A true conservationist is a man who knows that the world is not given by his fathers, but borrowed from his children.

- John James Audubon


Editor's Pick

Apr 11, 2017

ACSP: How ‘Badass’ Scientists Climb Mountains to Fight Climate Change

Inspired by the "badass for science" label given to the American Climber Science Program after Dr.


Steve Byrne

John All’s viral crevasse fall video, adventure photographer Steve Byrne heads to Peru to find out the true meaning of citizen science.

Bloodied and broken, Dr. John All looks into a camera, “I’m pretty well fucked.”

Dr. All, wedged deep in a crevasse between two icy walls, describes his lonely predicament. Some 70 feet above him light beams through the hole in the glacier that his body just punched through. Below, the blue and white hues of the glacier’s entrails fade into a deep blue, then black oblivion.

Exasperated and in constant pain, Dr. All assesses his situation, collects himself and plots a course back to the world. Despite a broken arm, cracked ribs and internal bleeding, he inches upward, groaning in pain as he swings his ice tools into the frozen walls. As he wiggles upward, softening snow near the top halts his progress. He adjusts course, shuffling over and up a few meters, connecting the layers of denser snow able to support his weight. The last few feet of sun-softened snow slow him briefly, but soon he hauls himself out of the crevasse that nearly consumed him.

From that high Himalayan glacier, Dr. All beamed an SOS via satellite to the Facebook page of the American Climber Science Program. A rescue scrambled and later plucked him from the glacier to a hospital in Kathmandu. Not long after, video of the crevasse climb soon spread around the web and media outlets labeled Dr. All a “badass for science”.

This painful, first-hand video was my first real impression of the American Climber Science Program. A month or two earlier, I had decided to join the ACSP as an expedition photographer to the Cordillera Blanca of Peru. I was interested in glacial watersheds and the program looked like a unique way to climb in a beautiful part of the world and photograph one of my favourite subjects: glaciers. Dr. All’s incident added a little extra spice to my curiosity and anticipation of the expedition.

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Climbers with the ACSP on the final summit ridge of Cerro Pisco. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne.

What sort of research was taking these scientists into such high, extreme environments where most climbers are content to just climb? What can be learned from doing science so high up? What exactly is this media label, “badass for science”?

One evening in August 2014, I rolled into Huaraz, Peru on a bus from Lima. With an address and vague directions in hand, I wandered through town until I found the expedition’s guesthouse. The owner and his wife welcomed me warmly and informed that the team was still in the field. I had a few days to acclimatise and rest before heading into the mountains.

While I waited, I explored the city and surrounding valley, photographing landscapes and people. Huaraz is nestled in a high, arid valley between the Cordillera Blanca, whose tropical glaciers hang like permanent clouds over the patchwork of terraced fields and villages, and the Cordillera Negra, a less impressive, drier range, devoid of the vegetation and glaciers that attract one’s gaze skyward in awe at the Cordillera Blanca.

Just as I was beginning to grow restless, the expedition team returned to Huaraz. Dirty, wet and tired, they had just spent much of the past week hunkered in tents waiting out the weather. I met the crew and spent the following days feeling out the dynamic of the team spending warm afternoons relaxing on the guesthouse rooftop, cooking food, drying and sorting gear and throwing back a few watery Peruvian beers.

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Dr. Rebecca Cole ascends the north ridge of Cerro Pisco at dawn amidst the backdrop of the Huandoy peaks, bathed in golden light. Photo by Steve Byrne.

Undergrad and grad students comprised the majority of the team, led by two older scientists, Dr. Carl Schmitt, Dr. Rebecca Cole and seasoned climber David Byrne. Everyone came to further research in a variety of specialties: freshwater micro invertebrates, water quality, grazing practices, alpine ecology and black carbon accumulation on glaciers. The variety and scope of the research projects blew me away. Most researchers had been in the region for the entire summer, studying each valley of the range one week at a time. I had arrived just in time for the final week of the expedition.

The following morning we drove deep into the mountains, establishing base camp in a high meadow of the Llanganuco Valley, surrounded by peaks rising sharply over 20,000ft. From camp, the team would spend the week fanning out across the entire valley in smaller research groups of both Peruvians and Americans. The groups collected samples and studied alpine water, macroinvertebrates, snow and plant samples. As we assembled base camp and I spoke with many of the scientists, I learned that the Program served as an incubator and logistical platform from which a whole range of focused, alpine research became possible.

