GUESTBLOG

Our inspiring guests discussing all aspects of adventure

7. It’s Not That Hard: Just Pick Up Your Cat And Go by Yasmine Wiersema (the Netherlands)

Introduction: Very happy to introduce our next guest blogger! Yasmine and I went to the same university back in the day and we both started our careers afterwards. Life got hectic, our schedules were busy, there was always something to do, and the Alps weren’t exactly around the corner either.

Only much later did we realise that our paths were pointing in the same geographical direction, drifting away from the flattest country on earth. Destination: the mountains!

Read all about her authentic and heartfelt move in this blog — about staying close to who you truly are, listening to yourself, and why sometimes we should just make the move (a.k.a. just pick up your cat).

Enjoy! And if you need a sign to emigrate, this might be it. 🙂

I want to start by saying that I am honored to share this (online) space with these other adventurers, athletes, wise humans.

I’m not an athlete, but simply an individual with a heart full of love for the great outdoors, and I chose to pursue that love, my own way.

I’ve always been a contemplative kid, observing the world, never really fitting in, feeling extremely passionate about animal rights and caring for the environment. School was easy, making friends wasn’t. But I tried hard, did my extracurriculars, grew through childhood trauma, and came out somewhat okay at the end of the tunnel.

Eventually, I even “had it all”: university degrees, a house, a great job, partner, car, cat. Drinks with friends on Friday night – planned carefully, because of everyone’s busy agendas. And guess what: I wasn’t happy. 50 hours per week at the office? Planning everything three months in advance? Still somehow always being broke? I knew that this wasn’t gonna be the way I was going to spend my years. I just never encountered an example of an alternative, so I followed the path that was laid out for me.

My first great love
About ten years ago, in 2015, I made a move that – in retrospect – changed my life: I spent my first winter season in the Alps, in Tirol, working for a skischool. Wow, what a breath of fresh air! The simplicity of that life widened my perspective enormously. And something else happened too. I was drawn towards these mountain peaks and ridges with such power I hadn’t experienced before.

I kept going to the Alps, as often as I could, summers and winters. I learned to climb, bike, hike, run; I learned about the animals that live here, the plants, glaciers and rocks, how everything moves and interacts; I learned about safety, sleeping in huts, nourishing my body. And it felt so right. Everything I already knew in my fibres, about living in balance, leaving no trace, kindness and respect for all living beings and natural processes – it suddenly made sense.

Every time I made the drive, my heart would jump at the first sight of those rugged peaks. Butterflies tickled my stomach. They still do.

Can I hitch a ride to my future?
Two years ago, an opportunity presented itself and I just leapt. It all went so quickly but still somehow very well-planned. An apartment became available in the village where it all started – and it was mine if I wanted it (okay, I stalked the landlady every week until she agreed to let me rent it). I burned pretty much every bridge: I quit my job, ended my relationship, sold our house and most of our stuff, handed in my car, picked up my cat Spooky and off we went. We hitched a ride – I still cannot believe how well that all came together – and moved in with almost no possessions.

I started my own company in the field that I studied in and made it work – because I had to, our lives and freedom depended on it, so I worked hard to attract clients and projects I believe in. Now, I get to decide how I spend my time, and like Geert (guest blogger #5) wrote, the clock in my head faded away.

The mountains calm me down, and invite me: come up here, tiny human, and feel alive. And I have the freedom to listen to this call and go.

Sounds perfect? Don’t let social media fool you; nothing is. Making new friends or learning the dialect is tough. I’ve spent a lot of time regretting my relationship break. But at the end of the day, I’m happy. People ask me if I want to stay here until I’m 80 and I firmly say: no. There’s so much to explore, outside and within – and this was never about settling, but rather about following my heart.

Learning by doing, and being
I am slowly stripping myself of all the layers of expectations that formed me when I was younger. I keep discovering that I am not done, that there is more. To discover, to unpack, to grow. I am still searching. But where feeling uncertain would make me nervous and stressed in the past, I learned that this is for me the entire purpose of being alive! What a blessing that I have all this space and time to discover how I function, how I relate to nature and to life!

