In this loose series, members of the Sidetracked team tell us about the adventures they choose to keep back for themselves, away from their work time outdoors. Our editor Alex Roddie, a self-described Transcendentalist, is always looking for meaning in his adventures... and sometimes that’s about putting himself in the path of the Sublime.

I’m going to start by saying that having work that includes adventure is a pleasure and a privilege. Those of us in this fortunate position most likely dreamed about it for years beforehand, just as many others reading this are probably dreaming about it right now. But one of the things that tends to happen when you turn a passion into your work is that boundaries get a bit fuzzy, and eventually you might start to yearn for adventures that belong to you and no-one else – at least sometimes.

That’s certainly been the case for me. Adventure has played a role in my work for more than a decade. Although my day job at Sidetracked mostly takes place behind a desk (or at the bar in various mountain festivals...) pretty much everyone in this industry wears multiple hats, and mine include writing outdoor features for various other magazines, as well as researching and photographing books. Until a couple of years ago, I was also a busy gear reviewer. That’s a lot of mountain and trail time that counts as work.

I think there’s a healthy balance to be struck for everyone with a career like this. I started to notice that the balance was feeling off a few years ago. When every single trip involves photo briefs, shot lists, gear to be tested, and article deadlines, a sense can gradually creep in that a beloved pastime is resembling a chore, that the magic is more elusive than it once was.

I know, what a first-world problem, right? But it’s something that pretty much everyone who turns a passion into their career must face sooner or later.

I’ve never lost track of the privilege it is to get paid to romp about on mountains, but at the same time, I am a sensitive and introverted overthinker with the soul of a Romantic poet (Keats, please, rather than Byron) and I can’t really function without solitude on my own terms in the mountains. That kind of deep presence is hard to find at the best of times, and almost impossible when you have your work brain switched on.

So I set myself a simple rule: I’d keep some trips back purely for me. No gear to test, no pre-commissioned articles, and (here’s the key bit) I’d try to lose the headspace of creating photos intended for publication. No looking for narratives either – if they come they come, but I don’t worry about it and don’t force it. I usually keep my phone switched off and in my pack on trips like this, and certainly don’t use social media, as this would totally wreck the immersion I’m seeking. I do keep a small journal accessible, though, and write in it extensively (that part is no different to my work trips). I bring along a sketchbook too.

Simple and human. Just me and nature. Lovely.

This has been incredibly freeing. It’s opened up space for a mini renaissance in my photography, creating images I’d never have come back with before because I’d always been looking for a specific set of shots that looked good on the page to tell a story. Genuine creativity is surprisingly hard to find in that headspace, at least for me. In 2025 my personal photography evolved to embrace darkness, graphic monochrome abstract forms, and ideas that I would struggle to find a place for in my regular work.

The best of these trips involve at least one night outside – bivvy, camp, or bothy – but otherwise the framework doesn’t matter. In fact, the more fluid and unformed the better. I might take my bike on the bus to Braemar and go for a trundle through the ancient pinewoods, or I might visit some forgotten corrie of the Northern Cairngorms that nobody else goes to see. I find the magic in the intense liminal zone of blue hour, at sunrise and sunset, climbing a snow gully at night with Orion high above me, or the guiding light of a candle in a distant bothy window. Weird little moments that are so easily missed. Brushes with the elemental.

For me this is all about presence, but it’s fragile and easily disturbed or destroyed. The stories that come from these resolutely personal outings are aglow with meaning for me, but only occasionally can be formed into stories for wider reading (at least not without the long, careful thought that might eventually produce a book). There’s something delicate that is easily pressed out of form – easily missed, in fact, as it blows past on the mountain wind. Sometimes it can be woven into a narrative that conveys meaning to others; more often the meaning is held in a tenuous gossamer web of context that exists only in my own mind and the pages of my trail journals. A shelter and a shield and a wellspring of joy.

I like it this way. I like the sense of unknowable, unnameable vastness in nature that defies tidy narratives, tidy photography, tidy commercialisation. Defies everything. The last untamed frontier of both nature and the human spirit, perhaps – but easily wilted by the bright lights we are so eager to shine on it. The Romantics and Transcendentalists called this the Sublime, but I don’t know if the Sublime as they understood it can still exist. I try to look for it anyway, like Emerson’s ‘transparent eyeball’ roaming the barren heights, or Thoreau’s quest for unmediated perception of reality.

It’s kinda hard to write about these topics with a straight face when your brief is a 1,000-word destination guide to the top 10 hikes in Lochaber. Of course, at Sidetracked we’re always looking for stories of substance and meaning, and I tremendously value working with fellow questers and seekers who try to put these subtle jewels into words. But still, I believe that the essence of some things can never be shared – only experienced for ourselves.

Look, I’m not attacking mainstream outdoors media or the online outdoor community, and I think it’s great that so many people can access the mountains with fewer barriers now, find the information they need to get out and play. I love and appreciate the work I do both on and off the hill. However, more than one thing can be true at once. I fiercely value solitude in the mountains, but it also cheered my heart to see how many young families were out enjoying a sunny day on Ben Nevis the other weekend. It’s not hard to find solitude even now if you know where to look. Everything in balance.

I do know that my life got richer when I made space for a personal relationship with the great outdoors that defies categories or preconceived outcomes, that exists beyond formats and algorithms and social proof, that (in a gentle way) goes against the grain of the outdoor writing I work on back at my desk. Perhaps it helps keep me a bit more grounded and honest? It helps me remember, too, that nature is truly all there is – that thinking of it as a playground or (worse) a resource is just wrong.

So what next for these silent personal adventures? It feels like a risky move for a photographer, and it might be one of these experiments that goes nowhere, but I’m considering leaving the camera at home next time. We’ll see what effect that has on my sense of presence in the mountains.

I’m also really looking forward to my next work project involving an adventure component in the field. I need variety in my life, and sprinkling in some of my ascetic unwritten trips helps me to appreciate the fun and pace of a mountain shoot or commissioned article. I thrive with a foot in both worlds.

‘What are you doing?’ This mumbled through a mouthful of damp, plastic cheese.

