Category: Comment

Death, Discovery, and the Price of Prestige. The Dark Side of Elite Adventure Travel.

When does adventure tourism stop being an adventure?

The world was captivated by the desperate search for the Titan submersible, which vanished while attempting to take five passengers to the Titanic wreck. The story ended in tragedy when reports confirmed that the vessel suffered a “catastrophic implosion,” killing all aboard—including high-profile adventurers Hamish Harding, Shahzada and Suleman Dawood.

It was a devastating end, eerily echoing the original Titanic disaster. Like the 1912 voyage, this trip carried an air of invincibility, an assumption that extreme wealth could insulate travelers from real danger. Instead, it became a cautionary tale about the limits of human ambition—and the price some are willing to pay for an exclusive adventure.

Extreme Tourism: Where Danger Meets Luxury

Paying $250,000 per seat to visit a maritime graveyard where 1,500 people perished is a grim endeavor. Yet, for some, the allure of extreme travel is irresistible. Stockton Rush, the late CEO of OceanGate, described the experience as hauntingly powerful—the Titanic wreck is strewn with personal effects, relics of lives lost. But did any of the Titan’s passengers truly believe they were in danger?

Previous clients of OceanGate’s deep-sea expeditions returned with glowing reviews, emboldening future adventurers. Sealed inside a 2.8m x 2.5m carbon-fiber submersible with a tiny porthole, passengers might have felt as secure as those on Titanic’s first-class deck in 1912. The illusion shattered in an instant.

This disaster underscores a growing trend: the rise of extreme, ultra-luxury adventure travel. From diving the Mariana Trench to suborbital spaceflights, companies like OceanGate and Blue Origin cater to high-net-worth individuals chasing the ultimate bragging rights. Hamish Harding, a Titan passenger, was also among the first to board Jeff Bezos’ space tourism flights.

These experiences offer more than personal thrills—they are marketed as pioneering, even noble, endeavors. According to the Adventure Travel Trade Association (ATTA), adventure tourists account for just 0.5% of global travelers but contribute 15% of global tourism spending. A single mountaineering expedition or remote sailing trip generates as much revenue for local economies as 96 cruise passengers.

Elite adventure travelers don’t just see themselves as tourists; they see themselves as explorers, conservationists, and citizen scientists—willing to pay a premium for access to the most remote corners of the planet. But where does personal ambition end and recklessness begin?

The Business of Risky Expeditions

OceanGate’s Titanic missions weren’t just sightseeing trips; they were positioned as scientific expeditions, originally accredited by NOAA for oceanographic research.

But when the company started selling seats on its sub, it branded its wealthy passengers as “mission specialists”—despite their main qualification being the ability to pay a quarter of a million dollars for the experience. The irony? The much-publicized 3D scans of the Titanic wreck, which fascinated the world earlier this year, were partially funded by adventure tourists like those aboard Titan.

The blurred lines between adventure tourism and legitimate exploration aren’t new. In Antarctica, private jet charters land on ice runways, ferrying ultra-wealthy travelers to destinations previously accessible only to polar scientists. Many remote expeditions rely on a symbiotic relationship between tourism and research—where adventure travelers fund scientific missions in exchange for access.

From the Age of Discovery to the Age of Extreme Tourism

This phenomenon has deep historical roots. The voyages of Captain James Cook were made possible by an 18th-century adventure traveler: Joseph Banks, a wealthy patron who bankrolled the journey and paid scientists’ salaries. His role wasn’t unlike today’s “citizen scientists” funding high-risk expeditions.

But with adventure travel pushing further into uncharted territories—into space, the deep ocean, and polar extremes—the ethical and practical questions are growing.

The Titan tragedy has reignited the debate: Should adventure tourists be allowed on such dangerous missions? Are they pioneers funding crucial research, or thrill-seekers testing the limits of human endurance?

Whatever the answer, one thing is clear—there’s a fine line between exploration and hubris, and sometimes, the price of pushing boundaries is paid in lives.

Read more on the NZ Herald

Donald Trump was accused of making a molehill out of a mountain this week, ordering America’s tallest summit be renamed. But Mt Denali isn’t the only big mountain suffering an identity crisis as a new wave of landmarks face being renamed for political reasons.

Now climbers, adventure seekers and local authorities are asking: ‘Who gets to decide what a mountain is called?’

Denali, a 6190 metre-tall massif in Alaska, is one of several pieces of geography that were subject to an executive order by president Trump.

The move returns the official name to Mt McKinley on maps, laws and signage. Named in 1917 for president Will McKinley the mountain’s moniker was changed again to Denali in 2015 – to reflect the indigenous Alaskan name, meaning the “Big One”. 

Whatever you call it, it’s a big headache for those trying to navigate the area. 

On Monday the world’s most popular app for getting from A to B, Google Maps, said it would be renaming the mountain along with changing the Gulf of Mexico to the “Gulf of America.”

Similarly news agency AP said it would be following the White House’s lead, as  “the area lies solely in the United States and as president, Trump has the authority to change federal geographical names within the country.”

Some saw the naming convention as a mountain they would die on.

