All posts by roland.minez

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

July 19, 2024 roland.minez 1 Comment

“The peloton is moving, it never stops. If you’re in the peloton, you’re alive. If you’re not in the peloton, you are facing death.” – Marc Madiot, Director Sportif of the French Cycling Team Groupama-FDJ

The earth has rotated around the sun once more. July has arrived.

For much of the Western World- in the Northern Hemisphere, tradition dictates that means sun soaked days by the pool or beach. Maybe excursions to the mountains. For those in the United States it likely also includes barbecues and baseball games.

Summer is also the season for grand sports tournaments. Despite the litany of dire news reports from across the globe, this year -2024- is full of them. Euro Cup, Copa America, the Summer Olympics.

However, every year across the Atlantic, in France -the month of July means La Grand Boucle (or big loop) is in full swing.

Officially known as Le Tour de France it is without doubt or competitor (sorry Giro d’Italia) the most significant race in cycling. In characteristic French hubris, it is also routinely described as the greatest sports event in the world.

Not without reason. Ever since 1903, when Newspaper Editor Henri Desgrange concocted the idea of cyclists riding against each other around France, Le Tour has been the stage for heroic battles of human endurance. Desgrange came up with the concept to boost sales of the newspaper, l’Auto by leveraging the deep human fascination with feats of suffering that is hardwired in our species.

Monument to Henri Des Grange, creator and first director of the Tour de France.

On that first Tour de France, before two world wars would decimate Europe; 59 cyclists set off from Paris. The winner of the first stage from Paris to Lyon would arrive 17 hours and 45 minutes after starting. Competitors rode on bikes that weighed 44 pounds, had no gears, and no brakes. Fewer than 100 spectators watched that first stage, but after three weeks of Desgrange’s breathless coverage in l’Auto- 10,000 fans would welcome the winner in Paris.

Since that inaugural Tour de France, legendary feats have occurred that serve as guideposts in the history of the sport of cycling. And like all legends, they grow in the retelling. There was the time (in the earlier years before outside assistance was allowed) when a rider in the lead had to walk 15 kilometers to a village after his bike fork broke. He repaired it himself, without instruction, using the village blacksmith’s forge, but was penalized nonetheless when an official saw a peasant boy stoking the fires of the forge.

After a hiatus during the First World War, the tour returned in 1919 to a ravaged France with sixty-nine riders, many veterans of the trenches. Only eleven of them reached the finish line. It was that tour which introduced a yellow jersey for the leader of the race, in the same color the paper l’Auto was printed on.

Today, In its current form- the Tour consists of 21 stages over 23 days- sometimes starting in another country and usually ending with a sprint finish on the iconic Champs Elysee in Paris. This year the Tour started in Italy and, for the first time, will end far from Paris with an individual time trial (where riders race alone against the clock) from Monaco to Nice along the coast of the magnificent French Riviera.

France is the stage for the competition, and race organizers do their best to showcase the beauty of the country. Medieval chateaus, small villages, and sunflower covered farm fields serve as the backdrop. Impossibly steep roads that rise snake-like up to high altitude snow covered mountain passes (or cols in French) routinely serve as the crucible stages that determine the champions from their pretenders.

Some of these mountain stages have taken on mythic status for their difficulty and the historic battles that have taken place there. Each one of the 21 hairpin turns on the serpentine road to the ski resort of the Alpe d’Huez is named after a cyclist who triumphed on the climb during the Tour. The accomplishment is immortalized on plaques placed along the route where amateurs keen to test their mettle can admire them through their own fog of pain.

In the modern tour, there are 22 teams of eight riders each. A total of 176 of the best cyclists in the world. The overall winner finishes the 3 weeks in the fastest total time. No longer required to fix their own bikes; modern racers are supported by a highly evolved logistical system, with spare bikes, mechanics, masseuses, and radios to communicate with their Directors who follow by car. Every day the current leader in the general classification competition wears the coveted yellow jersey.

However, there are numerous races occurring simultaneously within the tour. In addition to the yellow jersey, a green jersey is awarded by points to the highest placed finisher at each stage, regardless of time, and is fought over by sprinters. A polka dot jersey is awarded to riders who have collected the most points given to those among the first to summit certain categorized climbs. A white jersey is worn by the best young rider under twenty five years old. For many teams who lack the budget for a rider with the supernatural talent required to chase the yellow jersey, a stage win on any individual day of the tour can make that team’s season and secure their financial future for another year of racing.

The different jerseys to be won in the tour decorate a mountain village.

And like life, the tour is much more than a physical contest. It is a strategic game, where the contenders attempt to conserve energy for the right moment and exploit the psychology of opponents. 1962 world cycling champion Jean Stablinski summarized this game of cat and mouse; “If you’re strong, make everyone believe you’re struggling. If you’re struggling, make everyone believe you’re strong.”

Make no mistake, although individuals triumph, it’s a team sport. Every rider on the team has a job. An experienced veteran is nominated as a road captain to make tactical calls and coordinate with the Director via radio. Domestiques, from the French word for servant, look after their team’s contenders by blocking the wind, bringing them food and water, and-if needed-giving up their own bikes so leaders can continue in pursuit for glory.

For most riders, life revolves around the Peloton, derived from the military term platoon, which is the large pack of riders who travel together down France’s roads. It is a refuge where the racers shelter from the wind until the moment comes for them to strive for laurels. Like French Director (and former racer) Marc Madiot said, to lose the peloton is to face death, or less dramatically, be dropped from the race.

The stark landscape of Mont Ventoux is moderated by the passion of true fans.

The prestige is so great from a potential victory and the race so challenging that all advantages are sought. The melding of man and bicycle means that technological advances- whether that be a lighter bike or more aerodynamic helmet- can be crucial. Not all advantages sought have been legal and the Tour has a checkered history of widespread use of performance enhancing drugs, sometimes with tragic results. In 1967, on the sun baked barren slopes of Mont Ventoux in Southern France, British rider Tom Simpson collapsed and died two kilometers from the summit in a lethal cocktail of ambition and amphetamines. American Lance Armstrong’s fairy tale recovery from cancer to seven time tour champion was ultimately marred by the revelation that he had cheated.

Water bottles offered at a monument to Tom Simpson

The tour continues, and a new generation of riders have arrived to push themselves to the limit at the event. An estimated billion fans across the globe tune in to watch Le Tour. Yet, it is the 15 million spectators who line the roads of France which truly make the event. It may be one of the last events where fans can (and sometimes do-with catastrophic consequences) reach out and literally touch their sports heroes as they pass by. No expensive tickets are needed to attend and no security checkpoints exist to screen all the people who come from across Europe and the world to be a witness to sports history.

For the forgotten rural communities in France, this is the one event that comes to them and places their world in the middle of the spectacle and the action.

