“History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes”
Attributed to Mark Twain
On Sunday, we awoke early, as always, to find out that sweeping new measures had put in place to “lockdown” the population of much of northern Italy, including the province of Veneto where we live. Movement into and out of the province was to be curtailed. This new quarantine was meant to halt the further spread of a new, and therefore feared, virus – COVID-19.
It began in China, in what feels like ages ago, in late December 2019. By January 2020, the growing spread of the virus had captured the imagination of breathless media reports. Yet, it seemed distant from those of us in Europe.
Then it appeared in Italy, and soon spread to the rest of Europe. It’s foothold wasn’t just Italy but specifically the north of Italy. This wasn’t the first time, of course, that a virus that terrorized Europe had first made landfall in Northern Italy.
At Kaffa on the Black Sea, an Italian outpost had been established to trade with the Mongols. During a lengthy siege in 1347, the Mongol horde surrounding the city began to die. Before withering away, the besiegers catapulted the diseased corpses of their dead comrades over the walls of Kaffa to ensure the residents of the city would suffer with them. Soon trading vessels returned to Italy carrying the deadly virus silently amongst its other cargo.
A chronicler of the time imagined the dialogue between those merchants and God, “we set sail to our cities and entered our homes and alas, we carried with us the darts of death, and at the very moment that our families hugged and kissed us, even as as we were speaking, we were compelled to spread poison from our mouths. It reached Venice around January 1348.
In 2020, our family felt fine. We refused to join growing fearful clamour and decided to visit what once had been the world’s greatest trading city-Venice.
On a beautiful spring day, we boarded the transport boat which brings commuters to their destinations in the city. Sailing the waters of the Grand Canal, we passed a parade of beautiful structures which stood as a testament to the greatness which had been Venice.
Those intrepid tourists who remained, enjoyed the timeless experiences of Venice.
By March 1348, the plague began consuming Venice. According to the chronicler Lorenzo de Monacis, “It raged so fiercely that …all the places were crammed with corpses. At night, many were buried in the public streets, some under the floors of their own homes; many died unconfessed; corpses rotted in abandoned houses… fathers, sons, brothers, neighbors, and friends abandoned each other…Not only would doctors not visit anyone, they fled from the sick…. The same terror seized the priests and clerics….There was no rational thought about the crisis… The whole city was a tomb.”
The ornate facade of a Venetian villa.
A similar terror gave us an unexpected windfall in 2020. A city that suffers from a modern horde of tourists seeking their next instagram-worthy selfie is now empty. Surrounded by blue skies and bluer waters, we admired the kaleidoscope of ornate villas and churches which fused eastern as well western architectural styles.
A Bellini at the home of its creation, the now deserted Harry’s Bar.
I savored my pricey bellini alone at Hemingway’s old haunt, Harry’s Bar. Our girls raced their scooters across the iconic and now vacant Piazza San Marco.
Piazza San Marco,
However, in 1348, the number of casualties from the plague meant special boats had to be commissioned to collect the dead from abandoned houses to bury them in heaps in islands outside the city. By the time the plague had finally collected its toll, approximately two-thirds of the population had died.
According to historian Roger Crowley, “For 150 years, Venice had advanced on a rising tide of European prosperity, growing wealth, and booming populations. Maritime ventures, characterized by an optimistic culture of risk-taking, had brought rich returns. But it was the rampant materialism, the expansion of trade routes, and the commercial connections across vast distances that brought not only silk, spices, ivory, pearls, grain, and fish, but also the plague bacillus from inner Asia. It was the Italian maritime republics who were charged with carrying death to Europe.”
The plague would continue to strike Venice, and Europe, in intervals for another three hundred years.
In the face of fear, the unexplainable, and unstoppable, humans sought faith. Among the many beautiful chapels in Venice, one stood out during our visit. San Maria de Salute jutting proudly into the Canale di San Marco was built in thanks to the lifting of the final plague in 1630.
San Maria di Salute, commissioned to give thanks for the lifting of the Plague.
In our modern era, people also seek solace in faith. One image above all others seems to burn in my memory. While driving through our small rural village, the faithful stood in silent prayer outside the locked doors of the village church which had been banned from holding services in another desperate bid to halt the spread of the new virus.
It is glib to say that history repeats itself, but it is ignorant to ignore the patterns of human existence. The clues of the past provide the rhymes of the future. In the meantime, in the center of the supposed storm, we lived for the moment in the company of loved ones.
A place of incredible beauty was once the site of unspeakable suffering.
There was no light. Tiny hands and feet crawled into our bed long before the breaking of dawn. Our children had navigated the tight hallway of our postage sized hideaway to snuggle. Outside the snow piled up across the one window of our room. Inside we burrowed under our blankets to stay warm.
We were deep in the Dolomite mountains. Beauty is, of course, in the eye of the beholder. But in my eyes, the Dolomites are probably the most beautiful mountains in the world. Jagged pink hued rock faces outline picturesque Alpine villages in pocket valleys.
The Sella Crags.
Of course, we couldn’t see any of this after we were woken up by our children. It was pitch dark outside, the mountains invisible. We layered on long underwear and sweaters before beginning to boil water for the elixir of life, espresso out of an old mocka machine.
We had come to the Val di Fassa to ski an iconic route, the Sellaronda. With a single Ski pass, the Dolomiti Superski, you can ski more than a thousand kilometers of piste across multiple valleys throughout the Dolomites. It is said to be the world’s biggest ski area. Amidst this wonderland of downhill skiing, the most legendary tour is that of the Sellaronda, or circumnavigation of the Sella mountain range. A web of different ski resorts surround the imposing craggy Sella chain. If you time it right, you can connect those different resorts by cable car and chair lift and your skis to do the entire route in a day.
