Heavy storms and a����battered the Balkans in May, but by the end of the month, the sun appeared and I was bound for Slovenia and the northern head of the new����hiking trail, which follows the��, a��620-mile string of peaks spilling south and east from the Alps proper.

My goal: to walk several sections of the route, which, like the range, parallels the Adriatic Sea and connects countries down the length of the Balkan Peninsula. The main artery of the Via Dinarica—named�����ϳԹ���’s��Best New Trail for 2014—is called the White Trail. It crosses, in geographic order, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, and Kosovo.

For countries along the Via Dinarica, the hope is that this megatrail corridor—a project funded by the European Union, the United Nations Development Programme, and the U.S. Agency for International Development—will eventually showcase an underutilized mountain range to a global audience. The route would act as a vehicle to highlight the breadth of the region’s outdoor adventure possibilities and often-overlooked Old World culture and promote environmental awareness. With any luck, it could also ignite and galvanize camaraderie among the range’s historically contentious neighbors.

“Connecting the dots, combining resources and offers, and sharing a common visual identity will help put the Via Dinarica on the outdoor traveler’s radar,” Tim Clancy, media consultant for the project, wrote in an email. “It will provide sustainable incomes for mountain folks as well as youth (where unemployment is as high as 60 percent in many places), and it will force governments’ hands in establishing better channels of cross-border communication and cooperation because of tourism, border-crossing issues, and branding.”

But with all that the Western Balkans countries have endured the past 20 years—hell, the past 500 years—imagining that a trail could act as a tourism engine while also loosening the grip and memory of dictatorships, cross-border wars in the former Yugoslavia, and intolerant fate seems, at the start of our journey, mighty ambitious. The plan does possess one giant trump card: Few acts are as simple, straightforward, beautiful, and universal as a hike in the mountains. For visitors such as myself, this is the brand-spanking-new Via Dinarica’s hopeful, peaceful plea.

Driving through western Bosnia, however, nothing appeared brand spanking new. Old men in coveralls and women with kerchiefs scored black soil with hoes that looked as if they’d been handed down since the Habsburgs. A horse pulling a red wooden carriage filled with hay loped past the occasional burned-out building—souvenirs from the��. Villages were demarcated by symbols devoted to higher powers. The call to prayer, bellowing from a mosque’s minaret, gave way to clover-shaped Orthodox crosses, which morphed into Catholic churches taking shape on the next horizon. Everywhere, axes splitting wood paced the drive with a discordant, metronomic orchestra.

As we drove north, the two-month, six-part journey became real. My trek will begin in karst- and cave-filled Slovenia. Afterward, I will hike through Croatia, which, like Slovenia, is a member of the European Union. Known more for its coast, Croatia possesses a jagged relief of dramatic mountains, including the trail’s namesake: Mount Dinara. Some of the most epic hiking will take place across Bosnia and Herzegovina’s virgin forests and sweeping, untouched vistas.

Then, I’ll take part in a 500-kilometer bicycle ride across Bosnia to commemorate the anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre in 1995. Next, I move into Montenegro to experience the Tara Canyon, the deepest river canyon in Europe, and��, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Finally, I will hike into Albania, home to the rugged Prokletije Mountains and the 8,839-foot Maja Jezerce. I’ll end in Kosovo, one of the world’s newest countries and outdoor-adventure destinations.��

During each stage, I will travel with a different cast of vagabonds—mountaineers, outdoor enthusiasts, and climbers—who will hike and bike with me and provide local expertise. The exception will be a Dutchman named Thierry Joubert, a friend and mountain guide with a these-aren’t-the-droids-you’re-looking-for demeanor, who runs the Bosnian-based eco-adventure outfitter��. Thierry has lived in the region for 22 years and will be my partner in crime throughout the journey.��

“The tagline of the Via Dinarica is ‘connecting naturally,’” Thierry said from the driver’s seat, resuming a sentence he’d started before he handed his passport to the border patrol officer. “But what the trail actually does is reconnect people across the Balkans from Slovenia to Albania.”

Though we won’t walk the path step for step, we will be pioneers of sorts. (Most expeditions will be about a week long, and we will occasionally use transfers along the way, due to time constraints.) The nascent trail, fully actualized conceptually, still lacks much in the way of signage, maps, and publicity—even here in the Balkans. Mountain associations along the route have started to jump on board, but for many locals the term Via Dinarica is as foreign as my mama’s homemade apple pie.

