There’s a reason people loved Ěýwhen it was introduced in 1997. Sure, it made a damn fine martini, but in a sea of Ěý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ , it was also one of the few small-batch liquors available. That’s since changed as looser distribution laws have lowered the bar for microdistilleries to set up shop. “Things are starting to snowball,” says Distiller magazine editor . “The market has grown 50 percent every year since 2010.”

While everybody wants to make a Scotch or a bourbon, focusing on aged spirits isn’t a smart business move for a startup. “They need to get something into the market to keep the lights on,” says Faulkner. So newer distilleries are creating clear liquors like gin, vodka, white rum and whiskey, and tequila, using high-quality grains, botanicals, fruits, and vegetables. We asked a dozen bartenders for their favorites. These seven came out on top.

1. ; Quechee, Vermont; $29*
2. ; Brooklyn, New York; $39
3. ; Gardiner, New York; $27
4. ; Oaxaca, Mexico; $50
5. ; Missoula, Montana; $28
6. ; Crested Butte, Colorado; $27
7. ; Denver, Colorado; $43

*The print version of this article misstated the name of Vermont Spirits. şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř regrets the error.

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Christopher McDougall’s best-selling 2009 book Born to Run posited the theory that human beings were once “persistence hunters”—that is, our ancestors would stalk quick-footed predators like antelope across the plains of Africa for days on end, until the beasts finally succumbed to exhaustion. If true, it would go a ways toward explaining how homosapiens evolved to run the kinds of long distances exhibited in sports like ultrarunning.Ěý

A new documentary, , puts that theory to the test. Fair Chase, based on a 2011 şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř article by Charles Bethea, follows ten distance runners across the high plains of Northern New Mexico over a single day in August of 2011Ěýas they attempt to chase down a pronghorn antelope.

A handful of indigenous tribes still practice this method, including Kalahari bushmen of Botswana and the Raramuri people of Northern Mexico. We talked with Emma Tammi, co-director on the film, to see how the film’s cohort of joggers fared,Ěý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ whether she still believes persistence hunting could be a viable explanation for our evolution as runners. (Warning: SpoilersĚýahead.)

OUTSIDE: First of all, did it work—did they catch the antelope?
TAMMI: Well, the team basicallyĚýran a marathon over rough New Mexico ranch land in brutal August heat. They knew they couldn't run faster than the antelope, but that they had a shot at exhausting it after many hours. It was an experiment but also a run for dinner—not another first place—which made them all the more inspired. Did they succeed? You’ll just have to watch.*

What were the challenges of filming a daylong chase through the plains?
Keeping up with the runners. It’s crazy watching the film—it looks like they’re going for a jog on a summer’s day. But the terrain is much more insane than it looks, and they’re going very fast. We have ATVs, bikes, and a drone at one point.Ěý

But it raises questions about how we get our meat in 2015 versus early in human history, and which one is more humane? Some of the runners were actually from Kenya and had done persistence hunting at home as kids. They had chased larger animals and had used dogs. For the Kenyan guys, this wasn’t anything controversial. For some of the American guys, telling their friends, they were like “whoa, don’t hurt the animal.” One of our runners was a vegetarian. He loves a challenge and loves to be a part of it. He’d take much more issue with a cow farm than he would with a pack of people chasing down one antelope.

Were there any surprises or big revelations?
I think that all of the guys involved—and certainly us as filmmakers—started feeling connected to the biology of our bodies and really started to think about why our bodies are able to run long distances. Certainly getting in touch with some sort of ancestral custom and habit was really interesting. It was inspiring and a little superhuman, quite frankly. Whether you’re a marathoner or not, it’s an infectious passion.

Are you partnering with any researchers to bring your findings to the scientific community?
We haven’t done that in any formal way, but we do interview two scientists and authors in the film. They complement the runners’ personal journey with the science behind humans and antelopes as runners. There are all these cave paintings of humans chasing down antelope. Daniel Lieberman** [a Harvard scientist interviewed for the film] has done a lot of research on why it’s better to run barefoot. He breaks down a lot of the biology in the film.

What kind of argument can you make for persistence hunting now?
I don’t know if it’s an argument for persistence hunting as much as it opens up questions about how we live. Some of the runners talked about getting so close to catching the antelope, something primal kicked in, something they had never experienced before. The camaraderie they felt was special. Not living in tribes anymore and going after meat for basic survival, they felt some human instincts that were exhilarating. Beyond the biology of why we’re born to run, it was really exciting.

Are these guys going to try again?
There’s no follow up chase slated, but the guys are open to trying it again. Maybe they’ll inspire someone else to try the next persistence hunt.

