Category Archives: History

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

“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.

The Tour Comes to Town.

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.

Heroes from the Past, on a mural.

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.   

The Col de Galibier

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.

The serpentine road up to Alpe d’Huez

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.

Victors of the past.

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.  

The Peloton

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 TourYet, 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.   

Artists immortalize past champions.

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.  

Climbing Up the Col d’Izoard

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. 

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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.

Fans catch the excitement.

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.

Understanding Turkey One Bite at a Time

“Gönül, ne kahve ister ne kahvehane, gönül sohbet ister, kahve bahane.” – Turkish idiom

Translation – “The heart does not want coffee or coffee house, the heart wants a chat, coffee is an excuse.”

Turkish Coffee

First time visitors to Turkey can easily be overwhelmed. It’s my own concerted opinion that three weeks is the minimum time needed to introduce oneself to Turkey, but even one hour is preferable to never visiting. The places of cultural and historical significance are so vast and numerous that it’s nearly impossible to visit them all. In Istanbul alone the remnants of Byzantine and Ottoman empires intertwine with the modern Turkish Republic in a rich tapestry. The beauty of Turkey’s Taurus Mountains, Marama coast, and Lycian Trail have inspired many to abandon their home countries and retire to its tranquil beauty.

However, it is only through food can anyone appreciate Turkey and Turkish culture. Unlike the abrupt social interactions typical in America, relationships in Turkey are dependent on conversation. Enter tea and coffee. The coffee houses of the Ottoman Empire were famous as gathering places where politics, poetry, and business were discussed. In a narrower circle, a hot cup of tea or coffee allowed two friends to converse as the boiling liquid cooled.

Turkish cuisine is far more than the assemblage of ingredients and flavors on the plate. No Turkish kitchen is complete without a healthy supply of garlic, onion, and parsley, but it’s the time spent cutting those onions, shredding tomatoes, or wrapping grape leaves are where mothers, sisters, and daughters connect. Families and friends gathered together for grilled fish (balık) accompanied by glasses of Turkey’s anise drink, Rakı – famously called a “rakı balık” dinner – will enjoy hours of fellowship while eating mezes under the evening sky. I could list more, but dining in Turkey is an experience for the soul as well as a delight for the stomach.

Food is so central to Turkish identity and culture that it permeates the language. Parsley is so prevalent in Turkish dishes that to admonish someone for being a gossip you would say: “Don’t be a parsley!” (“maydanoz olma!”) (i.e. don’t be in everything or everyone’s business). Or if someone did something stupid you might say: “Look at the mint he ate.” (“yediği naneye bak”). A final example is “ağzında bakla ıslanmamak”) which translates to “To eat beans without getting them wet.” You have to soak beans to soften them before cooking, so this phrase would be used to describe someone that passes news without thinking over the consequences first.

There’s even the song “Domates Biber Patlıcan” by artist Barış Manço, (translation: Tomatoes, Pepper, an eggplant dish). Listen to a modern cover by Turkish pop singer Karsu.

Which brings me to my two favorite words in the Turkish language:

Dolmuş” from the root word dolma, “to stuff”.

My wife jokes that there isn’t a food that a Turkish cook doesn’t want to stuff. Turkish cuisine includes stuffed bell peppers, various forms of stuffed eggplants (patlican), stuffed pastas (mantı), fried pastries stuffed with cheese (sigara böreği), and stuffed grape leaves (dolma). Whatever it is, a Turk can find a way to stuff it and serve it for lunch.

In Turkish cities there are multiple methods of transportation. Istanbul boasts bus service, metro lines, trams, a funicular, and taxi service. Ubiquitous in the city is the presence of the shared taxis that service the areas not reached by regular metro or bus service. They were also fairly inexpensive and even the poorest of travelers could afford to use them. The original shared taxis were large, yellow four-door cars. Were it to be privately owned a reasonable person would identify a driver plus four seats, however as a shared taxi commuters would cram into the every cubic foot of the shared space. They became known as “Dolmuş” (pronounced “dole-mush”) – which literally translates to “I heard it is stuffed” – stuffed with people. A dolmuş today is the size of a mini bus, but the name stuck and I’m all the happier for it.