‘My toes are cold,’ Seumas called over his shoulder as he jogged up and down the beach on which we had landed for lunch.

Words & Photo: Will Copestake

This was our second expedition in Patagonia together and we were accustomed to the unpredictably harsh climate of the western fjords, but after three days of rain, interrupted only by a brief snow shower, weariness stalked us. Thankfully, despite the cold and wet, there had been little sign of the fierce winds that normally characterise the area as one of the world’s harshest for paddling. We’d made good progress in that time and were already 100km, including a portage, into our 450km kayak journey from Puerto Natales to Punta Arenas. We were self-supported and expected to see no-one from start to finish. Forecasts suggested the relative calm was set to continue, so we’d detoured south into the Estrecho de Ventisquero (the Fjord of the Glacier) hoping to explore the ice to which it owed its name. Adding an extra 60km was nothing when set against the temptation of encountering a new glacier.

Although we had maps, Google Earth images tend to be the best guide here – yet often poor and occluded by cloud in these regions. From what we had seen, a spectacular mountain range was hidden somewhere in the mist ahead after a long and narrow passage inland. I paddled occupied by thoughts of how we might tackle the committing section through the Strait of Magellan further into the trip. Surely it wouldn’t be nearly so sheltered as here – I envisaged tremendous wind and waves – and I hoped our extra time would permit a delay for better conditions. Admittedly, we were using two of those extra days to visit Ventisquero, but I hoped we could catch up later with longer paddle days.

Scattering a flock of flightless steamer ducks, we paddled against 2-3 knots of flow through a strait barely 100m wide. We used recirculating peripheral eddies to sneak against the tide and soon emerged into the wider expanse of the main fjord. Here we caught our first glimpse of the ice in the distance. A tremendous serac-lined wall rose from the sea, disappearing into the cloud, variegating the mist with hues from grey to blue as if glowing with an alluring, ethereal light. We paddled hard into a short section of Class II whitewater and arrived at the glacial pool on the edge of the evening.

‘Look!’ Seumas gestured to the sky. Its timing perfect, the sky was clearing. As I looked upon the huge blocks of ice floating in the lagoon, golden reflections from the sunlit evening cloud above set the mirrored surface ablaze. Perhaps I was so captivated because of the previous three days of flat grey light, but seldom had I seen such colour in Patagonia; from the many-hued blues of the sky and ice, to the oranges and reds of autumn trees and rusting iron in the rock. As the ever more cloudless sky took the stage and offered its enchanting display, so too did rugged ice-capped mountains that cut the horizon like a saw’s teeth. Largest of them all was Cerro Pyramid, an aptly named peak dominating the long blue tongue of the glacier ahead of us, occasionally casting thundering avalanches from its face as though a beast awakened by our intrusion.

After setting camp on the rocky shore, just high enough to escape the waves from the calving icebergs, we gathered wood and lit a fire. The juxtaposition of warmth so close to the ice felt strange, but also welcoming to our frozen toes. As the evening light faded, we lingered and paddled through the ice, exploring the many channels that led to the face of the glacier. Eventually we returned to the fire and watched as stars glistened only to be again cloaked by cloud. By morning it would be raining once more and this time it wouldn’t stop for another eight days. These nights with the ice were a gift; a momentary splendour that sustained us and kept us coming back for more.

Words & Photo by Will Copestake // @willcopestake

First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 12

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‘We don’t want it to sound ranty,’ Jenny said on our regular Monday call. We were discussing the subject of our next Behind the Scenes Substack post, and thought that we could start to articulate some of the things we just don’t like reading in the articles that are submitted to us; opinions and tropes that come up with worrying regularity.

‘It would be just a list of things we hate,’ Jenny continues. ‘We hate it when people write “the locals didn’t speak English”, when they seem to get angry that there were other tourists there, when they point out that people are poor, that they’ve just discovered a “local spot” that no-one else has found.’

‘Perhaps we can make it humorous?’ Alex chimed in, but we weren’t so sure. Others added views. The word ‘discovered’ has to be used with particular care. Personal discovery… just about OK. ‘Discovering’ a mountain village… Nooooo. ‘Untouched?’ No, it’s not. ‘Authentic?’ So is Manchester Arndale Centre on a Saturday afternoon, but in a very different way. It’s when cliché gets a red flag rather than a stern warning. I’m more and more wary of ‘privileged white person travels somewhere “abroad” and puts their stamp on it’. I want the people who live there to have agency, rather than the writer pretending it’s an uninhabited wilderness playground (rarely the case) and then imposing their own framework.

Anyhoo, because we’re generally of a sunny disposition here at Sidetracked, we’ve spiked that post, for now at least. What the exchange does do, however, is show the delicate balance and the nuance that we deal with every day. Jenny is particularly good at highlighting these. She’s the soul of Sidetracked.

We try hard to bring in new voices, and stay away from these damaging tropes. It’s highly subjective, with countless shades of grey, but we do discuss it.

We then moved on to the other subjects: submissions for the next volume out in October, social posts and invoicing, upcoming photoshoots (there are plenty), two new brands that confirmed this week, upcoming events, small talk, and a little bit of idle gossip.

Anyway, if you have any idle gossip to share… or things that particularly annoy you in travel writing, drop me a line: daniel@sidetracked.com.

Daniel

P.S. We’ve just launched a new competition here.

A New Look

The Sidetracked website has a reputation for being the gold standard. It’s won awards and has been used a fair bit by Apple to promote their products. It gives space to what matters: the photography and the stories. Remarkably, the core design has remained largely unchanged since 2016 thanks to the brilliant work of James Edwards, with later updates to introduce the Field Journal courtesy of Steve Perry.

A while ago, John began work on a design refresh – not a redesign but a facelift to bring things up to date, make things a bit easier to read, a bit easier to navigate, and a better mobile experience. So our new, updated website is now live. It’s the same, but different, and perhaps just a little better. Let us know what you think.

SEE IT HERE »

A Sidetracked story that nearly went wrong

Our editor Alex Roddie offers a glimpse into Sidetracked’s editorial process, telling the story of a piece from Vol. 36 that almost never made it to print. Feedback so far has been great, with one comment from an experienced outdoor writer saying ‘This is the sort of editorial process that has largely been lost in the modern world.’

