My life has been bracketed by trails. I grew up near the Pacific Crest National Scenic Trail, which meanders from the Pacific Northwest rain forest to the California desert valley and passes through the Sky Lakes Wilderness in southern Oregon. It’s where I first tasted the magic of two loves, a backpack and a camera. I can remember rolling out of a tent to photograph a small lake as fingers of light poked through a scrim of mist and the rising sun burnished the landscape with the intense gold of late summer.

Thirty-six years later, on the other side of the continent, I can sit on my front porch, look west to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and see that other marquee route—the Appalachian Trail. I remember the first time I hiked the Appalachian. Being a Westerner, I imagined I knew what real mountains were; I figured I was in for a cakewalk. I was wrong. The Appalachian Trail upended my arrogance. I realized that a challenging hike and incredible beauty were not exclusive to the Pacific Crest.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the founding of a national system that incorporates 1,077 trails, totaling more than 66,000 miles in all 50 states. We feature one of them—Arkansas’s Ozark Highlands Trail—in this issue. “Build a trail and they will come,” says Pam Gluck, executive director of American Trails, a nonprofit that works to protect trails across the country. Trails, she points out, promote exercise and can help ease traffic congestion and decrease pollution. Most of all, trails put us in touch with nature—and ultimately ourselves.

Photograph by Peter Essick

In the photograph, a snow leopard emerges from the shadows of the rugged Himalaya. Its thick, soft coat is lovely, but even more enchanting is its tail. It is nearly the length of its body. This is my first opportunity to really study a snow leopard; I can see the rosette spots, penetrating yellow eyes, and broad, delicate paws. I’ve photographed leopards throughout Africa, but never one to match this creature’s beauty.

In a darkened room, Steve Winter shows his next photograph—another snow leopard, this one with a dusting of snow on its back.

The snow leopard’s long tail helps stabilize the cat on rough terrain.

I read George Schaller’s Stones of Silence 20 years ago and ever since have wanted to make a photograph like this. Schaller’s book transported me to the Himalaya; I dreamed of seeing snow leopards at those heights. The dream remains unfulfilled, but for now Steve is there for all of us. His commitment to this beautiful animal has produced the finest images of snow leopards I’ve seen. But reality casts a shadow on these pictures. As few as 3,500 snow leopards may survive. If I want to photograph them, I should move quickly. Schaller’s words still hold the same urgency they had nearly three decades ago: “The snow leopard,” he wrote, “might well serve as symbol of man’s commitment to the future of the mountain world.”

Photograph by Steve Winter

View Steve Winters stunning photography from the June 2008 "Snow Leopards" story.

I’m in Khartoum, Sudan, in a shabby hotel room with Idriss Anu and Daoud Hari. Their eyes are wide with fear. They want to be anywhere but here. Idriss is a driver and Daoud, an interpreter-guide. The two have just spent five weeks imprisoned in Darfur with Paul Salopek—the writer who hired them while on assignment for National Geographic—because they illegally crossed the border from Chad to Sudan. After intense negotiations, all were released from jail; now Paul is on his way back to the United States. But what about Idriss and Daoud? I’ve promised Paul I’ll get them home safely, but it won’t be easy.

Daoud Hari (left) and Paul Salopek (center) were imprisoned in Sudan.

The Sudanese rebels who arrested them confiscated their identity papers. A U.S. Embassy official explains that a diplomat from Chad will arrive to help with the papers. We’ll need more than that, I think. We’ll need a miracle. That miracle appears in the form of dedicated diplomats from Chad and the U.S. Embassy. Two days later Idriss and Daoud fly home.

Paul took a risk when he crossed Sudan’s border. He paid dearly. He didn’t want to break the law, but felt there was no other way to tell this story, because the Sudanese authorities keep Darfur and its war off-limits to journalists. Those who help and guide us in dangerous, unfamiliar places are the often unsung heroes behind the work of any writer or photographer. Idriss and Daoud also took a risk and paid the price. They, too, wanted the story told.

Photograph by Candace Feit