Each November, a small campus nestled beneath the soaring peaks of the Canadian Rockies becomes the creative center of the outdoor-adventure world.听 celebrates some of the finest work in mountain sports and culture, and for outdoor films, premiering at Banff is the equivalent of premiering on Broadway. The most popular movies from last fall are sure to appear throughout the 2019 festival circuit, and while sizzle reels will showcase big air and crazy exposure, in the best films, physical feats are secondary. Sure, sick drone footage is nice (for a three-minute short) and gnar-gnar accomplishments are cool (we need a bumper sticker: 鈥淣obody cares that you sent the gnar鈥�). But neither ensures a quality film. The power of story remains king.

Earlier听I wrote about the festival鈥檚 grand-prize winner,听, a thoughtful documentary about blind adventurer Erik Weihenmayer鈥檚 paddling journey through the Grand Canyon. My other favorites from Banff, reviewed here, also tended toward the contemplative while avoiding guilt trips and preaching鈥攁nd they stayed with me long after I left the theater.

opens with the fierce landscape of Burren, Ireland, where lush hillsides and fairy-tale forests roll along the horizon, seemingly untouched by time. Burren is home to Mesolithic tombs, an astonishing diversity of flora, and the struggles of modernity. Development threatens the region, namely a proposed visitor center and parking lots that would allow more people to enjoy Burren鈥檚 national park. Opponents suggest less impactful methods of enhancing access. The government pushes ahead (with eager developers, naturally), dismissing concerns that their plans would diminish, if not ultimately destroy, the remoteness and ecological sensitivity that make the area special. Director Katrina Costello immerses us in the pastoral ways of Burren farmer and poet Patrick McCormack, who says, part tragically and part bemused, 鈥淭here are whole generations of people who never saw something grow.鈥� Indeed, everything changes. But should it?

The film鈥檚 sublime cinematography, also by Costello, is often overlaid with McCormack鈥檚 voice, reading his poetry. Costello leaves space for bigger questions to arise beyond any singular swath of land: Have we lost the humility and restraint to allow potential resources to exist unexploited? Can something be meaningful if we cannot experience it ourselves? Perhaps the questions themselves are听quaint notions in our hypercapitalistic world, but McCormack and his neighbors pour their every penny into a lawsuit to stop the inexorable march of 鈥減rogress.鈥� On the edge of his farm, bulldozers rev their engines.

A splendid scene in Grant Baldwin鈥檚 shows a nun on nordic skis, gliding across a pristine wintry landscape. 鈥淪ilence is really an endangered species in the world today,鈥� she says. The film is a series of stories about people whose unconventional lives are nourished by Canada鈥檚 snowy wilderness鈥攕kiers, climbers, a 鈥渟now artist,鈥� hikers, a mother-daughter team on a six-month remote alpine traverse, and, yes, nuns who ski. The film rises above the astonishing absence of depth that somehow still prevails in many snow-based films (a.k.a. glorified music videos with story lines comprised of a bro hucking cliffs and said bro鈥檚 bros, clad in their obligatory flannel and trucker hats, articulating such lines as 鈥淒ude is so rad鈥�).

Also beyond the traditional ski-flick vein鈥攊mportantly so鈥攊s听, a terrific short by Colin Arisman and Tyler Wilkinson-Ray, about a grassroots organization for black skiers to unite on the slopes and support their youth. The group听formed in 1973, at the height of the civil rights movement鈥攂efore its听first gathering, in Aspen, Colorado, the National Guard was put on standby. 鈥淚鈥檇 always heard the myth that black people don鈥檛 ski,鈥� a recent participant says on camera. Such myths are dispelled with wonderful archival footage, and the film shines in its displays of empowerment, affirmation, and sheer joy.