Lisa studies the route to plan our next moves.
Each valley has its own unique culture and in some cases its own language. For although today we would remain in Italy, it wasn’t always so. Before the First World War, this beautiful land had been divided between the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the nascent state of Italy.
When Europe descended into the cataclysm of World War One, Italy sensed an opportunity to correct what it saw as past injustices; that some Italian speaking communities remained under the dominion of their old nemesis, the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the rest of Europe had already been at war for a year, slaughtering each other on both the Western and Eastern Fronts, Italy declared war on Austro-Hungary.
Unsurprisingly, the dreams of politicians and generals crashed against the reality of geography in this new front. Each side raced each other to gain a positional advantage from the highest terrain in the Dolomites. Then the altitude, the weather, the sheer imposing nature of the terrain led to bloody incremental warfare in brutal conditions.
The battle for the Dolomites.
That time had long passed when my wife Lisa and I decided to come to this skiing mecca and try our own hands at the Sellaronda. After breakfast, we dropped the little ones off at a welcoming kindergarten, and struggled to get our feet into cold ski boots. Then a gondola shot us high into the sky.
After clipping into our skis, we raced down one slope after another, never repeating a run. The conditions were perfect; bluebird skies, good snow, and brisk wind biting our exposed skin. We struck up a conversation with guide on a chairlift who told us, if we were fast enough, we could also link the Marmolada to our route.
Skiing the Sellaronda.
The Marmolada is the highest mountain in the Dolomites at over 10,000 feet. A glacier covers it summit in snow year round. Thanks to the marvels of modern engineering and the sacrifices of soldiers over a century ago, we now could reach its highest plateau with a cable car.
The shadow of our cable car against the face of La Marmolada.
Over half way up the Marmolada there is the self-proclaimed highest museum of the world that tells the story of the men who fought over this beautiful place. Mountaineering skills were as important as military ones in this fight.
Artifacts of war.
Although the mountain had first been climbed in 1864, the first ascent of its dangerous south face had only occurred in 1901. Only a few years later, whole units of men would find themselves living, fighting, and dying there. Austro-Hungarian soldiers built tunnels in the glacier on the north face. While the Italians clung precariously to their outposts on the exposed south face. Even today, as the glacier recedes in summer it releases the remnants of the men who fought there.
We stepped out of the cable car and stood in awe of the view from the top of countless mountaintops stretched to the horizon. Then began the greatest run of the day. For over twelve kilometers we linked one ski turn after another, reaching speeds of 68 miles per hour.
The view from La Marmolada.
After another series of lifts and beautiful views, we entered the Alta Badia. In between the German speaking Sud-Tyrol and the Italian Veneto lies a valley with an ancient people who speak their own language, Ladin. Linguists say it is a mix of the celtic of ancient inhabitants and the latin of Roman legionnaires who used to garrison the area. Whatever its origin, this is where we chose to have lunch. In the afternoon sun, we filled ourselves with a fusion of pasta and german style pancakes as well as wine and beer washed down with espresso.
Refueling in the Alta Badia.
Wobbly, we returned to skis and continued the route. Increasingly worried that we wouldn’t make it to our children in time, we lost our bearing and found ourselves skiing the World Cup race route on the Saslong slope.
Finally, as the light began to fail, our epic day came to an end. After 30 miles of skiing and 30,000 feet of vertical descent, our Sellaronda tour was over. My knees and legs ached as I stumbled in my ski boots to our children. Lisa, unsurprisingly, remained unfazed.
Lisa on the Sellaronda route.
We bundled our children up and drove back to our small hideaway. After much laughter, stories, imaginative children’s drawings and red wine- we all returned to our beds. Long ago, soldiers had battled each other over possession of this beautiful place. We fell asleep, in the dark, content in having experienced them.
The Dolomites.
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.
“I take my gear out of the car and put my bike together. Tourists and locals are watching from sidewalk cafes. Non-racers. The emptiness of their lives shocks me.” Tim Krabbe, The Rider.
Bicycle Racing revels in suffering. It takes a certain kind of masochist to enjoy the endless miles across undulating terrain against merciless opponents; sometimes in repetitive stages over many weeks. No one captures the ethos of those who choose to race better than author Tim Krabbe in his novel, The Rider, about a single day of cycling in an anonymous 70’s amateur race in the South of France. The protagonist and his opponents push to the limits of their endurance in a fight to the finish line.
The history of cycling is replete with legends of such stoic heroes. The rider flying off a cliff during a speedy descent, only to climb out of the canyon, bruised and bloody, to ride to victory. The nicknames of the greatest suggest a ruthless will to win; the Cannibal, Badger, and Pirate. None are more famous than Il Campionissimo or the “Champion of Champions” Fausto Coppi. The great post World War Two Italian cyclist was a World Champion, two time winner of the Tour de France, and five time winner of the Giro d’Italia. The latter two races are multi-stage epics whose distances covered and altitude gained are difficult for laymen to truly comprehend. To this day, the annual Giro d’Italia names the highest peak in the race Cima Coppi in his honor.
Fausto Coppi lives on in a bar in Asolo, Italy.
The most iconic climb of the Giro is arguably the Passo del Stelvio on the forbidding alpine border between Lombardy and South Tyrol. The Austro-Hungarian Emperor built the road in the nineteenth century in order to secure his restive Italian provinces. The vestiges of WWI combat between Italians and Austrians still litter the terrain.