The part that won’t be foreign about the Via Dinarica for experienced through-hikers familiar with European trails: the rush of trekking from summit to summit, from hut to hut, from village to village. The difference for those who have hiked in Western Europe: This trail has some polishing yet to do. For folks who like to discover places while they’re still wet-paint-fresh, the time is right for a trans-Balkan jaunt.

I’ve hiked multicountry European megatrails before. In 2007, I walked from Trieste, Italy, up and over the Alps to Monaco on the well-groomed and tourist-heavy��. Connecting eight nations, the Via Alpina was the inspiration for the Via Dinarica, which started to take shape on paper in 2010. The skeletal frame for the Via Dinarica, in the process of being fully marked, combines long-standing hiking paths, shepherds’ tracks, smugglers’ routes, and former World War II military trails carved by partisan soldiers while outmaneuvering Nazi regiments.

The populations spread across the Via Dinarica speak three distinct languages and observe four religions. Their histories were molded by the Great Schism between the Eastern and Western churches in 1054. Their empires were carved up by the Habsburgs, the Ottomans, and the Venetians. Their alliances are ancient. Their rifts are current.

Though the countries of the Balkans have a long history of mountaineering, for the most part people here don’t consider hiking a birthright like those in France or Switzerland might. With the exception of Slovenia and to a lesser degree Croatia, mountain huts aren’t evenly spaced the way they are in Western Europe. Trekking here can be untamed at times. Trail markings can be inconclusive. Maps are precious. Advice from locals and shepherds is even more so. A local human guide’s consultation is often necessary. If one gets lost, it could be for a while. Worst-case scenario: You end up in a Balkan village and take up residence. Best-case scenario: You find a Balkan wife and learn obedience.

“The Via Dinarica is challenging from a sport perspective,” continues mountaineer Kenan Muftić, who was the trail’s project manager during its original planning stages. “But it is removed, and the conditions aren’t perfect like in other places. And,” he looked at me with a mischievous glint in his eye, “it’s wild.”

The reasons for that wildness are manifold. Some explanations are theoretical, and some are concrete. Theoretically, this isn’t Western Europe. People here are tough. Rare is the generation that hasn’t known hardship of the sort that most living Americans will hopefully never see. My people are from here (my paternal grandfather emigrated to the States), but by every definition I am a delicate flower in comparison.

More concretely, the great outdoors here are, by design, less developed. Massive swaths of the region are unsullied, unindustrialized, and nearly untouched. There are primordial forests. For decades, this region has bucked modernity—through communism and conflict—in an unwitting quest to remain one of the last wild places in Europe. Locals make their own cheese, concoct their own brandy (called rakija), and cook coffee on ancient iron stoves. Shepherds still wander remote hilltops and along craggy mountaintops. Hidden rivers, canyons, and lakes pop up from behind peaks as if a director had moments before called out, “Places!”

And then there’s the war. Folks here—including frequent tourists like me—are desperate to get past the war. At best, the subject is boring for locals. At worst, the fear is that by focusing on the war that splintered Yugoslavia between 1991 and 1995, visitors will continue to focus on the war. I won’t go too far down this rabbit hole then, except to say two things. First, the war was devastating in every way a war can be: physically, psychologically, governmentally, and economically. Second, tourists are absolutely safe here. Full stop.

For the purposes of the Via Dinarica, the war had another, unexpected effect. Especially in Bosnia, the war changed the mountains conceptually. For many, mountains still represent the frontlines during the four-year conflict in the mid-1990s. Armies lobbed mortars into cities from peaks and ridges. Hilltop snipers aimed at children scurrying through streets carrying water.

“A generation of fathers and grandfathers stopped taking their kids into the mountains,” says Samer Hajrić, a Bosnian mountain guide, who was in our SUV on the way to Slovenia. “There is a gap in the tradition.”

And there are the��. Landmines are a big problem, especially in Bosnia, which was supposed to be mine-free by 2009. According to Bosnia and Herzegovina’s Mine Action Center, mines still cover 2.4 percent of the country, and their complete removal is now projected for 2019. However, safety concerns for trekkers are minimal. Most mine-risk areas are clearly marked. The rule here is “if you don’t know, don’t go.” Translation: If you aren’t absolutely sure about where you’re about to hike, get a guide. You’ll learn more about the trail and the culture, and the price, relative to the United States, is cheap.��

Sound like a lot to digest before a hike in the mountains? It is. The Balkan Peninsula is a beautifully complicated place. Readers should think less about trekking here in terms of reaching lung-busting elevations and more from the perspective of achieving personal-best cultural interactions.

