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Outdoor Tips, Tricks, Inspiration and Activities | MEC Blog

Most mountain bike trips involve well-known destinations or at the very least, places other mountain bikers have been. For the most part, our trip to India involved neither of these. Mountain biking does exist in a few select places in the country, but those spots were meant for a different kind of bike adventure.

We’d hatched a plan months prior, at home in Whistler, BC, and dreamt up two goals: the first, to explore the remote Spiti Valley, where we could build and ride big mountain lines in some truly unique places. The second, to ride the mystical root bridges of Nongriat in a corner of India known for being one of the rainiest places on earth. So, on a crisp fall morning, Chris Draper, Vince Emond, Justa Jeskova and I departed Whistler, excited for what our six-week trip held for us. India has a reputation for being a tough place to travel, and we had the added weight of bikes and camera equipment, but I don’t think any of us were prepared for some of the more trying moments of our journey.



Our first stop was Manali, widely considered the mountain bike capital of India by the small community of bikers here. A fair description, but it needs to be taken in context, as mountain biking is still very much a fringe sport in India – the number of locals asking for a photo with us and our bikes confirmed that. There’s a small ski area just above town where, once a year, the few local riders in town hold a downhill race, and there are plenty of trails surrounding town to keep you busy for a while. We stayed for about five days and there were still many areas we could have explored. It was the only place our tires wouldn’t be leaving first tracks.

Our goals would be accomplished over the Rohtang Pass and beyond, deep into the high mountains. Our first day in the Himalayas was one of the most astounding days I’ve had travelling. Until you see the mountain range in real life, you don’t truly get an idea of how massive and beautiful they are. Travel was slow due to the state of the roads, yet none of us cared; we were glued to the windows of our van for hours as we took in one of the world’s most awe-inspiring landscapes. Our emotions were heightened too, knowing we would be riding our bikes in this wild place.



Following 12 hours of driving, we arrived at Chandra Taal, a high-altitude lake sitting at over 4300m. Bike assembly went rather hastily as we were eager to finally lay tread on the massive playground before us. Pedalling uphill at this altitude felt like riding through mud, but it was easy to ignore while scanning the horizon for rideable lines. We settled on a shale slope with a short chute entrance and hiked our way to the top. Each step we took resulted in a half-step back due to the loose surface and our lungs gasped for air. At the top looking down our line and taking in our new view, there was a distinct “is this for real?!” moment. Each second we were in the Himalayas was more surreal than the one before, and now we were about to let loose down a long slope where no one had ridden their bikes before. And it wasn’t just the novelty factor that made it so great – those turns were some of the best turns I’ve ever made in my life.

The next two weeks were a blur of building, riding and exploring, plus hard work, sweat and blistered hands. The days were short and hot. The nights were long and cold. The exploration and prep work to ride lines and trails in the Indian Himalayas resulted in some of the most gratifying biking we’ve ever done. We would come home each day covered in dust to a sporadically-functioning cold shower and even that couldn’t kill our buzz. It was an incredible few weeks that culminated in biking through a high alpine village with a centuries-old monastery a stone’s throw away. A mind-blowing end to our time in the Spiti Valley.



Getting to Nongriat to explore its network of living root bridges turned out to be a much more difficult process than we envisioned. After three days of crude dirt and crumbling asphalt roads, we briefly made it back to civilization before spending four days navigating the over-complicated bus and train systems just to get there. Along the way we learned how to cram bikes, people and luggage in rickshaws and found out that full trains were *not* designed for travel with mountain bikes. Most importantly, we learned to *never* eat the train food again.

After what felt like months we finally made it to Cherrapunjee, the closest town to Nongriat. Still reeling from the effects of a food-borne parasite, we gladly took a day off to plan and rest, and mapped out a descent high above Nongriat to navigate to the valley bottom, usually only accessible by foot (or in our case, bikes). The trail down took every ounce of our energy. It was steep and technical with many more switchbacks than we anticipated. We were more than happy to swim in the valley’s crystal clear river, which gave us the rejuvenation we needed to ride on.



Sooner than we expected, the first living root bridge appeared: a two-level span hundreds of years old. The bridges are created from the roots of the banyan fig trees, and manipulated by humans over generations to grow across rivers. The bridges are their means of inter-village connection during the monsoon season when the rivers grow impassable. It was an otherworldly sight and an unforgettable experience to ride across – not exactly the most technical feature to ride, but easily one of the most unique. On a trip full of wonderful and wild experiences, it was a big highlight of our adventure.

Our exploration of unridden India was an adventure success. A veritable highlight real of stunning views and surreal riding environs. It isn’t a mountain bike mecca (yet), but with a little hard work it was so much more: riding in a biking world unknown.



The story of a small team of riders, a photographer, and a videographer on a mission to explore and experience new riding and cultures on the sub-continent of India. With little information regarding India’s terrain and trails, the group decided it was best to uncover it themselves first hand.

Shot and edited by Vince Emond.

India: An Uncertain Road

### 

India’s fringe mountain biking community turned out to be a massive playground for Steve, Justa, Vince and Chris. MEC was proud to support them on their epic journey via [expedition grant funding](/en/explore/outdoor-impact).



*Want to see more wild places to ride in the world? Check out*[*10 must-do mountain bike destinations*](/en/article/must-do-mountain-bike-destinations)*.*



India’s fringe mountain biking scene meant a ton of first lines, mystical root bridge crossings and Himalayan backdrops for these bike-crazy Canadians.

Mountain biking in Northern India | MEC Blog

Mountain biking in Northern India

It’s no secret that running crews and training clubs are basically a gold mine of motivation, expertise and new friendships, just waiting to be tapped. But when you find *your*club – the one that hits all your checkboxes for fitness and support – life-altering things can happen. Just ask twin sisters Julie and Andrea Kocsis, members of the Barrie, Ontario-based triathlon club the [Barrie Baydogs](https://www.barrietriathlonclub.com/), who went from just walking to finishing multiple marathons.