There are many lessons here, but I think an important one is: we are part of nature, but most of us forgot (or never learned) how to be in touch with that, and going on adventures outside strengthens that connection enormously. It’s healing; it gives you perspective; it teaches you what really matters and what doesn’t matter so much. It cuts out all the distraction and noise that we’ve grown accustomed to in our fast-paced world.

A simpler lesson is: it’s really not that hard to make a change in your life. But it isn’t going to happen for you. You gotta get up and take action. You can’t fail as long as you see everything as a learning experience and are ready to adapt.

I would love to be a mountain guide in the future, to show all of this to people, or at least help them dip their toes in. For me, adventuring high in the mountains and personal growth are inevitably intertwined. If you — yes, you! — ever find yourself in the Ötztal region of Tirol: feel free to reach out, we can hike and philosophize! (Find me on instagram: @yas_shreds)

Thank you for reading! I’ve never shared this story as a whole. Thank you Daniel for lending me your platform.

6. We are adventurers. We don’t ask when we’ll get there. We keep going until we do- by Gabrielle ten Velde (the Netherlands)

Introduction: very excited to introduce our next guest blogger, who also happens to be a very dear friend of mine ! Gabrielle is an experienced ultrarunner who loves adventure. She has won multiple ultra races in the Ardennes (Bello Gallico, The Great Escape, and was the last standing female at Another One Bites the Dust). I always give her the nickname “Speedy Gonzalez” — even after 100 miles.
Fun fact: she holds the record for the most visits to the Bavarian Alps and our mountain village of all Dutch people (we’ve lost count!).
We’ve shared many adventures together (in Oberallgäu and on the Goldsteig) and even set a mixed gender winter FKT on the 175 km Marienweg in cold conditions here in the Alps.
In this lovely essay, she tells us about her sacred space for discomfort and the special role ultrarunning plays in her (busy) life. Enjoy and be inspired!

Officially, an ultra is any distance longer than a marathon.
For me, ultra running is not about the exact distance anymore.
It’s about adventure. About curiosity. About freedom. About being human.

Ultra running is much more than a sport to me.
It’s a way of understanding life — and myself.

Curiosity as a starting point

I started running ultras in 2018 out of curiosity. Back then, could I complete 80 kilometers? I felt tension. Expected pain. Thought my body would struggle. That I might become extremely tired from the midnight start. That I would hallucinate and mistake trees for animals.

What stayed with me most is how something can feel so immense and yet still manageable. I learned to break an ultra into small pieces. Not to think about 80 kilometers, but to run from aid station to aid station.

At the finish, everything came out. The release was overwhelming. The fatigue and emotions were given space. My training had resulted in a successful first ultra of 80 kilometers.

But above all: that ultra gave me far more than miles.

Connection and simplicity

I discovered a deep connection with myself.
The noise in my head quieted. Life became simple.
Was there a problem? Then I solved it.
Eat. Drink. Navigate. Put one foot in front of the other.

I just had to “be there.”

That first ultra was the beginning of more. Not only more kilometers, but especially more insight. More layers. Finding more of myself.

A safe place for discomfort

Ultra running is, for me, a safe place to feel discomfort.

In an ultra, you can’t avoid it: fatigue, pain, doubt, frustration. But I learned that discomfort is not dangerous. It comes… and it also goes.

I carry that lesson into my daily life. Tension with the children. Conflicting interests at work. Emotional stress in friendships or romantic relationships. Those are also moments of discomfort. The ultra teaches me that I don’t have to run from them immediately. That I don’t have to fix everything. I’m allowed to move through it.

Just like a climb that feels endless, but eventually levels out.

While running an ultra, I practice this — so I can handle daily life better.

Honesty, trust, and choosing

Running ultras has taught me that listening to myself doesn’t always mean the same thing.

I once ran an ultra with an iron deficiency. Even missing the starting gun and beginning an hour and a half late were not clear enough signals for me at the time that I should have skipped the event. Looking back, it was mostly my ego that was shouting. I should have listened to my body.

At the same time, both while running and in daily life, I notice how my mind can sometimes drag me into overanalysis: doubting, weighing options, looking for reasons to quit even though I had consciously chosen beforehand.