Stuffed bell peppers.

Sarımsaklı” adj. garlicky, from the noun, garlic – “sarımsak”

My wife had led a typical Turkish life in the thirty years before we met. She worked in her home city of Istanbul and each summer she would take a beach vacation to enjoy the turquatic waters, sun, and peaceful atmosphere somewhere on Turkey’s southwestern coast. She had often told me about the most famous, posh or popular beaches for Turks along the coast. Some attract foreign tourists, and some remain known only to Turks. One such location is Sarımsaklı Plajı near the town of Ayvalık. It took me a few years to connect the restaurant-Turkish I had learned to the image of beachgoers in an exclusive destination, but once I made the connection I can never forget it. Sarımsaklı Plajı = Garlicky Beach.

There is no better proof of the integral nature of food and cuisine in Turkish culture than discovering it mixed into the Turkish place names, idioms, and expressions that decorate the Turkish language. Take a visit, a bite, or just lend Turkey your ear.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Hadrian’s Wall: The Bottom of the Rabbit Hole

“Sis felicior Augusto, melior Traiano” 

“be more fortunate than Augustus, better than Trajan” – spoken at the inauguration of later-era Roman Emperors


“To a considerable extent, Hadrian’s Wall is a monument to human sweat.” – Alistair Moffat, The Wall

There aren’t many ways to get me to go down the rabbit hole. Up until now I could count on one hand the topics that could set me up for hours of conversation or months of reading: the 1996-97 Detroit Red Wings, the combat history of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 1453 Siege of Constantinople by Mehmet the Conqueror, and the Palio di Siena. After six months I can deny it no more. Add the Ancient Roman Empire to the list. 

It snuck up on me slowly. Reading The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliff as a boy or a fragment of a Roman ruin in Vienna on a college trip. Then as I roamed further I consumed bigger and bigger portions of Roman history. The Celsus Library at Ephesus in Turkey, the temple of Volubilis in Morocco, and visiting the ruins of Jerash in Jordan were whole-day affairs.

Recently and unexpectedly I found myself living in Italy. I was practically stumbling over the Ancient Romans in between sips of espresso and magnificent pasta. And believe you me, I relished the proximity of it all. The Appian Way was a short walk from my rental, central Rome a simple train ride away. Capua, the starting point of the Spartacus-led Third Servile War appeared on the road signs I drove past daily.  

In for a penny, I was in for a pound. Even after I left Italy the Roman history books started piling up on my shelf. Mike Duncan’s History of Rome podcast started accompanying me on my morning commutes. And I put all six volumes of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the top of my letter to Santa Claus. I wanted, and still want, to know more. To understand the connections between this ancient empire and our modern world. 

This interest is what drove me to the north of England. Far distant from the Forum and Palatine Hill in Rome were the edges of the empire. There, on the south side of the Scottish border, lies what remains of Emperor Hadrian’s wall demarking the frontier. It was there, on a brisk October morning, that I came to Housesteads Roman Fort, an auxiliary fort once home to Roman legionnaires at the very edge of the civilized world. 

Conquering new lands defined the Ancient Roman Republic and early Roman Empire. Emperor Trajan pushed Rome’s boundaries to the empire’s high water mark. Emperor Hadrian, Trajan’s successor foresaw financial and logistical reasons to put some clean edges on the empire. One, to keep the barbarians out. Two, to keep adventurous Roman generals penned in. As the new emperor toured his domains he set Roman garrisons to building projects along the Danube and in Germania. In AD 122 he ordered the construction of the wall in northern Britannia after another revolt in the province. Britannia simply wouldn’t be a profitable Roman province if they had to keep fighting there. And so the wall was built over six years and stretched nearly the full 91 miles at the narrowest coast-to-coast line in Northern England. The hard edge of the empire became crystal clear. 