At 2,760 meters, it is the highest motorable pass in Italy, and the second highest in Europe. That is, of course, when it is open at all. Four times in its history, the Giro has used the summit of the Stelvio Pass as a stage finish. Yet, on four other occasions, it had to cancel the Stelvio stage due to inclement weather. It is an endless stream of hairpin switchbacks at a relentless grade to a snow capped summit. When the opportunity presented itself, I had to try and climb it.
The Stelvio Road.
As a family we traveled to the South Tyrol region last Labor day. The beautiful mountains, picturesque villages filled with onion domed churches, and a blend of germanic and Italian culture make it an intoxicating getaway. Beer and Espresso. Pasta and Strudel. It is a wonderful place. We tucked our children in bed in a farmhouse above a herd of cows. My wife and I lazily explored what we could do in the region. It is then that we found out the next day, August 31, the Stelvio pass would be hosting a cycling event open to all; Stelvio Bike Day. For only a handful of days a year, the road is closed to cars so cyclists can test their will against its flank. In hurried negotiations, we decided I would attempt it the next day.
Bright and early, we drove to the starting point in a small village in the plain below the high Alpine peaks. Thousands of other cyclists surrounded us, ready to try and tick off a bucket list climb. I set up my bike, kissed my family, and pedaled off in a sea of other enthusiasts.
In high spirits at the beginning of the climb.
There should be no mistake and no illusions. Although this is the hardest climb I have ever attempted, none of us riding that day can rightfully compare ourselves to those legends who had ridden the path to achieve victory in a professional bike race.
The first year the Stelvio was showcased in the Giro d’Italia was 1953. That year Fausto Coppi hoped to win his fifth Giro. At that time, only one other man had ever won five Giros. However, by the time the Giro had reached the penultimate Stelvio stage, Coppi was far behind his competitor and friend, non-Italian Hugo Klobet. It is said that the day before the stage, Coppi told Klobet, “The Giro is yours, You are the strongest.” A deal was allegedly hatched, neither would attack the other, Koblet would take the race and Coppi would take the stage.
The pack thinned as I rode up and away from the villages, soon surrounded by pine trees. The ascent was relentless. Although the gradient was a reasonable 5%, there was no flat or dipping terrain in order to rest the legs. Raging whitewater fed by the melting glaciers above, flowed down beside us.
Coppi’s Italian teammates and most importantly the boss of his sponsoring company didn’t like the deal Coppi had made. They insisted the race could still be won. About four kilometers into the stelvio stage, Coppi’s teammates began to attack in a bid to break Koblet.
A critical refueling stop.
Surrounded by beautiful mountains, I had stopped to refuel on a strudel and espresso, before continuing the climb. Soon the famous 48 hairpin turns began, where I imagined the assault on Koblet began. It was hard to stay in the saddle and continue to pedal up the increasingly steep gradient of 8%-9%. I climbed almost the rest of the way out of the saddle.
An endless stream of cyclists test themselves on the Stelvio.
After Koblet chased down another of Coppi’s teammates, Coppi counterattacked. According to a member of Coppi’s team, “He came past us like a motorbike. I’d never seen anything like it. He disappeared into the distance.”
The names of great cyclist were spray painted on the road beneath me, as I continued to pedal up. We left the tree line and entered into true alpine country, exposed to the elements. The road was a mesmerising line that seemed to stitch its way up the impossibly steep slope above us, and my own personal suffering began in earnest.
The road to the Stelvio Pass.
Coppi’s mistress, Giulia Locatelli waited on the side of the road. Known as the “White Lady” their adulterous love affair would scandalize Italy and led the Pope to refuse to bless the Giro when Coppi rode it. As Coppi passed Giulia on the Stelvio, he asked her if she would be at the finish. She shouted yes, and a further inflamed Coppi sprinted over the summit.
Cyclists grind up the Stelvio.
My breathing ragged from the effort and altitude, my legs heavy, I pushed on to what appeared to be the summit. Glacial snow and gray skies crowned the Stelvio pass. An army of fellow cyclists crowded around the pass celebrating their achievement with long steins of beer and bratwursts. I called my family to tell them I made it. Among the chaos, a simple sign proclaimed the pass to be the Cima Coppi.
The Cima Coppi.
Coppi himself flew down the other side of the pass and took the Maglia Rosa, or Pink Jersey, awarded to the winner of the Giro.
I rode down to my family who were playing in an idyllic Alpine hotel in the shadow of the mountain.
Coppi won his fifth Giro. The Stelvio, afterwards, would be an integral part of future races. Koblet and Coppi would never speak to each other again.
I had no opponent save my own doubt. Nor was I the victor of a classic race. Over 5,800 feet had been gained in approximately 25 miles. The suffering had ended. I stretched my sore legs and celebrated the end of a hard climb with a cold beer, surrounded by my daughters, happy to have rode in the shadow of legends.
Daddy and Daughter enjoy a well earned nap.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons. Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
Ernest Hemingway as quoted by Dorothy Parker in her November 1929 New Yorker profile.
I hesitated before writing this article. There are few individuals who have had as much ink spilled on their behalf than Hemingway. A literary titan in his own time, he remains a larger than life figure whose full-throttled life full of sport, violence, women, and drink (and not necessarily in that order) has now become almost a cliche. In our changing times, much of what people found attractive about Hemingway is now looked at askance, if not downright disdain…and.. Yet he remains both a guiding star and cautionary tale for those who seek out a certain type of life-rich in adventure, a similar ethos to that we attempt to capture on Pushinghorizons.com.