Director Nico Mu帽oz鈥檚 blends an air of melancholy and beauty as we admire the life of Martin Pueyrredon. He鈥檚 83 years old and has recently lost his wife of 60 years, followed by his best friend and traveling partner, with whom his outdoor adventures had taken on profound meaning. Their deaths leave him empty, even as he declares himself a 鈥渉appy old man.鈥� He continues to work his engineering job, lays flowers on his wife鈥檚 grave, and trains for another long adventure鈥攖his time,听solo. It is important to have plans, he says. Amid the windswept plains, canyons, dirt roads and high mountain passes of the Argentinean Andes, Pueyrredon repeats the final journey he made with his departed friend, bicycling alone for five days to a viaduct at 14,000 feet, guided by his memory. The film鈥檚 most moving scene will challenge the dry eyes of even the sternest stoic. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 feel they are gone,鈥� Pueyrredon says of his wife and friend.

Given the reflective characteristics of these films, perhaps it鈥檚 fitting that my festival favorite wasn鈥檛 a premiere and had little to do with adventure sports. (Land of the Wind; look for it in the upcoming听), directed by Laura Belinky, transports us to the majestic landscapes of Patagonia through the eyes of fine-art photographer Eliseo Miciu. At a young age, Miciu fell in love with Patagonia, a place where the wind is the protagonist and everything else adapts. In his photographs, shades of light catch places and creatures, whether the vast steppe, the trees yielding leeward, or the mythical wild horses that he had long thought extinct. What we feel is as invisible as the Patagonian wind, yet equally real. Belinky blends sound, dialogue, stills, and motion with such immaculate restraint that the art and the places exist together, alongside their moods. Her resulting film is expansive, achingly beautiful, and only 18 minutes long.

If the finest art has the ability to convey the space within, as with Miciu鈥檚 stills, then Belinky has succeeded. After Tierra del Viento鈥檚 final images had faded to black, if only for a moment and if nothing more than forlorn hope, in my mind the bulldozers of Burren had ceased forever, and I saw wild horses running free, their manes blowing in the wind.

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Since biblical times, it has been said that the eyes are a window to the soul. But听human history is filled with false assumptions.

, which premiered in early November at the Banff Mountain Film and Book Festival and 听for film, opens with sublime images of a magnificent natural world, where shadows and light sweep across walls rising from a canyon carved by the Colorado River eons ago. The water continues its course, and soon we see a person in a kayak, riding the tumbling rapids. His blank eyes stare outward. Something looks off. His face reacts with slight delays, out of sync with the waves hitting his tiny boat.

鈥淚鈥檝e climbed Mount听Everest, so why am I so fucking scared?鈥� we later hear听听asking himself. Given that he is blind, it strikes me as a fairly easy question to answer.

Emmy Award鈥搘inning director Michael Brown鈥檚 new documentary takes us into Weihenmayer鈥檚 journey as he paddles, in a solo kayak, the 277 miles of the Grand Canyon. Weihenmayer is joined by Lonnie Bedwell, who is also blind, and a crew of river guides and camera operators. Weihenmayer, now 50, didn鈥檛 start kayaking until he was nearly 40. The technical crux looms large in the film鈥攖he boat-flipping rapids of the notorious Lava Falls, a chaotic stretch with holes that can swallow kayaks and drown people.

Life probably would have been easier for Weihenmayer if he were born blind. In a heartbreaking early segment of the film, we learn that young Weihenmayer lost his eyesight slowly, the result of a rare condition called retinoschisis, in which one鈥檚 retinas gradually split apart. His mother, Ellen,听was ferocious in advocating for her son, going into schools and demanding that he be taught alongside the other kids. Weihenmayer has described her as the dustpan that swept him up when he was broken. When he was 13, as the remnants of his eyesight were abandoning him, his听mother was killed in a car accident, leaving him completely shattered. Soon after, he went totally听blind. He describes blindness initially as a prison.听His father, Ed, a former U.S. Marine, still has a crew cut and sits bolt upright, using direct language to describe that time in his son鈥檚 life. Ed even recites an old saying he had drilled into the boy, imploring him to never quit. But Ed鈥檚 voice cracks and his eyes grow damp when he says that he鈥檚 never figured out how, at that age, his son wasn鈥檛 destroyed by losing both his mother and his eyesight.