“With the Baydogs, whatever you start, you finish together,” notes Julie. “With hill training, everyone waited at the top, you all high-fived each other and then ran down together. Even if you were the slower runner, you never felt like people were waiting for you or that you were left behind. They include everybody. You don’t feel like an outsider or that you’re slowing anyone down.”

That sense of family and belonging is something that was a massive motivation for the pair, who Andrea says were brutally teased throughout school. While they’ve always been each other’s biggest supporters – they start and finish races together, holding their hands triumphantly in the air as they cross the finish line – they really got the welcome and community encouragement they were looking for through the [Baydogs mentoring program](https://www.barrietriathlonclub.com/mentoring).



“When we went to the mentor training, they really welcomed us with open arms,” recalls Julie. “Everyone there was of all different physical abilities and were very sociable.”

“It was important for us to join a club that understands the importance of supporting each other and finishing together,” adds Andrea. “They built up our self confidence and our mental strength. It’s not ‘I can’t do anything’ anymore, it’s ‘I can do it, and if I believe in myself anything is possible.’”

The twins have made massive strides in their fitness levels over the years. They each weighed over 200lb. (91kg) when they started with walking in university. Over time, they decided to pick up the pace by running to a neighbourhood landmark, like a light post, then running a kilometre and so on. Eventually, they set a goal to finish a marathon before graduation. Not only did they hit their goal, but they’ve lost over 120lb. (54kg) between them and now exercise regularly, greatly improving their overall health.

> “When you’re in a group, if you’re suffering, you’re all suffering together, so you don’t feel like it’s that bad.”
>
Andrea’s knee injury was the key factor in joining the Baydogs. A friend in their run club suggested they try triathlons, so they bought bikes and joined up. “The number one thing I’ve gotten out of joining the group is knowledge,” says Julie.

These days, the twins welcome a bit of sweaty stress. They completed the Disney Dopey Challenge in 2015, which sandwiches together four days of back-to-back running, starting with a 5K, then a 10K, half marathon, and full marathon, for a grand total of 78.2km. “We’ve probably done a good 10 half marathons and four full marathons,” estimates Andrea. “We have a half coming up in May, and we started working with a coach that we met through the Baydogs to help us with our running. We’ve PB’d the last three races we’ve been in. The big goal for us is a full Ironman in August.”



The successes haven’t been without their interruptions either – last year Andrea faced a rugby injury and had to take the summer off. “That was really tough for me, as a twin. Every day I’d see my sister out and wish I could train. But it allowed me to grow mentally stronger.”

“It was tough for me too,” echoes Julie. “I never thought I’d be starting or finishing the half Ironman without my sister on the line. I found the run particularly difficult. That’s when Andrea is usually yelling at me ‘it’s all in your mind! Just keep going, one foot in front of the other’! Or we start singing to each other. Last summer our go-to was ‘Fight Song’ by Rachel Platten.” Since Andrea couldn’t join Julie for the Muskoka 70.3, she wrote different song lyrics on the handlebars of Julie’s bike.

If they could impart one lesson, they hope people know that they are capable of more that they give themselves credit for.

> “The only thing that’s stopping you is you, putting up the wall. Just put your heart into it. Speed doesn’t matter,” they say.
>
“There’s that quote about how the slowest person is still faster than the person sitting on the couch, so no matter your physical ability, just get out and try. You see so much more of the world when you’re out running.”

*MEC is proud to support Julie and Andrea’s efforts through the Community Contributions program via a grant to the Barrie Baydogs, which helps fund their mentoring program. Good luck on your Ironman!*



Get seriously inspired by Barrie Baydogs club members and twin sisters Julie and Andrea as they chronicle over 120lb. lost and 20 races crushed.

The life changing magic of joining a club | MEC Blog

The life-changing magic of joining a club

This is a story of luck and survival in avalanche terrain. I’ve told it before, but after exploring [Avalanche Canada](https://avalanche.ca/map)’s excellent [Rescue at Cherry Bowl](https://avalanche.ca/cherry-bowl#/intro) feature, I’m sharing it again. Both as a reminder of the role human factors play in backcountry decision-making and in the hope it might alter a single group’s actions or save a life. (If you haven’t explored the extraordinary story of what transpired at Cherry Bowl, just outside Terrace, BC, in March 2013, it’s well worth your time, particularly the embedded video interviews of survivors and rescuers.)

My story started, as all adventures do, with the simple, wholesome desire to have some fun. My good buddy – and expedition partner of fifteen years – suggested we go ski touring. Despite the fact we live in the same small town, busy schedules had prevented us from getting outside together for over a year. To remedy the situation, we picked a day in late February or early March and marked it in our calendars weeks in advance.

The night before our planned departure, a heavy winter storm blew in. By dinnertime, snow was piling up at over an inch an hour, and for the first time, I began to wonder about our plans. Had the commitment been with anyone else, I would have suggested spending the next day at our local ski hill instead of travelling in the backcountry, but there was human history to consider. For years, I’d been the conservative one in our partnership; the one suggesting bailing when things didn’t look or feel right. It had become such a bone of contention that my friend and I began doing less together. This outing was supposed to be a step towards healing that rift, and I knew he’d still be game. I set my alarm for 5:30am.

By dawn, a foot of new snow lay on the ground outside my house. There would be more in the high peaks. The avalanche danger rating was *Considerable* for alpine and treeline – one of the most challenging forecasts to deal with; the same one the skiers at Cherry Bowl had faced – but neither my friend, nor the two experienced skiers he’d invited to join us, seemed concerned. They’d all been out more than me that winter, and lacking the heart for confrontation, I decided I’d bite my tongue. In fact, I decided I’d bite it all day long, and for once, to just go with the flow. It was a mistake that nearly killed me.

The road into the southern Purcells was obliterated beneath a blanket of featureless snow. Just minutes outside town, my friend missed a curve and drove full speed down a farmer’s lane, soft powder billowing over the hood as we drifted to a stop. Even as it happened, I knew it was another warning. We should have turned back, but we didn’t.