When Hadrian gave the word to build Romans from Britain’s legions turned out from their forts to quarry stone, haul material, and erect the long structure. Examples of other Roman walls still standing elsewhere are about 15 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Known for their uniformity and rigidity in military matters, this wall was likely the same. It’s imposing height, augmented by cliffs and ditches, was whitewashed and must have gleamed against the grey British skies. The mile-castles, roving cavalry patrols, and permanent garrisons intimated the reach and power of the Emperor stretching over a thousand miles back to Italy. 

For nearly 1,900 years Hadrian’s Wall has stood. Maintained by the National Trust preservation society in England, it’s line is still impressive. In Housesteads Fort the walls and gates have shed much of their glorious height. Beyond it’s northern gate lies what was once Rome’s frontier. The wall divided lands of the Brigantes tribes and kept the ancient Caledonians – the barbarians of the North – at bay. Here was the last line where the legionnaires stood guard against them all. 

Today the enemy was time. Bryce, Soren, Randy, Sean, and I, fresh off our day on Helvellyn, were there to dash across a section of well before heading back to our day jobs in the south. Dash being the appropriate term as we had one chance to get from Housesteads Fort to the village of Greenhead to catch the last bus back to our parked car. The only backup plan was a ten mile walk back. 

We walked, we jogged and we ran. Occasionally we stopped for a picture or just to gawk at the landscapes. To the south the ground sloped gently down. To the north the terrain drops steeply. The Romans incorporated the cliffs of the Great Whin Sill into their construction to form an imposing and formidable barrier. Overhead a ceaseless wind barreled from the north shoving the clouds across a threatening sky. It would be months before I turned back the cover of Alistair Moffat’s The Wall and really dove into the history of Roman Britain, but even in those moments my imagination could hear the cloth snapping on the Roman standards, and the low grumbling of lonely Centurians on duty from over a thousand years past. 

We arrived in Greenhead with time to spare. At the bus stop we leaned against a less ancient stone wall waiting for Bus 122 (appropriately numbered) to take us away. In the preceding six hours we had climbed the ancient walls, crossed bovine and sheep pastures, and transported ourselves back to the time when the area was bustling with Legionnaires, Auxiliaries, and the human activity that followed the Romans to each corner of the known world. 

In the end, the only tension of the day involved a couple of beers. While waiting for the bus Bryce, Soren, and Sean disappeared into the Greenhead Hotel. Just before the appointed hour they emerged with giant smiles and five bottles of cold ale in their hands – held high in the victory stance. Time slowed as we sipped the amber ale. We weren’t just drinking a toast to our successful day. The five of us were welcoming a new appreciation for the ambition and achievement of the Romans, their mark on history, and their invasion of our imaginations.

Andrew Zapf 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.

Adventures Among the Relics of War

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.

The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.

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.  

Tre Cime

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. 

Fearless scout.

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. 

Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.

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. 

The view from the Italian Positions.

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.

A well deserved glass of Prosecco

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.

The route of 52 tunnels.

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.”

Lisa studies the military engineering.

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. 

Marie inspects her historical artifact.

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.

Lisa analyzes the route up.

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. 

A memorial to the Fallen in Asiago.

What We’re Reading This Month – April 2020

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.

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

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.  

Chamonix

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.

The Aiguille du 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.

Noteworthy guides from years past.

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.

Belaying surrounded by beauty.

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.

The Rhymes of History: At the Epicenter of a Once and Current Pandemic.

“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.