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Argentina on the Go

Meeting the llamas that made South America. Working with Argentina on the Go, Daniel Neilson follows the ancient trails in Argentina that shaped the continent more than any empire.

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Counting the Serene Hours

It’s over days when you start to really notice the nuances. Of the road, of the routes, of the culture, of the food. It’s over days in the saddle, when you begin to feel the flow along the new terrain of the trails. It’s also over days when you begin to absorb and truly take in the surroundings. The luxury of days riding provides the time to observe and reflect, to see and to learn.

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Bikerafting the Tara Gorge

How would these fully loaded boats handle the rapids ahead? Xaver’s expression betrayed his doubts. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be easy,’ he said. I could only agree. But all we could do was try. We climbed into our packrafts, deeply laden with equipment – including mountain bikes – and I tried to visualise the challenges that lay at the crux of our journey two days ahead. Then I dipped my paddle into the water to take the first stroke.

READ THE FEATURE »

Behind the Scenes

A quick look at some of the things we’ve been up to or spotted this month.

It’s been a big month for Jenny, who has done some serious big things. Most notably, driving to Italy to run the Monte Rosa Trail 100K.

Mark went to Wales with our friend, the very excellent photographer Ray Wood, and attacked Looning The Tube (E1), spent time in Kernowfornia, and made a couple of trips to Bosigran. One soloing (‘I was below par, and it was a bit stressful truth be told’) and one doing a few of the extremes in The Great Zawn. ‘Much better day: where there’s rope there’s hope!’

He’s also one year deep on Italian Duolingo, and renewed his passport just in time for his France/Italy trip. He’s disproportionately nervous about the solo drive and recharging his EV at services mid-France: ‘feels more intimidating than the Liongrat on the Matterhorn’.

In a rare occurrence, John managed to spend a whole month at home (almost). He built a garden gate and finally got back into finishing the van… which is still not finished, but looking rather smart.

Daniel has also been enjoying some time at home, making the most of the long summer evenings paddleboarding around the Beachy Head coastline, but is looking forward to spending a few days in the footsteps of Benny Rotham and those involved in the Kinder Trespass up in the Peak District,

Alex has mostly been recovering after moving house, but still managed to read Forgotten Forests: Twelve Thousand Years of British and Irish Woodlands by Jonathan Mullard (‘honestly fascinating; learnt so much about oak trees’) and Mary: or, the Birth of Frankenstein by Anne Eekhout, a fictional retelling of the mid-1810s from Mary Shelley’s point of view. Apparently, there were more drugs involved than in the original novel.

Five Quick Things

1. When your car breaks down in the desert, just turn it into a motorcycle. Easy 😳.

2. Wild Words is a new podcast. It’s an exploration of storytelling in its simplest form. And we love it.

3. Sometimes, it’s nice to hit everything until it makes a sound.

4. At the Edge of the Map is a new Substack by Ash Routen covering expeditions and adventure.

5. Almudena Romero defies permanence with ephemeral, plant-based photography.

Our editor Alex Roddie gives us a glimpse into Sidetracked’s editorial process, telling the story of a piece from Vol. 36 that almost never made it to print…

My name’s Ethan Roadley. I’m a New Zealand–based sea and whitewater kayaker, and I wanted to share a story proposal that I think could be a good fit for Sidetracked.

The pitch fit our requested submi…

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A small line as today’s slackliners would say, but what a line.
Words: Agnès Gorgues // Photo: Joffrey Maluski

I am not interested in breaking distance records. What I like above all in a highline is its aesthetics – the artistry of connecting two points in space and then walking between them. Even close to home we can live incredible adventures. Setting up a highline in the mountains will always be a great human adventure, where teamwork and the spirit of the rope reign over performance. Though installing a line is collective, walking it can only ever be carried out alone, and only by facing the void can we find these sensations that make our souls resonate – the feelings that we only feel up there, the purity of the air, the calm and silence as we leave the bustle of the city behind. A moment of escape, but this moment is only part of the adventure.

It begins with a night in my sleeping bag admiring the stars, then waking at first light of the sun as the sky blazes above me. The crazy vertical profile of the Needles of Ansabère is etched in stark blackness against the light – one of the most beautiful lines in the Pyrenees, but also one of the most intimidating, with 200m of air under the feet. Enough to challenge the resolve of any slackliner.

As we work to install the line, a sea of cloud begins to boil around us, and for a while the fog is total. Grey billows in thickly. We can no longer even see the end of the line or any of the landmarks around us. But we feel the big fresh draughts that cut through us, freeze our hands and ears, and awaken our senses – each of us feels alive. Gradually, the sea of cloud swirls and thins before giving way to one of the most breathtaking views of my life.

Together, we stand on the edge of the line to contemplate the emptiness ahead. This final moment of companionship is a contrast to the solitude of the void, and my mind grapples with the words to express such a moment of calm, silence, and the sensation of stopped time.

I step out.

Due to its great height, this line is not easy to walk. Each step is a challenge to resist the call of emptiness. One step at a time, I counterbalance myself against the laws of gravity and resist the trembling of my knees. Part of me just wants to sit down. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so overwhelmed, but I push away my fears, dispelling doubts, and move forward step by step. My friends encourage me from the edge – they don’t shout, but I know they’re behind me sending good vibes, and that is everything. Remembering my first ever lines all of a sudden, I’m exhausted by the mental effort required after only a few moves.

Go to the depths of yourself and don’t regret anything. I breathe slowly to calm my nerves, anchor each of my steps, and feel the vibrations of my legs harmonising with the slack. Rationalising the irrational is the paradox of highline. I have dreamed of this so many times, and the line’s greatness and splendour are more powerful than my fear or my weakness. But patience is needed.

This time I do not cross the line. I have pushed my limits while staying safe – and experienced a taste of the sweet freedom that I came here to seek. Prepared, I will come back one day to cross it and find my flow once again.

