“I’m a terrible road driver,” he laughs. “Too fast, too
heavy on the brakes. The authorities in Switzerland
keep making me do assessments of my mental attitude
to driving,” he says. I can see why. What he lacks in
mechanical sympathy, he makes up for in demented
throttle commitment but he’s 50 now, so I guess he
knows what his limits are. We come to a shuddering halt
at a sheep gate and wait for the other vehicle to appear
on the horizon.
“Having these vehicles as a tool makes my life as an
explorer more complete. I can load my stuff into my
space. I don’t want to fly over in a plane or a helicopter
like I used to access these remote places,” explains
Horn. “I want to travel, to see new things, to learn from
the people, taste their food, smell their smells and
understand better who they are and why they’re like
that because that landscape determines who the people
that live in that country. The landscape develops who
you are. The cars have become my travelling companion.
Where the car stops, I start on foot,” he tells me.
“I’ve never been able to afford a new car in my life.
I’m a bit of a petrolhead and love old-timers but I’ve
never had that sort of money,” he admits ruefully. “All of
my money is sunk into expeditions and you can’t really
make a living in this job. It’s not a commercially valued
activity. The money I was paid by sponsors for the Pole
to Pole expedition just about covered the insurance on
my boat. It didn’t even cover the fuel,” he says. It doesn’t
take long for the smile to come back as we drift into an
errant patch of FM radio coverage. “I love James Blunt.”
In his downtime sincePangaeaberthed in Dunedin,
Horn and his daughter Annika have been criss-crossing
the South Island looking for remote spots in which
to bog a G-Class. It’s clearly been a diligent bit of
preparation, as our route crosses remote sheep stations,
punctuated by wild camping under kaleidoscopes of
stars. We wade through river deltas in the shadow of
Tolkienesque glaciers and inch along narrow canyon
roads with centimetres of space between the dizzying
precipices and soaring rock walls. One day we’re edging
through mossy forests, the next forming an express dust
cloud soundtracked by yammering V8s across deserted
mile-wide glacial valleys.
The G-Classes are largely stock apart from extended
fuel tanks, roof bars and upgraded Öhlins shock
absorbers. Horn took delivery of them a year and a half
ago, and they’ve already been up the Skeleton Coast of
Namibia and across most of Africa, through Russia and
Kazakhstan along the Karakoram Highway, escorted into
the tribal areas in north Pakistan en route to K2 with
the top cover of a duo of US drones. You might expect
them to feel a little loose and smell a bit funky, but they
feel as tight as a drum. Not one annoying squeak, James
Blunt notwithstanding.
If there’s one theme that runs through Horn’s
expeditions, it’s a certain quest for authenticity; to
do things the right way. Often that comes at the cost
of commercial success. “You try and set rules and
regulations that you live by. You’re the person that puts
your life in danger,” he muses. “It’s not a commercial
event. It’s not another tennis or golf tournament or F1
race. It’s about a human being who’s willing to go out
there and to pioneer new frontiers. But at the same time
you’re so fragile. You can lose everything. I’m always in
the shit. It’s just the depth that varies.”THE REES RIVER
IS A GREAT FLY-
FISHING SPOT.
OUR TROUT
SCOUTING
TECHNIQUE STILL
NEEDS A LITTLE
REFINEMENT”YOU CAN’T REALLY
MAKE A LIVING IN
THIS JOB. IT’S NOT
A COMMERCIALLY
VALUED ACTIVIT Y”