What do you want viewers to take away from this film?
After we finished filming, and during it, I felt inspired to run. Regardless of whether or not it inspires youĚýto run, it will inspire you to find a challenge outside your comfort zone and go after it. Some of the runners are professionals, but a lot of these guys have other full-time jobs and they live their lives for the next challenge. That’s why we called the film Fair Chase. Metaphorically, the chase is never over. The next challenge is on the horizon.

*This reply was altered from its original language at the request of the filmmakers, who asked that the end of the film not be spoiled.

**Correction: A previous version of this story incorrectly spelled Daniel Lieberman's name.

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I put on a motorcycle helmet and buckle into what’s basically a 12-foot-long beach chair affixed to three wheels and a sail. My feet rest on pedals that steer the tiny front wheel, and I point the contraption across the dry lakebed towardĚýa distant peak. After I give itĚýa few kick-pushes to get the thing moving, the sail catches a gust of wind and I take off.

Within seconds, I’m shooting across the desert at highway speeds. I feel the acceleration in my chest.ĚýChunks of dirt batter my face. The lifting sail pulls one of the rear wheels off the ground. I cling to that side to avoid flipping. It’s my first spin in what is known to those who build them as a land yachtĚýor dirt boat. It’s a Friday in late March, and a coterie of dirt boaters has flocked to the Ivanpah Dry Lake on the California-Nevada border to race for the title of national champion in the 41st America’s Landsailing Cup.

If you’ve never heard of land sailing before, you’re forgiven. The sport gained traction in Europe in the early 20th century. To this day, Mazda sponsors land-sailing teams across the Atlantic. But it never really caught wind in the United States, and today it’s relegated to a handful of haphazard events held in the dustiest parts of the West. Many of these “sailors” (a number of which are water sailors as well) have spent the bulk of their lives manipulating the desert winds and have forgotten that when most people think of sailing, they imagine madras pants and snobbery—essentially the judge in Caddyshack. But when I discovered land sailing, I was immediately intrigued. Traditional sailing is a vaunted activity of well-heeled bluebloods whose surnames call to mind the regality of the nation’s Founding Fathers. Land sailing, by comparison, looks like sailing’s wayward, mutant disciple and is relegated to the venues you’d last think to spend a fun weekend away. Why isn’t it better known? I had to find out what has kept it so well hidden.

Land sailing is a lot like traditional sailing in the way it’s raced, but way faster and generally carried out in homemade rigs. Ivanpah is the site of the sport’s current speed record of 126 mph, set by a British engineer in 2009. By comparison, sailors racing for glory in multimillion-dollar catamarans in the America’s Cup top out at about 55 mph. Land sailing’s helmeted drivers are called pilots, not skippers, and look more Formula One than yacht club; the sport is a marriage of the two.

Pioneers and neophytes alike construct a DIY village at Ivanpah—the scene is like Burning Man for speed freaks. LandĚýsailors refer to these desert forays as “pilgrimages,” which makes the sport something of a religion. A 60-year-old retired carpenter from Santa Cruz, California, named Duncan Harrison had invited me to stay in his camper. Harrison, with a sun-worn visage and an impish laugh, is land sailing’s loyal chronicler—he founded the online journal Dirt Boating Magazine in 2013. The sailors spent the week racing and celebrating a pastime that in its centuries of existence has never become mainstream. And it may neverĚýif enthusiasts don’t find a way to inject the sport with new blood.

“It’s too remote a sport,” says former North American Land Sailing Association (NALSA) president Dennis Bassano. (NALSA hosts the lakebed race.) And it’s solely dependent on the weather conditions. “You get out there and there’s no guarantee it’ll blow,” Bassano says. “So they don’t have what it takes to wait, survive out there, and entertain yourself.”

As long as there’s been a wheel and a sail, people have pieced together terrestrial wind-powered vehicles. Paintings of windĚýcarts have been found in the tombs of ancient Egyptian pharaohs. The Belgians used carts with sails as military troop carriers in the 16th century. The first documented land-sailing races took place in 1898, between Louis Bleriot, a famous French aviator, and the Dumond brothers of Belgium, some of the first automobile makers.

It wasn’t until after World War IĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ the advent of the pneumatic tire, which made the boats operational on varied terrain, that the sport rose in popularity in Europe. Ubiquitous abandoned airfields and surplus aircraft parts spurred competition. During the postwar era, jury-rigged land sailing popped up in the United StatesĚýas cross-prairie transportation and pure fun.

The first land yacht models commercially manufactured in the United States, called the Desert Dart and the Sand Sailor, emerged in the late 1960s. The Dart was the first to have a “raked” mast, meaning it was angled backward to flatten the sails and better balance the boat. In 1974, hang-glider manufacturersĚýinvented the and, in 1976, the Manta Twin. These designs built on the legacy that came before them—light frames and efficient wings—and are still the go-to models today.