��

After leaving Sarajevo, we had one goal on our first day: get to the����in Slovenia, the self-proclaimed “best-known cave in the world.” An admittedly tourism-heavy affair, the entrance to Postojna’s 21 kilometers of labyrinthine underground passages is a giant Secessionist-era manor with an apron of cafes, fast-food eateries, and trinket shops. The spot is, however, emblematic of the karst substrate that will cover much of my hike through the Balkan Peninsula’s western half.��

We arrived late in the day and zoomed through the cave on a train moving at a speed that could only be the result of a driver ready to go home to dinner with his wife. We whisked past the stalactites and stalagmites that are indicative of the subterranean level here. Much of Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia is riddled with such caves—porous limestone carved by underground rivers—making it one of the largest karst fields on the planet.

The next day, we set off on the first of three days of hiking. We met up with Jernej Jež, a Slovene geologist working with the��, appropriately, and a member of the nearby Mountaineering Club Podnanos. As we hiked to , the highest peak in the region at 1,796 meters (5,892 feet), Jež explained that the Dinaric Alps, composed of carbonate rocks, were formed after the Adria microplate plate, moving north and east, collided with the European plate and was tucked underneath. He moved his hands to display a thrusting and folding motion as if he were making an invisible crust-and-mantle Dagwood sandwich.

We walked to the summit of��, strewn with patches of grass covering pocked limestone like bad teeth under an unkempt beard. We looked across the southern frontier of Slovenia, often called Little Switzerland. Jež stopped making his earthen hoagie and swung an arm, pointing in the near distance with Vanna White–like grace: “That is Croatia.”

Coming down from the mountain, we walked past World War I bunkers and tank traps built to protect the border. A mama brown bear saw us and hurried her two cubs over the next ridge. “The Via Dinarica is a perfect plan,” Jež said a few kilometers later when we reached , the next mountain hut. We ordered beer. After a mandatory discussion with the hut’s owner about which of Slovenia’s main beers is better, Union or Laško, Jež continued, “It connects places with similar geographies and different cultures. With different but also the same histories.”

After leaving Jež, we debated our next move. We had originally planned to walk across the border to Croatia, but hiking through countries with relatively new political realities is a logistical challenge. Though both Slovenia and Croatia are EU members, the latter has yet to be admitted in the Schengen Area: a border-free zone that, according to the��’s website, “guarantees free movement to more than 400 million EU citizens.” Rather than risk a large fine and the administrative headache of getting caught illegally crossing the border, we drove through passport control. (Croatia was admitted into the EU in 2013. Rumor is that it will be admitted into the Schengen Area in 2015.)

At around 11 p.m., after a teeth-shattering four-wheel-drive crawl that locals passionately warned us to avoid, we entered the Planinarski dom (mountain hut)��. We sat with Romina Vidrih, who, with two other families, runs the hut for a mountain association that boasts 200 members. The renovated, meticulously clean hut sleeps 40 and sits in the middle of 10 peaks—all a day hike away. Though Vidrih was a seasoned hiker and had bagged many of the summits I was planning over the next two months, she had not heard of the Via Dinarica.

The next morning, we took one of the day hikes to the nearby����peak before setting off west to��, the northernmost of Croatia’s eight national parks. Designated a national park in 1953, Risnjak covers more than 24 square miles and forms a synapse between the coast and the continent. As we stared across the unmolested, undulating forested terrain, it became obvious how important protecting sensitive chunks of real estate can be, even—perhaps especially—in a small country about the size of West Virginia. The park provides habitat for more than 1,000 different plants, as well as wolves, bears, and lynx.

It’s a nine-hour hike from the �Ჹ�����ć through the Platak ski center, across��—a peak inside the park’s western edge—to the����mountain hut, which sits just below the Risnjak’s highest point, the 1,528-meter (5,013 feet)��. While dining on bowls of polenta-and-beef goulash, we spoke with the proprietor Gari Devčić, who was, he proudly announced, named after Gary Cooper. Every day, Gari treks in daily supplies for the hut, recognized in 2013 as Croatia’s best.

