Frozen pink crystals began falling, salmon dust coming off the chop saw, coating everything the way frost covered every surface that morning as we departed Anchorage, Alaska, and headed northward, out of the city, for about an hour. As the fog lifted the frigid city was left shining. ‘The world’s our freezer this time of year,’ Anna said, grabbing half a dozen keta salmon from two massive boxes that held an entire ton of frozen fish outside their workshop. She placed them next to the chop sa

It’s July, and I have six weeks before I set foot in Nepal. But right now, these six miles are all that matter. I’m running up a pavement hill in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Croaking toads in the swampy background keep pace while I push through the sting of lactic acid building in my calves. Theoretically, 10km is how far you need to be able to run at sea level before attempting the trek to Everest Base Camp. I’ve never run more than four consecutive miles – I don’t even like running. I’m j

Midnight on the India-Nepal border. A full moon hides behind the clouds, no longer illuminating the wisp-thin trail. The snow peaks of the eastern Himalaya are shrouded in darkness. A crowd forms along the edge of a field: farmers with flashlights, boys with firecrackers and mobile phones, and young men with home-made cannons firing loud bombs that arc sparks of orange against the sky. Across the open farmland, searchlights sweep from clusters of homes and surrounding dirt paths. Aggressive

I stand at the end of the concrete slipway, looking out over a mercury sea. A lone seal pops its head through the silken surface, turning with curiosity, before slipping back into the Hebridean waters. Low clouds hang with all the weight of Harris Tweed across half the sky. The remainder have the blanket tugged back, and the late dusk of a Western Isles July illuminates the craggy coastline surrounding this small harbour. At my back is the house of Kenny Mackay and his wife Moira, who are in

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. I tell myself this over and over. I’m frantically searching for the widest part of the river I must cross. The worst thing to do is panic, but I can’t help but worry about misstepping and getting swept away by the rapids. There’s no room for error; one mistake and the whole expedition is over. Thick storm clouds begin to dominate the sky, unleashing hail and rain on us. We’re caught by the erratic behaviour of Europe’s largest desert, the Highlands of Iceland.

Adventure, tradition, foraging – never before have some of these key elements been so relevant or important. When we see empty supermarkets, closed shops, and transportation hubs grinding to a halt, we are reminded of the importance of age-old skills that connect us with the land and sea for our well-being, livelihoods, and even survival. Nature is fiercely reminding us that the fast-moving, tech-driven world is fragile and that she will always have the final word. The fading knowledge of tr

Rumours reverberated off the cabin walls of mysterious and inaccessible waves just down the coast. We drank another whisky, listening to the stories from the guys wearing Stanfields who called the gritty little resource town at the end of the road home while heavy rain drilled into the cedar roof shakes. Hoping another drink would loosen the location of this secret emerald bounty, we poured our new friends another, though I was not optimistic about this tight-lipped community of hardcore log

My tyres trundle over the red, rocky ground, rubber on rock the only discernible noise in the stifling air. The sun bakes the dry earth as I climb. It’s almost as if the rays have reached down and grabbed me, head first, and are melting me down. I maintain a steady pedal, in a low gear, following the curves of this old, colonial-era gravel road that winds around the contours of these steep peaks of the Anti-Atlas. Above me I can make out the line of the road cutting across the mountain’s fla

Rain lashes the windscreen as we drive to the trailhead. We hear on the news that life has changed in other countries, and we worry about our own communities. But it’s not here yet – our only concern is the harsh weather. I crank up the heat and consider never getting out of the car. It hardly seems worth it. The mountains aren’t calling me today; I can’t even see them, shrouded as they are in whiteout. I won’t get any nice photos. It almost certainly won’t turn out to be one of those best-

Dawn’s thin glow filters through the fabric of my shelter, stirring me from anxious dreams that evaporate as soon as I open my eyes. The night before had been hard. Playing Russian roulette with thunderstorms had been a risk I’d been willing to take when I began the Tinée frontier ridge two days before, but the hiker’s brain has a habit of forgetting the visceral anxiety of lightning at altitude when in ambitious planning mode. I stir under the damp mass of my quilt. A puddle has invited its

