumbu Icefall, and the role of Sherpas is quietly changing. With drones handling much of the heavy hauling, Sherpas are increasingly freed to focus on guiding clients and increasing safety margins.

Kayaking the Inside Passage

Wild Encounters: Oli Broadhead and his father set out on a four‑month kayak journey through the waterways of Alaska and Canada’s Inside Passage. What began as a kayak journey quickly became an unpredictable test of endurance, nature, and family. Their journey featured weather‑forced detours, wildlife surprises, and a reconnection in one of the world’s wildest coastal landscapes.

Florida is Considering Making It Legal to Hunt Bears Again: After a decade without legal black bear hunting, Florida is set to reinstate the practice this December, with preliminary approval granted in May. The plan would allow up to 187 bears to be hunted through a lottery system. Supporters argue that it's necessary to manage the growing bear population, while critics question its ethics.

"Today is day 11 of free soloing a harder route every day until I fall," the tousle-haired young rock climber says to the camera. "And today we're free soloing 11b."

The view then switches to distant footage of him climbing ropeless up a steep 5.11b route in Colorado, which includes a precarious move over a short overhang.

The comments section on this footage posted to Instagram via the account Lincolnclimbs makes for interesting reading. Some praise the climber's calmness under pressure and congratulate him. Others are understandably more negative. Free soloing is climbing without a rope, the subgenre of climbing that American pro Alex Honnold became famous for doing, very, very carefully. One commenter, in particular, raises concerns about advocating this activity.

Advertising free soloing on a social media platform is not a good thing to do as a climber. This is how we get people killed because they saw one dude do it online and they try to do it themselves. I get you're a good climber but this is not the way to go about internet fame. You have a lot of influence and it can be good AND bad. At least do some sort of safety warning or actively tell people not to do this kinda thing.

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A post shared by Lincoln Knowles (@lincolnclimbs)

Next-level ragebait

Another viewer suggests the video is designed as a means to provoke anger and negativity to drive increased engagement with his social media account: "Free soloing till I fall is some next level ragebait."

The video is part of a series of Instagram posts focused on free soloing, which started with "day one of free soloing a harder route every day until I fall" on a 5.8 graded route on June 7. Mixed around these videos are other content from free soloing buildings, to climbing disused chimney stacks.

Who is the climber?

The climber behind the Instagram account is a young American college student named Lincoln Knowles. An article published on the website Voyage Utah last August suggests Knowles has been climbing for five years, is a college student in Utah, and is also a climbing guide and YouTuber.

"At just 20 years old, I am a full-time climbing guide and YouTuber, passionately sharing my adventures and expertise with a growing online audience," he told the site.

Knowles appears to have a second, more conventional Instagram account and a personal website that advertises rock and ice climbing courses. He states that he has a Wilderness First Aid Certificate and has undergone avalanche training.

The young American is clearly a strong climber. On July 13, Knowles posted a video claiming to be the first to free solo what he describes as the longest sport climbing route in the United States -- Squawstruck (5.11b, 22 pitches), a 600m climb in Rock Canyon, Utah.

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A post shared by Lincoln Knowles (@lincolnclimbs)

Asking for donations

Following the Squawstruck climb, Knowles posted another video referring to the successful climb with the simple caption "Venmo: Lincoln-Knowles". Venmo is an American mobile payment service. Knowles is asking followers to make a donation.

One commenter took less kindly to this request: "Bro, imagine some semi-strong unsponsored boulderer, trad climber, or sport climber put their Venmo or Zelle on a post after FA-ing, equipping, sending, flashing or onsighting any route or climb. What are you doing my guy? Plenty of people love climbing, we ain’t paying you to do this. You need to rethink this whole strat boss."

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A post shared by Lincoln Knowles (@lincolnclimbs)

Knowles also runs a Patreon account where he posts videos of his climbs, with various paid membership levels. On this page, he suggests supporters help him "stay independent, fund new missions, and tell the kind of climbing stories that aren’t sponsored, filtered, or algorithm-friendly."

A different side

From the Instagram account alone, it would be easy to form the impression that Knowles is simply reckless. However, his longer-form YouTube videos paint a different picture. In one video entitled My Hardest Free Solo Yet (Colossus 5.10c), the young climber has inserted a voice-over where he calmly commentates through key sections of the route.

He talks about enjoying the route, the moves ahead, getting lost on the route, judging rock quality, the time it takes to learn this, and the high consequences of what he is doing.

One commenter is less forgiving, though. "This isn't standard free solo practice. You should know the route flawlessly, not get up and realize you have no idea which way to go. And you can't onsight something you've already had a go on. Please have a plan if you really feel like you need to do this. It isn't worth dying for."

Towards the end of the video, Knowles riffs on his reasons for free soloing.

"If you're a climber, you kind of understand the joy behind climbing, and the feeling of satisfaction that you get when climbing. And it's kind of reasonable to think about how the more time you spend climbing and the less time you spend managing ropes, the more actual climbing you're doing.

"If you've never climbed before, I would suggest that you try it, and you'll realize that it's actually really good. Developing trust in your own abilities and in your feet is a really good feeling."

Kodak courage

In the wider outdoor world, social media has played an undeniable role in luring hikers, climbers, and skiers onto terrain they may not be equipped to deal with. In 2017, the Instagram-famous Capitol Peak in Colorado, had five deaths on its slopes in six weeks.

One of the dead was amateur climber Jake Lord. Lord had persuaded his friend Peter Doro, a hiker afraid of heights, to tackle Capitol Peaks’ knife-edge ridge. The dizzying YouTube videos the pair pored over proved too alluring, the potential feeling of triumph too much to miss out on. Before the incident, Lord messaged his friends, “This is what I’m about to do, it’s going to be sick.”

Two years before Facebook launched, avalanche expert Ian McCammon published research noting six factors contributing to avalanche accidents. These included the need to do activities to be noticed or accepted by other mountain goers. This has since become known as “Kodak Courage.”

Not the only one

Kodak Courage is nothing new, but the advent of social media and its “everywhereness” has given it a new edge: the need to drive engagement for attention or monetary gain.

Lincoln Knowles is not alone. In February, a Ukrainian ice-climbing influencer known for posting risky or controversial content died in an unroped fall, after having only taken up the sport nine weeks earlier.

Knowles' motivation for posting controversial content on free soloing is not clear from his online presence, and it is worth noting that this is a young man who appears to have a passion for climbing. Despite this, some commenters on his videos strongly disagree with his actions:

"Free soloing was never about spraying on Instagram. Dude you're gonna look back in a few years [and] be so embarrassed at how cringe this is. Solo on your own, for yourself. Have more respect for yourself than the algorithm."

What is clear and not open to debate, however, is that this free soloist wants your attention.

A determined group of runners flew to 90˚ North earlier this month to take part in one of the globe's most unique running events -- the North Pole Marathon. This, despite the fact that the North Pole expedition season at Barneo, the floating ice station where the marathon traditionally takes place, was cancelled last spring for the seventh year in a row.

On July 13, 37 men and 24 women laced up for a full marathon on a marked course on the drifting ice of the Arctic Ocean. They were joined by 4 male and 10 female runners tackling the half-marathon distance, plus one hardy soul taking on a solo 50km route. The fastest time of the day belonged to Great Britain’s Oleg Polyntsev, who clocked in at 3 hours and 43 minutes.

In total, the athletes represented 21 countries: Poland, India, China, the United States, Belgium, Great Britain, Cuba, Mexico, Canada, Slovakia, Sweden, Denmark, South Africa, Lithuania, Australia, Chile, Iceland, Norway, the Netherlands, Ukraine, and Japan -- bringing a global presence to the top of the world.

Origin of the race

The inaugural North Pole Marathon was held in 2003, with 18 more editions following, with all but two run in the spring. This was made possible by the logistical support of Camp Barneo, a temporary Russian-operated ice station drifting on the Arctic Ocean.

But since 2018, Barneo has been unable to operate, due to a mix of geopolitical tension, Russia’s war in Ukraine, and increasingly unpredictable sea ice. With the traditional route to the Pole shut down, the marathon’s organizers, Runbuk, were forced to reimagine the event.

That pivot arrived on August 16, 2023, when the Runbuk team organized the first Summer North Pole Marathon. Canadian ultrarunner Patrick Charlebois and American endurance athlete Melissa Kullander earned the distinction of being the first male and female finishers of the Summer event.