Land sailing’s rise in the United StatesĚýis largely attributed to Don Rypinski, who raced with an international team of landĚýsailors 1,800 miles across the Sahara Desert, from Algeria to Mauritania, in 1971. (National Geographic filmed and televised the feat in a special called .) Under his guidance, the nascent U.S. racing community attached itself to a preexisting European infrastructure. The first America’s Landsailing Cup hosted by NALSA, which Rypinski founded,Ěýwas held at Roach Dry Lake in Nevada, just down the road from Ivanpah, in 1974.

In those days, steel and fiberglass were cheap, and many in the land-sailing community were engineers or craftspeople. Mad geniuses in the desert, they pushed the sport toward a competitive awakening. Before NALSA, competed against each other in dry lakebeds or airfields with homemade yachts built from water pipes and wheelbarrow wheels. Last summer, NALSA hosted in which scores of sailors from 47 different countries competed at Ivanpah.Ěý

Despite the international participation, the sport hasn’t taken off in the United StatesĚýquite as Rypinski envisioned. Accessibility is at the heart of the problem. The French and Belgians take their children on field trips to coastal land-sailing schools and encourage membership in generations-old clubs with hundreds of members. Meanwhile, favored land-sailing spots—like the Smith Creek Playa, three hours east of Reno along Highway 50, dubbed “the loneliest road in America”—are just too remote to attract mainstream attention. Rypinski says the oil crisis in the early ’70s is partly to blame for stymying the sport in its infancy because it limited the distance people were willing to drive their gas-guzzling campers.

Today, landĚýsailors are having difficulty securing places to host races and shelling out for general liability insurance. Appropriate sailing venues are far from populated areas and in regions where weather is fickle. Furthermore, perhaps most consequentially, NALSA hasn’t tried reaching out to young people. Sailors just bring newcomers when they can. “A lot of people don’t know we exist as a sport,” says Alan Watson, president of the International Land and Sandyachting Federation. “But our life is in getting youth involved.”

Sunday, two days after my first solo ride, is championship day in the desert. Spectators and some families arrive, including one group from Chile with three kids eager to compete. The few young people who learn the sport usually follow a parent into it and often have to travel a long way to race against others. Out of the desert, Rypinski appears with the “windbuggy” he built in 1958 and raced in Europe. He had turned 79 the day before. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he says. “This thing isn’t competitive anymore, but neither am I.” He no longer races, but year after year, he shows up.

Flags from various countries’ land-sailing clubs hang on the wall of the raceĚýcommittee tent as Bassano begins the mandatory pilots’ meeting. The tent shakes in the violent wind, and the 70 or so racers inside clamor with restlessness. With gleaming trophies behind him, Bassano goes through the race rules—and some camp rules. “Watch your dogs,” he said. “Nobody likes your dogs when they pee on tools or wheels.”

“How do you know it’s the dogs?” someone yells. Harrison grins a knowing grin.

Race time: The Manta pilots line up to start and can barely hold down their boats in the gusts blowing out of the south. Strapped into their aluminum crafts and adorned with motorcycle helmets and motley protective getups, they look like a menacing road gang from Mad Max. Race committee head Mary Bassano, Dennis’Ěýwife, drops the checkered flag, and theĚýMantas are off. At a far mark, one capsizes in a dirtĚýcloud. As per the rules, the race counts as long as somebody completes a lap within 15 minutes. In ideal conditions, a race would be over long before then, but it’s a close call in today’s conditions. One by one, the pack sails across the line, trying to keep that windward wheel down and sending a wall of dust in front of some photographers—really just family members trying to capture the smiles on the finishers’ faces.

The afternoon is a revolving door of several boat classes going around the marks. The big boats, spaceship-looking and each of a unique design, rip around the course at 60ĚýtoĚý90 mph. “It’s kind of like a ballet,” Mary Bassano says. Spectators stand rapt in the grueling sun, completely absorbed in their esoteric ritual and the little world they’ve kept alive. I wonder if something so beloved could possibly die.

Contrary to Dennis Bassano’s theory that young people who might join land sailing are turned away by capricious weather conditions, it has become clear to me that U.S. landĚýsailors themselves are responsible for keeping their sport hidden, if only involuntarily. They’re too busy doing it—traveling to and from the desert and building and maintaining their crafts—to concern themselves with marketing it. But it’s safe to say that even if NALSA were to collapse in a generation, there will still be pockets of people out there putting sails on wheels, and they’ll find ways to race their contraptions.

After his race, Harrison returns to camp glowing with adrenaline. Excited to have snagged a first-place finish, he sits down next to two friends. “Tears your arms out of their sockets,” he says of the intensity of steering. “Do this for a week and you’ll be walking like an ape.” As the sun goes down, I head out for another ride. Harrison yells after me, asking for my blood type.