The grey flannel fog sat on its little cat feet and hid the tops of the hills from the sky and the rest of the island, isolating valleys from their neighbours. Even though it was cold and wet, drizzle hung in the air, suffocating us as it blew in from the tunnel and out again down the damp slopes, following the glistening road and twisting down to the few small houses in the village below. It was a time of quiet contemplation and waiting. I longed for lunch, for warmth, for coffee, and a bre

A spec of light pierces the gloaming. A head torch, far above. Climbing, steadily, up the mountain. My prey. But there are two head torches behind me, too; lower down, closer. I’m their prey. I want the person ahead to see my light. To worry about it. For it to nag him, wear him down mentally. At the same time, I don’t want the two runners below me to see my tell-tale light, if I can help it, for the same reasons. The sky is lightening; a thick swirl of murky grey. Just enough to let me turn

‘That can’t be ice.’ This was my first and most immediate thought. I don’t know why I thought it wasn’t a possibility. Maybe I was just overwhelmed. Since arriving in Nepal things hadn’t gone our way. Bad weather had delayed flights, narrowing our window. The plan was for Ryan and Ryno to set a Fastest Known Time (FKT) on a section of the Great Himalaya Trail – west to east, traversing Nepal through the Himalaya and its foothills, covering a distance of over 1,400km with an accumulated elev

Imagine taking a canoe onto a train, or trying to pack a kayak into the overhead luggage compartment of an aircraft. These pieces of equipment are fine-tuned for adventure, yet they lack portability – and can be cumbersome, making storage problematic unless you have a shed for your gear. This is where a small inflatable vessel known as a packraft comes in. Annie Evans and Jacob Haagensen dared to take on an adventure that some may not have considered, using their trusty packrafts to go and e

As children we watched the great Western films, falling in love with charismatic cowboys, fleet-footed ranch horses and sweeping Western vistas. John Wayne always got the bad guys and saved the girl while Clint Eastwood, scowl entrenched, emerged on the side of good, guns a-blazing. Something about the West captured our hearts, tickling our imaginations and summoning daydreams of sage-covered ranges, dusty towns, and nights spent being lulled to sleep by lowing cattle. While the Old West is

Mirek Kopertowski and I had been in the cave for eight days, and were desperate for some sunshine and a cold beer. There were six of us still in the cave. Dane Motty, Gilly Elor, and Mirek were shuttling gear through Sump 3. Matt Vinzant and Zeb Lilly were assisting them at the vertical drop over Sump 3, and I was running laps between Sump 3 and a half-submerged cave passage known as the Grand Lagoon to get the remaining cave packs. When I arrived at the Grand Lagoon for the final run I sat

My phone beeped. I looked down to see a message from Johny, a friend and photographer who’d be joining my impending adventure on the Irish Coast. We were off to tackle Tuff-Inish, a 132km dogged affair comprised of running, cycling, and kayaking along the Wild Atlantic Way. Staring back from the screen was a photo of a man capitulating to the thrashing rain; the headline announced the devastating arrival of Storm Callum over the coming days. Perfect. No better way to bring out my steely self

First came the dull crack of the speargun fired through the clear Pacific water, its target hidden by thick kelp forest. Barely a moment later, as Hank and I watched, Malia turned and swam the 6m to the surface to begin pulling in the line. We hoped there’d be something big on the end of it. We were hungry. At Ventura Harbour, 45 miles north of Malibu, California, we loaded our equipment onto the ferry bound for the Channel Islands. There were kayaks and surfboards, spearguns and cameras, t

Serendipity happens. Luck happens. And this story begins where so many adventures do, in the bar. We rolled into Kernville as the sun set, Bianca – our 1985 Dodge Camper Van palpably relieved to be wheeling downhill after a long climb over the Alta Sierra. The wide, dry Kern River valley dropped out into a bowl surrounded by the high mountains of the Sierra Nevada. North were the Sequoia National Forest and Sequoia National Park, areas that protect the world’s biggest trees. Farther north an

Sitting on my knees on my sleeping bag, I groan, suddenly overwhelmed by nausea and a rising headache. Shoot. Altitude sickness. We had just set up camp at Helen Lake an hour earlier: at 10,400ft, our base camp before attempting to summit Mount Shasta the next morning. I ungratefully push away the pasta Ewen offers to me and sink deeper into my sleeping bag, shutting my eyes. Bitter winds rattle the tent as Ewen eats dinner in silence without me. The last thing I want to do now – besides eat