As late afternoon shadows began filling the high alpine valley, the team gathered in base camp over a warm meal and never ending cups of tea. During dinner, Wilmer Sanchez Rodriguez, a student at Santiago Antúnez de Mayolo National University in Huaraz, recounted that each year since childhood, he’d witnessed glaciers in the Cordillera Blanca retreat at an accelerating rate. The omnipresent view from town is slowly morphing, day by day, to show more rock and less snow. Wilmer continued recounting how some villages are now unable to use their streams for farming and livestock: naturally occurring compounds in rocks previously covered by glaciers are leeching out into streams now that the rock is exposed to runoff.

Evening light breaks through clouds illuminating the summit of Husacaran Norte. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne
Evening light breaks through clouds illuminating the summit of Husacaran Norte. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne.

I had no idea that things were happening so quickly, nor that changes in climate could affect water quality in addition to availability. Very quickly, I understood that a changing climate and human impacts on alpine environments have far more lasting effects than just water availability. And as the conversations over tea continued, Dr. Schmitt and Wilmer filled me in on the effects of local air pollution on the mountains.

Black carbon: fine, airborne particulate matter, is a bi-product of combustion that mixes with weather systems and precipitates out in rain and snow. In alpine environments, precipitation typically falls as snow, and as it accumulates on the upper slopes of a mountain, the snow compresses into ice and begins to move downhill: a glacier is born. As storms dump layer upon layer of snow on glaciers, black carbon in the snow can concentrate, darkening the surface of glaciers, causing them to absorb more solar radiation, increasing melt rates.

Measuring and mapping black carbon on glaciers both in the Himalaya and Cordillera Blanca has become a centerpiece of the ACSP’s annual research. Here in the Cordillera, Dr. Schmitt and his teams have criss-crossed the entire range sampling glaciers, returning to base camp to filter the meltwater and map black carbon concentrations throughout the range. Over the past few years, Dr. Schmitt has been gathering data to prove the hypothesis that glaciers nearest urban and industrial centers tend to have the greatest concentration of black carbon, and thus could be at greater risk of melting faster—and disrupting water supplies—faster than would happen otherwise.

Dr. Carl Schmitt collects surface sample snow from just beneath the summit of Cerro Pisco. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne
Dr. Carl Schmitt collects surface sample snow from just beneath the summit of Cerro Pisco. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne.

Itching to climb and curious to better understand the research, I joined Dr. Schmitt and company up Cerro Pisco, a beautifully glaciated 18,000ft peak at the center of the Llanganuco Valley. To complete the climb, with the help of our porters, we establish a higher base camp, putting us within striking distance of the summit.

As we haul our camp up valley towards Pisco, grey clouds envelop the surrounding peaks and it begins to snow. We reach a high, flat bench and break for a quick lunch inside a small hut, sipping tea and chewing coca to mellow the affects of altitude. We discuss the weather and how it might affect a summit attempt, then decide to push onto high camp.

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Cerro Pisco is a beautifully glaciated 18,000ft peak at the center of the Llanganuco Valley. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne.

Slowly plodding into the increasingly thin air, we haul our heavy packs up and over unstable moraines of talus and scree, occasionally shifting beneath our feet, evidence of previous glacial periods. As we gingerly scramble over the moraine, thundering avalanches of rock and ice cascade down the flanks of the Huandoy group, three peaks stretching nearly 20,000ft high, standing guard at the head of the valley we cross.

An hour before dusk, we arrive at a small, protected flat where a trickle of water flows out of the glacier above with a few tent footprints marked out by small rocks. Thick, cake-like glaciers are pasted onto the impossibly steep walls of the mountains above, adorned with flutings in strange shapes on each ridge and subridge. The low rumble of distant avalanches across the valley interrupts the soft chatter of the team. Just before dark, the air begins to radiate: a soft, red glow bathes us all and streams of magenta clouds accent the frosted ridgeline above. When the final light fades, we quietly retire to our tents.

Around 3am, we awake to a cold, clear, night sky. Only my breath interrupts the still predawn. The team ascends from camp through the darkness with headlights dancing upward. At the glacier, we take a quick break, put on our crampons, rope up and begin the meditative rhythm of climbing: Step, step, breathe.

