James Cameron Takes on World's Largest Sea Trench

Hollywood director James Cameron is extreme — there's no other word that accurately describes him. In case you needed more proof than his ridiculous Hollywood track record — he was the director of Titanic and Avatar, the two highest grossing films of all time — Cameron is now set to break the world record for deepest solo sub pilot dive (a record previously held by none other than James Cameron).

Cameron's attempt is sponsored by National Geographic (in case you didn't know, Cameron is an "explorer-in-residence" at NatGeo) and has been named the DEEPSEA CHALLENGE expedition, which is a totally sweet and action-packed name. In preliminary testing off the coast of Papua New Guinea earlier this week, Cameron set the record for deepest solo mission at 5.1 miles below sea level. In a matter of weeks, he plans on soloing at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, 6.8 miles below sea level.

The entire crew of the DEEPSEA CHALLENGE expedition will be following in the footsteps of the 1960 Trieste two-man expedition, which successfully reached the bottom of the Trench despite a cracked outer window.

In case you were suspecting that Cameron would bring down a 3D camera to capture the whole experience, you would be predictably right. Beyond collecting samples for scientific experiments, Cameron will be creating a feature-length documentary about the experience, probably falling somewhere between his late '80s deep-sea thriller, The Abyss and his more recent documentaries on deep sea diving, Aliens of the Deep and Ghosts of the Abyss (in which Cameron revisited the Titanic wreck).

You can follow the expedition at www.deepseachallenge.com and read a detailed letter in which Cameron subtly brags to Trieste explorer Don Walsh about his latest test dive: "You'd have loved it. . . . JC."

-Justin Cohn

3 Outdoor Adventure Records Broken this Week

The world of outdoor sports blew up this past week, showing us once more why pushing ourselves to the limits can let us experience the world in a way that few other people get to. Good thing the sponsors are there with full camera crews to help out. Watch the videos below!

1.  Tao Berman surfs the biggest wave in a kayak.

"I've always admired what big wave surfers can do," says Red-Bull-sponsored white water kayaker Tao Berman in his video, "And that's pretty much how it began." Referring to his three-year quest to kayak big waves, Tao, who already holds the world record for biggest waterfall kayak drop, hit it on March 11, at Oregon's Nellscott Reef. Deciding to retire once he achieved this goal, he was towed into and rode a 40-foot wave with his specially-designed kayak, thus ending his paddling career with a bomb.

2.  Polish team completes winter summit of Gasherbrum I (and now re-ascends on a rescue mission). 

Steinbeck, Bikers, and Slimy Critters

Eric Morgan recalls guiding Interior Secretary Ken Salazar through the pastoral hills outside Fort Ord in Monterey, California. To the west, the maritime chaparral unfurled for miles beneath their feet before giving way to a peninsula, where the land crawls under the Pacific and great whites swim offshore.

 “He kept calling the place a crown jewel,” says Morgan, the project manager of habitat restoration at Fort Ord, which is under BLM jurisdiction.

Secretary Salazar is only the most recent "somebody" to pass through Fort Ord. In 1776, Juan Bautista de Anza slept beneath the hills on his journey from Tubac (now Tucson) to San Francisco, where he established the Presidio. John Steinbeck called the nearby Gabilan Range “beckoning mountains with brown grass love.” (Their westerly counterparts, the Santa Lucia’s, he said, were “brooding — unfriendly and dangerous”).  And from 1917 to 1994, the fort served as a military base. Unexploded shells still lurk behind Keep Out signs.

The fort is as worthy of exploration as it is rich in history. Hikers can search for threatened California tiger salamanders — amphibians known to slink through vernal pools and co-opt rodent burrows — and view Toro Manzanita, a fuzzy plant with 90 percent of its range on Fort Ord lands. Each year, 100,000 people travel Fort Ord’s 86 miles of trails, and half of them ride mountain bikes. Some say it’s the choice single-track on the Monterey Peninsula.

Skiing the Sacred Headwaters of British Columbia

A team of five young skiers from Colorado have set out to explore a vast stretch of backcountry in British Columbia, a place where caribou, stone sheep, and grizzlies roam.

Friends since college, the group first explored the area during a post-graduation backpacking trek, but they soon became aware of the many environmental issues facing this wilderness. 

This is the ancestral land of the Tahltan First Nations people, home to the Sacred Headwaters, which feed three of Canada's most important salmon rivers — the Stikine, the Skeena and the Nass. This pristine wilderness has sustained the Tahltan for centuries and they have united to keep their land from being exploited.

Thus far proposals for a railway, an airstrip, and a dam have all failed, and they have managed to thwart a proposal by the Ministry of Forest to greatly increase the tree harvest. In 2005, when Fortune Minerals tried to move machinery in, the locals created a physical blockade to keep them out. Their battle against Royal Dutch Shell's coal bed methane project was ferocious, resulting in many arrests. A moratorium was put into place forbidding Shell to speak with the local community, one that is set to expire at the end of 2012.

Canyons of the Imagination

I once went on a teenage wilderness trip to chase glossy photos of the West. It was my first time in the burned, twisted canyons of Utah. What I got was my own crow’s nest a deathly distance above the Colorado River, and a sense of unimaginable places over the horizon. That September, I returned to Chicago, my home. The streets felt like desiccated riverbeds and the skyscrapers blocked out the sun like glassy canyon walls. Red rock was everywhere, a spot that stuck to my eye after I’d stared into a bright light.

I’ve been back half a dozen times. Soon after that first trip my family travelled to Moab, the boiling desert port of Southeast Utah. It looked to me like Earth’s Tatooine, only with ice cream outposts and drive-in motels. I remember teasing a girl on the main drag of the town because I had a crush I didn’t understand what to do with, and she got me back with itchy powder from a magic-trick store. On that same trip we went to stare at rock paintings. As I tried to guess what had changed since 1200 AD, the crowd started chirping. Some onlooker had stumbled backwards onto a chipmunk. I cried while my father magnanimously videotaped it dying, fending off my pleas that he let it pass without an audience. “It’s an experience,” he explained. That night he sulked on his foamy motel bed because my mom had made him jettison the tape.