In those moments, listening isn’t always helpful. Sometimes you’re allowed to continue. Because you’ve thought about why you want this. Because you’ve trained. Because you’ve chosen. In those moments, I can ignore my mind for a while and trust that earlier decision. Keep moving step by step — until I get there. As my daughter says: we are adventurers; we don’t ask when we’ll get there, we keep going until we do.

Truly getting to know and accept yourself

Over the years, my curiosity grew. I ran the Legends Trail — 273 kilometers with 11,000 meters of elevation gain.

During that adventure, I encountered a deeper layer of myself again. I have a rough edge. When I’m truly stressed, I become sharp. Sometimes unreasonable. And then I react overstimulated. For a long time, I wondered how I could fix that.

The answer is simple, but (still) not easy: acceptance.

It’s part of me.

That rough edge is also part of who I am as person. The other side of the coin. Because I am also a lot of enthusiasm, a lot of optimism, a lot of energy.

I am me.

Together is better

I don’t take this journey alone.

My family — and especially my mom — my friends, and my running partners complete this path. They support, listen, wait, run alongside me, or stand on the sidelines. Together is simply better than alone. Without them, running ultras would never have held the same meaning.

From miles to living in freedom

Thanks to ultra running, I’ve gotten to know myself better. The focus shifted from competition to being human. To experiencing adventures. To connection with myself, with my running partners, and with nature. Fewer stimuli. More love.

I knew that feeling of freedom before. As a teenage girl, on my horse Winnie. Riding outside for hours. Running as fast as possible. Without explanation. Without justification. Only now do I see the similarity.

Maybe ultra running isn’t an escape from daily life with work, obligations, and expectations. Maybe it’s precisely the place where I return to the core of my definition of being human.

This is why

For me, ultra running is:
Curiosity.
Honesty.

5. When the clock stops: my journey from the rat race to peace, nature, and the unknown-  by Geert van Nispen (the Netherlands)

Introduction: stoked to introduce our next guest blogger, who truly embodies the spirit of this website and lives for adventure! Although I’ve never met Geert personally, his story fascinated me from the very beginning. Here is a man who sold his house and fulfilled a dream many of us share: dedicating himself fully to adventure. What happens when you leave the rat race and tailor your life around nature and its rhythms? Enjoy this inspiring read about new horizons, the courage to start something new, and the long-term effects of such life-changing decisions.

Here in Andalusia, where the morning light softly brushes the hills and the earth smells of thyme and damp rocks, the sunrise slides slowly over my skin. The light feels heavy, as if it has gained character after years of haste and pressure. I smell the coffee cooling in my mug, and all around me, there is silence real silence. Not the kind of pause that simply interrupts, but a silence that feels like an invitation: dare to listen.

I remember exactly how it was, those long years when I was always busy. Always moving forward. Always planning. Always performing.

My life felt like a rat race without a finish line. Work, deadlines, achievements. And yet, a gnawing emptiness, I now realize.

Until the moment everything stopped.

The First Wake-Up CallIt was the end of August 2018. I stood at the edge of a ravine that didn’t appear on any map. Inside, everything rattled. I had felt this before the first burnout seven years earlier but this time it was different. I felt a constant pressure on my chest; the energy was gone, along with the ability to form clear thoughts.

It was the end of August 2018. I stood at the edge of a ravine that didn’t appear on any map. Inside, everything rattled. I had felt this before the first burnout seven years earlier but this time it was different. I felt a constant pressure on my chest; the energy was gone, along with the ability to form clear thoughts.

I thought, “I don’t want this anymore. Now it’s enough.” That was the beginning. Not an epic revelation, but a gentle, urgent realization that I needed to change my course.

The first sacrifice was control. I let go of the idea that I had to have everything under control. Fear of the unknown didn’t disappear; I slowly embraced it. Because I knew: as long as I held on, nothing would change.

Working to Live, or Living to Work?

For years I had been successful, productive, good at what I did. But I always felt, in hindsight, a constriction around my throat: Is this it? Is this all there is?