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With more than 27,000 guides nationwide operating as part of the $1 billion outdoor industry, you’d think it’d be easy to book a fishing trip in Colorado. Turns out it’s not, something James Hamilton,Ěýa lifelong fly-fisherman and backcountry skier,Ěýdiscovered firsthand.Ěý

“It was painful,” the 25-year-old says. “I was playing phone tag over and over. We’re so used to these easy online marketplaces, I thought, this is a product that needs to exist.”

Because many guides don’t have social media accounts, much less usable websites, finding someone capable of leading you into the wilderness can be next to impossible. To address this issue, Hamilton started Boston-based , with co-founder MacGill Davis, 23, in January. The goal: Build a universal platform—complete with reviews, payment, and direct messaging—for clients to track down and hire guides.

GuideHire isn’t the first company in this space. But unlike some of its competitors (think , , and ), it’s more than an online travel agency where clients can book trips. Think of it more like an online dating site: GuideHire introduces a client to a guide, and then steps back to let them handle the logistics.

GuideHire also publishes user-submitted reviews that the companyĚývets and runs past the guidesĚý(to make sure they’ve actuallyĚýtoured with theĚýreviewer/client). Clients can book, pay, and message their guides directly through the site. The company says it wants to help guides as much as clients by giving them visibility and a stable platform to market trips.

For these services, GuideHire takes 10 percent of booking fees, but Hamilton says that commission is negotiable. The guide can compensate for the fee to protect their marginsĚýby slightly increasing their price on the site. “We’re trying to lower the barrier of entry for people to get into these kinds of activities,” says Hamilton. “We’re trying to get them a new kind of clientĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ help them grow their businesses.”

Since launching its website a month ago, the company has builtĚýa network of about 40 Northeastern guides and is looking to expand nationwide by October. One of its clients, in New Jersey, says it has gotten a few clients in the past month thanks to GuideHire.Ěý

“GuideHire makes it possible to reach people who aren’t hands-on and already involved,” said Sea BrightĚýfounder Carter McCoy. “It gets us out there for people who are traveling to the area and aren’t necessarily familiar with the sport.”Ěý

Mike Hart, a fishing guide in Massachusetts, has posted his services on GuideHire. He hasn’t seen results yetĚýbut believes the company has potential to change the industry, which still largely relies on wordĚýofĚýmouth.

“For somebody who doesn’t have the resources, they aren’t going to go into a fly shop and pick up a business card,” he said. “It can be intimidating. GuideHire is a directory. You plug in what you want to do and where you want to do it. I think it will work.”

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Emergency response nonprofit Oxfam has begun employing high-altitude workers to rebuild and supply aid to remote villages in the Khumbu Valley—the region Everest climbers pass through on their way to the mountain—that were devastated by the April 25 earthquake in Nepal, the organization told şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř.

Oxfam has hired 36 Nepalese mountain guides and porters at Laprak village in the Gorkha district, where 90 percent of homes were destroyed, according to the organization’s humanitarian press officer, Lauren Hartnett. These are guides who make their living carrying supplies through the Khumbu to various trekking and climbing destinations, like Everest Base Camp, for private outfitters.

Oxfam is paying porters the market rate of 1,200 Nepalese rupees, about $12, per day. By contrast, porters employed by private outfitters to haul gear and supplies through the treacherous Khumbu Icefall between Base Camp and Camp I on Everest are paid $12.50 per trip.

The first team of porters and guides trekked for four hours from Barpak on May 17, carrying 2.5 tons of aid material, such as tarpaulins, hygiene kits, and food, to reach Laprak. Air support there remains limited. The epicenter of the April 25 earthquake was in Barpak, about tenĚýmiles away from Laprak.Ěý

The effort has so far brought aid to more than 160,000 people in seven of the worst-affected areas in Nepal, according to Harnett. Oxfam’s top priorities are supplying people with safe shelter and helping them protect their livelihoods so they don’t become dependent on foreign aid. Two-thirds of Nepalese rely on small-scale farming for a living. Harnett said Oxfam hopes to supply aid to 400,000 people before monsoon season starts at the end of June. Oxfam expects its relief operation will take three years and cost $56 million. So far, Oxfam has raised almost $50 million.

“Relief must reach remote communities as quickly as possible,” Harnett wrote in an email. “We found that employing porters and mountain guides was a solution that worked for everyone. Porters and mountain guides who struggle finding work have an income, and aid is delivered in a safe and quick way. Their expertise is often fundamental to reach remote communities.”

Oxfam is currently attempting to reach other isolated communities as soon as possible. “We need to keep providing immediate emergency relief to people, and at the same time start supporting them towards long-term recovery,” Harnett wrote. “People need to be able to start rebuilding their lives.”