“The Via Dinarica is a fantastic idea. We will build a new Yugoslavia,” Gari said and laughed. “It will be great for mountaineering all over the region. We need many more people to come walk around the mountains for us to stay open.”

We woke at five the next morning to summit Veliki Risnjak. From the peak, we—two Bosnians, a Croatian, a Dutchman, and an American—could see the sun rising over Western Europe. Behind us, the light inched across the park and began to illuminate the coast. “It is easy to feel small, isn’t it?” Thierry asked rhetorically as he turned around to watch the����and Croatia’s northernmost islands, Cres and Krk, take shape in the dawn mist. Behind them, our next stage: a hike from Croatia’s����to��, famous for its climbing above the Adriatic Sea. “Past those waves, the mountains are waiting for us. We have a long way to go to get to Albania.”

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CORSICA IS A RARITY, an oddity, its language as endangered as its Corsican red deer. It's been invaded and owned by nearly everyone, including Greeks, Arabs, Romans, Brits, Pisans, Genoese, and the French. It was independent for only 14 years, before being reclaimed by France in 1769, right before Napoleon was born there, which perhaps explains why the little tyrant was so pissed off. If you buy a house here now, the Corsicans may blow it up, as certain separatist groups have done in the past, just to show you how pleased they are about foreigners coming in. Their towns are in the mountains because they kept losing the ones by the sea.

But if you come only to hike, you've found the best-kept secret (from Americans anyway) in the Mediterranean, its most mountainous island, crisscrossed by trails that offer medieval stone villages set against pinnacles and chestnut groves. This is the Mediterranean I dream of, a summer island too fantastical to be real. How can that perfect white stone village exist right there, perched on that mountain?

People have been hiking here since the last ice age, almost 10,000 years ago. Today, the GR20 is the most famous trail, running the length of the island north to south for more than 100 miles. I opted for the 60-mile Mare a Mare Sud, a five- or six-day hike across the southern part of the island, and my thoughts were primarily on food.

My wife, Nancy, and I started in Porto-Vecchio, a medieval walled town on the southeast coast. It was the middle of June, perfect sunny skies. We'd bought new ultralight packs and felt very flashy, except, like a total rube, I'd weighed mine down with a laptop. On day one, this brought me almost to fisticuffs with a café owner because I focused more on my computer than on his food. We quickly made up and soon he poured us glasses of his own myrt, a local liqueur made from purple myrtle flowers gathered high on the mountain. It was the most intense histamine shock I've ever had, like breathing in all the pollen in the world, but I loved it. Nancy loved it, too, so the owner gave us a bottle for our hike, more glasses were poured, and it was a rollicking night. They may blow up your house, but Corsicans will also smother you in love.

We set off the next morning late and straight up a 3,000-foot mountain, carrying our bottle of myrt. So much for ultralight. Views of the sea going light blue into white sand, an open trail with white rock and evergreen forest. That odd Mediterranean feeling of remote physical beauty and the center of culture at the same time.

We stayed that night in our first gîte d'étape, a kind of bed-and-breakfast set up for backpackers (recommendations at /mare-mare-sud; from $50), in the mountain village of Cartala­vonu. We ordered Aubergines de Madame Monti, an eggplant recipe that's been in the owner's family for at least 130 years. We had brought our tent and bags, but this was an error. It's not legal to camp anywhere along the trail, and campsites for tents are few and far between. Who would want to miss the gîtes and the meals anyway? The Europeans we met already knew these secrets. We had the largest packs on the trail.

The next day was a long, tough hike to Carbini, a tiny town on a hilltop with spectacular views, but that was only the first leg. Our afternoon leg was to Levie, which would've been an easy traverse along the hillside if you followed the road. But our trail dove straight down into a ravine, then straight back up. I consoled myself with thoughts of the Giovannali brotherhood back in Carbini, who had it worse. Building a lovely white stone church and bell tower and calling themselves “the Johns,” they flipped the bird at the Pope, so he persecuted them. An early chapter in Corsican rebellion, the most recent being the design of these trails. You can almost hear the laughter from the towns.