I noticed how the thought of retirement frightened me. Why wait to live until later if I am healthy and full of energy now? When I faced this truth, it felt as if a ticking clock began pounding in my chest. Every second seemed to tick faster than the one before, as if forcing me to realize that time flows on, whether you want it to or not.

The realization struck me: I didn’t want a life measured by productivity, to-do lists, or money-driven choices.

The Sacrifice of Certainty

Freedom is not a free ticket. It took courage to let go of both work and security. I didn’t take a sabbatical; that would have felt like a pause in the same race. It had to be truly different. So I quit my job a life-changing decision.

When I did, reality hit: no steady salary, no guarantee for tomorrow. But instead of fear, I felt something else: space. Finally, space to feel, to listen, to explore.

The rat race, as I knew it, didn’t just stop logging in and out of systems. It stopped in my mind. The rhythm that once pulsed through my system faded, giving way to a rhythm I had forgotten or perhaps had never truly known: the rhythm of life itself.

Nature as Compass

The first time I truly felt the silence of nature, it was as if I had come home. Not like opening a warm door to familiar possessions, but a coming-home in my own soul.

The scent of the forest, the rustling of leaves, the wind gliding through the air it felt as if the world invited me to slow down, to be rather than do.

During long hikes and runs through forests, fields, and mountains, I noticed something remarkable: the clock that always ticked in my mind became silent. Birds sang their own time; my breath followed their rhythm.

It was not just nature around me; it became nature within me.

Choosing the Unknown

The thrill wasn’t only in the nature itself. The thrill was in the unknown, the feeling of not knowing what tomorrow would bring, and knowing that it was okay.

I told myself:

“If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough.”

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf

I realized this over and over again during long solo journeys on paths without maps, through silence without time, past mountains I didn’t yet know how to climb. The unknown became not an enemy but my fuel.

The Path of Freedom

Over a period of three and a half years, I made three life-changing decisions: to acknowledge that something had to change, to let go of certainty and work, and to choose my own path, not that of others.

And then something miraculous happened: I stopped looking back.

On January 2, 2025, I sold my last piece of certainty: my house. That was not a farewell to things. It was a farewell to expectations, obligations, and a life that was no longer mine.

My Current Life: Freedom, Nature, and Adventure

I live freedom. Not as an escape from my past, but as a conscious choice for a different rhythm. Here, in nature, my day no longer follows an agenda, but the light, the wind, and my breathing.

Freedom has become, for me, not a grand concept but something tangible. It is in waking up without a clock, in walking without a plan, in trusting that the next step will appear naturally. Movement is my compass- not to reach somewhere, but to stay present.

Nature has taught me to slow down. To listen rather than direct. In forests, mountains, and open landscapes, the unrest in my mind quieted, making space for simplicity. The rhythm of life itself took over.

The unknown is no longer a threat. It is an invitation. Every day, I choose not to want to know everything, not to control everything. It is precisely there, in not-knowing, that I experience space and direction.

Adventure is not a goal in itself. It is the way I live. With my feet on the earth, my backpack as home, and my heart open to whatever comes. The world is my path, my breath my guide, and the unknown my companion.

For more information visit: https://geertvannispen.nl/

4. Chilled to the bone- by Claire Schmahl (Scotland)

Introduction: very excited to introduce our next guest blogger! Claire is involved in many adventure-related endeavours such as climbing, ultrarunning, and medicine, and shows us all that one can combine skills from work and adventure—and have a lot of fun while doing it. I worked alongside Claire in the emergency department at the same hospital, and her enthusiasm was always contagious. She also supported me on the Allgäuer Weg and the 300 km Barbarossa Trail, where we shared special memories in the freezing cold. We also popped a couple of blisters. This narrative is therefore fitting! Enjoy this inspiring article, featuring many hands-on tips from a passionate adventure medic who has workedin extreme environments.

