On quiet Saturday mornings, when the angle of the sun is sharp, is usually the time I attack my weekend to-do list. Recently I finally came to terms with the unbearably large pile of books, papers, and household bric-a-brac choking off the usable workspace of my desk. Amongst the mélange were several ink pens of which I methodically assessed their usefulness before disposing of the deficient. One pen scratched the test paper with the unapologetic harshness of a desert stone. Upon closer inspection the words Hotel Astor Madeleine confirmed its esteemed provenance.
In the closeness of the present it is possible to lose sight of the monumental as each day mimics the day prior. Just as the gradual tilt of the earth surreptitiously changes the seasons from year to year, so too does the scrum of daily living disguise the existence of momentous life events. At forty years old I can identify four key moments that changed the course of my life. First, when I joined the military. Second, moving overseas for the first time which put me on the path to meeting my wife. Third, the birth of my son. However, there is one event that precedes these other three. Without it the life I know and enjoy would not exist.
Growing up in my parents house I was surrounded by information. The family library was filled with books on science and natural history, atlases containing maps of countries long since disappeared, and histories of peoples and countries of yore. My mother had an incessant need to provide her children the complicated answer to any scientific question, not satisfied with oversimplifications and partial explanations. At one point in his life my father had wanted to become a history professor. Bedtime stories were a mix of the contemporary and the gruesome un-Disney-fied versions of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. (You know, the ones where Hansel and Gretel push the witch into the oven to escape) Even the artwork on the wall beamed down the complicated history of Old Europe. It was inescapable and ever present.
For a young boy, not yet a teenager, the history seemed too remote. Kings and queens living in palaces, tens of thousands of muscat-wielding grenadiers waging war, the empires won on strength of wooden sailing ships were too long ago and too far away to be real to a kid from Michigan. That is until July 1994 when I accompanied my father on a business trip to Europe. It was my first trip outside of North America and the only time that I’d get to travel with him. Seeds were planted then that would have a profound influence on the rest of my life.
The trip was only two weeks long, but it took me through Sweden, Germany, and France as my father conducted business in various offices. From the perspective of a twelve year old boy it was like being born again. The buildings looked different, the food was unrecognizable, the languages incomprehensible. It was the first time I ever drank Orangina and ate snails, became aware of European acceptance of nudity in the media, and walked through narrow medieval city streets on stones placed by men that died seven generations ago.
It was also where I came face-to-face with the Swedish warship Vasa pulled from the mud and placed in a museum, artifacts of East Germany in a Bonn flea market, the Place de la Concorde in Paris, and where King Louis XVI lost his head to the guillotine. It would be too strong a statement to say that I lost my naivety on this trip; it would be more correct to say that the heroes and villains, triumphs and tragedies of the human experience came to life. The distant history instantly became close, tangible, and real.
Place de la Concorde, Paris. The site where King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette lost their heads during the French Revolution. Photo by Andrew Zapf
After this trip I developed an insatiable thirst to learn the stories of past men and women and visit the far-off places where another’s life turned. It would take another decade before I was able to visit Europe again, but by then the seed had firmly taken root.
The Hotel Astor Madeleine was the hotel where I stayed with my father in Paris in July 1994. The room was so small my dad joked “don’t push the key in the lock too hard or you’ll break a window”. From that hotel room I watched the Eiffel Tower’s lights twinkle in the night and listened to the sounds of Parisian traffic far below me. It was the room in which my life, quite literally, turned on the point of a pen.
Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.
When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence.”
Frederic Mistral
Provence and the South of France will forever be associated with the good life.
The great impressionist painters, like Cezanne and Van Gogh, have imprinted on our global conscience images of sun-kissed stone villages surrounded by olive and cypress trees. For our new lost generation such timeless images are paired with those of the glitterati, hip-hop stars and Russian oligarchs, whose super yachts bob along the Cote d’Azur.
But long before the majestic Provencal summer Sun announces the arrival of endless tourists, in the quiet days of winter, the locals have their world famous playground to themselves.
Our dear friends came to visit in those last days of winter. The clouds hung low. The famous sun was nowhere in sight. We opened a family cottage from its winter slumber; turning on the heat, making the beds, and stoking a roaring fire. We exchanged hugs, toasts, and laughs, and caught up after a long absence.
Paris-Nice: The Race Towards the Sun. Teaching people how to suffer since 1933.
Earlier that week, our generation’s cycling hard men had started an eight-day stage race far away in Paris. The iconic Paris-Nice bicycle race has been held annually since 1933. Dubbed The Race towards the Sun, it starts in the cold wet climate of Northern Europe and aspires to end in Mediterranean warmth.
The arrival of the race heralds the true beginning of the summer cycling race season in Europe. To win at Paris-Nice is to announce your ambitions for glory at that year’s Tour de France. The greatest heroes of the sport have won here, among them Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, and Miguel Indurain. In 1966, the legendary French rivalry between the icy blond champion Anquetil and his everyman craggy faced competitor Raymound Poulidor played out in the race. Anquetil won his fifth and final Paris-Nice, when he passed Poulidor on the last day in Nice, cementing Poulidor’s status as the “eternal second.” The tough Irishman, Sean Kelly, won the race a record seven times from 1982 to 1988.