Photo Essay: My Walk Through World War II History

In the past several months I’ve been neck deep in military history for several converging work-related reasons. 16 December marks the 75th Anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, the beginning of it, anyway. With all of the accompaning remembrance events that go along with that, I would feel remiss if I didn’t mention sometime – especially since I was able to visit Bastogne only last month.  I don’t specifically aspire to write military history of my own, but there are stories that I wish to tell of the uncommon men and warfare is often the most dramatic backdrop to human life. Rather than write an article or vignette on the Battle of the Bulge or the B-17 bombers based in England, I’ve assembled a few photos tell a visual story that I’ve been investing these past few months.

I’ll begin the story in England, specifically East Anglia. The southeast corner of England bulges out into the English channel, and its flat terrain swept by strong North Sea winds makes for a natural place to build an airfield. And build they did, especially during World War II. At the height of the air campaign there was a Royal Air Force or US Army Air Forces airfield every 8 miles. The local population was overrun by bomber crews, their base support personnel, and the whole machinery of running the Strategic Bombing campaign against Nazi Germany. When the war ended, the bases emptied out suddenly and completely. Some bases reverted to Royal Air Force control, and some were lost to history. However, the towns and villages around the area still carry traces of the once and mighty air forces of the Allied nations.

Around where I live, there are still village signs that incorporate Spitfires and P-51 Mustangs, B-17 Flying Fortresses and Lancaster bombers into their heraldry. In pubs and restaurants there are ghosts of the airmen that rested their elbows and shared a pint with their English hosts. Cambridge has one of the most famous, The Eagle, and one I usually stop into when in the city.

The Eagle Pub in Cambridge is always crowded with students and tourists. My favorite corner is the RAF Bar, named for the popularity The Eagle had with bomber crews from the surrounding airfields. I've written about The Eagle before (click for link). Within the RAF Bar, at The Eagle, the decor has become very militarized with pictures of aircraft and stickers from squadrons and air force units from across the world. But the real draw is the ceiling, which still bears the scars of flame, lipstick, and pen - reminders of the young bomber crews (and their dates) that left there mark there - before making their mark in the war. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The ceiling of the RAF Bar at The Eagle. Photo by Andrew Zapf

If you’ve traveled through France, you can’t help but notice the World War I and II memorials that seem to accompany every town square. English towns memorialize their lost sons, but frequently they reflect the cost bore by the English people during the Battle of Britain and their entire experience a stone’s throw from Nazi Europe. In country fairs old military vehicles get dragged out of garages and sheds and privately owned vintage aircraft take to the skies. Britain doesn’t associate itself strongly with the land war of World War II as much as it does with the sounds and sights of the Royal Air Force. The romanticism of flying nests beautifully with the imagery of Arthurian knights defending virtue in single combat. Pilots, and the airwar, have been mythologized as modern day knights, their noble horses replaced with aluminum airframes. The aircraft of World War II loom large in the British memory.

This panel from the USAAF Memorial at the Imperial War Museum Duxford represents all the bombers lost by the 303rd Bomber Group (Heavy). Just a single bomber group. Each silhouette represents a crew of ten men. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The lines of a B-17 Flying Fortress are absolutely beautiful on the ground. In the air the men inside bonded closer than brothers as they battled the Luftwaffe and German Air Defenses in the frozen skies over Germany. Thousands of these bombers were built, crewed, and flew in battle. The few remaining museum pieces are a faint reminder of the might and terror that the US 8th Air Force was during World War II. This B-17, the Sally B, is the only airworthy B-17 in Europe. The childhood airshows I've attended had B-17s, but I plan on seeing her fly when the next season of airshows in England kick off in the Spring. The unique sound of these early, powerful engines makes a kind of music unheard anywhere else in motorsports. Photo by Andrew Zapf
In early autumn I attended a vintage airshow at The Shuttleworth Collecion. Above the crowds flew Hurricanes, Spitfires, P-51 Mustangs, and a Lancaster Heavy Bomber. While not as fast as jet aircraft of later eras, these planes have an unmatched grace to them. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A British Lancaster Bomber flying over Biggleswade, England. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Here is where the story turns personal. In 1942, a 24 year old sergeant came to England as part of the growing American army poised to liberate Nazi-occupied Europe. Michael Zapf, my grandfather, stood on these lands a few months before his units entered combat. It would change him forever and the course of his life. I like to think that the sun shines on the brave, and he must have lived under the brightest of skies. His legacy hangs over me to this day and being able to walk in his literal footsteps has deep personal significance. 