An hour-long snowmobile ride along abandoned logging roads brought us to the basin where we planned to ski. Heavy clouds and mist meant we could see nothing. I’d visited the area before in the summer, but never winter. Now I would have to rely on others for their understanding and judgment regarding the terrain both above and below us; we were in that grey zone between the treeline and the alpine.



Even as we attached skins to our skis and tested beacons, the ominous sound of natural avalanches filtered through the forest. Somewhere, in the cliffs above, snow was coming down on its own. First one. Then two. Then three. Surely we weren’t going to ski now? “Not a problem,” someone explained. “We can stick to safe trees.”

Skinning upwards, the trail we cut felt protected, weaving through stands of old-growth draped in old man’s beard. An hour later, as we reached a high ridge, the trees were thinning. In the mist to our left appeared silhouettes of thicker forest. To our right, blowing snow and cloud obliterated what looked like an open slope. “Which way?” shouted my friend, in the lead. “Go right,” came the answer from behind. “Better turns.” I knew it was the wrong call, but said nothing.

We had a quick snack, shared a few sips from a thermos of tea, took off skins, made our plan, and dropped in. Skiing one at a time, we regrouped after just ten turns in a small clump of wind-blown alpine larch. Then the first skier set out again. Soon his faint call wafted up through the mist. “Safe!” I went next.

Six turns in I dragged a hip in the powder to slow speed, and I suspect that is what broke the hillside free. Suddenly, everything in front of me was moving. As far as I could see, the slope was breaking into blocks the size of washers and dryers, tumbling away as puffs of snow rose like smoke. Acting purely on instinct, I managed to make a quick, messy turn away from the chaos. But ahead of me, in the opposite direction, the slope was moving too. Not knowing what to do, I put on the brakes.

Far above, I heard my friend scream, “AVALANCHE!” There was an urgency in his voice I’d never heard in fifteen years of friendship. My skis ground to a stop. I wasn’t moving? The hillside was silent. From below, a muffled cry: “I’m okay.”

It took a moment to piece together what had happened: a massive fracture had ripped across the slope above, 160cm deep and roughly 100m wide. Miraculously, a single vertical finger of snow smack in the middle of the avalanche path had not slid. And that finger extended all the way down from the crown to the point where I now stood. I’ll never know what caused that sliver of snow to stick – micro variations in the terrain or the finger of god – but I was perched atop the only safe island in a swath of total destruction. Had I been skiing just a few metres to either side, I’d have been swept away.

What about the skier below?

Leaping off the snow finger, my skis landed on the rock-hard slide surface below. Side-slipping as quickly as I could, I followed the yells until I spotted him, jammed between two pine trees, buried up to his neck.

“I always stop on the uphill side of trees,” he smiled, still unshaken. It was a decision that probably saved him. By the time I’d dug him out, the other two had joined us.

Below us, the slide had run over 800m to the valley bottom. We followed its path though the old-growth stands where we’d skinned earlier. Far overhead, beyond the reach of our extended poles, was a “high-tide” mark of refuse (branches, twigs, ice) showing the depth of snow that ran through these stands. Below, the slide funneled into a rocky gully, tumbling downwards and eventually spewing across flats below.

I appeared to be the only one shaken. And in my final act of stupidity, I kept skiing with the group that day.

I take full responsibility for the incident. I was the one who didn’t speak up and share my intuition, and in hindsight, my actions appear ridiculous, almost unfathomable. I pride myself on being an extremely conservative decision maker, with many avalanche courses under my belt and twenty-plus years of experience travelling in the backcountry. Why did I remain silent in the face of so many alarms and obvious warnings?

Human relationships and dynamics can exert powerful (and insidious) forces in the backcountry; personal histories, the perception of pecking-orders, the unspoken hierarchy of experience, the desire not to disappoint others, even those we barely know. Anyone who spends time in the mountains will recognize such influences, and I suspect will have wrestled with them at some point.

Following our “near miss,” I found myself returning to the day’s events over and over, trying to understand how to avoid similar situations in the future. Eventually three themes emerged. These lessons don’t encapsulate all the human factors that can influence backcountry decision making, but I think they’re a good starting place. And I made an oath to myself to follow these as best I possibly could. I share them now in the hope they might benefit you or the ones you love:

**Always speak up.** If you have reservations about snow conditions or route decisions, speak without fear. Speak even if you don’t know why you are worried; if it’s just a feeling in your gut. Ignore any concerns about the judgments of others. Speak up because it’s the only way you will learn. Speak up because you care about the lives of the people you’re with. This sounds easy, but anyone who has spent time out there knows it can be challenging.

**Don’t defer to experience and local knowledge when it pushes you toward risk**, or a decision that feels uncomfortable. Your opinion and judgment count too. While experience and local knowledge are extremely valuable, they’re not always correct. Other factors can be at play – including overconfidence, overfamiliarity and even the false sense of security that comes from surviving previous bad decisions. Trust your inner voice. (On the other hand, if you ever find experience and local knowledge suggesting you should act conservatively, listen up immediately.)

**Gravitate toward partners who share similar risk assessment,** or even those more cautious than you. Better to find yourself mildly disappointed at the end of the day than continually dragged into situations you don’t like. Travelling with a group with similar ambitions can take all the stress out of a day in the mountains and allow you to enjoy the splendor.

Staying safe in avalanche terrain is an odd mix of science and zen, of collecting facts while simultaneously listening to instinct. It’s a game of constant observation in the search for ultimately unattainable answers. No one can tell you with absolute certainty whether a given slope on a given day is safe or not. You might ski a run where nothing releases, but still have made a mistake. If you walk away from a slope, you’ll never know if you were being wise, or unduly conservative. So instead, the best we can do is stack the odds heavily in our favour.