Some of my strongest memories are linked to the Tour. In 1989, our family found ourselves in Paris, on the final day of the race. As an eight year old, I dimly remember the racers passing by us one at a time in a rare final day time trial from Versailles to Paris. American Greg Lemond, had recovered from being shot in a hunting accident and trailed Frenchman Laurent Fignon by fifty seconds on the final day. After the riders passed, my sister and I went to one of the classic carousels that used to dot Paris in those days. Suddenly, I heard my father shouting in ecstatic joy while staring at the small black and white TV of the carousel conductor. Lemond, improbably, and incredibly, had closed the deficit and defeated Fignon. After 3,300 kilometers of racing, Lemond won the ‘89 tour by eight seconds, still the smallest margin ever in Tour history.

Epics of history painted on the streets of Briancon.

In 2022, a friend and I came to climb the mountains and ride the roads of tour giants. Staying in the mountain fortress town of Briancon near the border with Italy; one could feel the growing excitement with the impending arrival of the tour. Giant murals were painted on the town walls of earlier tour racers. We climbed the impossibly beautiful Col d’Izoard where Lemond decisively stepped out of the shadow of his French teammate and ferocious competitor Bernard Hinault (a five time tour winner known as the Badger) to become the first American to win a tour in 1986. We tested ourselves, like so many before us, on the beautiful road that climbed high into the mountains.

Early in the morning, a few days later and sixty kilometers north of Briancon; I was in the little town of Saint Martin D’Arc desperately looking for parking. The Tour would arrive later that day, and the fans had already begun to stream in to find a location along the side of the road to join the action. I left my car, changed into cycling clothes, pulled out my bike, and began to climb the Col du Telegraphe a few hours before the racers were expected to arrive.

Father and Son try their hand on the Col de Telegraphe

While huffing up the climb, I saw all around me a migrating community of cycling fans that had established themselves along the road. Camper vans, tents, impromptu parties, and -everywhere- bicycles were a testament to the passion and commitment of all those who had traveled to this isolated mountain environment to be a part of the la grand boucle. Fathers and sons rode together. Impressively, a group of Belgian fans had occupied a corner and built a small encampment with buxom blondes in a cafe serving belgian beer on draft and decorated in style of the sixties, the heyday of their champion- five time tour winner- Eddy Merckx, known as the cannibal.

An elderly French lady at the top of the mountain pass, waiting for the racers to arrive shared her timeless wisdom with me; “the Tour de France is something to do, to see, but most importantly to live; and is unforgettable.”

She was right, of course, the Tour is much more than a race. It is also simultaneously a moving festival, a spiritual gathering, and a circus. Before the racers arrived, a parade of elaborate vehicles passed by advertising various French products and tossed candy and coupons into the crowd. Among the caravan, were statues mounted on the tops of cars representing bicycle racers and the classic French comic hero Asterix, a little wily Gaul who fights the Romans.

Helicopters flying overhead announced the impending arrival of the racers themselves and a palpable excitement coursed through the crowd. Race officials and TV crewmen on motorcycles sped past.

That year, on that day, a young phenomenon was in the yellow jersey. Already a two time winner of the tour, Slovenian Tadej Pogačar is the cannibal of his generation; aggressive and impetuous, he had shattered the myth that modern cycling required extreme calculated caution and specialization.

Pogacar in yellow but not for long, this time.

The Dutch squad, Jumbo Visma studied Pogačar strengths and targeted a possible psychological weakness. Over the series of mountain climbs on that stage, they used every member of their powerful team to conduct a succession of blistering attacks to which Pogačar responded; before unleashing their contender Dane Jonas Vingegaard who delivered the coup de grace and snatched the Yellow Jersey.

For those fans along the road, we were blessed to be witnesses to a great contest between a titanic individual and a strategic team. Admittedly, the peloton passed by in a whirl but the excitement remained in the crowd and was felt in the friendly banter between strangers.

The traveling festival had moved on, the fans began to disassemble their encampments, and return to all the duties of modern life.

Since that tour, Jonas Vingegaard has himself become a two time tour winner. But the battle continues, and in 2024, Pogačar, as aggressive as ever, seems bent on asserting his dominance once more on the greatest race in cycling.

July will end, winter will come but-barring a world war- next summer will once again see the return of the world’s greatest cyclists to the countryside of France- charging through medieval villages, passing by countless farm fields, summitting high altitude mountain passes, and seeking glory in Paris. Along the roads, will come the millions of everyday people drawn to live the experience which is the Tour de France.

Even Tintin rides, and he wishes you well, from this Pushing Horizons Love Letter to Le Tour de France.

Body, Cycling, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Racing Towards the Sun

March 22, 2022 roland.minez 1 Comment

When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence.”
Frederic Mistral

Provence and the South of France will forever be associated with the good life.

The great impressionist painters, like Cezanne and Van Gogh, have imprinted on our global conscience images of sun-kissed stone villages surrounded by olive and cypress trees. For our new lost generation such timeless images are paired with those of the glitterati, hip-hop stars and Russian oligarchs, whose super yachts bob along the Cote d’Azur.

But long before the majestic Provencal summer Sun announces the arrival of endless tourists, in the quiet days of winter, the locals have their world famous playground to themselves.

Our dear friends came to visit in those last days of winter. The clouds hung low. The famous sun was nowhere in sight. We opened a family cottage from its winter slumber; turning on the heat, making the beds, and stoking a roaring fire. We exchanged hugs, toasts, and laughs, and caught up after a long absence.

Paris-Nice: The Race Towards the Sun. Teaching people how to suffer since 1933.

Earlier that week, our generation’s cycling hard men had started an eight-day stage race far away in Paris. The iconic Paris-Nice bicycle race has been held annually since 1933. Dubbed The Race towards the Sun, it starts in the cold wet climate of Northern Europe and aspires to end in Mediterranean warmth.

The arrival of the race heralds the true beginning of the summer cycling race season in Europe. To win at Paris-Nice is to announce your ambitions for glory at that year’s Tour de France. The greatest heroes of the sport have won here, among them Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, and Miguel Indurain. In 1966, the legendary French rivalry between the icy blond champion Anquetil and his everyman craggy faced competitor Raymound Poulidor played out in the race. Anquetil won his fifth and final Paris-Nice, when he passed Poulidor on the last day in Nice, cementing Poulidor’s status as the “eternal second.” The tough Irishman, Sean Kelly, won the race a record seven times from 1982 to 1988.

A new generation always has its new contenders. Today, a crop of rash young aggressive riders like Julien Alain Philippe, Wout Van Aert, and Mathieu Van der Poel (the grandson of Poulidor) has swept across the sport and delighted fans. Perhaps none more spectacularly than the trio of riders, Primos Roglic, Tadej Podgacar, and Mateo Moharic, from the small mountainous country of Slovenia.

Roglic, a former ski jumper who arrived late to the sport of cycling, seemed destined to dominate the great Grand tours such as the Giro d’Italia, the Vuelta a Espana, and the incomparable Tour de France. His impressive climbing skills, iron will, and powerful supporting team suggested a new uncontested era. Then, in 2020, on the second to last day of the Tour de France; Roglic exploded spectacularly on a time trial up the Planche de Belle Fille, and his young upstart countryman, Pogacar, stole the victory; the first for Slovenia.