A new generation always has its new contenders. Today, a crop of rash young aggressive riders like Julien Alain Philippe, Wout Van Aert, and Mathieu Van der Poel (the grandson of Poulidor) has swept across the sport and delighted fans. Perhaps none more spectacularly than the trio of riders, Primos Roglic, Tadej Podgacar, and Mateo Moharic, from the small mountainous country of Slovenia.
Roglic, a former ski jumper who arrived late to the sport of cycling, seemed destined to dominate the great Grand tours such as the Giro d’Italia, the Vuelta a Espana, and the incomparable Tour de France. His impressive climbing skills, iron will, and powerful supporting team suggested a new uncontested era. Then, in 2020, on the second to last day of the Tour de France; Roglic exploded spectacularly on a time trial up the Planche de Belle Fille, and his young upstart countryman, Pogacar, stole the victory; the first for Slovenia.
In the 2021 Paris-Nice, after an impressive start Roglic crashed on the last day, and lost his yellow leader’s jersey. Another crash early in the 2021 Tour de France also put him out of contention. In the meantime, unruly blond haired Pogacar, not yet 23 years old, stamped his authority on bicycle racing with two back-to-back wins in the Tour de France, and victory in a host of other races.
The questions inevitably followed. Was Roglic truly destined to be a historic champion? Or would he remain cursed with bad luck, bad timing, or bad nerves in French stage races? Would he be, instead, his generation’s “eternal second”; playing “Poulidor” to Pogacar’s “Anquetil?”
Such sports drama felt far away from all of us in Provence. We shared bottles of wine and stories. We reminisced about our time together in Italy. We dissected the tremendous tragic geopolitical events occurring to our east. The closest we probably got to bicycle racing itself, was the board game we played called Flame Rouge which craftily simulates the strategy and luck needed to win a bicycle race. Huddled around the fire, we watched our friends’ eldest daughter beat all of us on her first try.
My friend and I being who we are, however, meant we actually did have to ride our bikes that weekend. We fortified ourselves with croissants, set up a spare bike, and set off into a blustery day. After pushing through suburban sprawl that surrounded the town, we soon found ourselves in the terrain for which Provence is famous. We passed gnarled olive trees, crumbling stone farmhouses, and rosé vineyards. After a lengthy climb through the hills above the bay of Saint Tropez; we were caught by a ferocious Mistral wind that almost knocked us off our bikes.
Rose vineyards.
For although less well known for those with only a passing knowledge of Provence its strong winds are just as defining. Named after the bard of the region, Frederic Mistral; they howl with terrific strength into the Mediterranean, reaching speeds of up to 185 kilometers an hour. The winds are strongest between the transitions of winter to spring. In other words, they were the strongest when we had chosen to ride.
A photo together in Grimauld.
We fought our way to the approaches of Grimauld Castle, before turning back towards the bay; alternatively being pushed along or pedaling to a seeming standstill, depending on the whims of the Mistral. We entered the once quiet fishing village of Saint Tropez that is now synonymous with luxury.
The old streets of Saint Tropez sometimes run right into the Sea.
We found our families enjoying an apero or pre-meal drink at a cafe next to the weekly market. Then together, we walked through the cobbled streets of the town, and climbed creaky stairs to a restaurant where we washed down fish soup, mussels, and fries with an excellent dry white burgundy.
Families gather under the patron saint Saint Tropez.
Somewhere, not far, those racers who had survived the preceding stages from Paris were battling high in the mountains in the penultimate stage. Not far in distance from us, maybe, but infinitely in lived experiences.
Earlier in the stage rage, Roglic and his Jumbo teammates had demonstrated their trademark dominance. On stage 1, the team took all three podium positions. Then they did it again on the stage 4 time trial. On both occasions Roglic and Wout Van Aert were among the three Jumbo riders. By stage 7 in the mountains, while we sheltered from the wind with our bottle of white in St. Tropez, Roglic’s victory seemed assured.
The next day, we woke up to rain. Another croissant run sustained us; as we packed up and locked the cottage. Our friends were going skiing; we were returning to work and school. Somehow, but admittedly not a coincidence, our path would take us first to Nice where the race was scheduled to end that evening.
When we arrived in Nice, layered in rain jackets, the excitement of the race was palpable. Team buses, mechanics, and chase cars were everywhere in the city. We walked through the city, before holing up in a Corsican restaurant. Many courses later, we emerged to find the race had yet to arrive. A long drive, and work week awaited us. The return voyage couldn’t be delayed for much longer, but surely we couldn’t leave before the finish, after getting so close?
In the hills around Nice, beneath the rain; the riders pushed each other on the final eighth stage. Suddenly, the British rider Simon Yates attacked and Roglic couldn’t follow. The time gap grew bigger, and improbably (or inevitably); Roglic’s overall victory was once again threatened.