Hey, I´m Claire and just like everyone visiting this website, I love seeking out adventure. The past few years I have been lucky enough to have had some opportunities to combine my work as a doctor with adventure. I want to take you on a journey to the frozen winter wonderland in Yukon and provide some tips to prevent yourself from becoming a rescue mission. In January I headed to Yukon, North Canada, to act as a first responder for an arctic ultramarathon. The temperatures were extreme. Before I left, I had joked that there couldn’t be much difference between -20 and -30. Everything below 20 is just extremely cold. Well the temperatures below 30 hit me like an ice wall. There is an exponentially big difference between -20, -30, -40 and even -50. At -50 every breath hurts and any exposed skin feels like it has been thrown into a chillblaster. Anyway, in the magical snowy barren land, which feels quite literally like the end of the world and completely isolated apart from the skylink, the best medical advice is to prevent injuries and illness. Easier said than done when the athletes are running, skiing or cycling 620km with a time limit of 10 days. They have to make their own shelters and melt their own water. We have set up check points in the middle of untravelled territory but these check points are also just a couple of tents. Fun fact, which I wish I had known before experiencing -50, petrol freezes at -40 (depending on the ethanol level). We discovered this when we wanted to use a chainsaw to chop down a tree to make fire, which was also our way to melt ice for water. That was a very cold and long night. Of the 47 athletes, more succumbed to frostbite than who crossed the finishline. Could this have been prevented? The most common mistake was over dressing. This is very difficult to get right in hilly terrain. The biggest problem was sweating on the way up and then shivering all the way down. The steep ups and downs also cause very local temperature changes as big as 7 degrees. So tip number 1; prevent sweating, and if you do sweat then change your socks and gloves before going onto the easier terrain. As you can imagine, after a while the tempo dies down and the energy bar starts to hit 0. No matter how much you try to eat, the amount of energy used to keep a normal core temperature and exercise is always going to be more. While running on nearly empty, your body temperature will eventually start to drop. It is important to prevent hypothermia and stay alert. That means stopping to rest on time and eating high caloric food as often as possible, even if you can’t face yet another mars bar or aren’t hungry. Getting sufficient rest is also important. Another common mistake was the 1 second lapse in situational awareness. For example, not having enough fine motoric control with your gloves on and taking your gloves off in -40 to touch a metal tent pole is a 1 second mental error that could cost you the race, or worse, your finger. Bigger problems can occur when due to exhaustion mixed in with hypothermia and possibly hypoglycemia or electrolyte imbalances, people start hallucinating. It can be mild, such as seeing dogs or other animals. But it can escalate to the point that people think they are running with someone and might end up going off the path. Especially in this terrain, this can be fatal. Or even hallucinating that you are in a nice warm bed… There are so many amazing places presenting so many exciting opportunities for adventure. We should take all those opportunities but remain humble to Mother Nature. It’s always good to double check you know the risks and what to do when problems occur. Prevention is better than cure; especially in the wilderness. In case you ever do end up with frostbite here are a few very important things to remember Only reheat when there is no chance of it being refrozen! Use painkillers, paracetamol 4d1000mg and ibuprofen 600-800mg 3 times a day (maximum 2400mg per day) Ibuprofen also helps reduce the amount of damage, that’s why it is in a higher dosage than normal (please ask a doctor for advice beforehand to check if there are any contraindications or allergies, which is self-explanatory). Cover blisters and keep them intact Call for an emergency evacuation! Feel free to reach out to me if you would like any advice or have any questions (Instagram: claire.scotty.bear)

3. Life is now- “doen wat kan!” by Mike Tesser (the Netherlands)

Introduction: we start 2026 with a guestblogger and ultrarunner that needs no introduction- loved and widely known by the trail community. Mike Tesser completed an epic 500k run along the Dutch coast in harsh weather- showing his endless determination – before becoming a devastating medical diagnosis. When all FKTs and runners of the year were discussed, it was clear to me he was actually the real ultrarunner of the year, being out there despite all odds. Never losing his sense of adventure, he coined the quote ” doen wat kan ” (doing what is possible) despite setbacks. By doing so he inspired everyone, runners and non-runners alike. It is an honour to hear about his definition of adventure and his journey so far.