Runbuk also operates the Antarctic Ice Marathon at the bottom of the world. For those with the means and a thirst for polar travel, entry into these events doesn’t come cheaply. A spot in the North Pole Marathon will set you back $25,000, while its southern sibling comes in at $22,500. Still, that’s a bargain compared to the cost of a guided Last Degree expedition to either pole.

How do they get there?

For the spring version, runners used to fly via Svalbard to Barneo, situated around 89˚N. With that option out of the window, Runbuk tried last year to fly out of Krasnoyarsk, Russia, but permit issues ultimately thwarted that idea. So instead, they ran another summer edition of the event.

According to the event's website, participants in the summer marathon travel by icebreaker on a 16-day journey. This begins with a flight from Paris to Longyearbyen, Svalbard. A polar icebreaker, Le Commandant Charcot, then sails north along Spitsbergen’s rugged coast, offering views of remote fiords and Arctic wildlife before continuing into the ice pack.

Over the following days, the vessel navigates through shifting sea ice toward the North Pole. Weather and ice conditions permitting, the marathon takes place about a week after departure on a prepared course, with polar bear guards standing by.

Afterward, runners enjoy the celebrations, which include a polar plunge and an informal awards ceremony. The ship then makes its way south, retracing its path through the ice to Longyearbyen, from which participants fly back to Paris.

Though the golden era of North Pole sledding expeditions seems to have ended due to rising costs, limited logistics, and a warming climate, there remains a clear appetite to bring well-funded adventure tourists to the top of the planet for their brief moment in the Arctic sun.

High above the Bow Valley in Canada's Rocky Mountains, trail runner Adam Mertens, 32, can spot his own home below. The comfort of a sofa and a warm meal lies in sight, but between him and that comfort are fading light and steep drops falling on either side of his feet as they skip over a chossy limestone ridge. He’s close in distance, yet worlds away up there in the alpine.

When Mertens first moved to Canmore eight years ago, trail running did not have a long history in that part of the Rockies. "A couple of key people have really cultivated it over the last 15 to 20 years. Before that, there wasn't a ton out there."

Unlike the trail-running mecca of Chamonix in the French Alps, there’s no gondola to the mountains of the Bow Valley. “You’ve got to work for it,” Mertens says. “Even the sport climbing here is an 800m approach to get to the crags.”

The protected national and provincial parks around the mountain towns of Canmore and Banff make trail races a little more complicated to organize. Yet the mountain running scene is slowly growing.

A new generation of Canadian trail runners is eating up big mountain linkups in the Bow Valley, where a huge swathe of jagged limestone peaks rises above the treeline to over 3,000m.

Fast and technical

Mertens is one of those leading the charge, laying down fast times on highly technical routes, bringing together his overall outdoor experience in climbing, scrambling, skiing, and running.

One of the first big linkups Mertens brought this all together on is a traverse of the 11 peaks of Mount Rundle -- the Rundle Traverse -- a chain of peaks that looms large over the honeypot town of Banff. He first attempted the route in 2017 and has since completed it 10 times, most recently setting the fastest known time (FKT).

The Rundle Traverse

Linking up the peaks of Rundle is usually a two-day mountaineering affair. When Mertens first attempted the route, he found little in the way of route beta, especially for anyone skilled or daring enough to run parts of it.

The nearly 25km traverse takes in around 2,500m of elevation gain and includes class 4-5 scrambling with some rappel sections, and requires climbing skills beyond typical trail running.

"None of it is super-difficult technically," Mertens told ExplorersWeb. "It falls in that grey area between trail running, scrambling, and climbing."

"You go out onto some potentially 5.9 terrain with exposure below you,"  he adds. When you tie this in with the fact that the limestone in the Rockies is notoriously loose and chossy -- some locals call the range the Rottenies -- it's clear that trail runners can't afford to switch off.

"The reality is it's still an alpine climb," says Mertens. "The challenge emerges when somebody who has a trail running background, but not a climbing background, gets on that terrain."

Mertens reckons that balancing fatigue management is also critical to keeping safe on the route. "It's no-fall scrambling...matching the pace and the effort to the terrain, so that you come home at the end of the day."

New FKT

Earlier this month, on July 5, Mertens pulled together all his experience on the route to complete it in a mere 4 hours and 49 minutes, a new FKT. He took no rope, minimal water and food, using snow patches for water instead. He timed it so that he did the whole traverse in daylight -- not hard in early summer at 51˚N.

His familiarity with the route allowed him to choose efficient paths and bypass more technical sections: "As that route has evolved, and as the time on it has gone faster and faster, people have figured out different ways to do it, to avoid the rappels and to avoid particularly the crux."

Most people who require assistance on the route get pulled off in the crux between the final two peaks on the western edge of the ridge. "It has to be the most technically challenging section of the route. But it's also the point in the day where you've been moving for 10, 15, 20 hours. It suddenly feels a lot more serious."

Since Mertens first started hitting the traverse in 2017, the route has become much more established with more paths being beaten in, and at least one party on the ridge most weekends during the summer months.

The 'Bow Tie'

Mertens, who works as a hiking guide and outdoor educator, had ambitions beyond the Rundle Traverse. During the COVID lockdowns, he turned his attention to the mountains on his doorstep. It was a period when, in 2020 alone, 23 new FKTs were recorded on various routes in the Bow Valley. With a number of iconic loops already dreamt up in recent decades, Mertens set out to combine several of them into a single massive linkup he dubbed the "Bow Tie."

"The Bow Tie combined three of the most classic big runs, including the Rundle Traverse, Canmore Quad traverse, and then the Banff Triple Crown," Mertens says.

In the early hours of June 30, 2023, Mertens set off into the dark on what would become one of the most ambitious mountain linkups in the Bow Valley.

He began with the Canmore Quad (the four peaks of Grotto, Lady Macdonald, Ha Ling, and the East End of Rundle), continued straight into the full Rundle Traverse, and wrapped up with the Banff Triple Crown (3 peaks of West End of Rundle, Sulphur, and Cascade).

The 115km circuit took Mertens 32 hours to complete and included 9,500m of elevation gain. He crossed the finish line on the Bow Tie around noon on July 1.

This was Mertens' first time running for such a long period. "It was my first time doing over 100km, so that whole experience of engaging with fatigue and knowing where it's appropriate to take a 10-minute nap was definitely a big learning curve for me."

The Bow Valley Cirque

One of Mertens’ most ambitious efforts to date is the Bow Valley Cirque, a self-powered, high-alpine continuous 127km loop around the Canmore–Banff corridor, staying true to the ridgelines and summiting peaks via technical routes. No one had attempted this before.

The Canadian trail runner wasn't put off by the 11,100m of elevation gain, and took on the route in August 2024, going as far as he could in just over 64 hours. On the way, he slept a measly six hours.

Throughout the attempt, Mertens was supported by a team of about 10 people who helped manage key aspects like nutrition, rest, and technical challenges, while also reducing the amount of gear he needed to carry. Others pitched in behind the scenes by scouting sections of the route in advance to see if they worked or not.

"A lot of work went into planning the different sections. And even for all the information that we had, there was a huge piece where there were really no trip reports from people who had done it, " Mertens notes.

The multi-skilled athlete broke the route into six different and committing chunks to allow time to catch some rest out of the alpine. "After each one of those, you're dropping back into town. And the temptation to think 'like, that was kind of good enough' definitely creeps in more and more."

"You're in view of your house the whole time, which adds this other challenge, where you're deep, deep in this and you're in pretty technical terrain," Mertens said.

Unfinished business

The last uncompleted corner of the Cirque still gnaws at Mertens, so he's intending to go back and complete it. "We're gonna go back this year and try to finish it. There was a piece that was unfinished."

For now, though, Mertens seems content with soaking up everything the mountains of the Bow Valley and wider Rockies have to offer.

"There's still so much to do just within the Bow Valley...and the Rockies," he says. "I think it's one of the most beautiful places in the world."

Andreas Tonelli, a mountain biker recognized for his vertigo-inducing mountain biking videos, died in a fall on July 15 at the age of 48. He was riding alone in the Dolomites, in Italy’s South Tyrol region, when he reportedly fell 200m on a steep trail.

According to Italian media, concern arose when Tonelli failed to return from his ride by 9 pm. Earlier that evening, around 7:15 pm, he posted a now-deleted Instagram story showing that he had reached the 2,905m summit of Piz Duleda in the Puez-Odle Nature Park.