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Last month, developers unveiled the world’s first sustainable, algae-based surfboard at the premiere of National Geographic’s documentaryĚýWorld’s Smart Cities: San Diego,Ěýwhich the board will tour with around the world.Ěý

“How can you be a surfer and totally connected to the environment, but your connection is a piece of plastic made from fossil fuels?” says Stephen Mayfield, one of the board’s creators and director of the at UCSD. “It didn’t seem right.”

So Mayfield and his team came up with an idea to address this irony: What if you made a surfboard out of algae? He shared the idea with Marty Gilchrist,Ěýthe business director at , North America’s largest surfboard blank maker,Ěýwho immediately saw the product’s potential.Ěý

If they were going to change how the industry made surfboards, it made sense to start from the bottom up. Surfboard blanks—the blocks of material from which boards are shaped—were the perfect entry point.Ěý

Most surfboard blanks today are made from polyurethanes derived from polyols, a fatty acid or unsaturated oil that comes from vegetable oils or fossil fuels. These are groups of liquid molecules that react with alcohol and become polyurethane, a thick compound that can be cooked, shaped, and molded. Polyurethanes form a surfboard’s central core. Because algae oil is chemically similar to petroleum-based polyols, it can be substituted for the latter, which is exactly whatĚýMayfield and GilchristĚýdid.Ěý

The U.S. government helped foot the bill to develop the flagship algae-based board. (The Ěýfunds Mayfield’s work, which goes far beyond surfboards, to provide alternative fuel sources and reduce greenhouse emissions.) But adapting a new ingredient in the process wasn’t easy. “This is all first-generation stuff,” saysĚýMike Burkhart, associate director of theĚýCalifornia Center for Algae Biotechnology. Ěý

To source enough algae oil for the initial run of 50 boards, Mayfield contacted ,Ěýa San Francisco–based biotech that produces large quantities of algae oil for everything from commercial lubricants to anti-wrinkle cream. Solazyme agreed to partner with UCSD and supply enough oil for the first batch of products.Ěý

The algae oil from Solazyme looks a lot like supermarket-bought vegetable oil when it gets to the lab. There, chemists add an alcohol to break the bonds and thicken the formula into polyurethane, creating aĚýnew compound thatĚýhas the viscosity of molasses or engine oil.Ěý

Arctic FoamĚýthen adds a catalyst,Ěýusually a silicate-like sand or glass,Ěýthat hardens the compound while it’s contained in a coffin-shaped vat. This is an important step, as the hardness of the final product has a major effect on how the board behaves. “They have recipes they jealously guard,” Mayfield says. “An eye of newt and a tinge of beaver tail.”Ěý

The first two boards were failures.ĚýOne cameĚýout too rubbery, and one expandedĚýso quickly that it “exploded,” says Mayfield. The engineers had to tweak the six-component recipe several times before they landed on a formula to yield high-quality material. Once they nailed the process, Arctic Foam canĚýmake the board blanks. Finally, it’s cooked into a block that the company shapesĚýwith a computer.Ěý

Arctic Foam plans to fine-tune the formula as it receivesĚýfeedback on the prototypes, says Gilchrist. They hope to get early versions into the hands of about 20 well-known pros, including Rob Machado, Kelly Slater, and John John Florence, to test and promote.Ěý

“Once the pros sign off on it, we’re going to start mass production,” Gilchrist says. UCSD will soon pass production of the polyols over to an industrial lab to produce them on a mass scale with the goal of making the boards commercially within three to six months. There’s no cost estimate yet, but Arctic Foam hopes to bring it close to the market norm of about $600.

Other manufacturers are skeptical that algae boards will catch on. Kim Thress, president of , Arctic Foam’s main domestic competitor, said the company isn’t yet considering foam derived from algae oil. “We have done a number of environmentally friendly things in the past,” she says. “But none of them seem to pan out with quality blanks. We aren’t working on anything like that right now.”

As for Arctic Foam, the company says the new boards will perform as well as if not better than their traditional counterparts, thanks to a tighter cell pattern that makes them harder, more flexible, and more buoyant. At least that’s what Arctic Foam claims. We’ll have to test one ourselves before we can corroborate that promise.Ěý

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Everest is no cheap hike. Between getting to Nepal, paying for a climbing permit, outfitting yourself and Sherpas, as well as compensating them for time and expertise, you’re looking at anywhere from . But where exactly does this money go?

To find out, we crunched the numbers. We assumed our would-be Everest climber would hire a typical Western operator, with five guides shepherding ten clients. Our mountaineer gets one pass at the summit with perfect weather. Note that the price tag goes up rapidly depending on the climber-to-guide ratio, the operator’s profit margins, and certain amenities.