In the 2021 Paris-Nice, after an impressive start Roglic crashed on the last day, and lost his yellow leader’s jersey. Another crash early in the 2021 Tour de France also put him out of contention. In the meantime, unruly blond haired Pogacar, not yet 23 years old, stamped his authority on bicycle racing with two back-to-back wins in the Tour de France, and victory in a host of other races.

The questions inevitably followed. Was Roglic truly destined to be a historic champion? Or would he remain cursed with bad luck, bad timing, or bad nerves in French stage races? Would he be, instead, his generation’s “eternal second”; playing “Poulidor” to Pogacar’s “Anquetil?”

Such sports drama felt far away from all of us in Provence. We shared bottles of wine and stories. We reminisced about our time together in Italy. We dissected the tremendous tragic geopolitical events occurring to our east. The closest we probably got to bicycle racing itself, was the board game we played called Flame Rouge which craftily simulates the strategy and luck needed to win a bicycle race. Huddled around the fire, we watched our friends’ eldest daughter beat all of us on her first try.

My friend and I being who we are, however, meant we actually did have to ride our bikes that weekend. We fortified ourselves with croissants, set up a spare bike, and set off into a blustery day. After pushing through suburban sprawl that surrounded the town, we soon found ourselves in the terrain for which Provence is famous. We passed gnarled olive trees, crumbling stone farmhouses, and rosé vineyards. After a lengthy climb through the hills above the bay of Saint Tropez; we were caught by a ferocious Mistral wind that almost knocked us off our bikes.

For although less well known for those with only a passing knowledge of Provence its strong winds are just as defining. Named after the bard of the region, Frederic Mistral; they howl with terrific strength into the Mediterranean, reaching speeds of up to 185 kilometers an hour. The winds are strongest between the transitions of winter to spring. In other words, they were the strongest when we had chosen to ride.

We fought our way to the approaches of Grimauld Castle, before turning back towards the bay; alternatively being pushed along or pedaling to a seeming standstill, depending on the whims of the Mistral. We entered the once quiet fishing village of Saint Tropez that is now synonymous with luxury.

The old streets of Saint Tropez sometimes run right into the Sea.

We found our families enjoying an apero or pre-meal drink at a cafe next to the weekly market. Then together, we walked through the cobbled streets of the town, and climbed creaky stairs to a restaurant where we washed down fish soup, mussels, and fries with an excellent dry white burgundy.

Families gather under the patron saint Saint Tropez.

Somewhere, not far, those racers who had survived the preceding stages from Paris were battling high in the mountains in the penultimate stage. Not far in distance from us, maybe, but infinitely in lived experiences.

Earlier in the stage rage, Roglic and his Jumbo teammates had demonstrated their trademark dominance. On stage 1, the team took all three podium positions. Then they did it again on the stage 4 time trial. On both occasions Roglic and Wout Van Aert were among the three Jumbo riders. By stage 7 in the mountains, while we sheltered from the wind with our bottle of white in St. Tropez, Roglic’s victory seemed assured.

The next day, we woke up to rain. Another croissant run sustained us; as we packed up and locked the cottage. Our friends were going skiing; we were returning to work and school. Somehow, but admittedly not a coincidence, our path would take us first to Nice where the race was scheduled to end that evening.

When we arrived in Nice, layered in rain jackets, the excitement of the race was palpable. Team buses, mechanics, and chase cars were everywhere in the city. We walked through the city, before holing up in a Corsican restaurant. Many courses later, we emerged to find the race had yet to arrive. A long drive, and work week awaited us. The return voyage couldn’t be delayed for much longer, but surely we couldn’t leave before the finish, after getting so close?

In the hills around Nice, beneath the rain; the riders pushed each other on the final eighth stage. Suddenly, the British rider Simon Yates attacked and Roglic couldn’t follow. The time gap grew bigger, and improbably (or inevitably); Roglic’s overall victory was once again threatened.

We walked the famed promenade des Anglais along the coast willing the racers to arrive before we had to depart. We concocted a mad scheme to walk to the outskirts of the city in order to see the riders and then depart before the finish.

The *Monuments aux Morts,* a war memorial on the Promenade des Anglais.

Roglic tucked behind his teammate Wout Van Aert, and they chased after Yates. Together,they struggled to regain the precious seconds needed to ensure Roglic’s victory.

Wout Van Aert drags Primos Roglic in pursuit of Simon Yates on the Promenades des Anglais, Nice.

In a steep old alley, a Frenchman ran out of his house shouting that the cyclists would arrive in any minute. We abruptly turned around, and our children led us in a wild dash through the city streets, as we blindly followed the Frenchman. We arrived on the boulevard just in time to see Simon Yates go screaming by us. The children laughed in giddy excitement. The seconds slowly ticked by…until suddenly Van Aert and Roglic flew by in hot pursuit.

Yates took the stage but for Roglic, the curse had been broken. In no small part thanks to Wout, he had minimized the gap and finally had his overall win at a stage race on French soil. The race had been brutal; only 59 finished out of the 154 cyclists who started.

Of course, Roglic’s greatest competitor- Pogacar -was far from Nice racing elsewhere in Italy. Only time will tell if the Poulidor/Anquetil analogy applies to the two Slovenians.

A young fan caught up in the excitement.

On that day, the good life in Provence for Roglic was a hard earned victory. For us, it was great company, food, and excitement. Sun optional in both cases.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Body, Mountains, Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Hard Earned Joys of Ski Mountaineering

March 12, 2021 roland.minez Leave a comment

“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”
― T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

The Italian winter of 2020-2021 saw one of the greatest snowfalls in recent history. For those of us in the plains below, it was endless rainfall; but up above among the peaks; it was light snowflakes which make the powder of skiers’ dreams.

Except, in a cruel irony; the Italian government had closed all the ski resorts to protect their population from the dangers of a virus which had gripped the world.

In terms of the lives and livelihoods lost from the virus; the story of a lost season of epic skiing doesn’t quite reach the threshold of a tale of woe and suffering.

Luckily, this isn’t a story of woe (but there is some very real-physical- suffering).

Necessity is the mother of invention. And with epic snowfall, closed borders, and regularly updated decrees from the Italian government on what we couldn’t do; we had to find a new way to experience our beloved mountains in winter.

Since fate has a way of bringing you what you need; I conducted training with the Alpini– or Italian mountain troops- who taught me the basics of Ski mountaineering, or Ski-Alpinismo as they call it in Italy.

Ski mountaineering also known as ski-touring is the act of climbing up a mountain with specially modified equipment in order to ski down them. On the bottom of the skis are “seal skins” which allow you to move uphill without sliding back down, and your heels are free to allow a more fluid movement. When you are ready to go down, you take off the seal skins and lock your heel in.