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W A full moon illuminates Chacraraju high above ACSP base camp in the Llanganuco Valley. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. Photo by Steve Byrne.

Beneath, the snow glistens, appearing to reflect the crisp, collective glow of the stars above. Reaching the summit ridge, ribbons of pink, red and orange paint the horizon over the Amazon to the East.

From the col, the summit ridge wanders around crevasses and precariously suspended blocks of ice. Tethered together, we wind our way through the maze up steadily steepening slopes until a final pitch ends in a small, round, flat area. The summit. We hug, tap ice axes and take in the view. The excitement and satisfaction of climbing an 18,000ft peak in the Andes had nearly overtaken me when Dr. Schmitt shouted, “hey, now the real fun begins. Time to sample snow!”

On the broad summit, he found an area of undisturbed snow, scraped at it with his axe and collected it into a labeled ziploc. He repeated the process after scraping down a few inches for a subsurface sample as I stand watch, photographing and thinking, 

“this has to be the most beautiful office in the world.”

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W Early dawn light paints the horizon over the Amazon as climbers negotiate crevasses and darkness up the glacier-covered west face of Pisco. Photo by Steve Byrne.

As we descend through the maze of crevasses, seracs and exposed ridgeline, Dr. Schmitt stops at predetermined locations repeating the sampling process, each time adding kilos of snow to his pack to be melted, filtered and analysed in camp. The high, tropical sun rises directly overhead, and the snow surface softens. Avalanches of rock and ice occasionally thunder down nearby peaks. As the light grows harsh, I stop photographing and turn my attention to the immense scenery that surrounds me. Looking out towards terraced hillsides and towns far below, I spot the transition where glaciers end and rivers begin. My eyes follow the water courses down and out to the horizon into the green, terraced hillsides far below: the connection between people and the alpine glacier I stand on could not be more obvious.

By late morning, the team reached the toe of the glacier announced by the scratches of our steel crampon spikes meeting granite once again. Hours later with muscles weary and a salty, dusty face, I returned to high camp, dropped my pack and finally indulged in sitting, legs outstretched on soft meadow grass. Before dinner, I joined the team in the mess tent and at the end of a quick recap of the day, Dr. Schmitt pulled out an unmarked bag of snow, some empty Nalgene bottles, and one of our porters presented a bottle of pisco.

You can’t successfully climb Pisco without having a pisco sour made fresh with the snow directly from the summit,”

We mix and shake the snow, pisco, lime and sugar and toast to a successful climb. The remainder of the evening is spent melting snow samples from Pisco, filtering the water and recording the levels of black carbon present in the snow.

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X Chris San and George Livingston Burgess of Western Washington University collect macroinvertibrates from the Upper Demanda River in the Cordillera Blanca. Changes in the populations of macroinvertibrates in glacial watersheds help scientists measure the health of river.s and streams fed by alpine snow and ice. Photo by Steve Byrne

During the summer of 2014, ACSP climbers and scientists collected dozens of snow samples from peaks along the entire length of the Cordillera Blanca and on each expedition, local students learned the basic technique for monitoring their glaciers and the most precious resource they provide, water. Each year, the body of black carbon data across the tropical Andes grows, and with the cross cultural exchange of ideas and scientific research methods, so too does the Peruvian knowledge of how to climb, sample and understand human impacts on glaciers and the water supply for local communities.

W Dr. Carl Schmitt examines black carbon data collected from various peaks of the Cordillera Blanca over the course of the ACSP Expedition. Photo by Steve Byrne.
W Dr. Carl Schmitt examines black carbon data collected from various peaks of the Cordillera Blanca over the course of the ACSP Expedition. Photo by Steve Byrne.

While the impact and value of the “badass for science” label might have turned heads and garnered fleeting interest after Dr. All’s fall, my time with the team in Peru taught me what the label really means: conducting and inspiring citizen science. The ACSP and its members put themselves in risky situations not for themselves, but to teach communities dependent upon alpine resources how to monitor and understand the effects of a rapidly changing world on their home.

Feature image: Ranrapalca looms over camp at dusk on the eastern flanks of Vallunaraju. Cordillera Blanca, Peru. By Steve Byrne.

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Adventurers & Explorers

Jun 29, 2018

Engagés: Upon Reflection. Calm, Patience, Humility.




