Extreme sports offer a possibility for transformation and connection — especially for the writers of Flow. A group of athletes came together for a new anthology celebrating the diverse paths that motivated them to pursue a life of adventure. Flow: Women’s Counternarratives from Rivers, Rock, and Sky collects personal essays from women examining their connections to nature, their sports, and their global community.

The writers’ various viewpoints take a close look at gender, race, class, and sexual identity within the context of extreme sports. Edited by highliner and climber Denisa Krásná and kayaker Alena Rainsberry, the book combines compelling first-person accounts of outdoor adventure with stellar photography.

The anthology — paired with a documentary to be released in 2025 — advocates for a “transcultural feminism” in the outdoors, according to the book description. It captures the personal narratives of women from a wide range of countries, including Ecuador, India, México, Poland, the Czech Republic, Germany, the United States, and Canada.

Booklist called the book “a welcome testament to the fortitude of Women in adventure sports.”

The following excerpt is from the book chapter “Mountains in My Blood: Tracing Ancestral Paths.” It’s written by Janel Lynn Rieger-Chávez, a member of the Otomi Tribe in the Nahua Nation.

In recent years, Rieger-Chávez has focused on teaching mountaineering skills to other BIPOC (black, indigenous, and people of color) individuals interested in climbing. In the excerpt below, she relates the story of taking a group of BIPOC climbers to the summit of Washington’s Mount Baker (10,871 feet), also known as Koma Kulshan.

Excerpt: ‘Mountains in My Blood’

It was finally happening: 10 BIPOC climbers were climbing a really big mountain. During training, I taught them to listen to their bodies and continue to always eat when they could and hydrate. As we made it to the crater, we stopped to take the temperature of the group. I could see some of us were feeling the mountains and needed to rest. So, as half the group made food and melted snow for water, the rest of us headed up the last part of the climb.

As we climbed, we saw a lot of guided groups and smaller groups of friends. None had all BIPOC climbers. This was apparent as the people asked me, “Oh, are you a guided group?” or “Are you all from so and so city? There’s a lot of your kind of ethnicities there.” And “Wow, good for you guys.” This really didn’t seem to dampen the mood at all, though. We were doing the thing and didn’t really care what others thought. There was one moment when I realized how incredibly well this group trained.

As we headed up the Roman Wall, which is notoriously the steepest part of the climb, we noticed guides and their clients struggling. At one point, a client was feeling very uncertain and needed to climb through to get to flatter terrain. I told the group to self-arrest on the side so they could pass. And just like that the group knew exactly what to do, and as the person passed I couldn’t help but feel so proud of them and their accomplishment. We proceeded up the steep terrain and there they were, front-pointing, sidestepping, and crushing their first mountaineering climb.

Reaching the Summit

As the sun was fully peaking in the sky, around six in the morning, we took the last steps around to see the summit of the climb. The wind severely picked up at this point. The kind of wind that reaches out to take your breath. It left a sting of cold on my skin and I looked to see how they were doing.

“Hey Flatlanders, we good?” I looked out at them and they were all smiling so big, or at least that’s what I thought since we were covered up to protect ourselves from the wind. I forgot who said it, but someone pointed out, “Hey, is that the summit or a false summit?”

There it was, the summit. With the dry snow and wind it made it look like a flurry of sparkling dust. At this point we were able to de-rope and make our final 10-15 steps. And one by one we reached the top and stood together at the summit of Koma Kulshan. As we stood there, five BIPOC climbers from the flattest of lands, I couldn’t help but feel our ancestors celebrating with us.

For this next part I need you to do two things. One, you will need to cue a song to play, “Ella Baila Sola,” by Eslabon Armado and Peso Pluma. Have it ready for the moment, so you feel it too. Now, it’s important you take yourself into this moment. Leave your surroundings and immerse yourself in this moment with me. Here, I’ll take you there. The summit of Koma Kulshan — it’s silent, you think, but then you truly feel it. The wind whips so strong it burns your cheeks and takes your voice. Your body is screaming at you, as you haven’t really stopped moving since dusk. Finding your balance on glacier ice that has existed longer than anyone on the mountain.

The snow is so dry it is easily carried into the heavy air. You try to squint your eyes as you catch the shimmers from the snow glowing and reflecting from the sun. And, as you look out, beneath you see the clouds below you. Yes, that’s right, you’ve made it to the clouds. There are no more trees where you stand, only ice and snow. Below you can see a faint path of where you were and what you will still need to follow to make it back home. You’re cold, tired, and your stomach feels as if there are butterflies moving in it like subatomic particles in an excited state.

I brought you here so you could feel with me what I was so privileged to feel. Here I stood doing something my ancestors never even dreamed possible. And then my soul began to swell as my eyes grew heavy and I felt it. (Cue the song above.) As we stood there, I felt our ancestors among us. I felt their stories of struggle, hope, and love. I felt my abuelita looking out at her daughters in México in the warm desert sun. I felt my mother and her weight of purpose to our family. I felt my great tia, her empathy as she tamed snakes and brought them to safety, despite people’s fear. I felt my Tia Guadalupe, as her kindness toward all living beings made me who I am. I felt my ancestors’ choices to be strong when everyone saw them as weak.

From the time of the Aztecs, as my Mom would tell me, “They would just eat beans and tortillas and run across the desert. As they’re warriors and we are from them.” My ancestors surrounded me and I thought, now they can rest for me, their mija is living their wildest dreams. Living but, most important of all, filled with joy.