A friend alerted authorities, prompting a search effort. A helicopter then continued searching until around 1 am, when they found Tonelli's body in a ravine.

Social media hit

Tonelli's final post on Instagram two days before his death shows a point-of-view video of him descending a narrow trail with a steep drop to the right. In the caption, he noted it was Day 2 of a four-day Dolomites Enduro Traverse with Norrona Adventure.

On his sponsor Norrona's website, it states that Tonelli mainly lived in the Dolomites and that he quit his "boring office job to become a full-time bike guide and organizer of sport trips around the world."

Many of Tonelli's Instagram videos were very popular due to the highly exposed, "no fall" terrain he was able to cover on a bike.

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In one pinned post, Tonelli is seen climbing a Via Ferrata route with his bike strapped to his back. Part of his caption reads, "No matter how crazy your goals are, always remember to give everything to pursue your dreams!"

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The highest bikeable mountain

Last January, Tonelli and fellow rider Giovanni Mattielo made a bike ascent and descent of Argentina's Cerro Mercedario. At 6,670m, it's the eighth-highest in the Andes. The trailer of their yet-to-be-released film describes Cerro Mercedario as "the world's highest rideable peak," but it is not clear how much of it they were able to ride or if there are other bikeable peaks of a similar altitude elsewhere.

When we’re not outdoors, we get our adventure fix by exploring social media and the web. Here are some of the best adventure links we’ve discovered this week.

Desert of My Dreams: Vedangi Kulkarni recently set her eyes on a solo unsupported cycle around the globe, aiming to set a women's speed record. Because of the visa difficulties associated with an Indian passport, she followed a non-traditional route, and this brought unexpected logistical challenges. When it became clear the record was out of reach, she shifted her focus. In April 2025, after covering 29,030km over 270 days, Kulkarni completed her second global cycle while still only in her mid-twenties.

Mapping the myth: In search of Homer’s enchanted islands: Although Greek mythology is fictional, some classicists have explored connections between myth and reality. British-American classicist Emily Wilson suggests that "there is some correspondence between the world of Homer and the real world, although the relationship is partial and inexact." This piece traces the islands that may have inspired the travels of Homer’s epic hero, Odysseus.

Paddling with porpoise

It Began With a Paddle: At his lowest point, the stark beauty of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula offered Sean Jansen a lifeline, a glimpse into a different kind of life. One rooted in giving back to the environment he had once taken for granted. It was a chance to start over, dedicating his energy to protecting Mexico’s most endangered species. And it all began with a paddle.

Sixty Years Later: Finding -- and Climbing -- the Troll Wall: Sixty years after completing the first ascent of Troll Wall, Europe's highest and steepest cliff, British climber Tony Howard reflects on his experience and shares a short account of how the climb unfolded.

Revelry Collection: It seems there's a fresh digital counterculture in the outdoor world, with new print magazines and zines appearing at a steady rate. This offering from a young American high schooler only publishes original film images. It looks polished and has hooked in well-known outdoor photographers such as Alex Strohl and Taylor Burke.

Playing His Own Game: Despite climbing during South Africa’s apartheid era, Ed February achieved success both in the mountains and in academia. In this story from Alpinist, Brandon Blackburn explores how February defied racist barriers to follow his passions, always forging his own path.

On July 18, Polish paddlesports athlete Sebastian Szubski completed a solo kayak circumnavigation of Great Britain. He covered the 3,000km route in 37 days, finishing three days faster than Dougal Glashier, the previous record holder from 2023.

Szubski began his journey in Western Scotland on June 12 and initially faced challenging waves, fatigue, and changeable weather conditions that are typical of the British coastline. His route led him around Scotland’s rugged coast, down the coasts of England and Wales, across the Bristol Channel, through the Irish Sea, past both Ireland and Northern Ireland, and ultimately back to Scotland.

For much of the route, Szubski was neck-and-neck with Glashier's time, paddling an average of 80km to sustain his target of 40 days.

Key moments

“Scotland welcomed me as if it were paradise on Earth. Beautiful, with seals, views, and no waves because I was hidden among the islands. I decided to start higher than I had planned. It turned out I'd chosen the most beautiful spot in all of Great Britain,” Szubski told Red Bull Poland.

However, on day two, this short-lived idyllic start was replaced by rudder issues, a leak, and rough seas that left him unable to control his boat properly. He narrowly avoided crashing into the cliffs at the famous sea stack of the Old Man of Stoer.

From the seventh day, Szubski’s journey settled into its routine of paddling, eating, and sleeping. He often spent up to 16 hours a day in his kayak. The timing of his efforts was frequently dictated by tidal currents, sometimes requiring pre-dawn starts in gnarly weather. These early rises became essential for staying on schedule.

By the eighteenth day, he reached the halfway point. Navigating past Dover under the cover of night helped him avoid the world's busiest shipping traffic, though technical issues left him without lights or radio communication.

A support team followed Szubski the entire way. On land, recovery was the top priority, although each landing also required recording footage for Guinness record documentation, changing into dry clothes, and eating high-calorie meals. He received massages from his support team and slept, at least at times, in a rooftop tent.

Olympic pedigree

When Szubski announced his intention to circumnavigate Britain by Kayak, some in the British paddling community were skeptical. He had reportedly never kayaked at sea, let alone the rugged British coast, which can be technically challenging and dangerous.

In preparation, in July 2024, Szubski and Sebastian Cuattrin paddled a 200km section of the River Thames in England in just under 22 hours. A few months later, that fall, the Pole visited and trained with Mike Lambert, a former British canoe sprinter who completed a 58-day kayak circumnavigation earlier in the year.

Although born in Poland, Szubski represented Brazil in the 2004 Summer Olympics in the sprint canoe event and the 500m doubles kayak. He also holds the record for the farthest distance by canoe or kayak on flat water in 24 hours -- an impressive 252km.

Fastest known time

Szubski has claimed his circumnavigation as the fastest kayak journey around Great Britain, and a number of news sources have suggested he has broken a Guinness World Record. How Guinness will ratify this record is unclear, as they do not currently appear to have published a comparable record on their website. Also, for some in the adventure community, they are not a credible record-keeping organization.

Dougal Glashier previously held the fastest known time, although his route was reportedly 3,120km -- slightly longer than the 3,000km initially reported by Szubski. Both Glashier and Szubski had support crews, but details remain unclear regarding how much they relied on them, whether they camped wild or stayed in accommodations, and how similar their routes were.

In 2012, Joe Leach, the previous record holder, completed the journey in 67 days, a benchmark Glashier surpassed by an impressive 27 days.

A 63-year-old speleologist has been rescued from the Abisso Paperino cave system in northern Italy after suffering a head injury approximately 40m below the surface. The incident occurred on Sunday when falling rocks struck the man while he was in the cave with team members.

Specialist emergency responders, including a medical team, reached the injured caver the same day. He received treatment inside a specially installed heated tent within the cave. While the severity of the head injury remains unclear, the man was unable to exit the cave system without assistance.

Inside Italy’s Abisso Paperino cave system

The Abisso Paperino cave system in northern Italy reaches depths of up to 154m and is approximately 1,700m long. Accessible via a dirt road, the cave begins with a 28m vertical shaft that opens into a complex labyrinth of underground galleries, shafts, and winding sections. Notable features within the system include the Cavallo Orazio chamber, the central Pozzo Vertigine shaft, and a series of fossil galleries and water-filled siphons, making it an interesting site for speleologists and cavers.

To extract the injured man from the Abisso Paperino cave system, rescue teams used controlled explosive charges to widen three critical passages. This allowed members of the Italian National Alpine and Speleological Rescue Corps to safely transport the man back to the surface through the narrow, challenging terrain.

The injured speleologist’s ascent to the surface on Monday involved climbing through two vertical shafts, each approximately 15m high. Rescuers also had to navigate a complex maze of tight, winding cave passages to complete the operation successfully.

On May 28, Max Kilcoyne stood alone above 6,000m. Below him, clouds swirled over the Kahiltna Glacier. Above him, only the upper ridgeline of McKinley and the summit of Mount Foraker pierced the darkening skies. His hands were cold, his phone had just died, and he was alone. But he clicked into his skis and dropped in anyway.

Kilcoyne had just graduated from the University of Colorado Boulder, and now eight days later, he was nearly 5,000km north on the flanks of North America’s highest peak, solo skiing the Orient Express, a 1,000m couloir that slices straight off Mt. McKinley's upper slopes at angles that touch 50°.