The trail offered several more days of truly amazing calf burners, but we found consolation on day four at Le Ranch, in Sorbollano, a small bed-and-breakfast run by a French hottie who likes horses. Here we had our best meal of the vacation, prepared by her mother—duck, in the lightest gravy, with stuffed courgettes (zucchini) and a fancy local dessert of cheese and strong liqueur fixed like whipped cream, with several fruit sauces and a small chestnut torte. At the end, salad with a special ritual for the small radishes, dipping each in a bit of salt, then devouring it with buttered bread. Wine throughout, of course. My first backpacking trip in which I was getting tipsy every night and gaining weight every day. My first backpacking trip, also, in which every day I saw a new medieval village, finding Zonza on day five as we traversed above cliffs or St. Lucie later that afternoon, clustered in tight rings on a hilltop below. When we arrived again at the shore, we continued traveling north along the west coast to Porto, with its red-rock cliffs and castle perched at the harbor entrance. We swam in the ancient sea and wondered how any of this was possible.

Turkey

Chill on an Undiscovered Beach.

EVERY SO OFTEN, you stumble upon a place so beautiful you want to scream about it from rooftops and keep it a closely guarded secret. The Olympos Lodge, in the small village of Cirali, Turkey, which sits on one of the most gorgeous, uncrowded stretches of the Mediterranean, is such a place. Hop a flight south from Istanbul to Antalya, then take an hour-plus cab ride to Cirali and the Olympos Lodge (from $175; ) and its 13 simple guest bungalows. You won't be spending much time in your room—the lodge's lush garden, complete with resident ducks and peacocks, spills onto an expansive beach. Grab a sea-view garden chaise and spend your days swimming in the teal water and watching Turkish gulets sail by.

Want active culture? Stroll five minutes down the beach to the Olympus ruins, where the backpacking set crashes in nearby treehouses. Or hike the slopes of 8,343-foot Mount Olympus, where you can access the Lycian Way trail (), which hugs much of Turkey's coastline; on the hillside you'll find the Chimaera, a natural-gas flame that's guided sailors for thousands of years. But mostly just chill and savor outdoor meals of feta-stuffed peppers, manti (a ravioli-like dish packed with yogurt, lamb, mint, and lemon), and honey-drenched baklava. If you're lucky, your bungalow neighbors will be from Belgrade and share their homemade grappa.

Croatia

Road-Trip the Coastal Highway

WITH ITS 1,185 ISLANDS along the Balkans' western edge, Croatia calls itself “the Mediterranean as it once was.” Neither modernity nor tourism has drastically changed the place yet, so if you wish you'd seen Italy 50 years ago, rent some wheels in Zadar (from $40 per day; ) and motor down Dalmatia's Adriatic Coastal Road. The 200-mile, two-lane, cliff-hugging E65 to Dubrovnik is an embarrassment of gastro and adventure pit stops. You're immediately surrounded by five national parks, including Paklenica, where a scramble in canyons in the Velebit range is rewarded with smooth-pebble beachside campsites ($5; ). Further south on Peljesac Peninsula—wine country—visit the Milos Vineyard, in Ponikve village, where Frano, the owner, is as poetic as his wines are bold. You'll get a true taste of Croatia with salt-water-dripping-fresh oysters at Vila Koruna restaurant (Tito's fave), on a sheltered bay in Mali Ston. Cut the ignition at Dubrovnik's five-star Grand Villa Argentina (from $270; ) and get out on the water for a sunset kayak tour; Dalmatian wine, cheese, and olives on nearby Lokrum Island included ($47; ).

Crete

Multisport in Mountainous Valleys.

THE LARGEST of the Greek islands (at 3,200 square miles), Crete is in many ways the least “Greek isle” of all. Get yourself to the right parts and it's a vast and mountainous place echoing with history and demanding hardier travelers than those who hit the clubs on the coast. While the steep, deep, 11-mile-long Samaria Gorge—the Zion Narrows of the Med—remains the island's marquee adventure draw, it's the more serene, mountain-ringed Amári Valley, in the island's center, that hides a secret hiking gem.

In the Amári, stuccoed villages gleam in the spring sunshine. Crowds simply don't exist here, unless you count the sheep. Pilgrims and hikers share the thrill of scaling 8,058-foot Mount Psiloritis (a.k.a. Ida, the mythical home of Zeus), a nontechnical peak best descended, snowpack permitting, by glissade. Explore the Amári on your own, or check out KE ���ϳԹ��� Travel's eight-day Crete itinerary: a week-plus of sea kayaking, trekking, and plunging into the winding Samaria Gorge (from $1,165; ).

Sicily

Bike Italy's Spiciest Island.