In fact, while Andy and I were pressed against the barricades in the medieval city of Siena, waiting in the hot sun for men to recklessly ride horses against each other around the Campo, I couldn’t help but notice the young American college student next to us, with a battered Hemingway paperback tucked under his arm. My first thought was “of course” that is what he is reading. My second thought, upon reflection, was “of course” that is what he is reading, and why not. I too had been drawn to Hemingway’s work as a young man and after moving to Italy, I recently dusted off my old college copy of A Farewell to Arms to discover anew the feel of retreat from Caporetto in World War I. In spite of, and beyond, the caricature, Hemingway’s terse prose-which revolutionized writing- hold timeless truth, just as he intended.
While living the life that would provide Hemingway the copy for his books, he experienced much of the armed conflict which dominated the twentieth century. From his time as an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in the First World War, where he was wounded, to the Cold War twilight struggle that hovered around his estate near Havana during the Cuban Revolution, it seems Hemingway sought out war, all the while emphasizing its tragedy.
As a journalist, he witnessed the war which led to the creation of modern Turkey, the Spanish Civil War, and the convoluted fighting in China; both between the Chinese and against Japan. During the Second World War, he chased German U-boats in the Caribbean before accompanying the 4th Infantry Division from Normandy to the Huertgen Forest. In his typical penetrating insight, he captured the human aspect of war and was forever haunted, it seems, by the decisions he made as a participant in such conflict. Many men fought more than him in the twentieth century, and some men can write better. But I can think of very few who write as well and experienced as much war as old Hemingway. The following three works are a window into Hemingway’s view of human conflict and the experiences he had which shaped those views.
“When you go to war as a boy you have this great illusion of immortality. Other people get killed; not you…Then when you are badly wounded the first time you lose that illusion and you know it can happen to you. After being severely wounded two weeks before my nineteenth birthday I had a bad time until I figured out that nothing could happen to me that had not happened to all men before me. Whatever I had to do men had always done. If they had done it then I could do it too and the best thing was not to worry about it.”
-From the Introduction to Men at War
A forgotten gem in the pantheon of Hemingway works, this book was created in the heady patriotic atmosphere of America’s entry into World War Two. In coordination with a Marine Corps Officer who was a good friend of his, Hemingway collected what he believed were the most insightful works on armed conflict in one single volume. When reading the work, it becomes clear that the intended audience were the millions of American citizens who were joining the military and would soon be entering combat. Hemingway included everything from historical accounts of medieval warfare to what was then recent fictional works from the Second World War and organized them in accordance with Clausewitz’s various definitions of war.
I found that the various works included by Hemingway were all powerful stories on humankind’s deadly addiction to violent competition. For modern readers, it is also interesting to see what one of America’s greatest writers thought was great war writing. For example, he insisted that all of Stephen Cranes’ Red Badge of Courageon bravery and cowardice in the American Civil War be included. In spite of the patriotic atmosphere in which it is published, and Hemingway’s clear commitment to defeat the fascist forces, he does not shy away from highlighting the tragedy and suffering which Clausewitz highlighted as the realm of war.
Hemingway On War, edited and with an introduction by Sean Hemingway.
“German prisoners who had been taken by irregulars were often as cooperative as head waiters or minor diplomats. In general we regarded the Germans as perverted Boy Scouts. This is another way of saying they were splendid soldiers. We were not splendid soldiers. We were specialists in a dirty trade. In French we said, “un metier tres sale.”
From the short story Black Ass at the Cross Roads
Hemingway’s grandson collected much of Hemingway’s writings on war in this book first published in 2003. It highlights the great breath of both his experiences and his work. There are the rough short stories Hemingway wrote after World War I, selections from his play on espionage in the Spanish Civil War, and his correspondence as a journalist on Mustafa Kemal’s rise to power during the Greco-Turkish War. One of the most poignant short stories I found in the book describes the deep sadness which infects the narrator after his band of French resistance fighters kill a young German soldier fleeing the Allied Advance from Normandy. An excerpt of which is above. The book is an excellent single repository of Hemingway’s own words on war.
“After a few months of work, I started to see the outline of a Hemingway portrait that was very different from the others I had known. The writer had-almost obsessively I thought-tried his hand at various forms of spying and fighting on two continents from 1937 on, before and during World War II. The way stations were varied, often exotic: the battlefields of Spain, the back streets of Havana, a junk on the North River in China. He seemed to gravitate to men and women who operated on their own in the shadows.”
Although I have waited to discuss this book until the end of this article, I won’t withhold the startling thesis. The author argues, convincingly, that Ernest Hemingway was a source for the Soviet NKVD, a precursor of the KGB. My first inclination would be to dismiss such an accusation as an exaggerated claim of a passionate doctoral student desperate to stand out from his peers. However, Reynolds was the official historian of the Central Intelligence Agency Museum and a career intelligence and Marine Corps Officer. He makes a convincing argument that Hemingway’s communist sympathies, disillusionment with America’s neutrality in the Spanish Civil War, as well as his fascination with both adventure and intrigue led him to be recruited by NKVD. The damning evidence is limited to reports from the Soviet intelligence archives during the small window after the end of the Cold War when there was access to such archives.
