Tantôt leçons de géographie, récits sportifs ou anecdotes de voyages, ces récits ont en commun une vraie passion pour la vie. Une passion dans laquelle nous allons puiser dès que possible et que nous célébrons en partageant nos histoires avec d’autres. Nous espérons que la lecture de ces récits saura vous amuser et vous inspirer pour vos prochains voyages, proches et lointains, engagés ou non. Nous ajouterons de nouveaux reportages tout au long de l’année, alors n’hésitez pas à revenir visiter ces pages régulièrement. La plupart de ces expériences vécues sont rédigées en anglais. Nous vous prions de nous en excuser.
“I can take you there, but you can’t write about it,” says Dave, looking over a tree-choked mountainside blanketed in 15 inches of fresh. “I dipped down there this morning,” he adds, “you can almost see my skin-track under that cliff.” He points with his pole, a bent one emblazoned with the logo of a ski shop over 2,200 miles to the west.
There it is. A shot of powder so pristine, I almost feel guilty tracking it up. There’s no point in looking over my shoulder—no one is there. I could never explain exactly how to get here: A few turns, a traverse, a side step, a tree duck and then it opens up. A magical alleyway. My stash.
“Man, I wish my legs weren’t so smoked,” my ski partner Arne Backstrom smiled as he articulated the thought blaring in my head. I might not have known it then, but this was about to be the run of my life; the day we finally got to leave our tracks on the Aiguille Verte’s Couturier Couloir, and nothing – not even tired legs – would stop us.
I got my first pair of skis for my second birthday, but since it was April, I spent the next six months sliding on the living room carpet, waiting for snow. By the time it came, the kick and glide of Nordic skiing had become another gait for me, as natural as walking or running. I never had to think about it. I just skied.
My wife, Becca, and I have been adrift on a sea of blank granite for six days now, on yet another of my attempts to free climb El Capitan’s Dawn Wall. Our home is a 3-by-6 piece of nylon strung between aluminum poles and suspended from the wall by straps. On clear days, the sun reflects off the rock and cooks us like ants under a magnifying glass.
Swish swish swish. The tips of my skis poke through sparkling snow crystals as I break trail up the mountainside. Each step requires work to pull my skis through the deep powder, and leaves a sinuous trough marking my route.
Whump. The sound is not exactly the same but the feeling is. The otherworldly rumble of an earthquake that seems to fill the space in your skull before you feel anything actually shaking, and the whump of a backcountry snowpack giving up the ghost somewhere in its layered depth, conjuring a frosty question mark for your split-second contemplation – is it going to slide?
I’m a dirt surfer on solstice dawn patrol, zigzagging up the trail to the Druid Stones on the great swell of the Coyote Warp, south of Bishop. Below me, the sunlight is making its long southerly slide up the Owens Valley, illuminating only a narrow swath of the valley floor and the long waves of alluvium shore break that have been closing out for thousands of years.
The wild permeates and sustains us; it is our home, though our increasingly unnatural lives, lives distracted by artifice, obscure that brute truth. The boundaries between our wild bodies and the wild cosmos are in fact imagined, and we feel the actual oneness ...
What were we doing with our lives?
Dragging your feet is no way to go to the mountains. You should be cranking up the Lady Gaga to get stoker!
The backseat of the Cessna wasn’t actually a seat: It was a low-to-the-ground, flimsy aluminum lawnchair. I wedged myself into it, surrounded by all the camping gear we could possibly cram into the cabin. With my knees at eye level, we throttled forward for takeoff.
Fifteen hundred feet below the points of my crampons, windswept fjord ice bunches against the dark, 4,000-foot stone walls of Nachvak Fjord. The ice appears almost liquid, its brilliant emerald color – caused by flash-freezing – nearly glowing in contrast to the desaturated tones of the subarctic North.
As a 10-year-old grommet, I was in awe of all the cool surf and skate gear crammed on the store’s narrow, cluttered walls. I stood there, paralyzed, imagining what it would be like to ride one of the shiny new Puringtons, Bessells, Craigs or Staples surfboards lined up along the back room.
Silver Canyon at the end of a hot day seemed like just the thing for heat training: six miles of runnable incline through a narrowing rotisserie oven that gives way to four miles of steep, open terrain and tops out at near 10,000 feet and cooler temps.
This morning I brush my teeth while wearing my harness, but I spit into the clean porcelain sink of a Spanish refugio – not off a portaledge into the abyss.
Depuis 1990, les expériences vécues de Patagonia offrent une vision intense de la nature à travers les yeux d’athlètes, de voyageurs et d’aventuriers.Tantôt leçons de géographie, récits sportifs ou anecdotes de voyages, ces récits ont en commun une vraie passion pour la vie.