Everest prices have changed some after the 2014 tragedy. Protections for Sherpas, includingĚýlife insurance,Ěýhave improved, which has contributed to makingĚýclimbing permits more expensive. And of courseĚýthere’s inflation. Here is an idea of what you’re shelling out for. We spoke with experienced Everest guide Ěý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ Karsang Sherpa, a VP at , based in Denver, and consulted .

The Breakdown*

Travel

Airfare to Kathmandu from the U.S.: $2,500-$3,000
Airfare to Lukla: $300Ěý
Hotel/food in KathmanduĚý(three nights): $400-$600
Kathmandu to BC: $1,000 ($12/day/porter, 10 porters over 10 days)
Nepal visa/immunizations,ĚýImmunoglobulin, if necessary,Ěýetc.: $300Ěý

Fees/Licensing

Liaison officer: $350 ($3,500/10 clients)
Permit/park fee (per client): $11,000
Garbage/waste deposit: $500 ($5,000/10 clients,Ěýis usually returned)
Icefall Doctors/fixed route fee:Ěý$500
Climbing Sherpa (fees, tips, bonuses, o2, gear for 20 Sherpas): $5,500ĚýĚý($55,000/10 clients=$5,500:Ěý $25/day/Sherpa=$1,600 – $1,800 eachĚýequipment dispersement, $350 each insurance
Puja (pre-climb prayer ritual):Ěý$750

Logistics

Tents (sleeping, cooking, toilet, storage): $2,500
Cooks:$6,000 (6Ěýweeks at $25/day = $1,050 and $1,000Ěýeach dispersement)
Food and fuel (for stoves, generators):$800 – $1,000

Gear, Medical, Miscellaneous

Everest ER fee/medical contractor in Nepal/medical kit:Ěý$1000
annual membership with a medical/rescue crisis response service:Ěý$500
oxygen: $3,500Ěý($1,000 for mask and regulatorĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ $2,500 ĚýforĚýfive bottles at $500/bottle)
personal gear (down jacket, sleeping bags, boots, crampons, etc.):$5,000-7,000
sat phone (depending on usage):$500-$1,000
Admin costs in the States:(5% of total = $3,000)
Western guide salary: $12,500 ($25,000/2 clients)

Total = ~ $61,300

*All calculations are approximate, and based on interviews with guides, Sherpas, and climbers.

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At a Ěýon Thursday afternoon in Washington, DC, Department of the Interior Secretary Sally Jewell discussed the growing financial importance of wild places in the United StatesĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ underscored the importance of the government evaluating growth in the outdoor recreation industry.

The industry faces challenges including climate change, rampant wildlife trafficking, competition from the oil and gas industry, states struggling for control of public lands, and a need for improvement in park access for all Americans, Jewell said.Ěý

Jewell also called for more “formal reporting on the value of public lands.” The Outdoor Industry Association has Ěýconsumer spending associated with public lands at $646 billion—twice that of the pharmaceutical industry—and says the industry supports 6.1 million jobs. Jewell urged people with a stake in the outdoor industry—hunters, anglers, commercial fishermen, hikers, and National Park employees—to make their voices heard.

“Those voices are very important to offset the very loud voices of the extractive industry,” Jewell said.Ěý

Jewell also highlighted the need to continue allowing fossil fuel development on some federal lands, saying, “We recognize we are a nation that still needs fossil fuels.” But, she added, “We need to be more thoughtful of how we balance development with conservation. And it needs to be on the landscape level.” That is, conservation must not end right at a park’s border, and it should account for animal migration patterns and ecosystem-wide impacts.

Washington Post correspondent Jim Tankersley, who moderated the forum, asked Jewell how she might balance jobs the outdoor industry creates with energy industry jobs foregone. She stressed the diversity and large scope of the outdoor industry. It even extends to areas like agriculture and ranching, she said.Ěý“These are legitimate jobs.”Ěý

“If you value public lands, you have to be at the table,” Jewell said. “Or else you’re on the menu.”

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While rowing across the Pacific in 2008, wind pushing him and waves battering him, Italian explorer Ěýfelt an unsettling lack of control.Ěý

Playing in his mind was the story of another Italian explorer, Umberto Nobile, who crashed his zeppelin north of Svalbard after a 1928 polar expedition. Seven men died. The survivors, including Nobile, spent a month wandering the free-floating pack ice, at one point shooting and eating a polar bear, until their rescue. How people react to unpredictable situations fascinates Bellini, a dedicated student of psychology. In the Arctic Ocean, unpredictable situations are a way of life.Ěý

“All adventure is based on hypothesis, which can be very different to reality,” says Bellini. “An adventurer must adapt himself to the environment he faces.”Ěý

µţ±đ±ô±ôľ±˛Ôľ±â€™s newest adventureĚýhighlights and relishes that lack of control. Sometime next winter, he plans to travel to Greenland’s west coast, pick an iceberg, and live on it for a year as it melts out in the Atlantic.Ěý

This is a precarious idea. Bellini will be completely isolated, and his adopted dwelling is liable to roll or fall apart at any moment, thrusting him into the icy sea or crushing him under hundreds of tons of ice.Ěý

His task: experience the uncontrollable nature of an iceberg at sea without getting himself killed. The solution: an indestructible survival capsule built by an aeronautics company that specializes in tsunami-proof escape pods.