"I don’t have many pictures from this day as I was by myself and my phone died, but I’ll have the memories of that ski forever," said the young American ski mountaineer.

What followed was a series of ski mountaineering linkups. Over 24 days on the mountain, Kilcoyne soloed and skied the Orient Express, climbed and skied down the Messner Couloir, and then climbed the legendary Cassin Ridge, skiing back down Rescue Gully.

In between, there were other forays high on the mountain. He skied nearly every day of the trip, 21 out of 24, and completed the Cassin just a week after finishing the Messner.

A grind to 14,000 Camp

Kilcoyne arrived in Talkeetna on May 18 with American mountain athletes Anna DeMonte and Jack Kuenzle. The goal was for Kilcoyne to support DeMonte and Kuenzle on a fastest known time (FKT) attempt on McKinley, and then, if all went well, climb the Cassin Ridge. After weather delays grounded the many climbers waiting to fly out to the Kahiltna Glacier, Kilcoyne’s team finally flew on May 21 when the clouds broke.

"The rangers really enjoyed the extra-large bottle of tequila we had given to them the day before," Kilcoyne joked when asked what may have earned them a seat on the flight out of town.

The next three days were spent dragging heavy sleds up the Kahiltna Glacier to 14,000 Camp, which sits at 4,300m on a plateau below the upper slopes of the mountain. "Any amount of incline with that much weight just feels like death," said Kilcoyne.

The three-strong team arrived at 14,000 Camp on May 23. That same week, DeMonte and Kuenzle made an early push toward Denali Pass at 5,500m to get some mileage in. Kilcoyne, feeling tired, stayed behind and dug out the cook tent.

Orient Express Couloir (May 28)

On a day when DeMonte and Kuenzle stayed in their tents, Kilcoyne headed up Orient Express Couloir solo. With no fixed lines, no partner, and no certainty about the conditions above, he pushed through deep snow and low visibility, booting into the white void above. By 5,400m, he was out of food. The wind picked up, and he walked backwards up the hill to protect his face.

Still, he kept climbing. At 6,140m -- just 45m shy of the summit -- he decided to stop. The wind chill temperature had dropped, and he knew he needed working fingers to take off his crampons and clip into his skis. He also planned to summit multiple times later in the season.

What followed was a descent in perfect conditions, skiing steep powder, without another soul on the route. "One of the most euphoric skis of my life," he said. "I got back to camp at 8 pm and couldn’t stop shivering all night but was stoked out of my mind."

Messner Couloir (June 6)

DeMonte and Kuenzle’s speed record attempt ended on May 29 when DeMonte was injured in a fall while skiing at 4,900m. A week later, Kilcoyne joined Wesley Perkins and Emmett Itoi to attempt the Messner Couloir, a direct line that drops 1,500m from just below McKinley’s summit. No one had skied it yet that season.

The trio climbed the couloir from 14,000 Camp to 5,900m, where Itoi decided to wait, leaving Kilcoyne and Perkins to summit in strong winds. On the way back, they rejoined Itoi and skied back down the Couloir. The snow was stable, and visibility was excellent. "All of 14,000 Camp was watching us as we opened it for the season," Kilcoyne said.

"We picked the most notable features from a photo, and then I got to make the first turns down. It felt committing, not really knowing where you are on such a big face, but it couldn’t have gone better."

Cassin Ridge and Rescue Gully (June 13)

Kilcoyne had long set his sights on the Cassin Ridge. "The Cassin meant the most to me by far. That has been a priority for me for the last two years, and it was amazing to see it come to fruition."

He and Perkins teamed up again and left 14,000 Camp on June 10, skied the Seattle Ramp to access the base of the route, and climbed light and fast. Night one was spent on a narrow ice ledge. Night two was spent tied to an ice screw on a ledge barely wide enough for one person. One of Kilcoyne’s food bags for the next day tumbled off into the void.

"The hardest thing about the linkup of the Cassin and Rescue Gully was probably just how remote you are and how hard it is to manage your gear in those temperatures. I brought three pairs of gloves, and by the end of day one, all of them were completely soaked and frozen solid. Your ski boots get wet and then freeze; pretty much everything gets wet at some point and then freezes solid. Climbing through some of the cruxes with skis on our backs was also quite difficult," Kilcoyne noted.

The route tested their mixed climbing skills, with M4/M5 terrain in places, simul-climbing with skis on their backs, and trail breaking in deep snow. On June 13 in the evening, they topped out on the Kahiltna Horn and skied around 1,800m back to 14,000 Camp via Rescue Gully.

"We topped out Kahiltna Horn at 8:33 pm, put on all our layers, put skis on, and ripped down as fast as possible. Neither of us had any interest in going the last 150 feet on the ridge to the true summit."

A skier had died on Rescue Gully in an avalanche a few days beforehand, and the pair were understandably apprehensive about skiing the gully when fatigued. Regardless, they managed the descent without any issues. 

A successful first trip

The trip was not without hardship. DeMonte suffered a bad leg injury and had to be evacuated by helicopter. Kuenzle left to assist her. That left Kilcoyne alone, adapting to new partners and plans. But the mountains had more to offer, and he kept skiing.

"I can’t speak to how rare it is to do what I did this season on Denali as I am new to the Alaska scene," he says, before adding he saw "no one else ticking multiple ski lines on Denali this year."

For Kilcoyne, this first trip to McKinley brought together the many alpine tools he has built over time. From trail running and ski mountaineering as a kid in Boulder, to mixed climbing all winter to prepare for McKinley’s alpine terrain, it all came together in one highly productive season.

Last month, Canadian adventurers Dave Greene and Gaia Aish completed a 1,725km bike and canoe journey from the British Columbia border to the shores of the Arctic Ocean over 30 days.

The pair started on May 22 from the border of British Columbia and the vast Yukon Territory. To begin, they pedalled around 100km to a small settlement by the Yukon River, where they picked up their pre-stashed Canoes. "It was a good little break into the trip. A little gear shake down, if you will," Greene explained.

From here, Greene and Aish set out on a 746km canoe leg along the river, where they faced no major rapids or portages, but low water levels and snow melt made the journey challenging. As a result, they spent long hours in the boat, with paddling sessions stretching to 12 hours a day.

"We managed to cover significant distance by doing that; we were paddling 60, 70, sometimes 80km in a day," Greene reflected.

Yukon delights

Despite the long days, Greene enjoyed the Yukon River: "It was an incredible part of the trip, maybe the most memorable part for us."

This may have partly been because the two Canadians were treated to a host of wildlife sightings, including both moose and bears with babies, lynx, sheep, wolves, and even a wolverine.

Greene and Aish carried their bikes in the canoe down the Yukon. When they eventually reached the end of the canoe leg in the historic gold rush town of Dawson City, they left their rented canoes with a company that returned them to the south.

At Dawson, the duo got back on their bikes. On June 12, they headed out onto the Dempster Highway, Canada’s only road north to the Arctic Ocean. The cycle north took twelve days, and the 940km they covered was hard earned.

Greene and Aish pedalled through a summer heatwave, prompting night rides to avoid the intense heat. The gravel road and dry climate made finding drinkable water difficult, as well as turning the ride into a dusty affair.

"The Dempster is a gravel road. So, being as hot as it was, it was also extremely dusty. We had dirt kicked into our faces, in our ears at all times," Greene said.

The Midnight Pedal Paddle Party

A benefit of riding this far north is the extended daylight hours, hence Greene dreaming up the expedition moniker, the "Midnight Pedal Paddle Party."

"We were north of the Arctic Circle for the majority of this bicycle ride, which means that the sun was not setting. So we had 24 hours of daylight, which, after a certain amount of time, one just gets used to. You get tired enough that you can just lie down and sleep, but it also allowed us to ride our bikes whenever we wanted," Greene explained.

To ease some of the weight burden while cycling, Greene and Aish turned to the Dawson City Visitors Center, which allows cyclists to leave food boxes for pickup by drivers heading to Eagle Plains Hotel, a pit-stop 500km into their route. Additionally, they had a friend in the Northwest Territories, so they met with them to collect another box of food. At most, they had to carry seven days of food at a time.

To the ocean

The final 150km from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk were the most demanding of the expedition, thanks to the freshly gravelled road.