Written by Agnès Gorgues // @agnesgorgues
Photo by Joffrey Maluski // @joffreymaluski

First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 26

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I’ve just been asked to join the judging panel for the Illume Awards – possibly the world’s biggest adventure and action sports photography competition. And so, alongside the release of our 36th Volume of Sidetrac…

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We’ve just published our latest project with long-term partners, Switzerland Tourism.

Last autumn, we spent a few days exploring the Bernese Oberland – trail running above Kandersteg, climbing via ferrata in the Holiday Region Gstaad, paddling alpine lakes, paragliding over valleys, and eating plenty of excellent cheese along the way.

The film is a little different this time. It’s a longer-format piece, giving more space to the landscapes, conversations, humour, and the small moments that make travel so memorable.

Alongside the film, we’ve also published Jenny’s feature story, a destination guide, and the audio version of the story, which we’ve included here too.

As writes: ‘I am now convinced. The hill I will die on is that autumn is absolutely the best time to explore the Swiss Alps.’

Watch the film on YouTube
Read the full story on Sidetracked.com

Team: // // //

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At last, we’re alone. For weeks we’ve been riding endless dirt roads that wind drunkenly along the sides of Baja’s mountains. We’ve shared the sand with coyotes, rattlesnakes, and birds of prey, connected by our need for shade, water, and food. United in the struggles that have become our daily desert lives.

Words: Becky Norman // Photo: Sam Rice

After relentless deep doubletrack and rough-as-guts roads, the open salt flats of El Datil offer some relief, with a powerful tailwind hurling us towards the highest speeds of the trip. The GPS says there’s a small rancho ahead, and thoughts of ice-cold soft drinks, chocolate bars, and chips dominate our pedal strokes. We’re tired and ready for a rest – but we’re making good time on this section and that tailwind won’t last forever. So we pedal past and head deeper into the valley.

All I remember is the sound: the sound of gravel and sand scraping my skin as I fall face first into the dirt. Blood starts to trickle from my tongue and tears fall uncontrollably. Then I hear feet stomping in my direction. ‘Do I still have my teeth?’ I cry out, fearing the worst. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth and soon find the answer.

Unable to move, I lie frozen. Where did that rock come from? Is my jaw broken? Is it a trip-ending fall? This is my worst fear, the reason I’ve been so cautious and careful. Just when my confidence is at an all-time high, the desert delivers a dose of reality. I lie across the path, unconcerned by the thorns and super-sized ants. I’m just trying to catch my breath and ignore all the blood. ‘What happened, Sam?’ I mumble, as the fear and pain build in my voice. Wiping me down and pulling me to my feet, he says, ‘We’re going to head back to that rancho and get you cleaned up, OK?’

The wooden rancho, bleached by the sun, blends into the surrounding desert. I smell a lingering aroma of past fires and mezcal as we push through the creaky gate. Blood continues to fill my mouth as fear fills my mind. But there’s no time to think as Maria arrives from the back yard, takes one look at my bloody mouth, and says, ‘Chocolate?’ The word is universal and rings like music to my ears as she hurries off to the kitchen.

The smell of piping hot cacao laced with cinnamon floats through the air. I sit patiently, completely convinced that chocolate alone will heal my wounds. But Maria returns with more than just chocolate. She’s brought a bucket of warm soapy water and a pot of magical green goop. We sit for a while as I try to sip the chocolate. Maria washes my cuts gently and applies the green goop, passionately explaining its healing properties in Spanish. I don’t understand, but I’m grateful for the help.

‘Ven aquí,’ Maria says as she ushers Sam to his feet and leads him outside. Returning a moment later with the bikes, Sam remarks, ‘Maria says we can pitch our tent in the barn tonight. You need to get some more rest.’ We pitch the tent, tucked away amongst the horses and the hay, and – feeling like some sort of Mexican nativity scene – we climb into our sleeping bags. The exhaustion from our day sets in and I can’t even muster the strength to finish Maria’s life-saving chocolate.

As I drift in and out of sleep, I’m filled with gratitude for trail angels like Maria. The people along the way that make the harder moments better. The moments of complete compassion that shape our experiences of a place and form memories that last forever.

Written by Becky Norman // @becbycycle
Photo by Sam Rice // @adventuresbycycle

First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 29

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The wind is whipping up the north face of the Eiger, blasting ice crystals against exposed skin, numbing my fingers. A buff covers my face but my goggles are fogged by warm breath. The full-face helmet keeps my ears warm and muffles the noise of the helicopter hovering about 60m away from me. I look down at my toes, shuffling them closer to the edge of the cliff. Soon I’ll have a countdown over the radio.

The helicopter will be filming me, and I can afford any second-guessing if I am to synchronize the movement of the heli and my flight. I need to react instinctively to the countdown. More than 1,000 jumps have created muscle memory. There is no need to overthink the actions; just let them play out and react to any negatives.

The radio sparks into life. ‘Three.’ My right foot leads, toes pressed into a little edge of limestone to give me maximum traction when I push.

‘Two.’ I lean back to gain momentum to push forward.

‘One.’ I spring into life, looking down towards the alpine meadows below, and my legs extend, pushing away from this notorious face of the Alps. My body follows my head and I extend into the perfect flying position. The suit inflates, creating an aerofoil; I spread my arms and legs to put tension on what is now a rigid wing. Intuitively I turn to my left, flying metres away from the cliffs at speeds of up to 240kph.

But this is just a test run – a warm-up for bigger things to come on bigger mountains.

CONTINUE READING »

Stories Behind the Gear: KAVU

I pulled through a quintessentially Pacific Northwest scene. The mirror-flat lake reflected the setting sun and the pine trees lining the lagoon. Each paddle stroke sent capillary waves towards the shore, a slight wake trailing behind my kayak. We were enjoying an evening paddle around Drayton Harbour on the US-Canada border. A bald eagle, a little ruffled, perched on a protruding tree branch; a couple of cormorants stood on the dock, wings out like preachers, presiding over the seals. The sky was clear. It was a CAVU day. Or, as I’d come to learn, a KAVU day.