“This adventure is about waiting for something to happen,” says Bellini. “But I knew since the beginning I needed to minimize the risk. An iceberg can flip over, and those events can be catastrophic.” Icebergs tend to get top-heavy as they melt from their submerged bottoms, so flips can be immediate and unpredictable. And, of course, so is the weather.

Bellini spent two years searching for the appropriate survival capsule, but most were too heavy to plant on a berg. But then, in October, he contacted aeronautical engineer Julian Sharpe, founder of , a company that makes lightweight, indestructible floating capsules, or “personal safety systems.”Ěý

They can hold from two toĚýten people, depending on the model, and are made from aircraft-grade aluminum in what’s called a continuous monocoque structure, an interlocking frame of aluminum spars that evenly distribute force, underneath a brightly painted and highly visible aluminum shell. The inner frame can be stationary or mounted on roller balls so it rotates, allowing the passengers to remain upright at all times.Ěý

Inside are a number of race car–style seats with four-point seatbelts, Ěýfacing either outward from the centerĚýor inward around the circumference, depending on the number of chairs. Storage compartments, including food and water tanks, sit beneath the seats. Two watertight hatches open inward to avoid outside obstructions. Being watertight, it’s a highly buoyant vessel, displacing water like a boat does.

“I fell in love with the capsule,” says Bellini. “I’m in good hands.” He selected a three-meter, ten-person version, for which he’ll design his own interior.Ěý

Sharpe got the idea for his capsules after the 2004 Indonesian tsunami. He believes fewer people would have died had some sort of escape pod existed. With his three-man team, which includes a former NOAA director and a Boeing engineer, he brought the idea to fruition in 2011. Companies in Japan that operate in the line of fire for tsunamisĚýexpressed the most interest. But Sharpe hopes the products will be universal—in schools, retirement homes, and private residences, anywhere there is severe weather. The first testing prototypes of the capsules, which range from $12,000 to $20,000, depending on size, were shipped to Tokyo in 2013. Four are in Japan;Ěýtwo are in the United States. His two-person capsule is now for sale; the others will follow later this year.Ěý

“Right now there’s only horizontal and vertical evacuations,” Sharpe said. “We want to offer a third option: riding it out.”

The company intends to rely on an increasing market for survival equipment as sea levelĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ the threat of major stormsĚýrise. Sharpe designed the capsules to be tethered to the ground using 20 to 50 meters of steel cable and to withstandĚýa tsunami or storm surge. Each will have a water tank and aĚýsophisticated GPS beacon system in case the tether snaps. Survival Capsule advises storing seven to ten days of food in each capsule.Ěý

The product appeals to Bellini because it’s strong enough to survive a storm at seaĚýor getting crushed between two icebergs. It will rest on top of the ice using either its own weightĚýor a specially designed stand that will detach if the berg rolls. The circular shape is crucial for avoiding a crushing blow. The capsule will just roll off any incoming mass, and the water will provide an equal and opposite reaction to any force exerted on the capsule. “A multicurved surface is almost uncrushable,” Sharpe said. “If you imagine shooting an arrow at a wooden ball, unless you hit dead center, it’ll ricochet.”

The basic model ensures survival, but there’s more to life on an iceberg than just surviving. You can add windows, extra space, and other modular additions, even surround sound and color options. “You can trick your crib out all you want,” Sharpe said. And that’s exactly what Bellini plans to do. He doesn’t have a layout yet, but he has hired Italian designer Pietro Santoro to customize his ten-person pod. He will remove the other nine seats for extra room.Ěý

Other than modifications to keep him safe and healthy, the capsule is basic, Bellini said. It will carry 300 toĚý400 kilogramsĚýof food, a wind generator, solar panels, and an EPIRB beacon so rescuers can find him. He’ll have Wi-Fi to update his team and the public. The layout will consist of a work table, electronic panels, and a bed. “A foldable bed,” Bellini added. “I want to have room to work out.”