Reynolds uses this admittedly slender evidence and weaves a convincing and fascinating story of Hemingway, that in many ways is the biography of a man drawn to adventure and conflict. For not only did Hemingway work with Russian intelligence but he apparently also ran sources on behalf of the American government in Havana, led sanctioned U-boat hunting expeditions from his fishing boat, and organized a band of French resistance fighters who screened the Allied advance on Paris. Reynold suggests, less convincingly, that Hemingway’s earlier dalliance with the Soviet Intelligence Service drove a paranoia later in life, during the cold war, that resulted in his ultimate suicide. This is a window into Hemingway’s life which enriches and explains the impetus behind the two books above. It is a fascinating story, one which I was unaware of when I read his legendary fiction as a young man, and highlights why Hemingway is both a guiding star and cautionary tale for those who seek out adventure.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
“There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.”
― Attributed to Ernest Hemingway
The Kachenjunga mountain range in Sikkim, India. Third highest mountain in the world. Photo taken by Roland Minez, April 2013.
I don’t remember the exact moment, but some time in my early teens leafing through the pages of old Outside magazines, I fell in love with the idea of mountaineering. I didn’t know anything about climbing itself, mind you, beyond hiking and a few knots learned as a boy scout. However the idea of climbing and specifically mountain climbing captured my imagination. I was, and admittedly still am, drawn to adventure and nothing seemed to capture the essence of adventure better than those individuals who chose to enter a dangerous arena whose risk was death and whose rewards were not measured in trophies won but in the tremendous natural beauty witnessed and the satisfaction derived from surmounting extreme challenges.
Although the passion for mountaineering had been lit, my path took me in a circuitous route interspersed among other life events; first attending rock climbing classes at a gym in Paris, then as a member of my university climbing club on the east coast, and later bolting out on weekends with friends to scramble up peaks in the Pacific Northwest. Finally, I have had the opportunity to explore mountains around the world. Throughout, I drew inspiration from the stories of those individuals who had challenged themselves on the world’s greatest peaks. My own climbing exploits pale in comparison, but all of us-whether climbers or not-can taste the fear, excitement, camaraderie, and awe these writers felt. Something about the mountains makes poets out of climbers. So too, is a palpable sense of the torment of those addicted souls who forsake almost everything; love, family, and security to be in the mountains. Here are a few titles that are are bound to inspire you to explore the outdoors and your own limits.
“Writing these words more than a dozen years later, it’s no longer entirely clear just how I thought soloing the Devils Thumb would transform my life. It had something to do with the fact that climbing was the first and only thing I’d ever been good at. My reasoning, such as it was, was fueled by scattershot passions of youth, and a literary diet overly rich in the works of Nietzsche, Kerouac, and John Menlove Edwards- the later a deeply troubled writer/psychiatrist who, before putting an end to his life with a cyanide capsule in 1958, had been one of the preeminent British rock climbers of the day.”
Long before Krakauer became famous as the witness to the disastrous 1996 Everest climbing season, or captured the short poetic life of Chris McCandless; he was a climbers’ writer. For my money, his short story collection on the climbing life is still his best work. In short pithy vignettes he describes his own climbs on the infamous Eiger North Face in Switzerland and the aptly named Devil’s Thumb in Alaska. He also captures all the absurdities and characters which populate the climbing community. One gets a sense of someone who never takes himself or his craft too seriously, but who still captures the ethos and contradictions of whose drawn to the mountains.
“In 1984 I went to the Eiger because it was the most radical, dangerous climb I could imagine myself doing. To prepare, I backed away from everything except the mountain and my ambition. They were all that mattered. Relationships that were incomplete or inconsequential were cut away. I consolidated my power by not sharing it. Sure, I’m a self-centered asshole, but being obsessed is something not easily shared, nor is it often appreciated.”
Those who know Marc Twight at all, probably associate him with the trans-formative Gym Jones, which sculpted the crew of the film 300 (and countless other athletes and special operators). However, before becoming a physical fitness guru, Twight was a young American who ventured to the most difficult peaks in Europe to test himself at the absolute limit of the humanly possible. Unlike many other American climbing stars who stress the importance of returning from the summit alive, one gets a sense that a young Marc Twight was borderline suicidal, willing to risk everything while soloing up vertical rock and ice faces listening to punk music on his walkman. Nothing here is polished, but if you want a raw unvarnished tale of what drives some to climb the most extreme faces in the world, Twight allows you to peak behind the curtain.
“The deepest despair I have ever felt, as well as the most piercing happiness, has come in the mountains-a fair portion of each on Deborah and Huntington. In my later years as a writer, I have been lucky enough to travel widely, often on fine adventures: rafting an unknown river in New Guinea, climbing to prehistoric burial caves in Mali, prowling through Iceland in search of saga sites. But none of these latter-day exploits has had quite the intensity of those early climbing expeditions. And looking back, at age forty-seven, I have to confess that nothing I have done in my life has made me nearly so proud as my best climbs in Alaska.”
In the early sixties, as a young college student and a member of the Harvard Mountaineering Club, David Roberts and his friends sought out some of the most difficult climbs ever attempted in the Alaskan range. In the process they experienced triumph, tragedy, and in the case of Mount Deborah-the first climb- the grinding claustrophobia of two men alone in the wilderness together for forty two days. Roberts returned from his second climb, Mount Huntington, and in the spring of 1966 at the age of twenty-two he wrote The Mountain of My Fear; sometimes completing a chapter a day, followed by Deborah.
The combined result is probably the greatest literary work produced in English on the climbing experience in the modern era. One is swept up in the terse prose and pulsing emotion of these young men consumed by a passion for the mountains. The Mountaineers Pacific Northwest climbing club of which I was a member has published both classics in a single volume.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
Caught up in the minutiae of new job, a move from Southeast Asia to Europe, a business experiment, and a growing family, training for the endeavor had fallen through the cracks. I did buy an excellent triathlon training book for the time crunched, but hadn’t yet really put any of that knowledge into practice.