Simple right? Well sort of. Like all things, the devil is in the details. I had been interested in ski mountaineering for many years, but in the Pacific Northwest, where my lifelong passion for the mountains was solidified, the skills and equipment necessary to participate appeared too high.

Those of us in America at the time accepted that in-depth knowledge of avalanche conditions (a science and art that can take a lifetime to acquire) and expensive equipment from Europe was required. Plus, if the desire to ski came upon me; I could always go to a resort, which would whisk me-effort free- to the top of the mountain with none of the costs and risks.

Thus, the dream to ski-mountaineer remained unrealized; to lie where all the other adventurous dreams of the day burned.

Until there were no resorts. Then the dream became a need. And, thanks to the Alpini, I now had some of the necessary skills. We decided that every free weekend that month; we would head to the mountains.

As a family, we drove up to the breathtakingly beautiful mountain village of Arabba in the Dolomites. In a normal winter, it is a world renowned way point in the classic Sella Ronda ski tour.

Snow covers the road signs in the Passo Campolongo

This wasn’t a normal winter. The snow was piled so high; it felt like we were driving through a white tunnel as we approached. The lifts were closed. The village quiet. The slopes empty.

With our friend, John, my wife and I rented our ski-alpinismo equipment. Then we promised to meet before dawn of the following day.

At 0530, in the darkness of the winter night, Lisa and I got dressed and sleepily struggled to put together our equipment. Then we trudged outside and met John.

Together we stepped into our gear and began climbing the empty slope. Alone, among the trees, we saw the beginning of the sun lightening the valley below us. Slowly, the sun began to share its warmth with us.

Lisa, a member of the ski patrol, quickly mastered the technique to glide as much as possible on the skis while climbing.

Technique mattered, because this was hard work. Our heart rates soared as we trudged uphill. The suffering alleviated by the tremendous natural beauty around us. It was, according to John, our own “Private Dolomites.”

This being Europe, once we reached the top, a small mountain rifugio, or cabin, was improbably open. I can only imagine the lady who served us was hoping the government would soon allow the the resort to open. We had cappuccinos and strudel, filled with the pleasure of hard physical work finally accomplished. Then we headed down.

The snow was perfect and all too soon we reached the bottom where we had started hours before.

Lisa and I were addicted. After a spirited fondue dinner with another couple, we agreed to go again with them the very next day.

Derek, Cassandra, and Lisa push through the powder.

As before, in the winter darkness, we met and began to climb uphill. The mountains on that side of the valley were steeper and the wind stung our face with its bitter cold. At times our skis would slip and we worried we might fall down the face. We climbed higher and struggled at the limits of our stamina.

When we were ready to ski down, our frozen fingers had trouble preparing our equipment for the descent.

But once again, we were filled with joy as we took long swooping curves on empty slopes of fresh powder. We had in the parlance of ski mountaineering, “earned our turns”, and as result the descent was even sweeter.

Lisa and I headed out another time that month to ski-tour. Under blue skies we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful rock faces and snow covered peaks that stretched to the horizon.

Snow covered peaks stretch out endlessly.

At the end of the month, in the iconic Olympic ski town of Cortina; we arranged ski lessons for our two oldest daughters. With lifts closed, I carried the girls up the hill after each run.

Then in one of the serendipitous twists of fate, we met Prince Hurbertus-the father of our daughters’ instructor. He is an Olympic skier who represents Mexico at international competitions in a Mariachi spandex suit. We had followed him since our first child was born in Mexico City.

Prince Hubertus, also known as Andy Himalaya and Royal Disaster welcomes the next generation Mexican Olympic Skier.

We commiserated with him on the lost ski season of epic snow.

Except for us, it hadn’t been lost.

We had been introduced to the hard earned joys of ski mountaineering; where hours of laborious climbing were rewarded by fleeting minutes of floating velocity.

We had a new passion and will still be ski mountaineering even when the resorts reopen.

The dreams of the day made possible.

The eternal pleasures of hard physical work accomplished.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Shop all the latest deals at REI Outlet. Shop all the latest deals at REI Outlet.

Body, History, Mind, Mountains, Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Adventures Among the Relics of War

July 10, 2020 roland.minez 2 Comments

The Italian Dolomites are filled with both the most stunning mountain scenery in the world and the remnants of man’s unending willingness to struggle violently against other men.

The wheel of fate had brought us to Italy and we always intended to experience it in all of its full-throttled glory. Roman ruins, Renaissance cities, fast cars, faster mopeds, and succulent pasta dishes washed down with endless bottles of red wine are the hallmark of this overwhelmingly immersive country.

Of course, for those drawn to the vertical world of mountains, there are also other attractions. The pink hued Dolomite mountains are some of the most stunning in the world. This chain branches off from the greater Alps; but due to the mysteries of geology, it is only in eastern Italy that this mountain range becomes a series of iconic imposing colorful rock faces. The French Climbing Guide Gaston Rebuffat said of the Dolomites, “one ray of sunshine is enough to give them life, the effect…make them shimmer, take on color and charm for all their verticality.” Their beauty defies description.

But man covets that which is beautiful and tribes fight other tribes for reasons of fear, greed, and honor, as Thucydides so memorably put it thousands of years ago. The Dolomites has been an arena of violent competition as long as there have been humans. The prehistoric mummy “Iceman Otzi” discovered in the glaciers of northern Italy bears wounds inflicted by other humans. Scientists believe he died, not by wild animals or natural causes, but by an arrow shot at him. Otzi was only the first recorded casualty of conflict. For millennia warriors and armies of increasing fame and infamy passed through these mountains. It seems like every valley of this mountainous region is watched over by an imposing castle meant to block the advance of rival forces.

A representation of Otzi, the prehistoric Iceman, at the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology.

More by happenstance than by a plan, we have sought to experience the great mountains around us. Although the Veneto region has been made immortal by the great trading city of Venice, it is also the gateway to the high country. In a series of day trips, we have taken our small girls up to walk among this wonderland. Sometimes, Lisa and I have escaped to try our hand at harder physical endeavors. Time and again, in our travels, we have discovered the remnants of war.

Amidst the larger First World War, a hundred and five years ago, on 23 May 1915, Italy declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Italian or Alpine front was a series of battles between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that quickly devolved into a struggle of attrition among the peaks of the region. The tyranny of altitude, cold, and logistics imposed its own logic on the geopolitical desires of the Italian leadership who hoped to recover territory they believed rightfully theirs.

With another family, we hiked to the incredible Tre Cime or three Peaks. British travelers in the nineteenth century described the peaks as “Egyptian Colossi.” The otherworldly allure of these mountains has drawn Hollywood to use it as the location of an Ice planet in the Star Wars’ films. After hustling small children into backpacks, we began following our friends’ fearless dog in the imposing shadows of the great peaks.