Further north, near Nottingham, there is a marker in a small village to the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment. This regiment stayed on the grounds of Tollerton Hall before jumping into Normandy as part of the D-Day invasion in 1944. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A closer look at the plaque. One of the soldiers of the 507th PIR was my grandfather, Sergeant Michael Zapf. One day I hope to tell his remarkable life story.
While visiting Tollerton Hall I stopped to have lunch with my father, brother, and son at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. It claims to be the oldest pub in the world, but more relevantly, it probably saw soldiers of the 507th PIR during their brief stay in England. I wonder what SGT Zapf would have said if he knew his son, grandson, and great grandson were having pints in the same place he did before he jumped into the night sky over France. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The final stop of this tour lies in the Ardennes region of Belgium. I was fortunate to participate in a professional development trip to study the Battle of the Bulge, only a month before the 75th anniversary. In addition to the work-related purpose of my visit, I again found myself in the footsteps of my grandfather. Tens of thousands of men participated in the Battle, not just the few under siege in Bastogne. The German offensive produced a large “bulge” in the American line, and units from across Europe did the hard work of reversing the Nazi advance. On one of those edges pushed the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, then attached to the 17th Airborne Division. They fought in the snow, suffered death and frostbite, and some lived to tell about it.  

Almost 75 years to the day, I was driving through the Ardennes forest, making my way towards Bastogne. The frozen fog and fresh snow was eerily similar to every photo and movie depiction of the Battle of the Bulge. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The Ardennes forest, regrown after 75 years, hauntingly waits for the deep winter to embrace it. Photo by Andrew Zapf
When the fog lifted slightly, and I could see the rolling hills in the distance, I couldn't help but think that the Ardennes region of Belgium looked like Pennsylvania. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The 507th PIR, and my grandfather along with it, were to join the Battle of the Bulge. This patch, of the 507th's parachuting spider logo, which resides in the 101st Airborne Division Museum in Bastogne, is one of the few links between the 507th of D-Day and the regiment that returned to battle in late 1944. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The 507th PIR was transferred from the famed 82nd Airborne Division to form an experienced corps, along with two raw regiments to create the 17th Airborne Division. The division would fight through mud and snow in Belgium before participating in Operation Varsity. SGT Zapf, again, among them. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Many of the museums used life-sized dioramas to convey the difficult battle conditions and the horror of war. I found the exhibits in the museums of Bastogne to be compelling and emotional. Photo by Andrew Zapf
In a museum in Bastogne, this diorama of a 17th Airborne Division mortarman, sitting against a frozen farmhouse wall made me feel colder than all the rest. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The town of Bastogne didn't celebrate the Battle of the Bulge the way towns in Normandy celebrate liberation. Bastogne was liberated in September 1944, only to suffer a siege and devestation in December. Photo by Andrew Zapf
There were preparations for the 75th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge in Bastogne. Frosted window paintings of smiling soldiers and shrapnel-shredded steel helmets decorated many shops. But this mannequin in this butcher's window was the most memorable for me - I can't explain it. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Again, I didn’t set out to read and write so much about World War II these past few months. I simply found it all around me and couldn’t ignore it. The pieces I’ve seen have tied together for me into a complex picture of what it really means to have a world at war. 

The Luxembourg American Cemetery was the final stop on the journey. Along with aircrew killed over Europe, casualties of the Battle of the Bulge, and the body of General George S. Patton, lie several dozen unknown men - known only to god. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.