Thursday, January 12, 2023, I started my longest run ever, not yet knowing whether I would succeed in this adventure, this journey, this expedition. A qualification for myself, to prove that I can complete this—something I have been carrying with me since 2019. Not specifically for this Duinhopper XL, but for an Ultra. An Ultra of several nights, because that is what I consider an Ultra: at least one night without sleep and well over 100 kilometers. Together with Arjan Roukema, we traveled on Wednesday evening to Aldinkerke, on the French–Belgian border. We went with a camper, with one goal for me: to finish. For Arjan it would be no less demanding. Deep respect for the crews who make adventures like this possible. The weather forecasts were extreme: a southwesterly storm with coastal wind gusts up to force 10, hail, a lot of rain, and snow… I got to know Arjan in Italy during the TOR des Géants in Courmayeur; we clicked immediately. In December I visited Arjan at his home, and he had heard something about a Duinhopper and had some time available to crew for me—said and done. I’ve mentioned it before in various podcasts—@looppraat.nl and the @loopleippodcast—that Maarten Schon and Marek Vis are a huge inspiration for doing “crazy” things. The COVID period gave the final push: plenty of time, so the start of the ultra distances began with the Devilish Challenge, the 666 and the 999. That’s how I ran my first 100 km in November 2020, and after that things got a little out of hand. In 2021, I ran a 24-hour backyard with 172 km for Alzheimer Nederland, and in September 2021 I made my first attempt at the Duinhopper, which failed miserably—at 94 km near Bloemendaal—due to inadequate preparation. With a lot of enthusiasm you can’t just run 220 km. It was wet—very wet—and I didn’t have the right clothing, read: rain gear. January 15, 2022, attempt number two, starting from Hoek van Holland, together with Sameena van der Meijden, Gerben Oevermans, and Hinke Schokker, and this time with a camper as support. Better weather, better preparation. I succeeded, and 42 hours later I stood under the boulder in Den Helder. Wow, wow—how amazing that was. The final section with Frank Dorenbos and Annelie Weedega, hallucinating like crazy, but how awesome it was. Forty-two hours of continuous running, occasionally closing my eyes in the camper—suffering deeply and enjoying it just as much. Having to dig deep, and especially those nights, so magically beautiful. That Duinhopper XL: 549 km in 5.5 days, 134 hours, from Aldinkerke, Belgium, to Den Helder, through forests and dune areas. Officially, the Duinhopper XL is 504 km, but because many sections were under water, I was allowed to improvise somewhat. I also had many physical issues due to severe diarrhea. The unfinished TOR des Géants 330 through the Aosta Valley in northwest Italy—where I was pulled out at 200 km after sustaining bruised intercostal muscles from a fall at 30 km—are, for now, the highlights of my “short” ultra running life. Being on the road, in nature, the silence, being together—but especially being alone—the calculating, the putting things into perspective, coming back to yourself, dying and rising again. It makes me proud that I have been able to do and experience this a number of times. As a final “trick,” I would very much like to stand there once more in September, in Courmayeur, at the start of the TOR des Géants 330. Registration opens on Saturday, January 10. I will register, but with cancellation insurance, because life is extremely uncertain at the moment. Since December 19, I know that I have developed a new tumor in the cerebellum, but with the possibility to also irradiate this one. That process will probably start in week 2 of January. Since June 15, 2024, I have known that I have a brain tumor, and since August 2024 that it is a glioblastoma grade 4—an aggressive, proliferating tumor with an extremely poor life expectancy of a few months to one or two years. At this moment, I am at 18 months, two weeks, and two days, which in that regard is good, but the new tumor makes me uncertain and afraid. And yes, I believe that my fitness—I ran a 60 km ultra on the Utrechtse Heuvelrug the week before I became ill—has helped me to be where I am now. Fit, strong, able to put things into perspective, with perseverance and positivity. We always call that being comfortable with the uncomfortable. And of course, not unimportant, the close-knit ultra trail community, the many friends, and so many wonderful people around us who are there for us and help us forget this misery, even if only for a moment.

LIFE IS NOW!

#doenwatkan

2. Beyond the Summit – an 8000m attempt by Max Widdershoven (the Netherlands)

Introduction: honoured to welcome our next guestblogger, a true mountain lover, who shares valuable insights that might be more valuable than the actual summit. May his realistic attitude towards mountains inspire us all!