Sicily

Sicily

IT'S ONLY DAY THREE of our 220-mile cycling trip through Sicily, but I already get Don Corleone's attachment to this island punted into the sea by mainland Italy.

No wonder the mythical Mafia boss was so protective of his turf: While honor killings and extortion are more than just legend in some parts of Sicily, today I'm living la dolce vita. The largest island in the Mediterranean sprouts wild oregano, smells of citrus, and harbors some of the world's most important Greek and Roman ruins.

The 75-degree autumn sun beats down on our 17-person Ciclismo Classico peloton—a crew of 35-to-65-year-old American cycling fanatics—as we head from the Baroque southeastern seaside city of Siracusa and eventually out to the Aeolian Islands (the La Bella Sicilia trip starts at $4,695; ). Our two Italian guides, Enrico Pizzorni and Paolo Nicolosi, have titanium lungs, a vast knowledge of Italian history and culture (e.g., never drink cappuccino after 10 A.M.), and a serious sense of humor.

“It's very hard to get in a fight with a Sicilian,” rants Pizzorni, who is from Piedmont, as he and Nicolosi, a native Sicilian, get into a wildly gesticulating standoff over trip logistics and bicker like brothers. “They're always trying to get around things.”

At the moment, Nicolosi, who's known throughout the island as “the King of Sicily,” is hammering up a steady climb in his sleek Acqua & Sapone riding kit, with no hands, while belting out Italian arias a cappella. We Americans, on the other hand, sport Arrogant Bastard Ale jerseys and bonk—at least I did—on the 60-mile ride to the hilltop city of Ragusa, the centuries-old hideout where crusaders rested on their way to conquering Jerusalem.

After we settle into the Locanda Don Serafino boutique hotel, the hippest (and only) rehabbed 19th-century mansion I've ever slept in, we step into the street, which is crowded with jugglers, fire eaters, clowns, and street musicians who've turned this World Heritage site into a five-night bacchanalia—the annual Ibla Busker, a raucous street fair where performance artists from all over Europe test their best conceptual work and everyone drinks too many Negronis.

At dinner, after we've sampled a few bottles of local Cerasuolo Avide-Barroco frappato, Pizzorni tells us how to catch an octopus. “My grandfather taught me,” he says. “The trick is to turn his head inside out and bite it on the brain.”

I'm skeptical but slightly preoccupied by the edible sculpture of eggplant ricotta that's just been placed in front of me.

We eventually eat and cycle our way to the seaside city of Taormina, where Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor used to hide from the paparazzi, and hike to the sulfuric crater of active Mount Etna. Then we hydrofoil north to Lipari, the hub of the Aeolian Islands and the backdrop for the film Il Postino. We've cycled more than 200 miles, drunk too much Sicilian pinot, chardonnay, and Nero d'Avola, and eaten pizza with crust as thick as my skull. I haven't bitten an octopus on the brain. I'm saving that old fishing trick to make my living after I move to Lipari.

France

Trek the Alpes-Maritimes.

THE TOP REASON TO TREK the southeastern slice of France wedged between Provence and Italy? After a week or two of seven-hour hikes through cobblestone villages in the Alpes-Maritimes and across the Alps, you'll actually earn that Campari on ice when you reach the Côte d'Azur.

Set off in summer to ensure lodges are open and for the region's guaranteed sunshine. From Larche, the 120-mile route passes into Mercantour National Park and over the 8,763-foot Pas de la Cavale. By this time you'll have noticed the second reason to hike here: the abundance of chamois, marmots, and ibex prancing in the towering sandstone cliffs, and a dearth of fellow backpackers. No need for a tent or substantial food, because a gîte d'étape (about $40 per person; ) will be your home along the way. Ask back-slapping locals at dinners of mutton, handmade pasta, homegrown greens, fresh-fruit-filled pastries, and wine where all the tourists are and they'll tell you that most people only go to the Riviera.

Schedule a day for the Vallée des Merveilles, where 35,000 Bronze Age petroglyphs are strewn along the path and across red-rock monoliths guarded by glacial lakes. Two days later, when the Mediterranean finally comes into view, there's still the matter of a 3,400-foot descent separating you from Menton and the coast. Your tootsies will be moaning, but that's easily remedied by the bath-warm sea.

Sardinia

Climb Oceanside Crags.