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On the Cuillin Ridge with Danny MacAskill

I try to rationalise fear – sometimes maybe too much. I try to assess the consequences. There’s a bit on the Cuillin Ridge called Collie’s Ledge – a thin trail, maybe 1m wide in places, with a 300ft drop off one side. You wouldn’t be having a good time if you fell off there. But before riding it you make sure you know about every loose bit of rock that could affect your path, any stuff that could catch you off guard. And then, when you’re on it, you think: well, riding along a pavement that wide is straightforward. You just make sure you don’t clip any pedals or anything like that.

CONTINUE READING »

Sidetracked Volume 35

How would these fully loaded boats handle in the rapids ahead? Xaver’s expression betrayed his doubts. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be easy,’ he said. I could only agree. But all we could do was try. We climbed into our packrafts, deeply laden with equipment – including mountain bikes – and I tried to visualise the challenges that lay at the crux of our journey two days ahead. Then I dipped my paddle into the water to take the first stroke.

READ THE STORY IN VOLUME 35 »

Summits, Setbacks and Second Chances

Adventure is often goal-oriented. People set aspirational challenges to push their physical and mental limits - setting out to climb the highest mountains in the world, swimming the Channel or taking on ultra-marathons not because they are easy feats, but because they are hard.

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Photographing the Women of Svalbard

Rather than focusing her lens on glaciers, polar bears, and the northern lights, Lemblé documented the women who live and work in and around Longyearbyen – mechanics, researchers, guides – highlighting the human presence in a landscape often depicted as remote and forbidding. Shot on medium format film and shaped into a carefully sequenced book that includes historic archival images sourced from the Norwegian Polar Institute, the project quietly challenges how we imagine the far north’s wilderness and communities, and who belongs within them.

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What it Takes to Make Something Great

Letters to a Young Creator features reflections from Tim Cook, Jony Ive, Paola Antonelli, Jon M. Chu, Es Devlin, and many more on what it takes to bridge the gap between idea and execution.

EXPLORE »

The Richness of Being Alive

Facing a terminal cancer diagnosis, Rob Shaver commits to running every day to make the most of each moment. This deeply personal story explores finding joy, connection, and gratitude through movement despite immense physical challenges.

WATCH THE FILM »

The world around me is murky blue. Kaikōura waters are always like this – mysterious, unpredictable, the visibility as fickle as the wind. And today, although I hold my underwater camera ready, I’m not focused on what I might capture; I’m just happy floating, knowing the pod of dolphins isn’t far away. I freedive a few metres down into emptiness. Holding my breath, I let the cold seep through my wetsuit as I drift in this vast expanse. Watching. Waiting.

Words & Photo: Julie Chandelier

Then, just ahead of me: movement. Two figures emerge from the haze, graceful and weaving; a pair of dusky dolphins gliding through the water. I freeze, my pulse a steady thrum in my ears as they come closer, seemingly unbothered by my presence. And then I realise they’re not just swimming. One is upside down and the other joins it. They’re locked in a dance, twisting and swirling around each other in a way that can only be described as… intimate.

I stay perfectly still, treading the fine line between invisible and present, not wanting to disturb them. The dolphins spiral around one another with a fluidity that seems otherworldly, their sleek bodies catching the faintest slivers of light from the nearby surface. I’ve seen dolphins many times before, but never like this, never so absorbed in their own world, and I forget about mine.

I inch forward, kicking gently to stay balanced, looking at my camera screen and pressing the shutter, hoping for the best. The water swirls around me as I move, creating little eddies that dissolve in the dolphins’ wake. They seem like shadows in the water – moving as one, a single entity rather than two creatures. I realise how delicate this moment is. They move with such grace, such purpose, a language that’s all movement and no sound.

I’ve never been this close to anything so alive. They are only a few metres away from me. I can feel their motion transmitted through the water to my body. My heart pounds as I hover there, sharing their space, feeling like an intruder in something private, sacred even. I don’t even feel the cold any more.

But it’s more than that; it’s the loneliness of it too, just three souls in this immense blue void. The two of them so focused on each other, and then me on the outside looking in, like a ghost. I’m an observer, yet the water makes us all part of the same quiet rhythm. One perk of this murky water is that I can’t see the rest of the pod. It’s just the three of us.

As I float there, I think about how rare this is. All the hours spent on the water, in the water, waiting, searching – and today I didn’t even have to search. The dolphins found me. I’m reminded of how nature does that sometimes, offering you a gift when you least expect it, and for reasons you’ll never understand.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, the dolphins break apart, their bodies curving away from each other. With a flick of their tails, they vanish back into the murk, swallowed by the blue. I hold still, as if moving might somehow erase the memory. As I exhale, I let the moment settle deep inside me.

In less than a few seconds, I’ll return to the surface, take that first breath of air, and tell myself it really happened. But right now, it still feels like the quickest dream – a private encounter between me, two dolphins, and the silent, endless ocean.

Written by Julie Chandelier // @julie_chandelier // juliechandelier.com
First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 32

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Our editor Alex Roddie, who has long wished for more comedy in the outdoor industry, has been scrolling through the Sidetracked submissions inbox…

Over the last couple of months here on Substack, we’ve started to cast a bit more light onto how things work behind the scenes in Sidetracked magazine. We’ve celebrated collaboration between film and print, as…

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There’s a type of email that lands in our inboxes fairly regularly. An invitation to an event, launch party, or even an extraordinary place.…

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P.S. And don’t miss our weekly Field Journal newsletter.

I once worked for a magazine that had a ‘Cliche Scoreboard’, and when a writer hit a certain threshold, that was it; they were bounced off, never to write for it again. We don’t have anything like this, of course, but we do have a particularly in-depth submissions process. Every week or two, we talk about what has come in – and that’s a lot considering there are three editions a year. But then again, due to our strong focus on quality, Sidetracked isn’t quite like many magazines.

We’re often asked what the criteria are for getting an article in Sidetracked. Ultimately, a piece in Sidetracked requires two key elements: an incredible story and incredible photographs. This is a surprisingly difficult combination to achieve. We’re often turning down stories that lack either of those (although we do get some hilariously lazy submissions and plenty of generic AI-generated ones). We also have a list of things that are unlikely to get in – FKTs and anything with the word ‘conquer’ in it – and we aim always to strike a gender balance.