In high school,听Weihenmayer discovered rock climbing, a slow and methodical activity where his hands and feet provided him a tactile map of his environment. Soon his internal prison opened into a new world. 鈥淭his is the opposite of what I thought blindness would be like,鈥� he says.听He鈥檚 climbed the Seven Summits, the Nose on Yosemite鈥檚 El Capitan, the 2,300-foot ice route Losar in Nepal, and completed the Leadville 100 bicycle race.听

And still, blindness presents very real obstacles鈥攏o matter our feel-good clich茅 of barriers existing only in the mind.

鈥淚 hate it when people tell me anything is possible,鈥� he says.

We see him at home听with his family, preparing for the Grand Canyon trip. He can鈥檛 seem to sit still. His teenage daughter helps him sort gear. He tries to not bump into things.听He鈥檚 good-natured when told that he put his shirt on inside-out.

On the river he bumps into thunderous rapids as his friend and river guide, Harlan Taney, shouts on-the-fly instructions via wireless headset: 鈥淟eft, hard right, hold that听line, hold that line, charge charge 肠丑补谤驳别!鈥�听Between Taney鈥檚 directions and the ambient soundscape, such as reverberations from crashing waves and echoes off the walls, in his mind Weihenmayer develops a complex mapping system of the rapids and their deadly traps.

No wonder he鈥檚 scared.

Throughout the film it becomes apparent that Weihenmayer shares insecurities familiar to most humans, regardless of his superhero list of accomplishments. His inability to see his objective is inconsequential; rather, what matters is the freedom that comes from finding self-control amid the darkness of the world. Like anyone, he grapples with failure, worry, and ego, and the difficulty of being present at critical times, yet something deeper pushes him forward, as if he is incapable of quitting. He says that he wants to be the bravery that others see in him.

We gain glimpses of an inner world perhaps similar to our own, under circumstances incomprehensibly different. How fascinating that a theater full of people watched breathtaking scenes from the life of a man unable to see any of it himself, and who cannot see us watching him. Although I have always been drawn to the natural world, I couldn鈥檛 help but wonder what this says about the limitations of the sighted, who so often need to venture afar to explore the depth that lies within.听

Erik Weihenmayer鈥檚 eyes serve as a naked and beautiful metaphor for the vast potential of the human experience. And while he is correct about some barriers being real, in The Weight of Water, Brown and Weihenmayer also show us that vision is more powerful than sight.

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Tommy Caldwell had a lot on his mind on June 4th.听He and Alex Honnold were in Yosemite National Park, where they鈥檇 been gunning for the speed record on the Nose route of El Capitan, which, to me and to many, seems a dangerous endeavor. The line rises 3,000 vertical feet from the valley floor in an unbroken, elegant swoop.听

The host of techniques employed at hyper speed are complex and risky, and include long stretches of simulclimbing and short fixing. (In both cases, the climbers are roped together, moving continuously with protection, but without a proper belay.) A fair comparison might be redlining a sports car on a winding mountain road without a seatbelt: everything鈥檚 fine unless you crash. In a pursuit where millimeters of precision matter, introducing a stopwatch generally means cutting corners and eschewing established practices.

But to embody the physical and psychological competency to race up the most iconic wall on the planet in a couple of hours must feel like flying.

Tommy and Alex started with some rehearsals in mid-May, perfecting their systems and proficiency with each ascent. Most modern parties take three to five days on the route; they were aiming for Brad Gobright and Jim Reynolds鈥檚 record of 2:19:44, set last October. On May 28 they did a relatively casual lap in 2:25. On May 30 they shattered the record, going 2:10:15. The climbing world buzzed with the thought of the previously unthinkable: is a sub-two-hour ascent possible?

In the early morning of June 4, they went 2:01:50. A stuck rope had cost them a couple of minutes. They topped out and Tommy ran down to the valley floor to say goodbye to his wife, Becca, and their two young children, Fitz and Ingrid, who were flying home to Colorado. Tommy was staying for another week, but he was torn about trying again.