"It was four to six inches of fresh gravel and we had to push our bikes up all of the hills, because it was simply unrideable," Greene recalls.

Their spirits picked up when they reached the Arctic Ocean and the community of Tuktoyaktuk on June 23, marking the end of their trip.

"Getting to the Arctic Ocean was quite the thrill. The community of Tuktoyaktuk is an Inuit community in Canada, and we happened to arrive the same day they were having their indigenous day, a territorial holiday," Greene said.

Naturally, the weary -- and no doubt sweat-encrusted -- cyclists celebrated by jumping into the Arctic Ocean.

When we’re not outdoors, we get our adventure fix by exploring social media and the web. Here are some of the best adventure links we’ve discovered this week.

Soul Mountaineer -- In Conversation with Tamara Lunger: Italian alpinist Tamara Lunger started her journey in the mountains through ski mountaineering, eventually discovering her true calling in high-altitude climbing. She became the youngest woman to summit Lhotse and later reached the top of K2 without supplemental oxygen.

However, her path took a painful turn following the deaths of close climbing partners. Struggling with grief and searching for a new direction, she turned her focus to regeneration, realising she had never allowed herself the time or space to recover.

Does Hiking to Mount Everest Base Camp Make You Want to Reach the Summit?: Ben Ayers, Outside’s basecamp correspondent, explores whether trekking to Mount Everest Base Camp motivates you to attempt the summit. Drawing on his experience living in Nepal for over two decades, he reflects on how common it is for guided Base Camp hikers to feel inspired to climb -- and how guiding outfits leverage this connection by operating both trekking services and summit expeditions.

New Trails in the Middle East

The Hiking Trails Reshaping Lebanese Tourism: Lebanon is developing a 400km network of hiking trails through the Anti-Lebanon and Mount Lebanon ranges to boost rural tourism and support local communities. Led by guide Gilbert Moukheiber, the Boukaat Loubnan Trails project connects around 50 villages, offering hikers cultural experiences, homestays, and local food. Despite challenges from regional instability, the trails aim to revive economies and promote sustainable tourism.

This Hiker Exploded a Can of Fuel Through the Ceiling, Don’t Make the Same Mistake:
Backpacker reports that using fuel transfer devices like FlipFuel to consolidate partially used isobutane canisters can save space. But mishandling, especially overheating or overfilling, can cause catastrophic explosions. Users share stories of canisters bursting after they have heated them in boiling water or on stoves, causing severe property damage and injury. 

A Departing Legend

The Bus, the Myth, the Legend: This podcast episode pays tribute to "Ivan," the iconic Terra Bus that has ferried researchers and workers between McMurdo Station’s airfield and base for over three decades in Antarctica. Hosts Dylan Thuras and Allegra Rosenberg explore its origins, as well as its distinctive physical presence: massive tires, a wood-paneled interior loaded with stickers, and bright orange-red paint. Drivers recount its quirks, such as the lengthy 30–60 minute engine warm-up, fogged windows, and leisurely 15–20mph pace.

As McMurdo modernised, Ivan symbolised a nostalgic link to Antarctica’s past, complete with songs and fond memories. Facing retirement because of parts shortages and cost, the bus was saved from the scrap heap by a grassroots campaign that relocated it to Christchurch for preservation.

Unpacking a Controversy

Inside the Salt Path controversy: This Guardian article examines the controversy surrounding Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir The Salt Path, which chronicles a 1,000km walk along England’s coast. While recent investigative journalism questions elements of Winn’s story, this piece broadens its focus to explore how memoirs, especially those centered on transformative journeys like long-distance walking, often blur fact and narrative. It highlights the genre’s long history of embellishment and the lack of rigorous fact-checking, raising questions about truth, trust, and the responsibility of both writers and publishers.

A new film, Everest Revisited: 1924–2024, invites viewers to look beyond the headlines to consider what Everest has come to mean, both in the past and the present. The film, which was publicly released earlier this week, won the Jury Special Mention Award at the 2024 Kraków Mountain Festival and was runner-up for the Audience Choice Award at the 2024 London Mountain Film Festival.

The 41-minute documentary, produced in association with the Alpine Club and the Mount Everest Foundation, weaves together archival footage with analysis and reflection from some of the UK's leading Everest enthusiasts.

Narrated compellingly by mountaineer Matt Sharman and anchored by the personal connection of Sandy Irvine’s great-niece, Julie Summers, Everest Revisited is less a dramatic retelling of Everest history and more a reflective journey through the mountain’s cultural and spiritual legacy.

At the heart of the documentary are the expeditions of the 1920s, with particular focus on the ill-fated 1924 attempt by George Mallory and Sandy Irvine. With contributions from mountaineers and historians such as Rebecca Stephens, Leo Houlding, Stephen Venables, Chris Bonington, Krish Thapa, and Melanie Windridge, the film explores how these early attempts were shaped as much by imperial ambition and scientific curiosity as they were by the challenge of climbing itself.

A critical examination

Rather than idealise the past, the film examines it critically. It acknowledges the hierarchy embedded in British imperial attitudes, particularly toward the Sherpas and high-altitude porters who made these expeditions possible. The film highlights the essential, and often overlooked, contributions of figures like Karma Paul and Gyalzen Kazi, who bridged very different cultures. Porters like Paul and Kazi quite literally carried early Everest expeditions forward.

Everest Revisited also looks forward. Blending stories from climbers like former Gurkha Krish Thapa, who helped double-amputee Hari Budha Magar summit Everest in 2023, the film draws links between notions of historic heroism and modern questions of easy access and motivations. Despite the growing queues on Everest’s slopes and its increasingly commercial reputation, writer and climber Ed Douglas suggests that modern climbers may not be too dissimilar to those of the past.

"We tend to think that Everest is kind of somehow more complicated, more cynical, and less illustrious than it used to be. I think we need to look back at these expeditions with a more honest eye, because these are not simple, heroic people. These are people with the same motivations and the same, you know, concerns and the same complexities we have. They weren't always honourable. They weren't always perfect," Douglas reflected.

Emphasizing the unknown

Visually, the film integrates modern and archival footage of Himalayan landscapes with impactful interviews and primary artifacts, such as photos and equipment from early expeditions.

Rather than offering a final verdict on Mallory and Irvine’s fate, the film leaves room for mystery. It emphasizes the unknown. As climber Leo Houlding poignantly tells Irvine's great-niece Julie Summers, "I hope we never find your great uncle and I hope we don't find the camera. I hope that the mystery endures for another century."

Everest Revisited is a film about more than just mountaineering. It’s about memory and the shifting values we project onto the world's highest mountain. The documentary will intrigue climbers, historians, and anyone drawn in by the enduring allure of the world's highest mountain.

German artist Katharina Kneip is 900 days into an ambitious project to circumnavigate the top of the globe. Kneip started in January 2023 from Münster, Germany, and aims to hike, ski, and sail around the planet back to her starting point without motorized support.

Kneip has been on the road for over two years as part of a project she calls Round:Motion, which is based on the ethos of sustainability, cultural and artistic exchange, and a mindful pace. She aims to avoid competitive metrics often associated with long-distance adventure travel, like distance or records.

Traveling alone or occasionally accompanied by friends, the German artist turned adventurer travels by foot or skis on land, and by sailboat or kayak on water. Kneip relies on a network of sailors and helpful communities encountered along the way.

4,300km from Germany to Norway

Usually, Kneipp provides limited information on distances and the finer details of her journey, but we twisted her arm to reveal more.

The first phase of this multi-year odyssey began on Jan. 23, 2023, with a solo 4,300km hike and kayak leg from Münster to Kirkenes, near Norway’s northern tip. Most of this section was hiking, following well-known trails such as Norway’s Olavsleden and Sweden’s Kungsleden, but there were also short kayak segments between Denmark and Sweden. Kneipp arrived in Kirkenes in early September.

Along the way, Kneip weaved in artistic collaborations, such as with Norwegian dancer Signe Alexandra Domogalla. The pair explored themes of movement and nature through workshops and exhibitions in Oslo.

Logistically, Kneip keeps things simple: "I don’t send food packages or anything like that ahead, and I don’t hitchhike or take public transport to reach supermarkets. But of course, I’m not carrying food for several months. I plan my route so that I reach a shop from time to time. The most food I carried was for 20 days while hiking, and 25 days in the Pulka [sled] while crossing Iceland."