A solid understanding of snow science, weather patterns, pack history and avalanche dynamics is the starting point. Carrying all the requisite [safety gear](/en/products/ski-and-snowsports/avalanche-safety-gear) and knowing how to use it further tips the balance in your favour. Proper training via an [Avalanche Skills Training course](https://avalanche.ca/training) (AST 1 and 2) and particularly the Companion Rescue Course that saved lives at Cherry Bowl, is critical. Don’t make the same mistakes I did by allowing human issues (pride, ego, time constraints, goal-oriented objectives) to pull even one chip from your stack.

*The right training, plus avalanche and backcountry safety gear can save your life. Get [everything you need for backcountry trips](/en/products/ski-and-snowsports/avalanche-safety-gear) and [get trained with Avalanche Canada](https://avalanche.ca/training).*



On any given ski day, avalanche conditions can turn things deadly. MEC Ambassador Bruce Kirkby recounts a near-miss and passes on some valuable lessons learned.

The finger of god: an avalanche story | MEC Blog

The finger of god: an avalanche story

A sick feeling of terror threatens to overwhelm my concentration as I painstakingly inch my way forward. A rushing sound fills my head and I can no longer tell if it is the white water just inches below my feet or the surge of blood that my heart is furiously pumping through my body. The skis on my backpack are adding an extra element of imbalance to the already heavy load. My focus intensifies.

Just. Don’t. Slip.

I try to block out any thoughts of failure and consequence. One wrong step could mean at best, a swim down river and at worst, severe injuries, hypothermia and a prolonged rescue. With tiny, hesitant steps I fight to keep my balance on the log that is spanning Windy Creek. When I look up, I can see the three who have already made it over watching me. I look back down, focussing every ounce of strength and attention on crossing this log, our gateway to the final leg of the journey.

I made it, or rather, we made it. Five of us are committed to this adventure – Stephen Senecal and Douglas Noblet from Nelson, Sam McKoy of Pemberton, Mark Grist from Vancouver and myself, mostly based in Revelstoke – the first complete ski traverse of the Canadian Selkirks. This is day 32.

The trip has not been without its challenges: broken skis, bindings, poles, stoves, pumps and boot buckles, plus losing 2kg of food and our only multi-tool to pine martens. We’ve weathered each setback and interruption with (eventual) good humour and laughter. Whether it be watching remarkable sunsets and sunrises, being forced to cross slopes that inspire no confidence, or bushwhacking with skis on our backs, we know that when we catch the eye of any team member we’re more likely to crack a wry smile and break into laughter than we are to swear or feel resentful. This is a rare and precious dynamic to have on a trip of this magnitude, especially with people who had never met before. Somehow the mix of personalities, quirks, strengths and humour has worked out. We are in it together and we find ways to love it no matter what.



The adventure started at Kootenay Pass, and over four weeks we made our way steadily north towards Mica. With approximately 520km+ of distance and 42,000m+ in vertical gain to cover, we had made a conservative estimate of about eight weeks to complete this journey. We cut that time almost in half. The unusually warm spring has been both a blessing and a curse. The April heat wave that forced many other parties to bail on trips in the Selkirks motivated us to travel quickly, and only at night.



We would wake up at midnight, break camp, eat breakfast and be walking by 1:30am, our only light the glow of the full moon or the narrow beam of a headlamp. Despite a disrupted sleep pattern that left us feeling like zombies, our efforts got us through the Southern Selkirks safely, and we were left with memories of the full moon setting as the first light of morning etched itself along the eastern horizon.



The original idea for the traverse came up as a mutual adventure list item between me and Stephen five years ago. For me, it represented a way to explore and connect with the mountain range that I’ve grown up and lived in all my life. Essentially the traverse would link up several smaller traverses that are done with varying amounts of frequency: Kootenay Pass to Nelson, the Kokanee Glacier, Goat Range, part of the Bugaboos to Rogers Pass and the classic Northern Selkirks Traverse.

Finally, during the drive back from a ski trip two years ago Stephen said, “Hey, remember that idea we had for a traverse of the Selkirks? Well, I think I want to do it next spring.” I looked at him and blurted out, “Steve! You can’t do that trip without me!” He looked back at me with a wry smile. “Ok good, ‘cause I think the biggest issue will be finding people to do it with. At least there will be two of us!”



In that moment, we both committed. My heart soared, thinking about the possibility of such a huge adventure dream coming true.

Sixteen months of planning and preparation ensued, along with endless questions and thoughts about logistics. We ended up doing eight food caches; five were roadside and driven to us as re-supplies and three were flown into backcountry lodges along our route.

MEC gave us an expedition grant, which helped enormously with gear and food costs. We pored over maps and Google Earth to look at different route options and contacted as many people as we could to find out about certain sections in more detail. As others committed to joining the trip, they would help where they could. When the day finally came to put the skis on and start moving, a huge wave of relief and excitement washed over me. All the work we had put into this trip was about to pay off.



Over the course of the trip, we learned to adapt to different challenges, whether it was getting up at midnight to avoid the daytime warming or “normalizing” the fact that we were all increasing our risk tolerance with river crossings, alder bashing and sketchy descents with expedition-sized packs. It all became part of the daily routine – *“I wonder what will happen today?”*



Highlights of the trip would include getting to climb our one big peak of the trip (Iconoclast) in a whiteout with two friends who were at Sorcerer Lodge. We had many beautiful camps, but the best were in the alpine where our views were almost 360 degrees looking at the Monashees, Purcells, Selkirks and Rocky Mountains, picking out iconic peaks as our evening trivia.



Despite the fact that we were skiing through a lot of heli-ski terrain, the warm weather had affected the snow so much that powder was a distant daydream.

What stands out for me from this trip is how our incredible mountain community and friends supported us along the way. As we would dip into valleys for food drops or with broken skis or come across mountain huts, we were welcomed with familiar faces, beer and fresh food. It was great to be on the journey as a group of five, but even more rewarding later, when we could share the journey with others and feel the camaraderie of the mountain culture that defines so many of us.