ALONG WITH JAPAN'S Okinawans, the people of Sardinia boast one of the highest rates of centenarians in the world. The reason could be the scenery alone: The island's vivid sea is ringed with soft-sand beaches and pinnacles of pink and gray granite. Sport climbers flock to Cala Gonone, on the east coast, near the Gulf of Orosei, where some 800 ocean-view routes await (find more beta at ). Deeper in the interior, the Barbagia area (“Land of Barbarians”) offers 1,000-foot-deep gorges and soaring limestone walls. ���ϳԹ��� the town of Dorgali, monster routes like Hotel Supramonte—a 1,300-foot, 11-pitch 5.14a—draw some of the world's best big-wall experts. Bunk at the villa-like Su Gologone hotel (doubles from $250; ), ideally located for exploring Barbagia's prehistoric ruins. But this is Italy, so save some time for eating. The restaurant at Su Gologone is beloved for its porceddu—tender roast suckling pig—washed down with a glass of local red. With fare this good, life seems too short indeed.

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For years, adventure-travel outfitters have used so-called exploratory trips to work out kinks in new offerings. Veteran guides suss out routes, lodging options, and, say, the local yak-butter tea, then refine the itinerary before it shows up in next fall’s catalog. But as it turns out, some high-end travelers actually like kinks—the unscripted agendas only add to the authenticity (as well as the price). With outfitters opening up more and more exploratory trips to their experienced clients, we picked out 2009’s four most intriguing options.

1. Trek the Dhaulagiri Range, Nepal; One World Trekking

Think of the Dhaulagiri as the Annapurna Circuit’s mean cousin. One World’s planned monthlong march will cover roughly 130 miles among the 26,000-foot peaks of western Nepal. Travelers will get rare face time with Magar tribesmen, camp in high-elevation grazing settlements, and rope up to climb 17,586-foot French Col. “This is for experienced trekkers who’ve done theAnnapurna thing,” says One World founder Andy Crisconi. October 6–November 4, $3,900;

2. Paddle the Pantanal, Brazil; ROW ���ϳԹ���s

According to ROW founder Peter Grubb, no American outfitter has ever led a paddling-and-camping trip in Brazil’s Pantanal wetlands. But he plans to take up to 12 hardy canoeists there next August. The 11-day journey starts at the 269-foot Iguaçu Falls, on the Argentina border, and ends 600 miles (and a few jet rides) to the north. Grubb doesn’t know exactly what will happen between those two points, but expect long days on the lower Cristalino and Claro rivers, where parrots, howler monkeys, caimans, and jaguars still own the jungle. August 14–25, $3,900;

3. Trek Northern Kenya; Mountain Travel Sobek

In 1886, Hungarian explorer Count Samuel Teleki set off through northern Kenya’s deserts in search of a mystical oasis. Two years later, he found the 180-mile-long Lake Turkana. Hopefully, Sobek’s camel-supported re-creation of Teleki’s trek, this May, won’t take quite that long. The route, which no one has completed since Teleki, starts at Mount Kenya and heads north 300 miles. Days will be spent poring over maps, picking routes, and exploring the remote Northern Frontier District along dry riverbeds. Each evening, the team will bed down in private mobile camps. Turkana’s green waters might look inviting at journey’s end, but don’t dive in—the lake is infested with crocs. May 30–June 28, $18,000;

4. Heli-Ski Argentina; Andes Ski Tours

Where the Cordón del Plata and Cordón del Portillo ranges meet in western Argentina, there are some 500,000 acres of untouched powder. Starting this August, Buenos Aires–based Andes Ski Tours will fly groups of four to the area for the first time. Following 25-minute heli rides, clients will shred previously unskied chutes, bowls, and 50-degree pitches at 14,000 feet. Seven-day outings from August 15 to September 15, $9,500;

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is back on the slopes defending her World Cup title. After solid finishes in her first two events this year—including a slalom win in Levi, Finland—she bruised the back of her knee while training. We caught up with her as she waits to race again.

Lindsey Vonn

Erich SpieÔøΩ

So, to the point, how’s the injury?

Right now I’m on crutches. I amstill optimistic that I’ll be able to race in Aspen [the next World Cup event]. I have adoctor’s appointment early this week to see when I can get back on the snow. I definitely dodged a big bullet but if I can’t ski in Aspen that will be a huge disappointment.

How did it happen?