We’re also looking for that intangible spark of passion – a character-led story from someone who really cares about what they are doing, who thinks deeply about things, who asks interesting questions rather than having predictable answers. We want people who come across as intensely, passionately human.

We recognise it when we see it. And when it’s there, we’ll go to great lengths to make sure the final piece is excellent. That could mean writing it ourselves from an interview (especially if English isn’t a first language), or working closely with the writer to ensure the best possible outcome.

We want to hear from good people doing good things. Outline the story, supply a sample first paragraph and details of the adventure, send five of your very best photos. Full details are on our website, of course. We’ll always read every pitch, and only the silly or low-effort ones get shared on the team WhatsApp group…

Check out our latest Substack piece, which explores how print and film can lift each other up in adventure media and how this collaboration can also help elevate new voices and interesting stories.

Oh, and do avoid those cliches before we start our scoreboard.

– Daniel Neilson

Grit & Dirt

From the rivers of Yakima to the peaks of the North Cascades, Washington is defined by people who live for its landscapes. Trail runners, bikers, paddlers, guides – across Washington, we met people whose lives revolve around the state’s protected areas.

Working with State of Washington Tourism, we travelled to the Pacific Northwest to hear their stories and their recommendations for the best places to run, hike, paddle, and see wildlife. In the first of a series, we spoke to mountain-biking guides Ike Bancroft and Shannon Mahre.

READ THE FIRST FEATURE »

Running Slovenia

We were delighted once again to team up with YEET for one of their latest projects. Sidetracked Studios managed all the production, which included finding locations, commissioning the crew – including the very talented Jake Baggaley and Summit Fever Media – as well as managing the travel (a summer shoot in the Alps in March!), accommodation, creative output, plus making bottomless scrambled eggs and emptying the dishwasher. Production is about making everything as smooth as possible to let the talent and the crew get on with their jobs on a full tummy.

Check back next month to see the results.

Clean Miles Campaign

Transport makes up a third of all harmful emissions from the outdoor sector. It’s a shocking statistic, so we jumped at the opportunity to promote the Clean Miles campaign from Protect Our Winters UK, which asks readers to sign a petition calling for affordable, well-connected, gear-friendly public transport to our outdoor spaces. Please sign it yourself, too.

READ THE FEATURE »

Surrender to the Journey

The 35th volume of stories for Sidetracked explores the hidden beauty of our world as well as the ‘invisible monsters’ that transform the risk when we step beyond what we know we’re capable of.

If you’re interested in stocking Sidetracked (and many other excellent independent magazines) then we have a stockist portal just for you.

GET YOUR COPY HERE »

Trial: Digital Edition

Yes, we’re print people, but we’ve decided to dip our toe into a digital edition, designed for those moments when print is out of reach – whether you’re travelling, living further afield, or reading on the move. Of course, if you have the chance, we thoroughly recommend experiencing Sidetracked in print.

We’d love to hear your thoughts on this trial.

GET THE DIGITAL EDITION HERE »

Behind the Scenes

A quick look at some of the things we’ve been up to or spotted this month.

BUSY! Wow. So we’re squeezing in a lot of production at the moment – busy, good busy – with half a dozen shoots in a couple of months for a wide range of outdoor brands, camera companies, and tourist boards. We’ve also signed off on a very special print product that we can’t wait to share details of.

Editor Alex took his bike on its first overnighter on a gravel ride into Glen Derry with a heavy winter pack, then up onto Ben Macdui for a hint of the sublime and finally a night at the Hutchison Hut before back home, capturing some pretty special photographs on the way. He’s been reading Courting the Wild Twin by Martin Shaw and There Are Rivers In The Sky by Elif Shafak. On yet another bookshop quest in Aberfeldy he also picked up a beautiful 1906 Everyman’s edition of Emerson’s essays, complete with a 1921 inscription to a Miss Smith. ‘I genuinely think graphic design peaked in 1906,’ he said.

Daniel is hitting four continents in eight weeks, and not as some crazy challenge – it ‘just kind of fell that way’. He’ll be hiking in the Andes north of Argentina, researching a guidebook in Ghana, doing a talk in Lagos, and driving a red Mustang convertible from Los Angeles to Las Vegas ‘for work’.

Jenny is in full training mode for the season ahead. She just completed the Costa Brava Trail Marathon (point of note that the route runs directly through a few nudist beaches) and is readying for the next race – a 110km mountain race in Croatia. After that it’ll be straight back on the bike with a few summer events lined up.

John has been in Spain for the month with the dogs, cameras, and his bike, and undertook a mammoth van drive through France and Italy for the shoot in Slovenia (he never wants to empty a dishwasher again). Podcasts for the 26-hour round trip included Life Without, Oh What a Time, Instant Genius, and Ologies, along with plenty of ‘guilty pleasures’ music (please don’t ask!).

Mark is away this week. We’re not sure where but we think it’ll involve some pretty hefty rocks.

Five Quick Things

1. PSA: Please pick up your litter so this artist can close down his account.

2. Here’s an ode to the joy of being bad.

3. Did you know that humans have been hanging out with dogs for over 14,000 years?

4. It’s about time for some good news, so here’s some from Patagonia.

5. We’re mesmerised by this nature-based artwork.

The boat is at anchor. Clouds of mosquitoes dance on the calm water. This must be one of the most peaceful places I have ever seen, but I soon realise that my expectations of this trip will be very different to the reality.

Words & Photo: René Koster

Yesterday all was quiet and still as we set course on Aurelia for a distant bay. I had joined Vince Kelly and his wife Jenny for a five-day voyage through Prince William Sound, Alaska, hoping to spot some wildlife.

Now Vince looks up from his laptop after checking the forecast. ‘Dry weather will be scarce from now on, and you’ll get to experience all possible varieties of rain – from drizzle that seems to float in the air to a vigorously pounding rain that falls in great sweeping gusts.’ The rainy season is coming and we’ll need to adjust our plans.