We slipped and struggled through spring snow before coming to a pass that opened up to a panorama of rock and ice. The children played in the snow, seemingly unaffected by the altitude or the climb that had brought us to that location. Above us, incongruities in the rock on Mount Paterno attracted our eyes. We climbed up to find hewn into the rock fighting positions where soldiers could observe the valley below us.

Immediately after the declaration of war, Italian forces were meant to seize the high ground from their unprepared and surprised opponents. However, the inevitable friction of war delayed the offensive giving the Austrians time to prepare their defenses. Repeated assaults in the area and on the nearby Monte Piana led to an estimated 14,000 casualties.

An Austrian captain wrote at the time, “the Italians have justly baptised this mountain ‘Mount Pianto’ [Mountain of Tears]. It has already cost our side and the Italians so much blood and will cost even more, that I do not know if its possession can justify such a great sacrifice……In any case that’s not my concern; my task is to obey.”

Peering through the Italian machine gun firing positions, which they had seized on Mount Paterno, we could see an uninterrupted view on the low ground below. It was their forward most outpost and from it they made it a killing field for the Austrians.

We hiked back down from the high ground. While our children played; the adults shared a celebratory bottle of prosecco. We felt like the encircling rock cathedrals were for us alone.

Amidst our adventures, it slowly dawned on us that ironically, war had created architectural wonders which allowed adventurers, many years later, to reach deep into the wild and appreciate nature’s greatness.

Lisa and I had procured a babysitter, and early one morning we drove out to hike one such man made wonder in the wilderness; the 52 tunnels of Mount Pasubio. On a clear day, Pasubio’s limestone ridge line dominates the lowlands around Vicenza, where we live. It’s high ground used to mark the border between Austria Hungary and Italy; thus its strategic importance in the First World War.

The view of the Veneto plains from the side of Mount Pasubio.

All through 1915, the Italians slowly and painfully occupied the mountain range. However, on 15 May 1916 a surprise Austrian offensive almost swept the Italians completely off Pasubio; the last defensible terrain before the Veneto plains. Almost. The Italians remained on the rocky summit and the ensuing battle became what one Austrian veteran described as the “witches’ cauldron.”

In order to sustain their forward positions, the Italians built a series of tunnels through the mountain which allowed them to travel unmolested by Austrian Artillery. The resulting incredible 52 tunnels cut through rock can still be explored today.

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

Lisa and I brought our headlamps and hiked 9 miles along the path so laboriously built over a hundred years before. Sometimes we would scramble through wet tunnels with no natural light that cork screwed in the heart of the mountain only to pop out into the gorgeous sunny day with endless views of the terrain below us. The path was littered with the mementos that soldiers always place to mark an achievement and ensure their sacrifices are not forgotten.

A unit carved its insignia into the rock, not to be forgotten.

In a similar but more manageable walk with our children, we hiked Mount Cegnio on Father’s Day. It was here that the Sardinia Grenadier Brigade entered history with their heroic defense of the Asiago plateau. Our eldest daughter Marie found a rusty piece of metal in one of the tunnels, which she was convinced came from the era of those battles.

Throughout the Dolomites, both sides had to wrestle with how to maneuver through the imposing mountains. In order to aid the movement of troops amidst the vertical rock faces, a series of ladders, bridges, and cables were installed and are known as Via Ferrata or the “Iron Road.” Their existence from World War One, has created an entire sub genre in climbing. Naturally, Lisa and I had to try our hands at the sport.

Via Ferrata is addictive. Hanging off cables hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the ground below, one feels a tremendous thrill. It was taxing enough for us in our ultralight clothing and modern climbing equipment. It was hard to imagine soldiers trudging up the same impossibly steep terrain with hobnailed boots, wearing woolen uniforms, and carrying their weapons, ammunition, and food. They must have always been fearful of being observed by their enemies in the exposed terrain.

With a group of friends, we tried our hands at what is considered one of the finest Via Ferrata routes in the Dolomites. This route, known as the Bolver Luigi, rises straight up the iconic Pale Dolomite Rock around the old world mountain town of San Martino di Castrozza.

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

We would catch glimpses of the beauty amidst the swirling clouds before being swallowed by them. The day became an epic with pounding hailstones, a thrilling glissade down the snowy backside, and a lightning storm. 10 miles and 7 hours later, after reaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, we hobbled back into town with a greater appreciation of those who had built the route in the first place, long before.

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

The mountains are neutral and impassive to human ambitions; whether they be the objectives of climbers or states. Time has washed away the reasons of fear, greed, and honor which had led men to fight among the beautiful Dolomite mountains. Only the relics of war remained.

Book Reviews, History, Mind

What We’re Reading This Month – April 2020

April 24, 2020 roland.minez Leave a comment

The current situation has many limitations but equally it has presented us with certain opportunities, in this case to continue to read great works. Limited, for the most part, to the confines of our own house; surrounded at all times by our loving but rambunctious children – we can escape into (and learn from) the worlds of great authors. Below are some of the books I have read, and recommend, from the month of April 2020, when the spring weather arrived in its full glory.

The Landmark Julius Caesar: The Complete Works

“Gaul..is divided into three parts.” With those immortal words, once memorized by most of the educated western world, Julius Caesar began his commentaries of the conquest of Gaul. To read Caesar’s writings, which also include the Civil War he would later fight against Pompey leading to the final collapse of the Roman Republic, have long been an objective of mine. However, only now, did I believe I had the time and freedom to take on the daunting task.

While many versions of the book are available, some for free online, I cannot recommend highly enough the Landmark edition of these works. The Landmark series, beginning with Thucydides, are incredible acts of devotion by Classical scholars. They include numerous maps, footnotes, and additional essays that provide invaluable context to the ancient writings.

The lush detailed editions of the Landmark editions of the Classical texts.

In the case of Caesar, this is essential. For not only was he one of the greatest military commanders in history, he was also a politician desperately sparring with his rivals and using the commentaries as a means to influence public opinion in Rome.

Which makes their (selective) honesty, in hindsight, even more interesting. Caesar does not disguise the fact that his is a war of conquest, or that his opponents-whether they be Gauls (from modern day France) or Germans are fighting for their freedom from Imperial domination. He allows his opponents to be heroes in his own writing, and his sparse, clean writing style holds eternal truths about war, leadership, diplomacy, politics and the human condition.

Interestingly, Caesar highlights the bravery of working class legionnaires and centurions. Their exploits are known to history only through Caesar’s words. The passage below captures his technique of dramatizing the actions of these men, without whom none of Caesar’s brilliant achievements would have been possible. Caesar was much more sparing in his praise for the senior commanders and nobles in his army, who in the future might be political rivals.