Bellini will spend almost all of his time in the capsule with the hatch closed, which will pose major challenges. He’ll have to stay active without venturing out onto a slippery, unstable iceberg. If it flips, he’ll have no time to react. He’s working with a company to develop nanosensors able to detect movement in the icebergĚýso he has advance warning of a flip. “Any step away from [the iceberg] will be in unknown territory,” he said. “You want to stretch your body. But then you risk your life.” He fears a lack of activity will dull his ability to stay safe. “I cannot permit myself to get crazy,” he said. “I need to keep my body fit, not for my body, but for my safety.” He is working on a routine of calisthenics that can be done in the capsule,Ěý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ he mightĚýinstall a stationary bike, most likely a .Ěý

Lack of sunlight is another challenge of spending a year in an aluminum sphere. It will be winter in the Arctic, with maybe five hours of light eachĚýday. Bellini and Sharpe are working on a lighting system that will simulate natural light, allowing Bellini to get vitamins and maintain his circadian rhythm.

µţ±đ±ô±ôľ±˛Ôľ±â€™s model is in development, and he expects it to be ready in about a year. He plans to write during his missionĚý˛ą˛Ô»ĺ will bring plenty of nonfiction books, especially psychology.

The capsule won’t ease his isolation, maybe his greatest challenge, but BelliniĚýremains undaunted:Ěý“It’s the key to the inner part of myself.” The first step is relinquishing control.

The post How a Giant Ball Will Help This Man Survive a Year on an Iceberg appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

When Jing Wang and her team Ěýlast year, becoming the only party to do so in a season marked by tragedy, the 41-year-old Chinese climber reignited a longstanding debate about the purity of climbing. To avoid the Khumba Icefall, she chartered a helicopter to fly her from Base Camp to Camp II, bypassing one of Everest’s most dangerous obstacles and more than 50 years of climbing tradition.

Helicopters have long been a contentious addition to the mountain. But Wang’s flight—on a year when 16 high-altitude workers died in one day, effectively closing the mountain—became a lightning rod for criticism. Ěý

The Nepalese government . Had her flight been authorized? Officials disagree, even today. Was her summit legitimate? Everest summiter and blogger says no: “Using a helicopter to climb a mountain isn’t really climbing a mountain.” Was Wang’s climb even official? Not exactly. Her achievement is officially noted as “disputed” in the Himalaya Database, an asterisk that has been applied to dubious summits.

The chopper debate isn’t going away in 2015. Whether shuttling climbers from Base Camp to Kathmandu or pulling off rescue operations at the higher camps, the roar of helicopter engines around Everest will be a constant.

Helicopters have been flying on Everest since 1992. They’re sometimes used to shuttle gear to Base Camp and as a shortcut for climbers to get back to Kathmandu. But people are rarely flown to Base Camp and the idea of using helicopters as shuttles up the mountain was unheard of, until Wang. They’re also technically forbidden above Base Camp except in emergency rescue situations. (Though rescue flights have become standard practice, they cost upwards of $10,000 if the injured climber is above 20,000 feet.)

That may be about to change. In the wake of the 2014 avalanche, Western outfitters like Washington-based (IMG) and New Zealand-based Ěýargue that flying supplies over the Icefall is the best way to keep Sherpas and clients safe. It’s simple math, says Greg Vernovage, 2015 expedition leader for IMG: If it takes ten hours for a Sherpa to make a single up-and-down Icefall trip, and a Sherpa team consists of 70 individuals, that’s 700 man-hours. “If we’re looking to minimize risk, 700 hours seems like a pretty good place to start,” Vernovage says.

Some guides, like 15-time summiter Dave Hahn, dispute the safety argument, citing the poor track record of heli flights on the mountain—there have been 43 crashes and at least 338 deaths, according to a 2009 report. Others note that a mass-adoption of helicopters may reduce Sherpa wages.

Sherpas are paid well by local standards to carry gear through the Icefall, says Jiban Ghimire, managing director of Kathmandu-based . (Western outfitters pay around $4,000 a year to Sherpas who work above Base Camp—not including a bonus of roughly $350 for their trips through the Icefall.) Nepalese outfitters would rather officials focus on constructing and maintaining a safer Icefall route than flying over it. Helicopters are really only practical for expeditions with the richest of clients. Smaller outfitters wouldn’t be able to compete. Flying gear over the Icefall would cost an additional $34,800 per 12 clients, according to calculations şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř made after talking to flight operators and several outfitters. That’s a prohibitive expense for all but the most well-financed outfitters.

For gear flights to take place, the Ministry of Culture, Tourism, and Civil Aviation will need to revise its rules. On March 17, the government issued a statementĚýsaying that it intends to improve the response time of helicopters in rescue situations, but the ministry has remained silent on whether it will allow helicopters to shuttle either gear or climbers. And given the government’s typical response time, that’s unlikely to change anytime soon.

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