I let his words sink in. Visions of five long days stuck on the Aurelia plague my brain, and my thoughts become as gloomy as the forecast. I notice one of my favourite books by Jean-Jacques Rousseau on a small bookshelf built into the cabin. I take the book, thumb through its pages. ‘Nature never deceives us; it is we who deceive ourselves.’

The images that had formed in my mind, of iconic landscapes with snowy mountain peaks and bright yellow birch trees set against an intense blue sky, slowly start to fade. I have only deceived myself.

Morning. Vince joins me on deck, dressed in an orange rain suit, and swigs from a mug of strong black coffee. As the day breaks we have stepped into the wet world of fog once again. Visibility is less than 5m, and the air smells salty – with just a hint of mint and lemon.

We decide to leave the boat and kayak to a few of the small isles that enclose the Prince William Sound. The fog has grown so dense, crowding in on us, that my companions disappear one after another into the mist.

We paddle past large rocks, towering like castles. Irregularly shaped pine trees, poised above the darkness, cling with their roots to the granite. The lush shoreline vegetation offers a striking contrast to the earth and boulders. A profusion of golden seaweed clings to the rocks as if massing for an attempt to overgrow the world, and mosses, varying from cyan to bright green, hang in long strings from dead branches.

The physical effort of kayaking gives me courage to accept the situation as it is. Nature occasionally grants us glimpses of mountain contours in a palette of delicate, unsaturated colours, with patches of fog and pine trees no more than a silhouette. The rest is left to the imagination.

We drag our kayaks onto a small beach. Raindrops falling as if in slow motion, I lift a hand to shield my eyes, draw in a breath of the fresh October air; it feels like a cool, quieting thought. Embracing the silence sharpens my senses. Smell and touch become more intense, the scent of herbs thick in the air.

‘Nature produces an abundance of edible plants and herbs for medicinal uses here,’ Jenny says, scooping up a large tangle of seaweed that has been exposed with the fall of the tide.

Finding peace in the rhythmic tapping of the rain, a calmness comes over my senses, and the beauty of this consolation feels like an epiphany.

Written by René Koster // @renemariakoster
First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 28

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Our editor Alex Roddie chats with Sidetracked regulars Matt Green and Rachel Sarah about films that find their way onto the page. For Alex it’s about creative collaboration. But what about the filmmaker – and the reader?

I’m going to mangle a metaphor here, but consider a butterfly. Behold it poised on a flower, shining in the sunlight. Last week perhaps it was a caterpillar, just as beautiful in its own way as it foraged in the shrubbery, and just as valuable a part of the ecosystem.

Got that? Good. Now consider a story in an issue of Sidetracked magazine. If you’re paying attention, you’ll have noticed that almost every single issue contains stories that started out in film – then metamorphosed.

The adventure media ecosystem includes print magazines, books, film, podcasts, websites, social media and more. There’s a wealth of storytelling talent in this ecosystem, and because many of us work across several genres, a good deal of cross-pollination goes on. Have I stretched my butterfly metaphor to breaking point yet?

As editor of Sidetracked, I get excited about this. Either the filmmaker comes to us, seeking new audiences and a new form of creative expression, or we’ve seen something cool ourselves and drop the filmmaker a line. Filmmakers are almost always eager to work with us, and when I chat with a filmmaker (or the subject of a film) the conversations are unusually rich. These creatives have thought long and deeply about a story, and I find it so satisfying to work with people who put such care into what they do.

I was curious to get the filmmaker perspective, so I contacted Rachel Sarah, founder of Waymakers Collective, and Matt Green, cofounder of Summit Fever Media1. We’ve worked with both regularly over the last few years, either transforming a film they’ve created for the printed page or collaborating on commercial projects. And because this is a small (and friendly) world, we’ve often shared a beer or two at various mountain festivals over the years too.

Many of Rachel’s films are biographical. The first thing she mentioned in our chat was the shift in agency when a film moves to print, and how this potentially gives the film’s subject a different voice. ‘When you’re making the film, you’ve got control over that narrative,’ she said. ‘But the magazine piece has always been written by the subject. This is nice because it gives them more agency. I would hope there is agency for the subject in the film too, but it’s different in the writing.’

Matt has thought a lot about storytelling in film and how this differs to other forms of storytelling. We chatted about how films are ideally designed to be watched in a highly controlled environment: sound and visual elements tuned to the best quality available, and delivered to an attentive audience in a darkened room. ‘Film is a one-way medium of art,’ he said, ‘whereas literature is a two-way medium because it requires more of your imagination. I think it engages people in a different way. It’s not just regurgitating the narrative of the film, it’s actually saying here’s a completely different angle, maybe including things that weren’t even in the film.’

When I’m working with filmmakers or subjects, I like to have conversations that drill deeper into something I’ve noticed – perhaps themes that the film didn’t have time to fully explore, but which we can illuminate further in print. Matt agreed: ‘As filmmakers, it’s really exciting for us when people come to the film through literature. It brings a whole new level to the person who reads the article and then watches the film, and to my mind they’ll potentially have a better experience.’

The audience is getting more context, the creators and subjects are thinking more deeply about what they want to express, and everyone cares a bit more as a result – that’s what I believe, anyway. I like to think this comes across to the reader.

Three of Rachel’s films have become Single Moments – our signature short and punchy story format. ‘With a Single Moment everything is so distilled,’ she said. ‘So choosing what that moment is going to be, and how it reflects the film, is really challenging – but also great.’ She emphasised the collaborative nature of this process. ‘In every instance, like with The Ice Mile, Masa, and Finding Bo, it’s been very collaborative. I’ve usually sent a selection of photos from the project, then you and John have gone and picked the photo you like the best, and then we workshopped it with everyone together. Finding that one moment is so satisfying.’

So, the magazine and reader get a great story, the creators can explore new angles, and the editor gets to have nerdy discussions with people who care as much about storytelling as he does. But what about the business side?

‘From a practical financial perspective,’ Rachel said, ‘if you can put in your pitch deck that you’ve been featured in Sidetracked or another magazine, that’s really valuable. It’s bringing new people to Sidetracked, and Sidetracked’s bringing new people to the film. There’s a cross-pollination of audiences.’