“In that legion were two superbly brave men, centurions,…Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus. They had unending arguments about which of them should rank above the other, and every year they were involved in high stakes rivalries about their position. Now while the fight was most intense.., Pullo said, “Why are you hanging back, Vorenus? What opportunity are you waiting for to prove your bravery? This day is going to decide our competition.” Having said this, he…rushed toward the enemy forces.. Vorenus…followed right behind, worried about what everyone would think of him. Pullo threw his spear at pretty close range into the crowd of enemies, and it went straight through a man who was in front and had been running toward him. Pullo’s shield was pierced by a javelin…and while he was struggling with this, the enemies surrounded him. His rival Vorenus ran up to help him …and stood by him. Vorenus faced the threat, fighting at close quarters with his sword. He was surrounded in turn, but Pullo now came to his aid… Fortune thus brought it about for the two in their fighting and competition that while each was the other’s rival, he also helped and saved him, and there was no way to judge between them as to who should be thought to rank above the other in bravery.”

It is from that short vignette, that the creators of the HBO show Rome decided to make Vorenus and Pullo the protagonists of their tale, rather than the more famous and powerful characters of that era. Of course, while reading Caesar, I had to dust off my old DVD collection of the series and introduce it to my wife. It had been my favorite show when I was younger, and learning my trade as an infantry officer. One of my friends later told me that every man’s watchword should be WWTPD, What Would Titus Pullo Do? Long after we put the girls to bed, my wife and I watched the artistic rendering of the momentous acts of Marc Antony, Augustus, Pompey, Brutus, and Caesar himself that led to the end of the Republic. Throughout it all, would be Pullo and Vorenus- representative of the many nameless individuals whose lives make the history whose spotlight is on the elites’ competition for power.

On the Ides of March, Caesar was famously assassinated by a conspiracy of senators, who feared that the tremendous dynamism of the man would ultimately lead to tyranny. As such, while reading Caesar, I also studied the works of the ancient biographer Suetonius to gain another perspective. Suetonius, who lived during the era of Hadrian, compiled all the strengths, weaknesses, and quirks of the Emperors starting with Caesar. According to him, the dictator Sulla hunted Caesar as a young man for daring to defy him. When other nobles begged the dictator to spare his life, Sulla responded “Have your way…but be aware that the man you so desired to save, believing him to be attached to the aristocratic cause… will be its downfall.”

Caesar was clearly no ordinary man, and his skills far exceeded those of solely a strategist or ambitious politician. It has been well worth the effort to read his commentaries, thousands of years later, especially when accompanied by critical notes that explain the intent and purpose behind those words

The King’s Gold: The Adventures of Captain Alatriste

Alatriste is drawn into a complicated plot to steal Gold from the New World for the King.

“If what I have I do not fear to lose,

nor yet desire to have what I do not,

I’m safe from Fortune’s wheel whate’er I choose”

After wading through an intense ancient work, I was hoping for a light fictional adventure. When I was younger, I enjoyed historical fiction and occasionally still like to delve into a swashbuckling tale. When we visited my Pushing Horizons’ partner, Andy, and his family in England during Thanksgiving, we came across an old Edwardian phone booth turned into a community library. Among the pile, one book caught my eye. It was an English translation of one of Captain Alatriste’s adventures.

England. Check the phone booth, you never know when it may be filled with free books.

The Alatriste series, written by a Spanish war journalist, now novelist, are loved in Spain and I have a few of the series on my bookshelf in their original language. This translation, however, is excellent. Of course, it had all the sword fights, plot twists, and romance one could hope for in an adventure. Beyond that, the author Arturo Perez-Reverte also artfully tells the story of Spain at the height of its power, awash with gold from the New world, but beset by a myriad of enemies, and increasingly hobbled by its own corruption. This is no ordinary adventure.

Sunset in Ronda, Andalusia, Southern Spain.

The Broken Road: From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos

A young man walks through the Balkans in 1933.

“One is only sometimes warned, when these processes begin, of their crucial importance: that certain poems, paintings, kinds of music, books, or ideas are going to change everything, or that one is going to fail in love or become friends for life; the many lengthening strands, in fact, which, plaited together, compose a lifetime. One should be able to detect the muffled bang of the starter’s gun. This journey was punctuated with these inaudible reports: day springs veiled and epiphanies in plain clothes.”

A scrutinizing reader may notice that we at Pushinghorizons.com are devotees of the author Patrick Leigh Fermor. His books, his ethos, and writings by his companions are scattered like clues throughout our articles. During World War Two, while serving in occupied Crete, he led a successful operation to kidnap a German general. However, it is his walking trip in 1933 from Holland to Constantinople that he took as an eighteen year old that provided an inexhaustible resource for his later life as a writer living in Greece. The first two excellent books detailing his trip were published during his lifetime.

A few years ago a group of us spent New Years on the Cote d’Azur in the South of France. Amidst the camaraderie, and many bottles of Champagne, Andy and I discussed Patrick Leigh Fermor. I had just read his biography by Artemis Cooper, and was enamored by his life. However, I am ashamed to admit it, I had yet to read his actual writings. It was high time for me to rectify this omission, so I have taken the opportunity to read the third and last book in his trilogy detailing his youthful walk through Europe on the brink of armageddon.

This manuscript had not been finished at the time of his death, but has been rescued and published by Cooper. It is filled with the experiences of a young man whose deep sense of cultural and historical knowledge and evident charm allowed him to penetrate and understand the diverse wonderful societies which he passed through.

If you are not already intrigued by the Balkans as I am, that mysterious beautiful land troubled by violence and a crossroads of great power competition, you will be after reading Fermor. Passages like that below easily transported me from our current situation to a much different place and time:

“..prompted by the moonlight, our group sneaked away, armed with a bottle of wine, to a boat in the Maritza, and rowed out on to the wide river singing and drinking in turn from the same glass and moored under a clump of trees. At last, and with great delight, I heard, and finally learnt the words, of that strange wavering song the women had sung in the bus from Radomir. I got the students to perform it by humming what I could remember of the tune:

Zashto mi se sirdish, liube?”

(‘Why are you angry with me, my love? Why do you shun me?…)

..Sirdish ne dohojdash? Dali konya namash, liube Ili drum ne znayesh?

It ends in mid-air in an oddly unfinished fashion. They sang beautifully the slow and complex tune, with many modulations: an entrancing and melancholy sound over this moonlit river. I wonder what has become of them all?”

If one could all live such a life.

– RM
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Body, Cycling, History, Mountains, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

April 10, 2020 roland.minez 1 Comment

A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.

“Crested Butte is for spectators; Chamonix is for participants”
Marc Twight.

A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.

The Mont Blanc Massif, or mountain range, towers over the town of Chamonix in France. Unlike other supposed mountain towns, one has only to crane one’s neck to see the perpetual white snow of the high mountains above them, gigantic blocks of ice jumbled on the glacier flowing down towards the town.

However close to the mountains one is in Chamonix, this is no wild country. Unlike climbing trips I have taken in the United States or the Himalaya you do not need to carry your food and water, or camp, on a long approach before seeing any mountains at all. Here, cable cars reach out in all directions in what appears to be impossible engineering feats to spirit adventurers into the high country.