However, -no excuses- opportunities for physical training abound if you can grasp them. My family and I were driving to France and decided to stop at iconic Lake Como, in Northern Italy.
Lake Como conjures up images in the mind of ultimate luxury and Dolce Vita a la Italiana. I see George Clooney sipping Nespresso from the balcony of his villa. Or maybe the kidnapping of the uber-rich as captured in the first film representation of Man on Fire.
The still waters of Lake Como. Photo by Roland Minez.
Yet, we arrived amidst a violent summer storm. Our windshield was cracked by driving hail, and through the overcast sky and rain Lake Como did not look nearly as inviting as we had imagined.
After gelato for the girls and a grappa for daddy we settled into the quaint little village of Mandello del Lario on the shores of the Lake. Home of the classic Moto Guzzi motorcycles, this was no preserve of the ultra-rich. Down to earth, filled with actual residents, and with a slightly aged vibe, the village began to grow on us. My wife and I polished off a bottle of wine and shared a delicious steak tartare before falling asleep.
At sunrise, under blue skies the story book Lake Como showed itself. Lush green hills fell steeply down to the deep blue waters of the lake. Iconic Italian villages, their church steeples piercing the sky, hugged the shore.
A plan came to fruition. Why not take advantage of the beautiful location to stage a test triathlon. Early in the morning, the waters of the lake were still. After an espresso, the Italian energy drink, I set up a transition area on the rocks of the small fishing port of the village.
Just before I was to enter the water, an Italian woman yelled from the window of an old building overlooking the port. In broken english, she explained that her husband was coming to help me. Soon a man named Stefano invited me into his garage where he looked through fishing gear until he found a buoy to ensure I could swim safely.
With a small but passionate fan club of my three little girls, I entered the water and swam to the middle of the lake. From the center of the water, the full majesty of Lake Como was on display. Dramatic mountaintops invisible from the shoreline framed the view.
Returning from the swim, with Stefano’s buoy attached, cheered on by passionate fans. Photo by Lisa Minez
Stefano was waiting in a kayak when I returned to the port. I transitioned to the bike, my daughter sprinting after me. My bike ride took me to dramatic tunnels cut through the rock and on little stone paths by small chapels. Finally, I ran on the cobblestone streets and through the alcoves of Mandello del Lario. By the time I had finished my family was leisurely enjoying a bountiful Italian breakfast.
Chased by the middle daughter, starting the 2nd leg of the triathlon. Photo by Lisa Minez.
The triathlon itself would break no records for distance, duration, or challenge. The jury is out on whether events like it will suffice for my upcoming 70.3 ironman. Completely unsanctioned, I was its sole participant. However, I could think of no more beautiful location for such a challenge.
After breakfast, we ran into our Italian saviors. Stefano and his wife explained that they had been born and raised in Mandello del Lario. That Sunday morning, they, like many of the other villagers, were promenading through the streets with children and grandparents in tow. They invited us to visit them on our next visit. I am pretty sure that should we return, Stefano will join me for the next iteration of the triathlon. We saw no evidence of the Lake Como frequented by celebrities but had found our own version of paradise.
The view of Lake Como from a park in Mandello del Lario. Photo by Roland Minez.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
The Classical Age is usually defined as the era between 8th Century B.C. and 6th Century A.D. The Mediterranean, known then as the inner sea, and the people who lived on its shores, serves as the fulcrum for the study of this time period. The Phoenicians, Persians, Etruscans, Gauls, Celts, Goths and others play critical roles but it is the Greek and Roman civilizations which dominate. For the purpose of this post I consider the age to have begun with the origin of the Greek myths and to have ended with the fall of Constantinople in 1453, since it marked the final end of the Byzantine Empire, the last remnants of the Romans, and an interesting fusion of Roman and Greek culture.
For centuries, the West has been enamored with Ancient Greece and Rome, and I confess to being similarly fascinated. Not only did the political philosophies of that time and place form the inspiration of our current republic, but it is a time in history (a term itself derived from the ancient Herodotus) in which the actions of men rise out of the mists of myth and legend. Zeus, Athena, and the other gods are joined by Achilles and Hector of Homer’s Iliad, and later by the Persians, Spartans, Legionnaires, power mad Roman Emperors and stoic philosophers. However, fundamentally, I find immersing myself in the world of the ancients as a means to study the human condition absent the prejudice and immediacy of the present. The below is a small sample to begin that journey.
“No man, and only one hero, had been called invincible before him, and then only by a poet”
Few, if any, of the Ancients had such a powerful draw in their own era as Alexander the Great. Dead by the age of 32, he had already conquered the known world, reaching at his furthest, deep into India. Julius Caesar is said to have cried at a monument to Alexander for not yet having accomplished as much at the same age. Robert Lane Fox’s book does an incredible job explaining all the complexity and contradictions of Alexander. The relationship between Alexander and his great father Philip of Macedon (whose murder remains a mystery till today). Fox captures Alexander’s physical courage and strategic vision, his apparent desire for cultural fusion with the people he conquered, as well as his rages and his drinking bouts. Parsing through the limited original scholarship from the era and combining it with modern archaeological discoveries, Fox captures the essence of the man without losing the romance which draws one to the story of Alexander all these years later.
” To the cheers and boos of spectators, charioteer and nobleman alike would make their drive for glory, knowing that the risk of failure was precisely what gave value to success.”