### 

On May 8, 2016, Stephen Senecal, Douglas Noblet, Sam McKoy, Mark Grist, and Madeleine Martin-Preney completed the first continuous ski traverse of the Canadian Selkirks with the help of an [*MEC expedition grant*](/en/explore/outdoor-impact). Between Kootenay Pass and Mica, they braved headlamp skinning, log crossings and thieving woodland creatures.



A team of five daring Canucks finished the first complete ski traverse of the Canadian Selkirks, but it wasn’t without complications. See pics and the story of their expedition.

First-ever complete Selkirks ski traverse | MEC Blog

Shredding the Selkirks: a record-setting ski traverse

In the summer of 2016, Benjamin Jordan gave a whole new meaning to the idiom “feels like flying.” With the support of an [*MEC expedition grant*](/en/explore/outdoor-impact), the photographer and filmmaker soared 1000km via paraglider from Vancouver to Calgary. The Toronto native is no stranger to unconventional ways of travel; in 2006, he rode his skateboard across Canada with three friends – a trip that led him to his passion of producing adventure travel documentaries.

*Following months of staring at maps, obsessing over ridges, valleys, cut-blocks and logging roads, Ben walked over Vancouver’s Lions Gate Bridge, ready to make history. Here, through colourful photos and captions, he chronicles the experience:*

## Part one: the struggle


***Left:*** From overconfident beginnings to humble proceedings, my first-ever flight from Grouse Mountain was not the glorious 100+km cross-country soar I had dreamt of. Instead, it was a 45-minute struggle just to stay airborne as the thermals became weaker and weaker in the sea breeze air. I spent a total of five days at Grouse Mountain before realizing it was the wrong season to fly in that region.

***Right:*** Staying sane on the mountain for days at a time required me to branch out my activities. This activity is called standing on an island rock, singing at the top of my lungs.



After a last attempt to fly out from North Vancouver, I walked across West Vancouver to Lighthouse Park and made camp for the night. In some ways, this felt like the true start: bathing in the Pacific, a week of dirt already caked to my exterior, and a feeling that the worst was behind me. What lay ahead, however, was 100km of asphalt to pound out on the way to Whistler, and all uphill.



***Left:*** I have two modes: hike and fly. In either mode, one thing is for certain: weight sucks. Thanks to MEC and my other amazing sponsors, I was blessed to have the lightest versions of everything I need.

***Right:*** Trees, a busy highway or the sea? Hrmmmm … no, wait! There’s a tourist pullout! Looking back, I was such a fool to even attempt to fly this section. It was almost certain I wouldn’t make it to the open space in Squamish, still 30km north. Truthfully, I was lucky this pullout existed.

## Part two: now we’re flying!


After arriving in Whistler, I met up with local pilots Scott and Al. Together we hiked and flew from Rainbow Mountain. At long last, I’d escaped the effects of the sea breeze and was making real distance under wing. Together with my aerial brothers, we danced in circles up to clouds and moved steadily along our way to Pemberton for the next potential launch.



My sweet reward, after I just had my first real cross-country flight to Pemberton with top landing, was getting to stay overnight in the Marty Memorial Safety Hut on Upper Mackenzie. I don’t have the right word for the feeling of this moment, but it’s a mix of love, pride and gratitude.



However short (less than 40km) my first two flights were, they ended with spectacular top landings, higher than where I’d launched that day. At this point, I was not only 2300m above sea level, but I was also set up for an east launch, which allowed me to take advantage of the morning sun the following day. Coffee, oats, ramen noodles and the occasional visiting marmot were base camp staples.



A stark realization I found myself having again and again on this journey was how much it sucks to become dehydrated. And I don’t mean thirsty, I mean dry mouth, dry throat, hallucinating, not knowing up from down and making bad choices dehydrated. It happened from time to time, as I could only carry 2L of water in my normal bladder and certain hikes didn’t lend themselves to streams, so when I spotted a watering hole, I got up in it.



***Left:*** Having flown for 12 years, I can safely say that most launches don’t really intimidate me anymore, but this cliff was giving me vertigo like something else.

***Right:*** I’m proud of my rustic tech, but the weight of my camera stabilizer (a must) was too much for the system and kept flipping upside down.



After what was the most remarkable day of this entire project – a 140km straight shot over pure wilderness and the entire West Kootenay region – I just couldn’t resist an aerial jam session.



Successfully crossing over the Pinnacle Watershed in Monashee Provincial Park was a heart-stopping experience. Although there were still over 20km to glide to safety, little else was on my mind when I spotted the emerald lakes and snowy peaks.



***Left:*** Ever since my first time driving from Banff to Radium ten years ago I dreamt of this day. While Kootenay National Park is a no-land, no-launch zone, I knew that wouldn’t be a problem.

***Right:*** I felt as though my heart might stop from the beauty of this moment. Not one minute before I was on the verge of tears, when I realized I’d gotten myself way too low in a bad spot. Then, I was reminded why I’m so addicted to this incredible sport – I was dealt a wildcard that not only allowed my passage onward, but left this scene as a parting gift.



It was late when I began hiking up Cougar Creek toward the Lady MacDonald trailhead and set up camp for the night without the shelter of my cozy tent. I woke up at sunrise with the Three Sisters watching over me.

## Part three: home free


Whenever I step up to launch, I struggle with the feeling that I will just bomb out, landing at the base of the mountain in frustration. But time after time, a greater force proves me wrong, which makes my fantasy of crossing this mountainous divide as real as anything. This photo captures my first climb from Lady MacDonald. I knew then, without a shred of doubt, I’d get beyond the mountains.



After 37 days of massive mountains, glaciers, deep valleys and man-eating crevasses, I had completely forgotten that any other type of landscape existed. Like warping through space to an entirely separate planet, there I was: staring at a level horizon with farm fields as far as the eye could see. Ironically, now that there was no danger to avoid, I couldn’t figure out where to best fly and bombed out shortly after arriving in the flats.