From Kirkenes, where she overwintered, Kneip resumed her journey in March 2024, with a long 900km leg south to Tromsø. She managed 750km on skis, with 150km on foot when snow conditions required detours. For some of this leg, Kneip was joined by two friends.

Crossing the Arctic

Kneip then secured passage by sailboat to Longyearbyen, Svalbard, working as both a guide and crew member during her stay. By late summer 2024, she had sailed to East Greenland, where she continued to Isafjordur, on the far west coast of Iceland. From there, she hiked a 500km route in September 2024, from Isafjordur to a farm near Akureyri, where she spent the next winter.

If that wasn't enough, in March of this year, Kneip and companion, Dirk Langer, completed a 350km winter ski crossing of Iceland from near Akureyri in the north to Eyrarbakki in the southwest. Kneip then completed a solo 450km trek from Akureyri to Reykjavik in May and June.

Kneip recently arrived in Labrador after sailing from Iceland to Greenland and then on to Canada. From here, she hopes to continue her journey, pending approval from Canadian authorities, by hiking around 7,000km and skiing another 3,000km before reaching Alaska. From there, she plans to sail across the Bering Strait into Russia. With much of the route still ahead and the unknowns of future travel in Russia, it will be several more years before she sees her finish line back in Germany.

An all-female team known as the "Hudson Bay Girls" is more than a month into a self-supported 1,900km canoeing expedition from Grand Portage on Lake Superior to York Factory on Hudson Bay.

Their route follows traditional waterways first traveled by the Anishinaabe people, and later used by French fur traders in the 18th and 19th centuries to connect remote trading posts across the Canadian wilderness.

The journey, expected to take 85 days, began at the end of May with a challenging 13km portage, known locally as "Grand Portage." From there, the team paddled 400km through the pristine Boundary Waters wilderness area, which is threatened by proposed mining projects.

Building on experience

The team has plenty of paddling and wilderness experience, having collectively paddled over 6,400km. The foursome of Olivia Bledsoe, Emma Brackett, Abby Cichocki, and Helena Karlstrom has varied backgrounds, including roles as wilderness canoe guides, wilderness medical technicians, and trail maintenance foremen in the Boundary Waters and Quetico Provincial Park.

The Route Ahead

Recently, the expedition passed through Voyageurs National Park. They stopped to resupply at the city of International Falls, Minnesota, which straddles the U.S and Canada border. The next leg of their journey involves paddling north across Lake of the Woods, a vast body of water notable for its thousands of islands and indigenous heritage.

Following Lake of the Woods, the team will navigate the 240km Winnipeg River. From there, they'll paddle along the eastern shores of Lake Winnipeg for three to four weeks, likely contending with shallow waters and large swells.

The expedition's final stretch is the 480km Hayes River, a Canadian Heritage River historically used by the Hudson Bay Company as a key trading route. The river transitions dramatically from boreal forest to sub-arctic tundra and is home to several Cree communities.

All being well, the Hudson Bay Girls' journey will culminate at York Factory -- a historically significant trading post pivotal to Canada's fur trade era -- in Hudson Bay.

Last month, Icelanders Hoddi Tryggvason and Halldor Meyer completed a 4,200km circular snowkiting journey on Greenland’s ice sheet. The 50-day expedition began and finished near Tasiilaq on Greenland’s southeastern coast.

Beginning on May 10, the pair was initially accompanied by Danish adventurer Bjorn Lindhardt Wils as they traveled clockwise, passing the historic Cold War radar stations DYE 3 and DYE 2 on their way to Greenland’s west coast.

Early struggles and injury

In the early stages of the all-Scandinavian team’s journey, they contended with poor visibility and heavy snowfall. But the situation worsened when Wils injured himself while kiting, an all-too-common risk in the sport due to the high speeds and unpredictable winds. "Something went terribly wrong with his kite when he was launching it in really strong winds," said Tryggvason.

“He was catapulted several meters up in the air, came crashing down, and hurt himself quite badly,” Tryggvason continued. “He still tried to keep on kiting until it was just pointless.”

All three had previous snowkiting experience on Greenland, having kited 1,800km together from DYE 2 to Qaanaaq in 2022. Tryggvason has also kited from near the South Pole to Hercules Inlet, and Wils kited 2,400km from Narsaq to Qaanaaq in 2016.

Previous kiting expeditions

Most kiting teams in Greenland travel a linear route from north to south, from Kangerlussuaq to Qaanaaq.“We wanted to do something a bit more challenging…something that not many people do,” said Tryggvason.

Few teams choose longer journeys. However, 2014 saw multiple teams undertake circular snowkiting expeditions around the interior of Greenland. The longest was the "Wings Over Greenland II" expedition by Michael Charavin and Cornelius Strohm. They covered 5,067km in 58 days, completing a loop around the ice cap from Narsaq in the far south.

At the same time, Dixie Dansercoer and Eric McNair-Landry completed a 4,045km loop from Tasiilaq in 56 days. A third team, "Trineo de Viento," used a large wooden wind-powered sled to travel 4,300km in 49 days, starting and ending in Kangerlussuaq.

Reaching the north coast

After Wils was evacuated by helicopter, Halldor and Tryggvason pressed on toward Greenland’s remote north coast, reaching 82˚N near Independence Fiord in Peary Land on June 9. Tryggvason, in particular, was keen to visit this region, which is steeped in exploration history, and rarely visited even by modern Arctic travelers.

Peary Land was named after the infamous American explorer Robert E. Peary, who mapped much of northern Greenland and controversially claimed to reach the North Pole in 1909. His maps included a major error, though: the Peary Channel, a nonexistent waterway thought to separate Peary Land from the mainland.

In 1907, the Denmark Expedition set out to chart Greenland’s northeast coast and investigate this supposed channel. Tragically, the Danish team became trapped in the remote interior, and three members perished.

The myth of the Peary Channel was finally put to rest in 1912, when Knud Rasmussen’s First Thule Expedition confirmed Peary Land was a peninsula, not an island, leading to the correction of all future maps.

The home stretch

The final leg of the journey, heading south along Greenland’s eastern edge, brought good weather and favorable winds. For over two weeks, the team pushed through long daily kiting sessions, gradually closing the loop on their 4,200km route.

The two Icelanders completed the full circuit near Isortoq on the southeast coast, where a boat eventually picked them up. But the adventure didn’t end quietly. The final day demanded 16 hours of manhauling through the rapidly melting, slushy lower slopes of the Ice Sheet, a thorny reminder of the Arctic’s continually shifting conditions.

"Just watched the Titan submersible documentary, hell isn’t hot enough for Stockton Rush." That was the blunt verdict from one viewer on social media after Netflix’s ‘Titan: The OceanGate Disaster’ premiered recently. It’s a strong opinion, but after watching the new 111-minute film, which unravels a tale of hubris, employee suppression, and regulatory inaction, it’s kind of hard to disagree.

The documentary on the now-infamous Titan submersible implosion, which killed all five on board, is less about the events of the deep-sea tragedy than about a culture of unchecked innovation led by OceanGate's fame-hungry CEO Stockton Rush, who likened safety standards to waste and dissent to heresy. It’s also a portrait of the whistleblower no one backed, and the institutions that didn't (or couldn't) act.

The whistleblower

One voice echoes louder than most in this film, that of David Lochridge, the man who tried to stop it all before it began. A former submarine safety expert for the British Navy and a certified diver, Lochridge was brought in to oversee safety and engineering on OceanGate’s experimental deep-sea submersible, Titan. It was made from carbon fiber, a material never used for this kind of extreme-depth vessel.

Titan was marketed as revolutionary. Lochridge joined with the understanding that the sub would be inspected and certified by an independent third party — a process known in maritime engineering as “classing.”

But that assurance quickly dissolved. According to testimony in the documentary, it became clear that OceanGate co-founder and CEO Stockton Rush had little appetite for traditional safety oversight. Testing and caution seemed to take a back seat to being seen as a maverick innovator, and getting paying clients in the water and down to view the wreck of the Titanic.

The warning pings

Throughout the documentary, viewers hear a repeated motif: the high-pitched "ping" of Titan’s acoustic hull monitoring system. Designed to detect strain in the carbon-fiber shell, these sounds are not anomalies -- they're the microscopic fractures of carbon fiber under stress. In one chilling sequence, Rush takes Titan to nearly 4,000m, as the hull groans under pressure. Those pings, we learn, are the sound of the vessel’s structural integrity slowly unraveling.