In fact, despite- or perhaps because- of its proximity to the highest peak in Western Europe, Mont Blanc, the town has all the comforts of French culture and civilization. One can walk its cobblestone streets past well stocked wine bars, patisseries full of warm croissants, and grocery stores selling runny cheese. Tourists from all around the world jostle each other to capture the ambiance of the Alps.

The mountains have made Chamonix. As a small poor village of alpine herders and hunters, it was discovered by early wealthy English adventurers who were interested in exploring Mont Blanc. A Swiss naturalist Horace Bénédict de Saussure began visiting Chamonix in 1760 to observe the great mountain. He offered a reward to the first who could reach its summit. Twenty years later in August of 1786, a local guide-Jacques Balmat and doctor Michel-Gabriel Paccard completed the first ascent of Mont Blanc. The great British mountaineer Eric Shipton wrote many years later that it was “an astounding achievement of courage and determination, one of the greatest in the annals of mountaineering.” It is considered the start of Mountaineering as we know it.

Statues of Jacques Balmat and Michel-Gabriel Paccard stand eternal vigil towards the summit of Mont Blanc.

From that point, Chamonix’s destiny as the starting point for mountain adventures was made. Although the summit of the great mountain is shared by France and Italy, it is known the world over by its French name, Mont Blanc (the White Mountain.) In 1916, the town even lobbied to successfully change its official name to Chamonix-Mont Blanc to solidify the connection. In 1924, the very first winter Olympic games were held in Chamonix,

It is that storied history which imbues the town with its ethos. Make no mistake, although tourists throng the streets of Chamonix, they are not its reason for existence. Chamonix is “for participants” according to the punk climber and American iconoclast Marc Twight. Like no other place on earth, climbers, alpinists, trail runners, and skiers are the heroes. Murals dot the walls of the town with images of great climbers from the past who dared all. Streets and schools are named after great climbing exploits, especially the first ascent of Annapurna.

“Always look for difficulty, not danger. Go forward, try, dare. In audacity there is enchantment” proclaims a mural celebrating famed mountain guide Gaston Rebuffat.

Annapurna, in the Himalayas, was the first 8000 meter peak to be successfully summited. The pioneering French team was led by the now controversial Maurice Herzog and made up of Chamonix mountain guides. Their feat did not come without a cost. Herzog lost all of his fingers and most of his toes to frostbite. He later became the mayor of Chamonix.

We arrived in Chamonix after driving through the epic tunnel that bores through Mont Blanc and connects Italy to France. We stood in awe of the mountains above from the balcony of our small apartment near the center of the town. This was not the first time I had visited Chamonix. While a high school student in Paris, I had visited the town with my family in both winter and summer and those visits, as much as anything else, solidified my life long love affair with the mountains.

The sun begins to set on the Mont Blanc Massif above Chamonix.

It had taken twenty years to return, but I was back with a family of my own and we were determined to be “participants” in the great mountain arena. We took our young girls on repeated hikes in the mountains that invariably ended with them being carried by us in backpacks and eating delicious crepes at secluded mountain lodges.

The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.

Sometimes we would be passed by noted trail runners, like Timothy Olson, preparing for the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (UTMB). We yelled our encouragement and patted him on the back as he ran by. The 106 mile UTMB race gains over 32 thousand feet in elevation and crosses the borders of France, Switzerland, and Italy before ending in Chamonix. The winner will take approximately twenty hours to finish it. In preparation for a much more modest upcoming triathlon, I would go for long bike rides and runs in the shadow of the peaks around us.

Not one of those peaks were without their own epics of triumph and tragedy. While riding my bike just outside of the town, I looked up at the towering Aiguille du Dru above the “mer de glace” glacier. Aiguille means needle in French, and it accurately captures the sharp jagged profile of the mountain. In 1962 two Americans, Royal Robbins and Gary Hemmings, pioneered the “American Direct” route straight up the pinnacle of the Dru.

Gary Hemings had been kicked out of the Air Force Academy and ended up in Europe climbing mountains and sometimes living under bridges in Paris. In 1966, two German climbers were stuck on a ledge on the mountain. French military rescue teams were unable to reach them and one French soldier died in the attempt. Hemings had offered his service and been refused, but he returned with a team and rescued the Germans. The French press crowned him a hero and dubbed him “Le Beatnik.” Tragically, before the end of the decade he would die of a self-inflicted gunshot among the Teton mountains in Wyoming. The author James Salter tried to capture his haunted free spirit in the novel, Solo Faces.

The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.

No institution better represents Chamonix than the Compagnie des Guides. Founded in 1821, it is the world’s oldest mountain guiding association. The poor herders and hunters who lived in Chamonix came together to lead those who wanted to go into the high country. The cemetery and memorial in town are filled with members of the Compagnie des Guides who hold the same family names, like Simond and Charlet, and who had perished as guides in the mountains over multiple generations.

The Compagnie des Guides was truly a family affair and for many years limited to those born in Chamonix. Then in 1930 an extraordinary man named Roger Frisson-Roche,who had been born in Paris, passed the grueling selection process to become the first “foreigner” accepted into its select company. His was a storybook life; climber, entrepreneur, explorer, journalist, and writer. His novel Premier de cordee (First on the Rope) would define climbing in France for at least a generation. During World War Two while a journalist with American Forces in North Africa he was captured by the Germans and later fought with the French resistance as a Mountain soldier.

We so happened to be visiting Chamonix during their annual Festival des Guides. This tradition, first started by Frisson-Roche, was a time for the Guides to celebrate the camaraderie of their profession. We joined them in a small village outside Chamonix called Argentieres, where we were treated to a helicopter demonstration by the elite Gendarmerie Mountain Rescue unit, as well as live music and prodigious amounts of melted cheese and red wine.

The guides assemble for their annual ritual.

Early the next morning the guides assembled in the uniform of their fore-bearers, woolen jackets, knicker-bocker pants, long socks with ropes and ice axes slung across their backs. They gathered at the cemetery in town to pay homage to their dead. Then both old and young guides marched together from the cemetery to the chapel. In a semicircle around the chapel, they remembered those guides who had died in the preceding year and welcomed the few who had made it through the selection process to become guides themselves. A young woman poignantly told the crowd how proud she was to join this esteemed association and believed her father, who had perished in an avalanche years before, was looking down at her.

Young and old guides alike share in the camaraderie of the moment.

On the margins of the events, other guides helped children practice on a climbing wall and, this being a French event, served wine and beer to the audience. In the brilliant sunshine, guides and guests alike slapped each other’s backs and told stories of climbs past and future sharing the aura of those who have witnessed that which is majestic.

Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.

We too felt the pull to test ourselves on the great faces that surrounded us. After finding a babysitter, Lisa and I early one morning took a cable car up into the high country to climb among the rock faces of the Aiguille Rouges. Belaying each other up the multi-pitch routes, feeling the rock in our hands, we looked across the valley to the stunning views of the Mont Blanc. At some other time, should fate allow it, we would return to climb the storied peak. But right then, we were happy to be participants in this living shrine to man’s connection to mountains.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Photo Essay, Soul

Cooking in the Time of COVID.