Senātus Populusque Rōmānus (SPQR), the Senate and People of Rome-this clarion call still rings today. The symbol of Rome’s greatness is displayed on every manhole cover in modern Rome and on many a tattooed arm of American soldiers in our most recent wars. It, like all slogans, means many things to many people. However, at its core, it is a compact between the citizens of Rome and the city’s political elites. It is a hint that in spite of Rome’s long reign as an Empire with Emperors it rose to glory first as a republic.
How then did the Roman Republic end? The HBO seriesRome is an excellent dramatization of the destructive civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey that led to the end of the Republic. Tom Holland takes a slightly different take in his excellent and accessible book. He describes the increasingly fierce competition between Roman elites for political power in the years before the Civil War. In addition, one gets a sense of the growing income inequality – fueled paradoxically by Rome’s military conquests and the explosion of a slave based economy – and the subsequent popular mobilization of the underclass to redress such inequality. Legal machinations and back room deals are used to thwart reforms and ultimately lead to war. Of all the great histories of the Classical age I have read, this is the most timely, compact, and dramatic rendering of a civilization disturbingly close to our own.
“When a State contains masses of men who devote their whole energies to a repulsively selfish attempt to save their own individual souls, while letting the world around them slide on as best it may, then the body politic is diseased.”
I have repeatedly been drawn to histories written in the last century of even earlier ancient times; thanks -in part-to the easy availability of older historical narratives as e-books online. As I read and have begun to write history myself, I have found that modern historians, especially popular ones, rarely have different primary sources but do write with the burden of seeing the world through our modern lens and prejudice. I am not immune to seeing dangerous parallels between our times and, for example, the decline of the Roman Republic (see above). However, it is useful to remember that English historians writing in the late nineteenth century-arguably the height of British power-also saw parallels between ancient calamity and a possible future for their society.
One day, in the course of my life, I will complete the multi-year epic that is Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In the meantime, I continue to seek out other, more manageable, works on the Roman Empire, Medieval ages, etc. A great example of which is The History of the Byzantine Empire by Charles Oman. Oman was a lecturer at Oxford University in the late nineteen hundreds. However, this work is no dry old academic text. In this book published in 1892, he colorfully tells the story of the Byzantine Empire from the decision of the Roman Emperor Constantine to make the city on the Bosphorus his capital, then called Constantinople, to the final collapse of his Greek Successors overrun by the Ottoman Forces of Mehmet the Second in 1453. With always interesting, and occasionally biting commentary, he describes the rise of the Eastern Roman Empire, its gradual adoption of Greek vice Latin culture, its increasing reliance on foreign mercenaries, its inexorable slow decline hastened by marauding Western European crusaders, and its final collapse at the hands of a new, more dynamic and combative force.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
Where Tradition Lives in the Spirit of the Community
Jockeys race the Palio in Siena, Italy July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Culture, Tradition, Passion, Adventure; these are the watchwords which brought Andy and I (and our families) together and was the genesis for Pushing Horizons. Thus, we could not refuse an opportunity to experience the Palio in the Medieval city of Siena, Italy. Nor could we think of a better way to officially launch pushinghorizons.com for our family, friends, and like minded individuals.
The (still) Medieval City of Siena, photo by Andrew Zapf
To think of the Palio as only, or even primarily, a horse race is to miss the deeper undercurrents that surround the event. This is, above all, about community. Each neighborhood, or contrada, in geographic boundaries established in 1729, passionately support their respective horses and jockeys (if victorious). The seventeen contrade, with colors and symbols that hearken back to antiquity and with elements of mythology (wolves, giraffes, dragons, panthers, and even snails), form the identity and loyalties of the youngest children to the oldest grandparents.
Members of Contrada della Torre, or Tower, display their colors in parade before the Palio Race, July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
Andy arrived three days before I did and immersed himself in the nuances of the race, its tactics and traditions. By the time I had entered the walls of the old city on July 1, he also had arranged for us to experience one of the most evocative events of the multi-day pageantry that is the Palio – a dinner the night before the race with one of the contrade in the streets of their neighborhood.
Among the faithful of Onda, or Wave, the night before the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
We sat down with the members of Capitana dell’Onda, or Wave, at tables lit from above by decorative fish-designed lamps symbolic of the contrada and laid out through the twisting streets of the neighborhood. The community served a multi-course meal to over a thousand assembled along Via Giovanni Duprè. Young teenagers, on the cusp of adulthood, ladled out plates of prosciutto and melon, chicken and potatoes, and creme caramel. Others replenished dwindling stocks of wine and scurried back to the kitchen for more bread rolls. Children ran through the tables pelting each other with corks from the growing number of empty wine bottles. Throughout the night, members would break out in to song, singing the ancient dirges of Onda; castigating their rival – Torre – or extolling the virtue of their tribe.
Make no mistake, this was tribal. The grandmother across from us explained how her husband had registered her children in the Onda community even before they were born. Once registered, your membership in a contrada could not be changed and lasted until death. Senior representatives of the contrada are a part of wedding ceremonies and the grandmother’s daughters, now mothers themselves, proudly explained how at death members of the community would be escorted at the funeral by those bearing the Onda colors.