Conflict between Lochridge and Rush grew, and Lochridge was sidelined from Titan's development following a disagreement over a botched dive piloted by Rush in another more traditional submersible. In 2018, Lochridge was, however, asked to inspect Titan. He then authored an internal report highlighting multiple red flags, such as visual evidence of flaws in the carbon fiber after pressure testing and the absence of essential non-destructive tests.

Authorities' inertia

Lochridge's recommendation was clear: Titan should not dive again until the risks were properly addressed. OceanGate’s response was telling. Lochridge was asked to sign off on the continued use of the sub. When he refused, he was fired and later sued for “revealing confidential information.” Lochridge filed a whistleblower complaint with the U.S. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA).

The documentary reveals that OSHA did start an investigation. But instead of providing immediate support to Lochridge, the process dragged on for months. As legal fees mounted and pressure from OceanGate grew, Lochridge withdrew his complaint. The OSHA probe then gathered dust in a case file at the agency.

As one expert notes, the case exposed a dangerous loophole. OceanGate’s classification of Titan as an “experimental” submersible in international waters allowed it to operate outside most safety authorities. In effect, there was no one with both the authority and the will to intervene, despite warnings from Lochridge and others. Titan went on to make over 90 dives and had hull replacements before the fatal event in 2023.

Unanswered questions

The film includes moving testimony from Sydney Nargeolet, daughter of veteran deep-sea explorer Paul-Henri Nargeolet, who perished on the vessel. But noticeably absent are the voices of those closest to the other victims, Hamish Harding and Shahzada and Sulaiman Dawood.

It also leaves unanswered how someone as experienced as Nargeolet came to overlook Titan's safety issues, or whether the passengers were ever fully briefed. The documentary also doesn’t include commentary from OceanGate board members or Rush’s wife, both of whom could have added vital context.

Yet while not a complete investigation, it does vividly capture the hubris at OceanGate’s core. In a striking recording, Stockton Rush shrugs off criticism, declaring to his team, "I’m not going to force people to join my religion."

By the time of Titan’s final dive in June 2023, most of the engineering team had either quit or been fired. What remained to hold the submersible’s hull together was, both literally and figuratively, blind faith.

After 49 days and over 1,100km of skiing through Canada’s most remote terrain, Norwegian Borge Ousland and Frenchman Vincent Colliard have completed the first unsupported north-to-south crossing of Ellesmere Island.

The pair reached King Edward Point, the southernmost point on the island and the end of the crossing, on June 13. They then skied for two more days to reach the Inuit community of Grise Fiord on June 15.

The journey was part of the duo’s Ice Legacy project, a long-term initiative to traverse the world’s 20 largest ice caps. On this latest journey, they crossed the Grant, Agassiz, and Prince of Wales Ice Caps, leaving only four ice caps remaining in their global undertaking.

The expedition began on April 27, following a weather delay in Resolute Bay. From Ward Hunt Island, just off Ellesmere's northern coast, Ousland and Colliard skied east to Cape Columbia. This was the official start of the crossing and is the northernmost point of Ellesmere Island and North America. From here, they turned south into the island’s interior, hauling 130kg sleds behind them containing all their food and equipment, and foregoing any resupply or external support.

Early polar bear encounter and heavy loads

The pair's early days included an encounter with a polar bear, which approached within 12m of them, while on sea ice near Cape Columbia. Colliard described the bear as “very curious plus plus” before Ousland used a signal flare to scare it away.

Ousland and Colliard’s feat is a first in the history of Ellesmere Island expeditions. While two vertical traverses have previously been completed -- John Dunn’s in 1990 and Bernard Voyer’s in 1992 -- both had resupplies. In 2011, Jon Turk and Erik Boomer completed a full circumnavigation of Ellesmere by ski and kayak, but also relied on external support. Ousland and Colliard’s expedition is the first to complete a full north-south route unsupported.

Limited wind assistance

The route offered few flat sections, requiring repeated climbs and descents across glacial domes, riverbeds, canyons, and rocky terrain. Colliard reported persistent headwinds throughout the expedition, limiting their use of Beringer ski sails to just 60km. They thus completed most of the journey under their own power.

Progress remained steady, despite occasionally difficult conditions. Deep snow on the Grant Ice Cap slowed their early pace to about 14km per day, but once they reached the mostly snowless ground between the Grant and Agassiz Ice Caps, they detoured along the frozen Dodge River to preserve their sleds. There, they managed to increase the pace to 20km a day.

The expedition was not without risk. On day 26, while exiting the Agassiz Ice Cap, Colliard fell into a crevasse. He was uninjured, but later acknowledged that fatigue and overconfidence may have contributed to the incident.

Crossing Sverdrup Pass

After finishing the Agassiz Ice Cap, the duo faced a challenging descent and ascent through a steep gorge east of Canon Fiord, and then crossed Sverdrup Pass, named after Norwegian explorer Otto Sverdrup, who overwintered on Ellesmere from 1898-1902. The pass is often rocky and slow going. Ousland and Colliard, however, found it covered in snow, allowing them to continue skiing without having to portage their sleds.

After reaching and safely crossing the Prince of Wales Ice Cap, they descended through Makinson Inlet and Bentham Fiord and crossed the Manson Icefield and the Jakeman Glacier. Ousland and Colliard reached King Edward Point on June 13, officially completing the unsupported crossing. They then backtracked west for a final two-day push across sea ice to Grise Fiord, where they can recuperate and fly back out to civilization.

After 46 days, Borge Ousland and Vincent Colliard are down from the ice caps onto sea ice. They will likely complete the first unsupported north-to-south crossing of the island today by skiing a little east to King Edward Point, the southern tip of Ellesmere Island. They will then turn back west for a couple of days of skiing over the sea ice to the Inuit hamlet of Grise Fiord, the nearest community and airport.

Following their crossing of the Prince of Wales Ice Cap, the last of three major ice caps on their route, the experienced pair descended onto frozen Makinson Inlet, skiing eastward before turning south near Bentham Fiord.

Their route then continued across the Manson Icefield and the Jakeman Glacier, where a scientist perished in a crevasse two years ago. It is the only known fatality on an Ellesmere glacier.

As of today, Ousland and Colliard have reached the coastline near Craig Harbour, a former Royal Canadian Mounted Police post now used as a seasonal hunting cabin. Craig Harbour lies on the north shore of Jones Sound, approximately 55 kilometers southeast of Grise Fiord.

Originally established in 1922, the RCMP post at Craig Harbour was named after expedition commander Dr. John D. Craig. It was initially chosen for its protected harbour and proximity to Jones Sound. The post was closed in the 1930s, briefly reopened during the early Cold War in 1951, and has since remained uninhabited.

Canadian adventurer Frank Wolf and teammate David Berrisford have finished a 720km sea kayaking expedition through southeastern Alaska. Originally planned as a 900km circumnavigation of Prince of Wales Island, the pair had to change their route due to heavy spring storms.

"We had to sit out two of the first six days due to heavy southeast storms," Wolf reported. "We adjusted to our Plan B route...that would give us more cover for the 25 days we'd budgeted."

The trip marked the first Alaskan kayak expedition for both paddlers. Wolf has extensive experience along the British Columbia coastline, but Alaska was an entirely new challenge.

Their adapted route involved several open water crossings ranging from 8 to 14km, with strong currents and waves.

While the route changed, the rewards remained. The team paddled through temperate rainforest coastlines, camped in old-growth forests, and saw brown bears, orcas, humpback whales, porpoises, sea otters, and elk.

A nine-day storm

As the team neared the end of their journey, a series of powerful storms hit them just 90km from their final destination of Prince Rupert, British Columbia.

“We were pinned in just above Cape Fox in Alaska, where the entire fury of the notorious Hecate Strait slams,” Wolf reported. The strait is known for producing some of the largest waves in the world.

With time running out and no transport options available across the Canada and U.S. maritime border, the pair eventually asked members of the Nisga'a First Nation to pick them up during a brief break in the weather.

“There is no ferry or other transport service over the border, so in the end only the Nisga'a...could get us,” said Wolf. The Indigenous group has special status, allowing them to move freely over the borders.

Ten days ago, while exiting the Agassiz Ice Cap on Canada’s Ellesmere Island, Vincent Colliard fell into a crevasse. He shared details of the incident yesterday on social media. The French polar traveler escaped without injury but described the event as “a scary moment where life’s balance was on the edge."

