Seek All Conditions: Atacama, Chile
ACG means All Conditions Gear. And all conditions means all conditions. So the saying goes.
These are words that have been woven into—and stamped on—so many different fabrics, pieces of hardware and advertisements for more than 35 years. It makes one smile to think of all the places these words have been taken; all the sights they've seen.
Seek All Conditions: Atacama, Chile
ACG means All Conditions Gear. And all conditions means all conditions. So the saying goes.
These are words that have been woven into—and stamped on—so many different fabrics, pieces of hardware and advertisements for more than 35 years. It makes one smile to think of all the places these words have been taken; all the sights they've seen.
Over the lifetime one owns a piece of ACG apparel, footwear or gear, it's hoped that these words will tell many tales beyond their literal definition. But how often have they had to live up to their meaning over the course of a single day?
Northern Chile, February 2026. Dawn in the desert. Today was the day we ran the gauntlet. Today was the day we tried to test it all at once.
The sun flooded the valley in front of us, the small commune of Río Grande our starting point for the expedition. Light, in this case, did not equal warmth; we were layered up to the gills to battle the frigid morning cold. Our first steps taken like astronauts on the moon.
As we made our way through the high desert, things began to change. Looming, distant volcanoes watched us shed our skins; layers stuffed into bags, skin exposed to the sun. The dry desert floor begged to be explored, and we obliged, hiking over loose sand, rock and a bit of damp terrain on the way.
After a few kilometres, the mountains of the Antofagasta Region threw down their challenges. The heat suddenly became stifling, the ultraviolet radiation blasting us from above without end. At 2,800 metres above sea level, our engines were starved for air.
This brutal stretch of the trek rewarded us with incredible bouldering near the Piedra de la Coca. The Atacameño people see this place as sacred, and we were kept company by plenty of spectacular petroglyphs depicting scenes of caravans, Andean animals and ritual symbols.
A brief break for coffee and dip in the Río Salado refreshed us, so we travelled to the Salt Mountain Range for a final challenge. As though the wind heard our morale spinning up, it quickly threw something new at our layers—a brutal sandstorm that whipped 50km/h winds at us while we struggled up and down the mountains. It was torture. The howling winds tore hats and sunglasses from our bodies. We were having the time of our lives.
End of the day. We'd proved our mettle with glee. Seemingly satisfied, the sun grinned and sank below the salt flats. We couldn't help but laugh. A lifetime of memories—and a world of conditions—in a fifteen-hour stretch. We would sleep well.