***Left:*** I set up camp along the famous Bow River. No longer concerned about running out of food, I spoiled myself with two packs of ramen noodles and a piece of chocolate to celebrate.

***Right:*** Alberta had been struck by storms almost every afternoon all summer. Though it would have been nice to fly all the way to Calgary, I was happier beholding the power of these mammoth storm cells from the ground.



MEC was the first business to hop on board this project and the catalyst for many of my other sponsors to do the same. Having begun my journey from the flagship MEC location in Vancouver, it felt right that I complete it by arriving at the MEC Calgary store.



### 

Ben made history as the first paraglider to take a solo flight over Canada’s southwest mountains and the first person to vol-biv (that’s fly-camp) from Pacific to prairie. MEC was proud to support his journey via [expedition grant funding](/en/explore/outdoor-impact). Way to go, Ben!

Curious about what he brought along? Check out his [full gear list](https://benjaminjordan.com/adventure/xbc-gear).



*This is a highlight reel of Ben’s original photo essay. Check out the full story on* [*benjaminjordan.com*](https://benjaminjordan.com/photo/xbc/) *and follow him on* [*Instagram*](https://www.instagram.com/benjaminjordanadventure/) *for updates on his forthcoming film about the trip.*



Adventurer Benjamin Jordan is the first person to paraglide solo over the entire span of Canada’s southwest mountain ranges. See awesome photos and captions from his expedition.

39 days in the air: paragliding from BC to Alberta | MEC Blog

39 days in the air: paragliding from BC to Alberta

One breezy summer day while arriving to surf Lake Erie with friends, Antonio Lennert witnessed something startling: over a hundred dead fish washed up along the shoreline. “It was a very scary moment,” he says. “None of us had ever seen that many dead fish on the beach before.” As the group got in the water, they saw algae all around, but since they’d driven for two hours to find good waves that day, they paddled out and surfed for a couple hours anyways. “Every now and then a dead fish would pop up next to one of us,” says Antonio. “It was pretty gross and terrifying.”

The Brazilian-born surfer and community activist has been noticing more and more changes in the Great Lakes over the years, and the damage is something he desperately hopes to repair. As the founder and Chief Experience Officer of [Surf the Greats](https://www.surfthegreats.com/pages/about), a northern surf culture and community organization and Toronto-based MEC Outdoor Nation collaborator, he leads beach cleanups, educational workshops and meet-ups in hopes of instilling a need to act in the local surf community. For Antonio, Surf the Greats is the manifestation of passion for adventure, exploration and the power of nature – something that was ingrained in him when he grew up by the ocean in Brazil, and when he lived in California and Australia before moving to Toronto in 2009.



“[I’ve] lost count of how many times I saw people putting their lives at risk without fully understanding the dangers of our riptides,” he laments. “And water is becoming a commodity as the years go by. But surfing the Great Lakes puts us in a privileged position, [one where we] witness all the pollution in the water. And that needs to change.”

Pollution, contamination, debris and harmful algal blooms are some of the largest threats to Canada’s waterways. The blooms are particularly concerning. A result of rapid algae growth due to the presence of nutrients such as phosphorus and nitrogen, they tend to occur in late summer and early fall, and produce toxins as cells die. For surfers, paddlers and swimmers who want to enjoy the water, the health issues that result from contact with the blooms can be wide-ranging and serious: muscle cramps and twitching, nausea and vomiting, cardiac or respiratory difficulty, liver failure and even paralysis.

Antonio has witnessed the blooms first-hand. “Sometimes we leave the water covered in algae or aren’t able to surf at all because of the toxicity,” he reveals. “Although many surfers still risk their health and go in.”



Wanting to enlighten fellow surfers and increase his safety knowledge, Antonio went to Costa Rica to take an open-water rescue course as well as the Surf & SUP instructor course put on by the International Surfing Association. Surf the Greats events, meet-ups and [wave forecasting workshops](/en/article/surf-the-greats-winter-wave-forecasting) are where he gets to pass that knowledge on. At a recent MEC Outdoor Nation and Surf The Greats event in the Toronto Islands called “Castaway,” 100 people gathered at a secret beach to SUP, do yoga, swim and participate in a [beach cleanup](/en/article/10-ways-to-protect-your-fave-paddle-surf-or-swim-spot). “We removed over 100lb of garbage from the beach and more than 10 tires from the lake,” says Antonio. His desire to connect people with nature through surfing goes hand in hand with a drive to care for it; it’s a new wave of thinking that plenty of Toronto-area residents are eager to catch a ride on.

“Next summer we want to expand our offerings to Prince Edward County and other parts of Ontario while growing our programming for Toronto,” says Antonio. Surf the Greats devotees and wave watchers can keep an eye on their inboxes and social media channels for sweet bonuses too, including info on pop-up shops, reggae night dance parties, surf photography exhibits and yoga classes.

*Photos by [Lucas Murnaghan](https://www.instagram.com/lucasmurnaghan/).*

*Want to try surfing and get involved? Check out **MEC Outdoor Nation** and [Surf the Greats](https://www.surfthegreats.com/pages/about) for the latest events and tag your freshwater Instagram pics with [#myhomewaters](https://www.instagram.com/explore/search/keyword/?q=%23myhomewaters) to help share the love of Canada’s waterways.*



Meet Ontario's Surf the Greats. These Toronto-based surfers share some serious love for riding waves on the Great Lakes – find out how to join their events, workshops, dance parties and more.

Surf the Greats: for the love of waves | MEC Blog

Surf the Greats: for the love of waves

Chances are, throughout your workday, your left brain does a lot of heavy lifting. You’re setting realistic goals, coming up with unique strategies, and finding logical ways to see your plans through. And if you’re someone who loves the outdoors, you’re likely intermittently daydreaming about your next getaway. That’s when your right brain takes over. This is your free spirit side, full of imagination, keen to seek out sensory experiences, get moving, tap into your feelings and express yourself.