Colliard is 38 days into a 1,100km unsupported ski traverse of Ellesmere Island, traveling from north to south with Norwegian veteran Børge Ousland. In video footage posted to Instagram, Colliard appears trapped beside his sled in a tight crevasse. As the camera pans upward, the clear blue sky is visible far above, indicating he had fallen a significant distance.

Fatigue and complacency

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The accident occurred on day 26 of their journey while on a glacial arm at the edge of the ice cap. Reflecting on the fall, Colliard acknowledged a lapse in caution.

"We made big mistakes. We let our guard down as we were tired — 26 days of hard labor on the body — and maybe acted too confidently about what we were doing."

He emphasized that they had been following safety protocols to mitigate crevasse hazards: "We know the drills though... blocking knot connected to the back of the sleds, max tension on the rope, easy access to the crevasse rescue kit...Our guard is right back up with triple precautions."

Many glaciers on Ellesmere Island have few crevasses compared to alpine glaciers, though crevasses are still present. Snow bridges in the frigid, windy High Arctic also tend to be firmer, but at this milder time of year, they would have softened up.

While crevasse falls are rare during polar expeditions, they do occur. In 2021, Belgian polar guide Dixie Dansercoer died after falling 25 meters into a crevasse on the Greenland Ice Sheet. And in 2023, University of Alberta professor Maya Bhatia lost her life on the Jakeman Glacier on southern Ellesmere Island when she fell into a moulin while conducting scientific fieldwork. It is the only known death on an Ellesmere ice cap.

Entering the final phase

Despite the near miss, Collaird appears to be in good spirits: "We are still on the way to attempt an unsupported full crossing of Ellesmere Island. It was a magical moment to see the light of the sun again and away from the darkness of that hole.

After successfully crossing Sverdrup Pass, Colliard and Ousland are now traversing the Prince of Wales Ice Cap — the final major ice cap of their expedition. Yet, challenges remain. Once they descend from the ice, their route will take them over the frozen channels of Makinson Inlet and Bentham Fiord. From there, they will navigate a complex system of glaciers and ice fields en route to their final destination: King Edward Point, the southernmost tip of Ellesmere Island.

Børge Ousland and Vincent Colliard are closing in on a major milestone in their sled journey across Canada’s northernmost island. Now on Day 33 of their journey, the pair are climbing onto the Prince of Wales Ice Cap -- the third and final ice cap on their 1,100km unsupported ski crossing of Ellesmere Island from north to south.

The expedition, now over a month underway, has challenged their extensive polar experience, first with deep snow and more recently with rugged, rocky terrain. In the past week, a storm on Day 30 brought strong winds and heavy snow, prompting the pair to take their first full rest and repair day. Conditions improved the next day, allowing them to resume the journey south.

Sverdrup Pass success

The duo had a "very good day,” reported their expedition liaison, Lars Ebbesen. “They passed Sverdrup Pass on a flat and good surface. All the snow lately gave them a good base to ski on.”

The pass, known for its often rocky surface, could have proven a time-consuming obstacle, had fresh snow not covered it.

Poised at the edge of the Prince of Wales Ice Cap, Ousland and Colliard are steadily advancing toward one of the last great firsts in polar exploration. After descending the ice cap, their planned route will trace the frozen Makinson Inlet and Bentham Fiord, before weaving through a succession of ice fields and glaciers en route to Ellesmere Island’s southernmost tip, King Edward Point.

High on the remote granite cliffs of Sam Ford Fiord, Baffin Island, climbers Erik Boomer and Ky Hart have completed a new big wall route in one of Canada’s most isolated regions. The 23-day ascent, which they named Sikunga Express (WI3 M7 5.10 A3+ Grade VII, 975m, 19 pitches), tested their mettle through cold temperatures, storms, and sustained technical difficulties.

Near the top of the climb, with only one usable rope remaining and over 500m of exposure beneath them, the pair were pinned to their portaledge as strong Arctic winds hammered the wall. It was one of the most exposed moments of a trip defined by commitment and the need for well-rounded climbing skills.

Boomer and Hart had traveled to the east coast of Baffin Island in search of unclimbed terrain. They found it on a sweeping face just north of Clyde River on the southwest-facing side of photogenic Sam Ford Fiord, considered the Yosemite Valley of the Canadian Arctic.

Full commitment

Their approach was exploratory from the outset.

“We kind of showed up there with a loose plan of climbing something new,” Hart said. “This cliff seemed to have the least amount of [water] runoff and was seemingly steep.”

Temperatures were cold during the early stages of the climb, with daily highs around -7˚C and averages around -15˚C.

“There was a good 60m ice pitch at the very beginning,” Hart recalled. “Those first couple of days, we had a high of seven degrees.”

From that initial ice pitch, the route climbed through increasingly complex terrain, demanding a combination of alpine, mixed, and aid skills. The pair encountered loose rock and challenging aid sections that pushed their skills and gear.

“Every style of aid [climbing], clean to nailing, to copperheads hooking,” said Boomer. The lower pitches were also prone to being loose. “Rampy ledges that would come off in the beginning and, you know, send down some rocks,” Hart added.

Pinned to the wall

After a mid-route snowstorm forced a temporary pause, Boomer and Hart pushed higher, only to be caught in severe wind while camped on one of their most exposed bivouacs right near the prow of the face.

“The wind started picking up,” Hart said. “It was funny at first until we got picked up on the ledge and put back down.”

"We were kind of hanging on for dear life in that ledge during that windstorm, just getting tossed around and just hanging onto the straps," Boomer added.

Unable to move safely, the two spent the day pinned to the wall, their portaledge buffeted by strong gusts. As the storm wore on, they took stock of their dwindling equipment.

“We had core shot three out of our four ropes,” said Hart. “The gear was getting thin.”

Despite the conditions, they continued upward and reached the summit just as the weather warmed dramatically.

“It was a huge swing,” Boomer said. “We were definitely dodging a lot of rockfall.”

20 nights

In total, Boomer and Hart spent 20 nights on the wall. Including the time spent route finding and establishing the lower pitches, the full expedition spanned 23 days from May 1 to May 23.

With a snowmobile and komatik (wooden sled), they had their own transportation in one of the most remote climbing areas in Canada.

“We were able to insert and extract ourselves,” Boomer explained. “Cruise around and choose our formation a little bit more relaxed.”

Their route adds a new line to the vast granite walls in this part of Baffin Island. Despite a reasonable amount of climbing activity in the region in recent decades, it suggests there is still much potential for exploratory climbing. The climb also marks a further step in Boomer's transition from elite whitewater kayaker to Arctic traveler and now big wall climber.

“Overall, it was a sweet trip,” Boomer said. “We wanted to do a new line and we did it.”

Borge Ousland and Vincent Colliard are now 28 days into their 1,100km bid to complete the first unsupported north-to-south ski crossing of Ellesmere Island. The pair began their journey from Ward Hunt Island on April 27 after a long weather delay. They have recently finished the Agassiz Ice Cap, the second of three ice caps they must traverse.

Progress has been good despite varied conditions. Early on, they faced broken sea ice along the north coast and a close encounter with a polar bear before reaching Cape Columbia, the northern tip of Ellesmere and their official starting point. They then skied south, moving inland over the Grant Ice Cap. Hauling 130kg sleds at over 1,000m elevation, the experienced arctic travelers managed around 14km per day despite deep, soft snow.

Rocky terrain ahead

More recently, they crossed a 90km stretch of sparsely snow-covered ground between the Grant and Agassiz Ice Caps. To avoid damaging the bottom of their plastic sleds on exposed rocks, they detoured along the frozen Dodge River. Though the riverbed proved ill-defined and rocky, scattered snow patches allowed enough cover for progress. They even increased their pace to around 20km per day.

 

Wally Herbert's struggle

In 1967, Wally Herbert, Roger Tuft, and Allan Gill dogsledded through Sverdrup Pass. The three-month journey from northwest Greenland and across Ellesmere was a shakedown trip for Herbert's Arctic Ocean crossing the following year. In his book Across the Top of the World, Herbert wrote that his Inuit friends had warned that "if there was little snow in the valley, we would run into trouble."

And that's exactly what Herbert found, as the lack of snow and slow progress in Sverdrup Pass forced them to drastically ration their food. Ousland and Colliard will no doubt hope that they find more snow cover than Herbert did half a century ago.