I didn’t grow up dreaming about summits or records. My fascination with mountains started quietly, almost by accident.

In 2018 I was travelling for a year and ended up in Nepal. I walked the Annapurna Circuit without really knowing what to expect. I remember being tired, walking for hours, and then suddenly looking up and realising how big those mountains really were. Not pretty-big, but overwhelming-big. They didn’t care about me being there. And somehow, that was exactly what pulled me in.

Back in the Netherlands, that feeling stayed with me. I couldn’t shake the question of how people actually move through those environments on their own strength. I started reading, training, and looking for ways to gain experience at altitude. A few months later I found myself in South America, climbing high peaks in the Andes. Being high for days, dealing with thin air and long approaches, taught me more than any book ever could. Everything slowed down. You move, rest, eat, and think differently up there.
When I returned home, I decided to take it seriously and signed up for a mountaineering course. That’s where I met my climbing partner, Maarten. From that point on, things moved fast. We started climbing unguided in the Alps, learning as we went, trusting each other more with every route. Somewhere along the way, the idea of climbing an 8000-meter peak stopped feeling absurd.

In 2022, we went to Manaslu (8,163 m).

I knew it was going to be hard. I just didn’t know in what way.

The expedition started with a week-long hike to base camp at 4,800 meters. Above that were four camps before the summit. Everything revolves around acclimatisation—going up and down so your body can adapt to the lack of oxygen. On paper it makes sense. In reality, it’s slow, uncomfortable, and mentally draining. You wait a lot. You feel weak a lot. And you rarely feel in control.

Manaslu is usually climbed in September and October. September is for acclimatising, October for summiting. In 2022, the monsoon didn’t follow the script. It kept raining. For weeks. Snow fell on wet layers, the mountain became increasingly unstable, and conditions deteriorated day by day.

My body followed that same downward line. I got sick and couldn’t finish my acclimatisation rotations. Just before the planned summit push, I suffered a serious neck injury. At one point, the pain was so intense that I couldn’t even get out of my tent. My neck cramped, nerves were pinched, and I could only scream and roll on the ground, begging for it to stop. Eventually, the base camp doctor had to intervene, giving me multiple injections just to get me moving again. If this had happened higher up on the mountain, the outcome could have been very different.

Eventually, I was flown to a hospital. From there, all I could do was watch and wait. When my team started their summit push, things went wrong fast. Multiple large avalanches came down the mountain. One hit base camp directly. All teams decided to abandon their attempts and descend.

During that descent, another avalanche struck. Our head Sherpa, Dawa, didn’t survive. It was a tragic loss. At the same time, it is an uncomfortable truth that incidents like this are part of the reality of high-altitude expeditions. Knowing that beforehand doesn’t make it easier when it happens. It forced me to look more honestly at why I was there.

I knew the risks before going. I had accepted them in theory. Living with the consequences was something else entirely. Losing someone puts everything into a different perspective. The summit stopped mattering instantly.

I didn’t stand on top of Manaslu. But I didn’t come back empty-handed either.

That mountain taught me more than any successful climb ever could. About limits. About respect. About how thin the line really is. The mountains don’t reward effort or ambition, they simply allow you passage, or they don’t.

Since then, I’ve continued climbing. Peaks like the Matterhorn and Alpamayo have given me new experiences and confidence. But Manaslu changed how I look at the mountains. I listen more. I question plans more often. I’m less interested in proving something, and more interested in simply enjoying the time I spend in the mountains.

The mountains will always have the final word.

Getting to the top is optional.
Getting down is mandatory.

1. The Path to Oneness by Teun Geurts (the Netherlands)

Introduction: honoured to welcome our first guestblogger, who also happened to be my first (and only!) running coach. Back in the days, he inspired me to run longer distances. He entails the spirit of ultrarunning with authentic, long and self-supported projects. Many of you will also know him from his Legends Trail 500k win. He touches upon an important topic many adventurers will recognize- the animalistic versus the civilized self. Enjoy his views on oneness & adventure !