March 27, 2020 roland.minez Leave a comment

“Life is weather. Life is meals”
James Salter

One of the many steps in preparing Julia Child’s classic Boeuf Bourguinon. It is according to Julia, “certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.” We agree. Remember to serve it with a “fairly full-bodied young red wine.”

Our life, and the premise of pushinghorizons.com, has been a relentless pursuit to experience that which makes life rich. We seek out the history that shapes our destinies, the sports that inspire, and the adventures that challenge us. Such a life, though it is one of our choosing, can be frenetic.

Then forces beyond our control, in the form of a novel and deadly virus-COVID-19, has upended the world. We are in the midst of the storm and its full damage in lives lost and economies wrecked is not yet known.

For those in Italy, the impact has been especially dreadful. Gracefully, we have avoided the worst. We are now largely restricted to the confines of our house. It has reminded us that some of life’s greatest experiences are its simplest. We have spent time as a family and sought to challenge ourselves by learning new skills.

The novelist James Salter once said that “Life is weather, Life is meals.” In that vein, we opened up old cook books and researched recipes to cook and share memorable meals. The dishes themselves, no matter delicious, were not nearly as important as the experience of making and eating them together.

The below photo essay captures some of the results. If any of the dishes inspire you, feel free to contact us and we would be happy to share the recipes. Be forewarned, some of these older classic dishes are incredibly time intensive and complex. One more reminder that simple pleasures are earned through hard work.

Roland, learning that cooking is hard work.

Hard work deserves libations. Paloma, a cocktail of tequila, fresh grapefruit, lime, jalapeno, and club soda.

A Berry Tart inspired by Sweden, but made our own Chez the Minezes with whatever was in the freezer in a time of scarcity.

The Venetian cookbook *Polpo*‘s ricotta fennel salad and black cabbage gnocchi

Jamie Oliver’s “Best Chorizo and Tomato Salad in the World.” It was good.

Julia Child’s delectable French Omelette.

A “Venetian Style” beefsteak with salsa, and a bottle of Val Policella, of course.

A “Pytt i Panna”, the Swedish method of clearing out all your leftovers. Don’t forget the raw egg on top.

Lisa puts the finishing touches on a birthday Lemon Meringue tart.

The head chef observes the kitchen to ensure standards are being enforced.

The lemon meringue tart, from the *Slanted Door* Cookbook, in the midst of being enjoyed.

Lisa’s piece de la resistance, Beef Wellington.

Body, Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Kandahar Run

March 20, 2020 roland.minez 1 Comment

One of the Oldest Ski Races traces its origin to the Hindu Kush.

“There is always that lone skier…going down where it is steepest and the snow untouched, in absolute grace, marking each dazzling turn with a brief jab of the pole—there is always him, the skier you cannot be.”
James Salter- Essay “ The Skiing Life”

Time is quickly fleeing proclaims a house in Oberammergau, Bavaria

In January we found ourselves in the Bavarian Alps. Chocolate box perfect Alpine chalets, with painted exteriors, seemed to stand at every corner. In the town of Garmisch, towering above it all stood the imposing jagged profile of the Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany.

The Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany.

On every street stood banners proclaiming the upcoming Kandahar Ski Run. For those of my generation, the word Kandahar is more likely to conjure up images of an endless counterinsurgency against the Taliban than a ski race in an idyllic snowy mountain setting.

The Kandahar Race in Garmisch, site of the 1936 Olympics

Yet the two, worlds apart, have more in common than it appears. In 1928, the Arlberg Ski Club in Austria and the British Kandahar Ski club in Switzerland co-hosted the first race in St. Anton. It was the first Alpine Combined ski race of slalom and downhill events in the history of skiing.

45 fearless skiers from Austria, Switzerland, Britain, and the United States competed against each by hurtling down the mountain as fast as they could with their primitive equipment. Its popularity led the International Ski Federation to recognize Alpine Skiing in addition to the classic Nordic disciplines.

Field Marshal Frederick Roberts was a Victorian era soldier whose career at the height of British Empire saw him fighting in India, Ethiopia, and South Africa. In Afghanistan, at the head of a 10,000 man field force, he marched across 300 miles of inhospitable terrain to defeat Ayub Khan at Kandahar in 1880. In honor of the victory, he was named the Earl of Kandahar. Later in life, he awarded the Roberts of Kandahar cup at one of the first ever ski races, which led to the formation of the British Kandahar Ski club.

The Kandahar ski race soon spread to other locations including Chamonix-France, Sestriere-Italy, and Garmisch-Germany. Thus history is made and a ski race in Germany is named after a city in war ravaged central Asia.

A racer flies down the slope on a qualifying run.

Now a part of the Alpine Skiing World Cup, the Garmisch Kandahar run is considered by some to be the best ski run in the world. It drops 1800 meters or 5 thousand feet in elevation in 7 km. One section, ominously labeled “free fall”, is a jaw dropping 92% gradient. Those who want to win the race, compete for advantages in hundredths of a second.

Lisa on the summit of the Osterfelderkopf, above the Kandahar route.

Lisa and I were drawn to ski the run like flies are drawn to light. Sneaking out for an afternoon on the slopes we found most of the route shut off as they prepared the course for the race. Luckily a section wasn’t yet closed and we got to taste a little of the Kandahar in midst of a snow storm. Then on Friday, we skied on the margins of the course to watch the racers test themselves on the qualifying runs.

Skiers along the route check the rankings

By Saturday, race day, the skies were a brilliant blue. Crowds walked through the town and fields to the base of the mountain. Festive music blared, and people lined up for beers and bratwurst.

Fans mingle at the base of the mountain.

Above them on the impossibly steep slope, the racers battled. Ski racing, probably like life, is a matter of finding the right balance between risk and restraint. Too fearless and too fast and a racer would go crashing into the nets that line the course. Too prudent and a skier wouldn’t win. The greatest, of course, were just over the edge of control as they hurtled down the mountain at maximum speeds of 140 kms an hour (86 mph) and jumps that could launch them 60 meters.

Hometown hero Thomas Dressen took the victory, the first for a German in many years. The crowd roared their approval. He completed the course in 1.39.31. Second place was .16 of a second slower. Last place that day was two minutes slower than the champion-an eternity.

Fans cheer as a racer crosses the finish line.

Amidst the festive beer fueled atmosphere, which resembled an Oktoberfest in the Snow, we marveled at the athleticism and daring of the skiers. Stranger still were the twists of fate that had led the race to be named after a city far away where men continue to fight.

The Landmark Julius Caesar: The Complete Works

The King’s Gold: The Adventures of Captain Alatriste

The Broken Road: From the Iron Gates to Mount Athos

A small town in the French Alps on the border with Italy and Switzerland is a living shrine to all things Mountain.

One of the Oldest Ski Races traces its origin to the Hindu Kush.

For those who love adventure, friends, travel, and all that is rich in history