For Johannes and Daniel, winter meant one thing above all: their bachelor’s thesis.
Long days between screen glare and library aisles. Coffee gone cold. Deadlines closing in. Outside, the season dragged on relentlessly, slowly eroding focus and energy. At the same time, Dani was deep in preparation for the upcoming Enduro World Cup season — structured training plans, tight schedules, no room for distraction.

And that raised the question no one really wanted to ask out loud:
Is a trip right now smart? In the middle of a thesis. In the middle of a training block. In the middle of winter fatigue.

The answer came wrapped in a simple promise — and a shift in mindset: “We’re going on vacation. Not a production marathon. Experience first, film later.”

Once Dani was convinced, things moved fast. Flights were booked before doubt had a chance to creep back in. A few hours in the air later, we stepped out onto La Palma.

And almost immediately, the same three words kept coming up:
“THIS.IS.UNREAL.”

La Palma feels unreal — like someone took the most dramatic landscapes imaginable and compressed them into one island. Lush, humid forests fade into barren volcanic ridgelines. Deep-black lava sand stretches across vast fields, still sharp-edged and raw. A kilometre-wide lava flow runs uninterrupted all the way to the sea — a scar left by the 2021 eruption that quite literally split the island in two.

It’s a place where nature doesn’t whisper. It speaks loudly.
Sometimes brutally. Sometimes beautifully. Often both at once.

And then there are the trails.

At first, expectations were cautious. Remote island, volcanic ground — would it even ride well? That question didn’t last long. La Palma revealed itself corner by corner, drop by drop. Technically demanding, rocky singletracks carved into steep mountainsides. Fast, flowing loamers disappearing into the forest. Exposed lines with views that make you forget to breathe. Even a small jumpline, tucked away like a secret.

The riding here doesn’t ask politely.
It challenges you. It rewards commitment. It forces you to adapt.

The island has its own rhythm — unpredictable, diverse, alive.
And the weather follows suit. Rain turns to fog, fog lifts into sunshine, sunshine melts into golden evening light — sometimes all within minutes. Conditions that would ruin a schedule, but perfectly suit the idea of being present. Of riding for the sake of riding. Of feeling rather than controlling.

There was no rigid plan. No shot list taped to the top tube.
The idea for the project formed somewhere between boarding the plane and dropping into the first trail. It grew organically, shaped by what the island offered and how it made us feel. The priority was simple: see it, experience it, live it — and let the story come from that.

Film and photos followed the moments.
They never dictated them.

La Palma didn’t just recharge bodies worn down by winter and work. It reset minds. It reminded us why we ride in the first place. Not for numbers, not for schedules, not even for output — but for the feeling of moving through landscapes that demand respect and give inspiration in return.

This is not a destination that wants to be conquered.
It doesn’t want to be ticked off a list.

La Palma wants to be lived.