On this subject, Matt said, ‘Sidetracked is a fantastic example of a publication with heritage, but also a dedicated and clear audience. When you’re trying to describe the value of a project to a sponsor, numbers mean nothing if it’s not the right audience. With Sidetracked that audience is very specific and very clear.’

That mutual boost is important. Many of the commercial projects we create for brands have a film component, and for that we need trusted filmmakers. It’s important for everyone that this is a mutually worthwhile relationship. This is, after all, our community as well as our workplace.

I’m of the belief that writers and filmmakers are close cousins. We must both understand storytelling, understand people and what drives them, understand art, understand light and sound.

‘As creatives we should all want to support each other,’ Matt said. ‘If you know creatives who are shy about promoting their work, I think it’s a duty to try and help them, encourage them to communicate.’

We chatted about the post about women in adventure media that put up recently, which mentions how creatives of a certain demographic – typically white men from a middle-class background – tend to pitch with more confidence, and partly due to this (along with other factors) are more visible in adventure media. Rachel said, ‘There’s a lot of other people who have a great story and maybe aren’t putting it out there. I get it, it can be intimidating! But just send it. What are you going to lose? This isn’t just about film, it’s about confidence, putting yourself out there in general.’

We all agreed that, for those of us who have the benefit of connections and a track record in this industry, we can help new voices to get their own first successes. That can be down to individual efforts, but organisations must also play a part. And that’s why I find it so exciting when an email from a new filmmaker lands in my inbox, perhaps a hesitant ‘Hey…’ the first word in a fruitful partnership – for the filmmaker, for me, for Sidetracked, and for the reader.

Friend of Sidetracked has long said that life is not a competition but a collaboration, and that’s never been more true.

So if you are a filmmaker who is curious about finding new creative avenues for your film, as well as an expanded audience and connections with a network of fellow professionals, we’d love to hear from you. And if you’re a reader? Look out for the footnotes at the end of our articles. They may point you in the direction of your new favourite watch.

Films to watch from Rachel Sarah and Matt Green

You can watch the full film Masa 居場所 The Place Where I Am, a Waymakers Collective Film directed and edited by Rachel Sarah, on YouTube. Look out for the story ‘The Gift of Uncertainty’ in Sidetracked Volume 35 available now.

Here’s a new project from Summit Fever Media. Matt and Ellie Green have just launched the new trailer for their film Tahira, a short, intimate portrait of a woman reclaiming her life through movement. Watch the trailer now on YouTube. You can also sign up to be notified of the online premiere on March 27th, 2026.

Header photo by Rachel Sarah, shot for the film Masa 居場所 The Place Where I Am.

@mattgreen_sfm // @sfm_films // @rachelsarahm // @waymakerscollective

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The sun sets behind the Aiguille du Midi, gilding the glaciers and bathing the Vallée Blanche in darkness and calm. There are atmospheres that invite contemplation and make you appreciate life. And there are moments that create strong bonds between those who share them. – Aurelie Gonin

I’m with my friends Liv Sansoz and Giulia Monego, both renowned mountaineers and skiers. We’re on the Puiseux Ridge, in front of the smallest bivouac in the Mont-Blanc massif. And it’s here we’ll be spending the night.

The three of us have been in the mountains for three days now, skiing glaciers and couloirs. My friends are much more experienced than I am, but they bring me along on some of their adventures – which I always appreciate. It’s also a chance for me to observe these mountain sisters, these rope-mates who complement each other so well. Giulia leads the way on skis in the steeps, doing hop turns as if nothing could be more natural, and Liv is in her element from the moment she takes the Rad (her favourite rope) out of her bag.

There’s a natural pause as we stop for a moment to look out over the pristine white. We’re talking about mountain friendships, climbing partnerships, when Giulia gives voice to something I already feel instinctively: ‘Liv and I have very complementary strengths and weaknesses. There’s always something that binds us together: an esprit de cordée as women, without judgement, without headaches, but with trust in each other. To take risks together and to save each other’s lives if needed.’

To rope up with someone is a powerful symbol. It’s a mark of trust, the likes of which we rarely see in everyday life. It’s also a promise to experience strong emotions together, to create lasting memories that will forge a link beyond the rope itself.

‘When we find a rope-mate who suits us, I think it’s because there’s a mutual admiration that enriches us,’ Giulia ponders further. ‘We share trust, respect, and motivation. The person inspires us and helps us to progress in life. Often, a good team also creates a strong friendship.’

As the three of us stand on this fine ridge, admiring the scenery at the end of the day, Giulia’s words take on their full meaning. We don’t need to talk; we just enjoy the last rays of sunshine on the majestic peaks around us, appreciating this moment of camaraderie.

As the sun goes down, the cold quickly sets in and we retire to our shelter. It’s a tiny hut perched on a ridge overlooking cliffs on both sides. It’s about the size of the double mattress that fills it. Once inside, we get rid of our crampons and the shells of our ski boots, then organise the space to fit all this equipment including backpacks, ice axes, and stove. Gloves and hats in the nets hanging from the ceiling. Jackets and ski liners under the blankets. The three of us take up the whole space, which keeps us warm. We let sleep take us, happy to live this moment in such a unique place, with the right people.

Sometimes, the aim of a mountain excursion is not to climb a summit, but to share a wonderful adventure with friends. It’s these magical moments that create the strong bonds of compagnons de cordée.

As the rigours of the mountain day catch up with me, my mind drifts back to Liv’s final words from our sunset conversation: ‘The person I climb with is often more important than the summit itself.’

Written by Aurelie Gonin // @aurelie_m.g
First published in Sidetracked Magazine Volume 33

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Sidetracked magazine is released three times a year – in February, June and October. Never miss an issue – subscribe today and have Sidetracked delivered straight to your door, anywhere in the world.

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Sidetracked is about adventure storytelling, and although the heart of that storytelling lives on the printed page, social media is a vital component – as it is for any media organisation. It’s how we find new readers and expand our audience. It’s how we reach that audience on a daily basis, bringing them our storytelling in an alternative format to the…

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