Only two days earlier, in a terrible reminder of the fine line we sometimes trace, Tim Klein and Jason Wells, both highly experienced climbers, were killed while speed climbing a different route on El Capitan. A few weeks prior, previous Nose record-holder Hans Florine fell during a planned one-day ascent of the Nose and听broke his legs. Last autumn, a good friend of mine and Tommy鈥檚, elite climber Quinn Brett, was going for the women鈥檚 speed record on the Nose when she fell more than 100 feet and hit a ledge. She is now paralyzed from the waist down.

While such a tragic spate is unprecedented in speed climbing on El Capitan, recency forces contemplation. From the outside, speed climbing seems unjustifiably dangerous. Maybe it is. Many in the climbing world think that the game has gone too far.

Yet no two ascents are identical, and few observers completely understand the risks. Who does? When confronted with what we don鈥檛 understand, we instinctively resort to assuming that if it looks crazy, it is.

Thousands upon thousands of El Capitan ascents occur without incident, years often pass between serious accidents, and there have been only about听 on El Capitan, total.

While anybody who climbs El Capitan in a single day is elite, Tommy and Alex are the best pair to ever tie-in together in Yosemite鈥檚 mecca. They鈥檝e honed their approach on the Nose to balance the risk. Quinn fell from high on the Boot Flake, a spot everyone who speed climbs the route knows is dangerous, because many parties opt for a huge run out to save time for the follower. Tommy devised an ingenious solution that allows him to protect that section without slowing the team. On the hardest technical portions, which come when Alex is leading, they鈥檝e synchronized their timing so that Tommy has him on a real belay.

They鈥檝e made it safe. 鈥淪afe.鈥� For them. Which may not be safe for others. It probably isn鈥檛.

Skill alone fully insulates no one, but skill plays a role in the nebulous, unsolvable equations of risk. Climbing is filled with permutations. Climbing history is filled with great dead climbers.

So, Tommy had a lot on his mind after he and Alex climbed the route in 2:01:50. He took his family to the airport, and then called me to talk.

We joked and exchanged the usual pleasantries. Although I鈥檓 nowhere near his level in climbing, he鈥檚 one of my closest friends. We became acquainted more than a decade ago, neighbors in adjacent cabins here in Estes Park, Colorado. Over time we wore a social path between our houses, and when his first marriage dissolved he cried on my shoulder, literally. My surly alpinist heart doubled in size when he found new love, and I greeted their firstborn 12 hours after he entered this world. Together, Tommy and I worked for two years on (I was his cowriter), endlessly discussing life, love, philosophy, and鈥攁lways鈥攔isk.

鈥淚t鈥檚 been pretty heavy lately,鈥� he said, and we dove in. 鈥淎fter all that鈥檚 happened鈥擰uinn, those guys last weekend鈥攅veryone鈥檚 gripped.鈥�

鈥淗ow sketchy does it seem to you? Does it feel like you guys are really pushing it?鈥�

鈥淭hat鈥檚 the thing, it doesn鈥檛. We did a slow lap yesterday, just re-evaluating everything, working the bottom section to dial it in, and it felt really safe. Even when we topped out today, it didn鈥檛 feel out of control at all. Got a rope stuck but that鈥檚 it.鈥�

In the span of one week they had shaved nearly 24 minutes off their time and shattered the record. It took 79 years for the marathon world record to shrink 24 minutes.听

鈥淏oth Alex and I dedicate so much of our lives to El Cap, and this feels like it鈥檚 bearing that fruit a little bit. It鈥檚 so exciting and engaging, the combination of logistics and the physical puzzle.鈥�

鈥淲hat does Becca think?鈥�

鈥淪he鈥檚 supportive, but honestly she鈥檚 scared. I鈥檓 just so sick of people dying, and their families left grieving,鈥� he said, before creating distance, perhaps subconsciously, with a second-person pronoun. 鈥淭hen you think of it happening to you鈥�.鈥� 听

In the pause that followed, I thought of my lost friends and the void that slowly fades but never dies.

鈥淥therwise, like if it wasn鈥檛 for my family, in the moment it鈥檚 no big deal.鈥�

He鈥檚 told me before that he鈥檚 never feared death, that to him it鈥檚 an abstract notion.