The love these people had for their contrada manifests itself in the horse race and this maybe one of the most interesting and hidden elements of the event. Leaders are selected by the community to serve as “captains” of their respective contrade. Captains marshal the resources of their community to achieve victory at the Palio. Jockeys are bribed, favors are paid for, alliances between contrade factor into the scheming, and large war chests are collected to influence the outcome of the race. A horse trainer, and contrada captain-to-be, told us that up to two million euros were spent on a single Palio by some contrade to ensure victory. The reward? Adding the Drappellone, the official Palio banner, to their neighborhood museum, and the glory associated with being a member of the winning contrada.
Horses are “randomly” assigned to the ten contrade competing in the Palio, eliciting cheers from the “lucky” and groans from the “unlucky.” Photo by Andrew Zapf.
To the uninitiated, these machinations behind the scenes seem to corrupt the heart of the race. However, such views fail to grasp that intrigue is as much a part of the Palio as the sweat soaked horses and men in the arena careening fearlessly around the Piazzo delCampo. This is life, or war, and no effort is spared to achieve victory. The jockeys are mercenaries, and never fully trusted by the contrade that hire them. Members of the contrada guard the jockeys in the frenzied days before the race to ensure that rival neighborhoods do not find ways to compromise them.
In one of the numerous practice runs before the actual Palio, a jockey looks back at his opponents. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
Gamesmanship even extends to the six trial runs held in the days before the race. The trials familiarize both horses and jockeys to the Palio racetrack, dirt covering the ancient stones of the Campo. During the trials some horses are raced at full speed, while other jockeys disguise their horses’ ability with casual cantors around the dirt track. These trials also, inevitably, feed the growing excitement of the city. We witnessed one such practice run. In bleachers around the Campo groups of various contrade, divided by men, women, and children, their colored scarfs fluttering, cheered. The honorary Carabineri horse guard trotted around the track and stopped to salute the contrade children given privileged seats along the track. Like their parents, and those who sat in the seats before them, they carry the mantle of their community into the future. The elderly lady standing next to us exclaimed “bellissima” in ecstasy at the pathos of the scene.
Carabineri Honor Guard salute the children of the Contrade. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
On July 2, the day of the race, people thronged the streets of the city, many still groggy from the festivities of the night before. A last practice run was held in the morning. After looking at photos I sent from the practice, my four year daughter called to tell me she predicted that the Red and White clad jockey would win. Across Siena, in ten different contrada chapels, the horses were blessed – “Go! And return victorious!” was the final charge of the priest. We joined the faithful who waited outside the Onda church to catch a glimpse of their champion.
Then we funneled into the standing room only arena in the middle of the Campo and waited for the event to begin. Amidst the blare of bugles and beat of drums, the inhabitants paraded around the track in the medieval uniforms of their ancestors. In an endless procession, jesters, acrobats, archers, guild members, knights, and noblemen marched around the track. At the end of the parade, gigantic oxen pulled a large carriage displaying the prize Drappellone.
Gigantic Oxen pull a wagon in the parade carrying the Drappellone, the prize of the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
The mayor of Siena walked to his position on an ancient wooden bridge that overlooked the race. Captains of the various contrade, looking all the world like mob bosses, shook the hands of their followers, gave back slaps to their peers, or scowled behind designer sunglasses before taking their seats. Finally, the horses and their jockeys entered the Campo. Young men from the contrade screamed encouragements. Above from ornate balconies, the wealthy and connected stared down at the spectacle. In the middle, the rabble – us among them – fed the nervous energy of the horses.
A Contrada captain hugs his members before the race. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
A hushed silence overcame the thousands of fans in the square as the horses lined up. The collective excitement was palpable. The race would begin when the last rider-chosen by lottery-entered a roped off area at the start line. This rider, who by the nature of his position at the back of the pack has little chance of winning the race is ripe for deal making. How and when he initiates the race can advantage another jockey. To the growing frustration of the audience, there was numerous false starts. Riders jostled and a horse threw his jockey. Time and again, the horses had to be reformed.
Then, suddenly, the race had begun. Man and beast galloped at incredible speeds around the track. The jockeys beat each other with rods and careened inches from the ancient statues that adorned buildings. The audience cheered. Contrade loyalists howled. The jockey for the Chiocciola (snail) contrada led the pack. He was chased relentlessly by the red and white clad jockey for Imperial Contrada della Giraffa (Giraffe). Three times the the horses galloped past us, flinging dirt in the air. Our jockey from Onda blocked Torre – they would finish ninth and tenth. At the last turn, and final second, Giraffa edged past the leader to take the victory.
The Giraffa Jockey closes in on the leader, Chiocciola. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
Just like that, in little more than ninety second, the race was over. The Campo erupted into chaos. Fans rushed the track. Defeated contrade members bawled. The victorious Contrada, Giraffa, ecstatically crowded around their heroic jockey Giovanni Atzeni; featured in an earlier documentary film about the Palio. They lifted him onto their shoulders and paraded through the streets chanting the old dirges of their community. The fierce passion of victory covered Atzeni’s face.
Giovanni Atzeni filled with the fierce passion of victory. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
Andy and I were stunned by the excitement of it all. I called my daughter to tell her that her prediction had been correct. We had been witness to a tradition, stretching back into antiquity, kept vibrantly alive by the commitment and spirit of the community. It was time for the Imperial Contrada della Giraffa to enjoy the fruits of their victory and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood.
Ecstatic Giraffa Contrada members hoist their victorious jockey upon their shoulders and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood. Photo by Andrew Zapf.
No city is immune to change and Siena is not the same as it was when the Palio began hundreds of years ago. However, the spirit of the the contrade and the communities they stitch together is the thread that connects the past to the present. Whatever the future brings, the Sienese will look towards the next Palio on the dirt of the Piazza del Campo.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
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