Maxime Lainé

During May of 2018, The Outdoor Journal reported on five French explorers who were traversing Greenland’s toughest terrain.

Their goal was to complete 700km in 30 days. In the face of much adversity, the expedition finally made it home to Paris, having being trapped at the finish line without food, and unable to extract themselves due to bad weather.

You can read about those final few days here, and a review of the Nixon Regulus, used during the Expedition here.

In this article, written one month after the expedition, Maxime Lainé reflects upon this period in his life, and what it meant to him.

As an entrepreneur I’ve learnt to fail, sometimes to succeed, but overall, I’ve learnt to get the most out of each experience I face, and eventually share those experiences with anyone who is interested.

I wanted to share what I’ve learnt from the most enlightening experience of my life, and how it triggered something deep inside of me.

I’m not a journalist nor a story teller, but simply someone with a story to tell. I might not be able to articulate my complex feelings perfectly, so I will just be myself, and be honest.

In May 2018, I crossed Greenland by foot from East to West along the Polar Circle, with 4 other entrepreneurs, in total autonomy. It took us 31 days to cover more than 550km. We faced extreme conditions, with absolutely no form of any life, under temperatures reaching -40C.

Our daily routine.

We woke up every morning at 5am or 6am. It took us 2 and a half hours to melt the snow, so that we had water for breakfast. We also needed additional 2 litres each for the day. We got left the tent at 8:15am, we packed them up, and we could start walking at around 8:45am or 9am. At first we had to walk at least 8 hours a day, up to 10 hours towards the end, occasionally up to 13 when the weather permitted us. When we stopped walking, it took us 1 hour to set up the camp, and then 3 additional hours to melt the snow so that we could cook, fix things and take care of our feet, before we could finally go to sleep. And then repeat, again, and again, no matter what, because we had to make it to the other side.

Calm, patient, humble.

I remember how I felt on the first day, excited, impatient and ready (at least that’s what I thought) to face Greenland. Like a kid that can’t wait to play outside. However, Greenland had other ideas, the terrain and weather taught us in its own way, that…

our success would depend on our capacity to remain calm, patient and humble. 

The first days of the expedition were “easy”. The snow was firm, it was quite sunny, and even if our pulkas were at their heaviest, weighting 90kg per person, we were expecting more of a mental challenge. At that point, it was just another physical challenge. 

For the first part of the expedition, we had to walk up to the highest point of the crossing. 2600m, almost half way, albeit a little bit closer to the east coast. After that, there was a flat plateau, continuing at the same altitude for about 100km. Finally, we had to walk down towards the coast, to reach our extraction point on the eastern side at 900m altitude.

We expected the first part to be the hardest. We were climbing up, and then, as we would walk down, it would get easier and we would be able to cover more kilometres per day.

We were fools, but we didn’t know it yet. 

When the first storm hit us on the night of the 11th day, we were almost relieved to spend 60 hours in the tents to get some rest. Even if it was physically intense, we all thought we would be able to get to the other side without any trouble. On the following day, we walked 28 km in 11 hours to reach our first objective, Dye military base located at 66.4934N – 46.3204W. However, at the end of that day 14th, we all started to realize that things were getting more critical. One of us felt pain in his back and knees, so we volunteered to carry some of his weights, in addition to the 90kg we already had to carry per person. As for me, I felt such a pain in my right ankle, that I could barely walk when I took my skis off at the camp. 

Fortunately, over the next 2 days, we were very limited as to how much we could walk, since there was another storm coming. That 16th day, we just walked 10km for 5 hours. The wind was coming in at more than 70km/h from the south, and caused our pulkas to flip over.

We were definitely going beyond our limits, this was the time to set up the camp, and be safe.

Setting up the camp under those conditions was crazy, but vital, and we managed to do it as a team. Once in the tents, we realised that we had pushed it to far, it had started to become very dangerous. If we could not set up the camp, then we would have just died from the cold. From that very moment, every day was going to be more critical than the day before. We were not even half way through the expedition yet, but we didn’t know it. We did know that our lives depend on our actions, our choices, and on our team. We realised that our bodies are amazing but fragile machines, that nature can break at anytime. 

