Before the Adventure

About the last few weeks before the start of a two-year journey

Tobias Renggli

Three weeks until Alaska

Three weeks before my departure for Alaska, I had never even seen my gasoline stove. That was unfortunate, because on Denali we would be using it to melt all our water from snow for weeks on end. If the stove stopped working up there, we couldn’t just buy a new one. So I’d resolved to take it apart and put it back together as many times as necessary before the expedition until I could do it all by heart. Instead, I hadn’t even held it in my hands yet.

My bike hadn’t arrived yet either. The tent was missing, and so was the sleeping bag. In three weeks, I still planned to cycle south from Alaska’s north coast, then ski to Denali, climb North America’s highest peak during an expedition lasting several weeks, return to my bike, ride to Canada, and immediately set off on the next ski expedition. After that, I intended to continue on to Patagonia—by bike, on foot, and by sailboat.

The plan spanned two years, 35 countries, about 40,000 kilometers by bike, and the highest mountains on the American continent. I’d been working on it for a long time. Still, I didn’t feel prepared.

At 18, I’d cycled through all 44 countries in Europe in seven months. In each country, I’d visited the capital and climbed the highest mountain. Looking back, I was pretty naive back then. Compared to the scale of this new project, the Europe tour now seemed almost reasonable.

Butter, Gasoline, and Toilet Paper

My concerns were surprisingly concrete during those weeks. How much toilet paper does a person need for 40 days? Where do you even go to the bathroom when it’s minus 40 degrees and there’s a blizzard? How do you keep toothpaste, sunscreen, and olive oil from freezing into solid blocks? And how much fuel does the stove need when every liter of water is snow to begin with?

I calculated food supplies based on calories, weight, and price. One hundred grams of butter per day seemed nutritionally sensible and, at the same time, completely absurd. Even more absurd was the price of expedition food. For our team of three, the cost for the 40-day Denali expedition alone came to about 15,000 francs.

The search for sponsors had already begun months earlier. I sent emails, made calls, wrote proposals, drew up budgets, and explained the same idea over and over again: from Alaska to Patagonia, without motorized transport between stages, cycling through every country and hiking to their highest mountains.

Many found the project exciting. But that didn’t mean they responded. There were rejections, vague commitments, and companies that suddenly disappeared after several conversations. At the same time, there were partners who actually came on board—and without whom this project wouldn’t have been possible in this form. In the end, a strong network emerged, for which I am enormously grateful.

Even so, my departure was just around the corner, and I was still waiting for a large part of my gear. I had never intended to spend years working toward this moment. I wanted to get going as soon as possible. Now that’s exactly what I was getting: a start for which I was barely ready.

Preparation eats up preparation

After graduating, I had planned to really get into training. Instead, I found myself poring over material tables and maps. I planned routes, gave presentations, negotiated partnerships, organized transportation, checked entry requirements, and tried to figure out which medications to bring to a remote glacier.

I did very little physical training, and even less technical training. That was particularly absurd because one of the reasons for this project was to learn new things. I wanted to learn Spanish, be able to repair my bike myself, and get much better at mountaineering. But before the trip had even begun, organizing it was already consuming all my available time.

In mid-March, Ortovox organized a two-day safety and glacier training session on the Diavolezza. We practiced rescue techniques and spent a night sleeping outside at minus 15 degrees, without a sleeping bag, wearing only an expedition suit and a bivy sack. It was educational, but it also took place less than three weeks before our departure.

What happens if something happens?

The most difficult questions had nothing to do with equipment. A doctor helped us put together our expedition first-aid kit. We went over medications, dosages, and possible emergencies. Behind every decision lay a scenario that one would rather not imagine in too much detail: One of us is seriously injured, somewhere on a glacier. The weather is bad; rescue is impossible—perhaps for several days.

You don’t like to think such situations through to their logical conclusion. But you have to do it anyway. If something really does happen, there won’t be time to first figure out which medications are available, who makes which decisions, and how long you can manage without help.

I also thought a lot about our team. The three of us would be on Denali together: Laëtitia from Geneva, Heli from Freiburg, and me. Laëtitia brought energy and humor to the team. Heli was calmer and, in the mountains, the most competent of us all. I saw many reasons why we could work well together, but I also saw potential for conflict.

An expedition team doesn’t get to know each other over coffee. They get to know each other when everyone is tired, when something isn’t working, when they’ve been sleeping in the same tent for days, when one person wants to go faster and the other can’t keep up, or when decisions suddenly have consequences. Of course, I wanted to reach the summit. But I was just as interested in what the mountain would do to us as a team—what kind of experience it would be on a social and interpersonal level.

Farewells

The closer my departure got, the less I thought about Denali. Instead, I found myself thinking more and more about home and the people I would be leaving behind for a long time.

There were many goodbyes to people who mean a lot to me. We didn’t say “goodbye,” but rather “see you soon.” They sincerely wished me a good time and hoped I would experience everything I’d worked so hard for. That’s exactly what made the goodbyes so hard. No one wanted to hold me back, even though we all knew that two years is a long time and a lot can change during that period.

So, over the past few days, the same question kept coming up: Why am I actually doing this?

I didn’t have a bad life that I needed to escape from. On the contrary. I had a wonderful support system—my family, friends, studies, work, projects, and a daily routine that I enjoyed. I didn’t have to leave. Still, this journey felt right.

A thirst for adventure is one answer. Curiosity, too. Seeing the world, pushing boundaries, learning new things, and living life to the fullest—all of that is true. But it doesn’t fully explain why someone would willingly leave behind the people they love and take risks that aren’t necessary. It doesn’t explain why a decision can feel both wrong and completely right at the same time.

I couldn’t answer that question back then. I still can’t quite answer it today.

The Last Week

I spent the very last week before my departure in Austria and Germany. Cologne, Lenzing, Kirchdorf, Steyr, and Linz—one or two talks a day. On stage, I talked about my journey through Europe, about 44 countries, their capitals, and their highest mountains. It had been four years since then; I was 18 at the time.

Every evening, I spoke to a few hundred people, mostly on autopilot. While I was recounting a past journey, my mind was already in Alaska. On Friday evening, the last talk in Linz came to an end. I arrived home on Saturday morning. After that, I had a day and a half left.

What followed were final emails, final bags, and final goodbyes. I gathered supplies, weighed my luggage, unpacked things again, and checked to see if any crucial items were missing.

On Monday, March 30, 2026, I was finally on the plane. Eight months of planning were behind me; ahead of me lay two years, 35 countries, and a plan whose outcome was completely open-ended.

I didn’t know if it would work out. I didn’t know if we’d reach Denali, how long I’d actually be on the road, or what would change back home. I only knew that the preparations were over.

And that it was finally time to set off.