In 2015, my trekking journey began during a trip across Crimea. As often happens with the unexpected, completely unplanned, I set off solo toward Mount Demerdzhi. Along the way, city sneakers gave me painful blisters, a sudden cloud rolled in, and I lost my way near the summit as darkness fell.
Enveloped in the mist, I realized something profound: the moment you leave the city and the crowds far behind, the mind goes quiet, problems lose their weight, and your senses sharpen. Complete presence took over: the cry of a hawk diving into the valley, the crunch of gravel underfoot, fine drizzle on my face, navigating an unmarked path.
A rare and powerful feeling of connecting with nature one-on-one.
I made my descent in pitch darkness, guided only by flashes of lightning under a heavy downpour. Completely exhausted and soaked to the bone, I reached home in the dead of night and collapsed onto the bed.
By morning, I knew that this single day had given me more emotion, clarity, peace, and depth than the entire motorcycle journey across Crimea and all my previous travels through Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, and beyond.
Longing to reconnect with that feeling, the following summer I prepared thoroughly and set out once more. I hiked hundreds of kilometers solo across the Caucasus through Russia and Georgia, and hitchhiked across Turkey. This deep dialogue with nature and two months of sleeping under canvas helped me truly understand myself, and my life began to change.
I resigned from my career in private banking and joined the team at the outdoor specialist Sport-Marafon. I ventured to Nepal, and then farther north, where I discovered the most pristine, raw, and untouched wilderness. The Arctic captured my heart a decade ago, and year after year that call only grows stronger. Today, I spend more and more time exploring the harsh and breathtaking tundra solo — on foot and on skis — sharing this extraordinary world with others.
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