Jon Krakauer, author of the Alaskan adventure novel Into the Wild, said he had only known it by one name.

“I intend to continue to refer to the great mountain as Denali for as long as I’m alive, and I encourage every other climber to do the same,” Krakauer wrote to Outdoor Magazine. 

“Trump might be able to officially rename it, but he will never be able to force me to call it anything except Denali.”

McKinley / Denali isn’t the only high-altitude mountain to be hijacked for identity politics.  

The highest peak in Wales was recently renamed to reflect local language. Mt Snowdon was renamed “Yr Wyddfa” at the end of 2022. 

Pronounced “uhr with-va”, it took over as the official name for the pinnacle and the Snowdon national park was rebranded “Eyri”. Despite few visitors being able to say it.

This news came after the UK census showed that just under 540,000 people in the UK could speak Welsh. At 17 per cent of Wales or 0.7 per cent of the United Kingdom, the language is at its lowest ebb on record. The number of speakers has continued to shrink since 2001, according to the Welsh Language Commissioner. The Snowdon / Yr Wyddfa rename was described as a stand against culture loss.

Despite being a “tiddler” compared to the Denali / McKinley massif, naming mountains continues to be a big issue. From Harlech to the Himalayas, tourists are having to tread carefully around what they call their next trip. 

No matter what is drawn on the map. The biggest decider of a mountain’s name will always be those climbing them.

Who gets to name a mountain?

Contrary to popular belief, the first person to summit a mountain does not get naming rights.

The process of naming a previously unnamed mountain is surprisingly involved.  

Before you set off to plant your flag on an unclaimed summit, there are a few things to take into account. Especially if there are already known names for a mountain.

Conrad Anker, arguably America’s best known big mountain climber, said he would continue to be in the “Danali” camp when it came to Alaska’s biggest peak. Though he was more philosophical about the possibility of mountains having many names. 

“It was fitting to honor the people of Alaska with the rightful name,” he told Outside Magazine. “I think it’s worth noting that the vast majority of peaks in the Himalayas have local names.”

Everest for example is referred to as Sagarmatha in Nepal or Chomolungma in Tibet.

However, there’s one name that leaps to mind when you ask which is the tallest mountain in the world. Even Anker refers to it as “Everest”, when he writes about his expeditions retracing the footsteps of Mallory and Irvine.

Named for Sir George Everest, the surveyor-general of British India, Sir George never actually saw the mountain himself. It was instead a way of currying favour by members of the Royal Geographical Society. Previously the world’s tallest summit was recorded simply as Peak XV. 

Thus far the RGS surveying team had simply numbered the summits, having “no name intelligible to civilised men.” In the post-colonial age, this dismissive 1850s attitude rubs many mountaineers the wrong way. However, there have been no serious attempts by either Kathmandu or Lhasa to reclaim the name of Everest.

“Everest” is still the name and the biggest draw at the centre of Nepal’s mountain tourism industry. As an internationally known landmark, there is value in knowing Sagarmatha by many names. 

Given Kathmandu increased the climbing by more than a third this year, a more cynical person might say: “Pay $15,000 to climb it, you can call it what you want.”

In New Zealand the practice is to give both English and Maori names for mountains. Aoraki / Mt Cook was first officially recognised as such by the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998. The South Island iwi argued that landmarks “tohu whenua” should incorporate Māori and European names following Te Tiriti Waitangi principles. It is a multicultural compromise for a country with multiple cultural viewpoints.

It might sound like a mouthful – but there’s something beautiful about the double-barred name for New Zealand’s tallest “maunga”.  

Though as New Zealand’s com Treaty Principles Bill gets ready to be heard later this year, it seems that the names of places and mountains are likely to get more politicised. 

From Alaska to Aotearoa / New Zealand there is an atmosphere of heightened tension about what a particular mountain should, or should not, be called. Something that seems trivial when actually amongst the mountains themselves.

At tens of millions of years old, they’re likely to still be around long after we’ve forgotten their names.

The beginners guide to naming a mountain:

Got your sights on a grand mountaineering conquest?  Here’s the guide to naming “unnamed natural features” according to the US Board on Geographic Names. Before you head off in search of the next Denali, bear in mind: 

According to the USGS  “a potential honoree must have been deceased for at least five years and must have had either a direct and long-term association with the feature or must have made notable civic contributions.” 

Any proposed name will require consultation with local, tribal, county representatives.

Of course this is only the process for mountains located in the US. The appropriate local naming authority will depend on your peak of choosing. In cases where there is disagreement, such as the ‘Gulf of Mexico/Gulf of America’ debacle, there is a United Nations Group of Experts on Geographical Names to help resolve these differences. Don’t hold your breath.

The National Parks movement, now 150 years old, is considered to have begun with the opening of Yellowstone National Park. Created by presidential proclamation in 1872, it was a novel idea that not all frontiers need tamed.

In the 1860s, writers, thinkers, and painters stumbled upon a profound truth while searching for wild places: the great outdoors was rapidly shrinking. There was suddenly a need to protect nature from our own love for it.

French philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville, American naturalist Ralph Waldo Emerson, and other thoughtful individuals with equally impressive names engaged in correspondence about the wonders they encountered during their travels. De Tocqueville expressed his desire to visit the rapidly vanishing wilderness of the Canadian frontier, urging his correspondents to hurry up before it was too late.

This sentiment echoes the current trend of natural catastrophising that drives cruises to the Antarctic and hikes through wilderness areas. We are familiar with the “see it, before it’s too late” school of climate tourism, which was quite radical back then.

Painter George Catlin, whose paintings of El Capitan in what would later become Yosemite and Yellowstone played a significant role in shaping the movement, called for assistance in preserving the great outdoors in California. He proposed that certain lands of immense value and fragility should be designated as public property and gifted to the people of California for the purpose of establishing a “State Park.”

Having gained President Abraham Lincoln’s approval, the bill was signed into law in May 1864.

The concept gained such popularity that a decade later, in March 1872, the first National Park, Yellowstone, was established. This move recognised the value of natural beauty spots to the entire nation. The idea was to preserve these natural wonders for future generations to enjoy, just as they had been enjoyed by those who visited before.

Wallace Stegner famously described it as “America’s best idea.” This concept quickly spread around the world, eventually reaching Aotearoa (New Zealand) in 1897.

New Zealand was one of the first countries to recognise the significance of natural places. Just two years after Canada established its first national park, Banff National Park, in 1887, New Zealand made the decision to designate Tongariro as a National Park. In collaboration with Ngāti Tuwharetoa, the Crown created a conservation area around the maunga (volcano), effectively halting development within the 25,000-hectare block.

Today, the Yellowstone plan has evolved into a global movement, with over 4,000 National Parks established in various countries. These parks attract hundreds of millions of visitors annually, and during the Covid-19 pandemic, some parks experienced record visitor numbers due to the pause in international travel.

For instance, in 2020, the US Great Smoky Mountains National Park welcomed a record 14 million visitors for the first time. In the UK, the Welsh National Park of Snowdonia experienced a significant influx of new visitors, surpassing the previous record by a factor of two.

When the lockdown restrictions were implemented, open public spaces became even more essential for people’s well-being.

While the world is captivated by the romanticised portrayal of 19th-century naturalists, particularly during the 150th-anniversary coverage of the US National Parks, it’s important to acknowledge that there are areas for improvement in the “Great Outdoors.”

Conservationism, a Victorian pastime akin to taxidermy and cartography, has been viewed as eccentric and challenging to assess, yet it has generally proven beneficial. Until now, it has been granted a pass.

This worldview emphasises the virtues of the natural world and the wickedness of the man-made one. Is there a possibility that the national park pioneers were merely misanthropes?

Furthermore, they did not give much consideration to the existing inhabitants of the land.

It wasn’t until Tongariro that any dialogue was initiated with native and traditional landowners of proposed “national park” land.

Considering that 130 years ago, the situation may have been less harmonious than the Department of Conservation and Ministry for Culture and Heritage’s account suggests, it’s worth noting that Te Whenua, encompassing land use, land ownership, even conservation land, is deeply entrenched in politics.

New Zealand was one of the pioneers in establishing a National Park system, and today, it covers approximately a third of its land with conservation reserves.

Recent controversies surrounding reserves like Te Urewera, which ceased to be a traditional National Park in 2014, have highlighted the intricate balance between conservation objectives and the principles of Waitangi.

The Department of Conservation (DoC) was established relatively recently, partly to serve a new definition of conservation.

The Conservation Act, which gave birth to the DoC three decades ago, was founded on the ideals of Waitangi and a “good faith” relationship between the Crown and Māori.

It’s undeniable that the 19th-century Anglo-American naturalists, who perceived nature as needing “saving,” recognised some flaws in their approach.

The Emersons and de Tocqueville shared a romanticised view of nature, perceiving it as an already perfect and fully formed entity. Their aesthetic preference was akin to Catlin’s paintings, which they envisioned adorning a mantelpiece. They never entertained the notion that nature could be improved upon, made more accessible for outdoor activities, or that indigenous communities had been diligently shaping and caring for the landscape for centuries before their arrival.

Fast forward to the United States, where signs of a potential shift in conservation practices emerge after a century of this mindset. This year, California officially returns guardianship of the Redwoods National Park to its traditional owners. A 211-hectare section of sequoia forest within the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park has been entrusted to the care of the InterTribal Sinkyone Wilderness Council, which represents the members of approximately 10 tribes that share the Sinkyone language.

While this arrangement may not fully align with the collaborative model prevalent in New Zealand, it has enabled the park to better reflect the land’s heritage before becoming a state park. The council has also bestowed upon the area a new name, “Tc’ih-Léh-Dûñ,” which holds significant meaning for Crista Ray, of Pomo and Sinkyone ancestry. She expressed pride in using this name, stating, “It conveys the sacredness of the place and reminds people of the existence of a language and a people who inhabited it long before this era.”

It is evident that national parks vary widely across different nations. While there is room for evolution in conservation practices, it is heartening to hope that, in 150 years, these parks will still be recognised and cherished by future generations.