Everyone has a dominant side, and while right-brained types are usually considered more naturally creative, the difference between right- and left-brained is in the approach. Lefties see details first and piece them together to form a larger picture, while righties use visual reference and see a whole before working into the finer details. So, even if you may not consider yourself a “creative person,” you’re actually already tapping into your more expressive hemisphere when you’re out hiking, taking in a meteor shower, or trying not to trip on tree roots on a trail run.

MEC’s Digital Asset Administrator [Jessa Gilbert](https://www.jessagilbert.com/) is a sterling example of letting your creativity flow outside. The New York native moved to Vancouver in 2013 and has been on a constant mission to meld her love of activity with her desire to explore outside, one that saw her transition from figurative painter to landscape artist.



“This place is magic,” says Jessa. “I take my studio outside into the wilderness, bringing along my sketchbook, watercolour paper, pens, brushes – the whole gamut, just on a smaller scale – and try to replicate the feelings and the sentiments of either getting to a peak or being within the environment.” When Jessa gets back into the studio, she works with acrylic paint at a larger scale. “I think about how I show the passing of time on a two-dimensional plane; how I take the trip at large and create something that speaks to how it was, or how we look at the environment around us.”

Another crew taking the studio outside is one of MEC Outdoor Nation’s newest Toronto-based collaborators (they were granted $5000 at the 2016 Think Outside Summit). Outdoor Studio is all about getting young urban creatives outside and connected to nature – the group links interested parties up with wilderness guides, outdoor instructors and creative mentors on multi-day trips and excursions. The studio is run by four creatives with a passion for getting outside: graphic designers Franziska Brand and Sarah Paul, visual artist Sarah Carlson, and advertising and marketing specialist Cherie Tsang.



“Making typically happens in a four-walled studio or in front of a computer screen. As a result, many creatives are unfamiliar with the outdoors and simply don’t have the knowledge to go out and explore on their own,” explains Sarah Carlson. “The great irony is, a desire to be connected to the land is a narrative woven through the creative histories of art, design and film. Outdoor Studio is a space that allows creatives time to meditate, explore and physically reconnect to natural spaces.”

Ready to join Jessa and Outdoor Studio and let your right brain take the reins? Here’s how to get outside and start making:

#### 1. Let go of your work zone
Being creatives themselves, Outdoor Studio was finding their colleagues don’t get outside as much because of a production-focused mentality, project deadlines and a pressure to rise to the top in increasingly competitive fields. “It’s important to merge creativity and recreation because they feed into each other,” explains Sarah Carlson. “Creative blocks are challenging, and it’s important to take a breather and step outside of your work zone to recharge,” adds Cherie.

By getting outside solo, or with groups like Outdoor Studio, you’re fueling your creativity, networking with like-minded people and adding a transitionary layer to your personal practice and artistic work flow.

#### 2. Make it part of your process
“If recreation is defined as what we do when we’re not working, then we absolutely need recreation to fuel our work,” says Cherie. For Outdoor Studio’s artist mentor, Sarah Carlson, recharging outdoors is central to prepping for her next big project or exhibition. She frequents artist residencies in highly natural settings such as Algonquin Park and the Yukon.

#### 3. Tap in to your senses
“I find clouds have such personality, they have this pulsing liveliness, and sometimes they really open up for you,” says Jessa. “I usually look far in the distance so I can see everything.” Here, she details more of her thought process when she’s in making-mode:



#### 4. Streamline your pack list
No matter what you’re doing out in the wild, some practical items should be a given: a [sturdy pack](/en/products/packs-and-bags) with a [rain cover](/en/products/packs-and-bags/pack-accessories/rain-covers-and-pack-liners), a [hydration bladder](/en/products/camping-and-hiking/packs/hydration-packs-and-accessories) (your cap can be helpful with watercolours), a [headlamp](/en/products/camping-and-hiking/headlamps-and-lighting/headlamps) if you want to keep at it after dusk, and a warm jacket like the MEC Boundary Light Down Jacket ([men's](/en/product/6015-540/mec-boundary-light-down-jacket-mens) and [women's](/en/product/6019-623/mec-boundary-light-down-jacket-womens)).

Carry a sketchbook (you can even get [waterproof ones](/en/products/camping-and-hiking/tools-and-accessories/notebooks-and-pens)), a couple of pens and a pencil (in the winter your ink may freeze). If drawing isn’t your jam, then bring any materials that allow you to explore and make in the wild. Outdoor Studio suggests watercolours, pastels, carving tools and a camera.



“I bring a what is basically a [travel pouch](/en/products/packs-and-bags/luggage/travel-pouches-and-packing-organizers) with a couple brushes, pens, a pencil, a couple sketchbooks and a disposable film camera,” says Jessa. “Plus secret items like sparklers to mix it up and keep things light.” She also recommends making sure your watercolour set is non-toxic (acrylics are not compatible with Mother Nature), using a mechanical pencil so you don’t have to worry about a sharpener, and grabbing a Moleskine notebook for dry days. “The elastic band keeps the notebook closed and the pouch in the back can hold small drawings,” she says.

#### 5. Get ready to learn
“[Being outside] has taught me to be grateful for the environment I live in,” says Jessa. “Sitting there and really being patient and taking the time to actually *look*. So often we interpret things through our smartphones and devices – we’re just snapping an image and moving on, and I think its important slow things down, appreciate what’s around you and just wait. See what the clouds do, see how the colours change, think about how the environment feels and affects you. It’s also great for keeping your hand-eye coordination going.”

#### 6. Leave your insecurities at the door
Don’t worry about making things perfect. Everybody was an amateur at some point in their life, but it’s through the struggle of making that you find change and growth.

“When people say ‘I can’t paint’ or ‘I can’t draw’ or ‘I don’t know how to look at art,’ – it’s really just about letting go,” explains Jessa. “The way you experience and interpret it is totally authentic. It’s not about how you relate to anyone else’s skill or what’s good or bad. If you’re out there and you want to be creative, you should just do it. There’s no reason not to.”