I understand. The feeling of control in wild situations and spectacular environments draws you in, it changes you, and you begin to learn about yourself. I remember the years when I lived for alpine climbing, before serious injuries forced me to stop鈥攖he only reason I stopped. The paradox, of course, is that the farther you push the better you become at surviving, and so you push again, and again, and again. I had friends tell me that I was going to die climbing. They were probably right. It was worth it then, and I miss it now. But I don鈥檛 have children.

Before he and Alex climbed the Fitz Traverse in 2014, a futuristic enchainment of seven alpine peaks in Patagonia, Tommy grappled with similar questions. In his book, he wrote: 鈥淏ecca also knew that I wouldn鈥檛 be me, the person she loves, the father of her child, without the core elements of who I am. What do you do if your one God-given gift, the thing you seem preordained to do, the thing without which you might become a hollow shell, is something that could kill you?鈥�

On the Nose, stable weather and perfect granite means that the danger comes not from external hazards, but from within. 鈥淚 truly feel like we鈥檝e been analyzing every situation and making it safe,鈥� he told me on the phone, 鈥渨hereas in mountain climbing you can be the most competent, and an avalanche could wipe you out anyway.鈥�

Still, how safe can it be to average fewer than four minutes per pitch on a wall as daunting as El Capitan? In high-end speed climbing, even as you improve with every round, the margin for error shrinks with each second saved.听Which he knows.

Tommy began climbing with his father when he was three, and is as sober and rational a climber as I鈥檝e known. A run-in with a table saw while remodeling his home has been Tommy's worst accident, costing him an index finger.

We kept talking, contemplating the unknowable, neither of us stating the obvious: that he has nothing to prove and that love and mastery exert a powerful pull.

鈥淢an, I think of the wingsuit community,鈥� he said, 鈥渉ow at first people were like 鈥業f you鈥檙e super precise in packing your chute, and only fly in these conditions, only fly in this terrain, it鈥檚 actually safe.鈥� And now, everybody knows that it鈥檚 just dangerous, no matter what. I wonder if speed climbing is the same. Am I fooling myself?鈥�

I told him how much I trust his decisions, and that if he steps aside, he'd have my full respect.听And if he went again, I knew that it would only be because he absolutely believes that they were making it safe. That he can tell Becca, Fitz, and Ingrid that he was making it safe.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know how I would feel,鈥� he said, about the allure of sub-two. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if I would just听keep it quiet, I don鈥檛 know if I would celebrate it. For now, I think I鈥檒l just听let it be. It needs a little more space.鈥�

As the climbing world swirled with opinions, perhaps space in the shadow of speed mattered most. Nobody else could decide.

鈥淭rue,鈥� Tommy said, 鈥渂ut it鈥檚 easy for us to justify things in our own minds.鈥澨�
听

I couldn鈥檛 stop thinking about my friend鈥檚 dilemma, and two days later I called to check-in. It was Wednesday morning, June 6. When Tommy answered I could hear the sound of the wind. He put me on speaker phone so that Alex could say hello. I asked how he鈥檚 doing. 鈥淲e鈥檙e stoked, it was a lovely morning out.鈥� They were casually working their way down the East Ledges descent off El Cap. They had just climbed the Nose in 1:58:07. (Though Honnold later said he thinks the true human potential is 1:30 or even 1:15.)

For making history, they sounded remarkably calm. Tommy and I talked for another 20 minutes. 鈥淚t felt great,鈥� Tommy said, his voice steady. 鈥淩eally, we did everything the same as before in terms of safety, and it always felt OK.鈥�

For them. And if it felt OK, how do you stop there?

鈥淚t was a truly amazing experience, but I don鈥檛 want to stress people out anymore. Speed climbing is in fashion now, and I want people to know that it should be dealt with properly.鈥�

No more?

鈥淭otally done. I have no inclination to race the clock anymore. We did it in kind of the best venue, and I鈥檓 done. I still love those missions like running around with friends in the mountains, linking up lots of climbs in a day, but it鈥檚 way different than racing up El Cap.鈥�

Good. I told him that I鈥檒l be ready to remind him, in case he forgets.

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