However, the humility that we had already been taught, apparently wasn’t enough. The next few days were the coldest, with temperatures between -20C to -40C, and winds reaching 35km/h. We had lost too much time, stuck in the storms, we had to move forward. We were relieved to reach the highest point of the expedition. Finally, we had made it, but at a price. The cold froze my toe, and broke Antoine’s ski plugs. Fortunately we had a spare pair, but from now on, another equipment issue could risk the whole expedition.

From this point, we we headed downhill and the expectation was that it would get easier. We started to make some calculations and tell ourselves; “if we could walk 10 hours a day at 2.5km/h, then we could reach our objective in x days. On top of that, we’re going downhill, we should actually be able to walk 30km to 35km a day, without any additional effort, since we would not feel the weight of our pulkas”… However, Greenland decided to teach us humility one more time. 

It started to snow, day after day, after day.

It was physically so intense to walk that deep in the snow, pulling our pulkas was a burden that we had to accept. Each step challenged our body, and our mind. We started to walk 9 to 10 hours a day, but despite our expectations, barely managed to walk the same distance than when we covered when walking uphill.

Being tired was not a reason to stop. We told ourselves, tired is just information.

We had to push our limits forward. We had to find energy we didn’t know that we had, deep down inside us, or we wouldn’t make it. 

At the end of every day, we kept on making the same time vs distance calculations. However, there was always more and more snow every day. Every day the visibility worsened, until we could not see our skis. On the 28th day, we wanted to make 30km, it was important for us to do so. We made it, in 13 hours. We were so tired that when we set up the camp, we were in some sort of zombie state, too tired to even think. On the 29th day, the snow continued to play with our nerves, and we barely walked 6 km in 5 hours. One of us was injured, and could just not push forward.

That was it, our limit was reached. 

We were at 20 km from the extraction point, but just 5 km from the coast. We had to make a critical decision. We just had 1 day left of food. At our current pace, we would reach the extraction point within 3 days. We could kept on walking, or set up the camp here, and wait for the helicopter to pick us up tomorrow. We decided to set up the camp, and wait for a clear weather window for the helicopter to come in and get us… The next day arrived, and no one could get to us because of the weather. It was the 30th day, and we were completely out of food. The next clear weather window was in 4 days. 

At that very moment, something triggered in our minds.

We were not making any sort of calculations anymore, we were not expecting anything from anyone. We just accepted it. Nature always win. Period.

We just had to smile and face it. Finally, Greenland taught us humility, and we knew it. In the tent, we were just talking, peacefully, calmly. We had to call the pilot every hour to give him some updates about the weather, and every hour he would tell us that we had to wait one more hour. Until the 31st day, in the afternoon, we finally saw the chopper. Accepting our fate felt like the obliged path we had to take, to unlock the door to make our way home.


It was unexpected that one of the hardest parts of the adventure, was to keeping our minds busy for 10 to 13 hours a day. I realised that I had so much time to think about things I had never considered before.

I would think of my girlfriend, my friends, my family, my startup Weesurf. Then I started to think about myself. I asked, why am I doing this? What kind of life do I want? What makes me truly happy? Why do I do the job that I do? Why do I love this or that? What can I change about myself? And for every question, I kept asking myself, why? For example, why do you want to make money? To buy stuff? But why? To travel? But why? To get a flat? But why? And I finally figured out what kind of life I wanted to follow, and what makes me happy…

Discover, Learn and Share.

I also realised that I used to consider money as something to value things and to set barriers. Something we all have to live for, and to live by, but I ask myself how I lived so many experiences over the last 2 years, and at that time I didn’t get paid by Weesurf. I went to Greenland to pursue my dream with almost no money on my bank account. I put in all my strength and effort, to make it all possible, because that would make me happy. I would discover, learn and share an adventure. No matter what, I would do my best to realise it. Whilst I was walking on the ice, I imagined if everyone would have a passion for his or her project, if everyone would put all of his or her faith and efforts to realise his or her dream, people would probably be happier. 

I’m very thankful that Thomas changed my life when he offered me on the Station F’s Slack, to set up a team to cross Greenland. He has made me an happier person. I told myself that I’ll do my best to do the same for everyone else.

So ask I you this. What is your dream? What prevents you from making it real? What are you doing to make it happen? If you’re not struggling enough, maybe it’s not your dream. What is your dream?

Remember, calm, patience, humility.

You can discover your own ice sheets in Greenland here with the Outdoor Voyage.

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