I was training in Copper, hit a bump, and my ski came off. I fell when the one ski got caught in the snow and twisted my knee really bad … it was not a good feeling. Initially I was really nervous and it started swelling almost immediately. I was somewhat optimistic because I didn’t hear a pop and didn’t think it was an ACL. But I was thinking, Please God, I worked so hard and I am skiing so well.

Is this maybe a good omen? If this had happened to someone who hadn’t trained as hard maybe it would have been an ACL.

Exactly. This year for sure I am in the best shape I’ve ever been in and my results have been better than ever. It’s a testament to how hard I’ve been working. The outcome of the crash is definitely more positive than it could have been so in that sense I am really happy about it.

Tell me about your win in Levi, Finland.

Before the event I didn’t train with anyone so I didn’t know how fast I was. After the first round I was in first and I thought: Oh my gosh. My husband said, “I told you you were fast and now you know.” Everyone else was like, “Let’s see if this downhill skier can win the slalom.” I haven’t had a good slalom result in about two or three years so it was pretty amazing.

How has the training been going?

Up until the crash it’s been incredible. I feel like I’m faster in the downhill and super-G. GS is going really well … and slalom, obviously. Last season I had a knee operation so I wasn’t able to physically trainin the summer. This year I was able to get after it from thebeginning and made some big steps in my strength andconditioning. I was able to push myself harder because I didn’thave any limitations. And now I’m ready to get back out there.

Maybe this is your test to keep you hungry as hell.

Yeah, exactly.

Where were you for the off-season?

I was in Park City and then three weeks in Austria with my Red Bull trainers. I then went to New Zealand to ski in August and to Portillo, Chile, in September for training camps.

How do you train in the summer?

I get to the gym at about 9 a.m. and bike for an hour and a half. Then I do core work. After, I lift weights and then bike again for an hour. After lunch, I do treadmill and bike intervals, balance and coordination exercises, and speed and agility drills. I finish with the bike or in the pool. It’s about seven hours a day, six days a week. It’s pretty brutal, but I like it because I know I’m building a base for the winter. There are more than 40 events and I’ll be racing every week.

What are your goals this year?

This year will be important because of the World Championships. [The World Championships, unlike the yearly World Cup tour, happen every other year. This year they are in France.] Since it’s the year before the Olympics, it will be good preparation with regard to the press. I’ll have to work on managing my time and not get nervous and stay focused the way I’ll have to for the Olympics.

Also, I am trying to defend my overall title this year. It will definitely be a challenge and you have to stay in the moment all season long. I can’t get caught up in all the points and who’s winning and losing.

Do you watch the scoreboard, so to speak, during the course of the year?

After every race you get the points analysis so it’s hard not to look at it and get caught up. But you have to resist or you’ll start thinking: I could get so many points at this race and then so many points in this race. My husband also keeps me focused. He was a big reason for my success last year.

Do you have any training, technique, and mental advice for skiers?

Physically, having a solid core is huge. Having strong ab and back muscles allows you to ski the angles you want and be in the position you want. Hamstring strength will help prevent knee injuries.

As far as technique is concerned, the most important thing is to be in a good body position: hips forward, arms up, and a generally good athletic stance.

Mentally, I have a big advantage with my husband around because I keep the right mindset. I try to always be a glass-half-full person anyway. The most important thing for me is to think about skiing and not the finish line … like I did when I was younger. It is me and the course: hands up, be dynamic, stay aggressive.

Who was a hero for you growing up?

Picabo Street was a role model. I met her at an autograph signing when I was nine and I just wanted to be her. She inspired me to work hard to be who I am today. Now she lives about 10 minutes away.

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1946

Warren Miller buys an 8mm camera with his Navy discharge pay, lives out of a trailer in Sun Valley’s parking lot, and films his friends in order to help improve their skiing.

1952

Italy’s Trento Film Festival brings 39 movies and 1,800 people together for the first Festival of Mountain Cinema. A French film takes home top honors.

1953

The Conquest of Everest, chronicling Hillary and Norgay’s climb, nets an Academy Award nomination. The Oscar goes to a Disney documentary.

1975

After a Japanese skier tumbles down the South Col and survives, the optimistically titled The Man Who Skied Down Everest wins the genre’s first Oscar.

1998

Everest, filmed during the 1996 climbing season—in which eight people died on the mountain—grosses $128 million worldwide, a record for an Imax film.

2008

The Banff Mountain Film Festival (Nov­ember 1–9), North America’s oldest, will show some 300 entries. The inaugural, in 1976, had just ten.

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