She adds that it’s important to acknowledge that you even *have* the opportunity to be creative. “It’s freeing to just try to play. Doodle and have some fun; keep it light. You don’t start out creating masterpieces, you start small and build.”



Feel like you can’t put a view into words? Make outdoor art instead. Get tips and inspiration from artist Jessa Gilbert, who brings her studio into BC’s backcountry, and Outdoor Studio, a Toronto-based crew of creators.

How to do anything: Make art in the wild | MEC Blog

How to do anything: make art in the wild

My dad, Gerald Krabbe, has been a long-distance bike tourer for many years – he rode Vancouver to Halifax in the 2000s; his group of friends does a week-long mountain tour each summer; and he led a Jasper to Banff bike ride for students at his school for many years. My grandfather was a road rider too. It’s in our blood.

This past summer, he had planned a massive month-long ride from Waterton Lakes National Park where Alberta meets Montana, through BC and into the Yukon, finishing at the Arctic Ocean in Inuvik. The trip would [total more than 3800km](https://www.google.ca/maps/dir/48.9988649,-113.661622/Inuvik,+NT/@53.5805272,-117.9847,5z/data=!4m9!4m8!1m0!1m5!1m1!1s0x5114923f95f996d1:0x522391a237afb784!2m2!1d-133.7294462!2d68.3593674!3e1?entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI1MDUxNS4wIKXMDSoASAFQAw%3D%3D) of riding. My mom didn’t want to see him go solo on the last 633km of dirt road between Dawson, YT, and Inuvik, so naturally, I volunteered to join him. I’d ride my motorbike from my home in Squamish to Dawson, where I’d pedal with my father for the last 8 days.

Two weeks prior to meeting him, I wrote down some thoughts:

“[I’ll join my dad at] the part of the trip where he’ll be at his fittest, where he’ll have his patterns of movement dialed and rehearsed into a smoothly oiled drivetrain of efficiency – where he’ll grow more excited every day as the idea and scent of the ocean comes near. Right at the culminating week, a road biking virgin will stumble into his grand tour, ineffectively using mountain bike terminology to try and relate to his experience.”

I was scared of what I should be scared of, but I didn’t take my own self-deprecating humour seriously enough.



My faded red KLR would suffer through relentless days of full throttle road travel. Yes, there are flights to Whitehorse and Dawson, but if this weapon is in your garage, why not make an adventure of it? Half of my ride north was spent retracing the route my dad had pedaled days and days earlier. Along the way I’d describe him to gas station attendants and tourists, and without fail they’d remember and tell me how interesting and amazing his journey sounded. Then they’d look at my bike-on-a-bike and say, “Well, it’s no question where you get your ideas from.”



*Left:* Rain and long haul truckers were my main fear along the first 3000km trek from Squamish to Dawson.

*Right:* There are very few places you’ll find gas, groceries or people in this remarkably varied and stark region. In seeing the Northern Rocky Mountains I immediately regretted my need to pass through them quickly.



The Alaska Highway is teeming with wildlife. From the perch of my jalopy I saw a grizzly and three cubs, nearly 100 indifferent bison hanging out in the ditch, a porcupine that wanted to pop my tires and a moose with a rack bigger than my arm span.



*Left:* Holding your body up on a motorbike can make you feel worse than you may imagine. Luckily, Mother Nature put Liard River Hot Springs on my itinerary as I flirted with the Yukon border.

*Right:* I nearly dropped my camera into the spring after I snapped this and heard some tourists on the far side piping up about a bear lumbering through the woods only 15m from the water’s edge.



News of the worst floods in years reached us shortly after I arrived in Dawson and met my dad. With people and cars stranded and a ferry out of commission, we headed to Diamond Tooth Gerties to watch cancan shows shoulder to shoulder with overly excited tourists.



*The* sourtoe. A questionable right of passage in Dawson: whiskey of your choice, toe in whiskey, whiskey to mouth, toe to lips, shudder, laugh, regret.



*Left:* Twenty-four hours after being told Dempster Highway could be closed for weeks due to flood damage, we pedaled out with low expectations and high hopes.

*Right:* By 8am on the second morning, we had passed the highest point on the Dempster.



*Left:* Camp failure. Due to several poorly-tuned features on my bike-trailer combination, a lack of training prior to the trip and two aggravated knees, I had to give up the ride on day three.

*Right:* Failure didn’t mean entire failure – my goal was to join my dad on his massive journey and help get him to the finish line. Though my bike was heading south in the bed of a truck, I would carry on by thumb, hitchhiking as my father rode his bike.



*Left:* A math teacher’s cycling tour is prone to be a little more digit intensive than other riders. He dubbed his trip “#49to69at59” for riding the 49th parallel to the 69th parallel at 59 years of age.

*Right:* Just after I met my dad in Dawson, he admitted somewhat sheepishly that he was having a ludicrous amount of fun on the journey – so much fun he almost felt guilty and indulgent. This shot is from the last day after he sees me climb out of a stranger’s car and he coasted down to the final river crossing of the entire journey. I have no doubt the same silly smile was plastered on his face for the entire last day, even if no one was there to see it.



Over a couple thousand kilometers, some things will wear out, some things will change, and some things will grow.



### 

*This was former MEC Ambassador [Reuben Krabbe](/en/explore/mec-ambassadors)’s first road ride – his comfort zone is trails on his [mountain bike](/en/products/cycling/bikes/mountain-bikes?gender=unisex). MEC lent him the MEC Provincial Road 222 Bike for his Dempster Highway journey with his dad.*



MEC Ambassador Reuben Krabbe joins his dad on a bucket-list bike tour in Canada, including the Dempster Highway in the Yukon.

Dempster Highway: biking, bonding and sour toes | MEC Blog

Dempster Highway: biking, bonding and sour toes

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