In my mind, ultrarunning has never been a sport. To me, running has always been a means to discover the world. As a child, it was running from one tree to the next to climb, or from one ditch to the next to jump—always challenging myself to climb higher or jump farther. Later in life, I found that running was the perfect way to see more of the mountains in one day. Running down a mountain is faster than hiking, plain and simple. But I still loved a challenge, so I started to push myself toward longer distances and higher mountains, and beyond the boundaries of day and night. Somewhere along the way, I discovered that running in the mountains for a long time actually is a sport. I started to push myself even harder. By pushing harder, I found that running could also be a means to destroy the ego. When you are in the deepest hole on a dark, moonless winter night, it’s hard to think of yourself as a hero. In that way, ultrarunning became a means to push myself beyond the boundaries of the self. At that point, I realised that running can be a spiritual path of self-realisation and transcendence. Running became a means not only to travel through the physical world, but also through my inner world and the metaphysical world. I’m not going to pretend that I found all the answers, or that I am enlightened or anything. On the contrary, ultrarunning has only broadened my horizon and raised more questions. Who am I, really? Am I a spiritual being? What is spirituality? What about humanity? Are we the exalted beings we like to believe we are? Or are we just intelligent animals doing stupid things? What is spirituality anyway? I studied religions for a couple of years. Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity all seem like different paths to the same end. I would even go so far as to say that God, Dharma, Chance, and the Big Bang are all different words for the same concept. And spirituality, to me, simply is the desire for Oneness—to become One. When I started ultrarunning, I also started reading books about running tribes like the Bushmen and the Rarámuri. These beings were stigmatised by so-called civilised people as inferior, or even as animals. They were exterminated, their animistic worldviews beaten into submission by Christianity or other so-called civilised worldviews. To me, however, these beings are an inspiration. In my mind, they didn’t need a spiritual path to become One. They simply were One—one with nature and the universe. To me, they are the supreme pinnacle of humanity. And so I believed I had found my path to Oneness. I believe that by destroying and suppressing animistic people, we—civilised people—are suppressing part of ourselves. We are not only the well-behaved, civilised people we force ourselves and each other to be. By running ultras, I found that other part of myself. By pushing beyond boundaries, I found the animalistic part of myself. I discovered that it is not something to be afraid of, something that must be suppressed or destroyed, as I was taught. I found that it is powerful, beautiful, and bright. I have learned that the only way to become One is to accept both the animalistic and the civilised sides of myself. To become One, I must somehow unify both. To truly do this, however, is not so easy. There have been moments when I did so—sometimes accidentally. While running UTMB, for example, at my lowest point, I felt so grateful toward the people there to support me. I felt that I became the essence of gratitude. In that moment, the whole universe was gratitude. There was no time, no ego, no “I” or “me”; there was just gratitude. I went on to race in the Ardennes, culminating in a 500-kilometre race in 2020. I went so deep during that race. I feel I crossed a boundary there that I almost couldn’t come back from. At one point, I truly felt like a hunted animal. I felt the fear of the wounded animal. And only minutes later, I saw how the sun made the water drops sparkle like diamonds in the sky, and the whole world was a diamond. When night came, it started to snow, and I seemed to disappear. The next morning, however, the sun set the snow on fire. The world burst into bright light and brought me back from the darkness in my mind. At that moment, I realised that it’s all about self-acceptance. Somewhere along the way, I had become entangled in a fight between my animalistic self and my civilised self. My civilised self was frightened by my animalistic self and tried to suppress and destroy it. My animalistic self despised my civilised self for this and tried to kick the shit out of it. In those snow-covered forests, I realised that the only way to Oneness is complete and unreserved self-acceptance. To accept both dark and light is to become One. For a moment, I truly accepted myself and everything I carry with me. I cried out loud. And then I heard people talking on the track around the corner. As hard as it is for me to fully accept myself when I’m on my own—out in the forests or up in the mountains—to truly be my authentic self when I’m with people seems nearly impossible. I have been practicing this ever since that moment in the Ardennes in 2020, though. Although my relationship with life and people is as awkward as ever, I am determined to keep trying. And if there ever was a path to Oneness for me, it must be the path of running.