We walked the famed promenade des Anglais along the coast willing the racers to arrive before we had to depart. We concocted a mad scheme to walk to the outskirts of the city in order to see the riders and then depart before the finish.
The Monuments aux Morts, a war memorial on the Promenade des Anglais.
Roglic tucked behind his teammate Wout Van Aert, and they chased after Yates. Together,they struggled to regain the precious seconds needed to ensure Roglic’s victory.
Wout Van Aert drags Primos Roglic in pursuit of Simon Yates on the Promenades des Anglais, Nice.
In a steep old alley, a Frenchman ran out of his house shouting that the cyclists would arrive in any minute. We abruptly turned around, and our children led us in a wild dash through the city streets, as we blindly followed the Frenchman. We arrived on the boulevard just in time to see Simon Yates go screaming by us. The children laughed in giddy excitement. The seconds slowly ticked by…until suddenly Van Aert and Roglic flew by in hot pursuit.
Primos and Wout.
Yates took the stage but for Roglic, the curse had been broken. In no small part thanks to Wout, he had minimized the gap and finally had his overall win at a stage race on French soil. The race had been brutal; only 59 finished out of the 154 cyclists who started.
Of course, Roglic’s greatest competitor- Pogacar -was far from Nice racing elsewhere in Italy. Only time will tell if the Poulidor/Anquetil analogy applies to the two Slovenians.
A young fan caught up in the excitement.
On that day, the good life in Provence for Roglic was a hard earned victory. For us, it was great company, food, and excitement. Sun optional in both cases.
Cawsom wlad i’w chadw, darn o dir yn dyst ein bod wedi mynnu byw
Translation: We were given a country to keep, a piece of land as proof that we insisted on living
Etifeddiaeth by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, Welsh poet
The mountains of Wales do not have the majestic appeal of the Alpine crown of Europe, nor the impressiveness of spines that run across whole continents. Perched in the northwest of the country, Snowdonia National Park is a relatively tiny mountain oasis in a land of slate and bog. There lie mountains for the common man. Resolute and dependable, the Snowdonia range graciously cedes attention to Britain’s lowland attractions: Stonehenge, London, Oxford. With quiet dignity and solemnity, Mount Snowdon stands 3,560 feet tall as the Welsh sentry guarding England.
Wales was largely unknown to me. After having taken a weekend to ascend England’s highest peak, Scafell Pike, I surmised that visiting the Welsh equivalent would be a worthy introduction to the ancient kingdom. I had hoped that by going in winter I would experience the ocean-facing mountainous edge of the British Isle at its most pure and magical. Ideally, it would be at its least crowded, as well. In the dark days of January and February, much of the Welsh tourism industry shuts down to wait out the coldest and rainiest season. Hiking paths are accessible most of the year; lodges and facilities for hikers are not.
Wales is perpetually rainy, and that type of climate feeds the imagination and gives birth to all sorts of myths. In the misty mountains there might plausibly live a knight-eating dragon. The eeriness of a stormy night fuels the storytelling around the warming fire. Among them, the legends of Britain’s King Arthur have many ties to Wales generally and Snowdonia National Park in particular. The Lady of the Lake guards the sword Excalibur in one of Snowdonia’s dark lakes, while the Knights of the Round Table lie in enchanted sleep in one of Snowdownia’s caves until the rule of Arthur returns to the British Isles.
I arrived in Snowdonia at nightfall from East Anglia. I traded the flatlands of Cambridgeshire for the wild interior of northwest Wales. Flooding streams and deep mud forced me to abandon my vehicle and trek the last half-mile to the weekend’s lodgings, known to the local Welsh as Helfa Fawr. A raw Atlantic wind blew across the treeless hillsides. Sheep reflected by my headlamp’s light bleated their complaints as the herd parted as we passed. Following in a trot, their ghostly presence drove me forward in unneeded urgency to the lodge door.
The single-story building cowered squat and low under the surrounding hills. It had been empty for months, and it’s dark stillness provided no welcome. It had been a derelict ruin of a barn until rebuilt to service hikers. Inside, the thick stone walls trapped frigid stale air. Not even a picture on the wall to warm them. The three bedrooms were spare, furnished with bunk beds and vinyl mattresses. I rolled out my sleeping bag on a lower bunk and lit a tea candle to help warm the enclosed space. Despite the efforts of a wood-burning stove I still slept with a cap on.
There were several other hikers in the lodge. People I’d never met before nor would never see again. We were drawn together by our mutual affection of the mountains. As the cold night gave way to an overcast morning we were drawn from our sleeping bags by kitchen smells and promise of the summit. Nervous energy caused a few rucksacks to be opened and repacked. Noticing one young hiker wearing denim, I offered a spare pair of hiking pants. Another prepared a GoPro camera, intent on creating a home movie of the experience. Together we were a motley group of novice and experienced hikers bound to share the trail.
Our local guide arrived in time to stuff the last piece of toast into his mouth while flattening a 1:50,000 scale map across the dining table. With his finger he traced our route for the day. From the doorstep we’d retrace our steps back toward the main road. In the warmer months the Snowdonia Mountain Railway follows a 15 mile track up from Llanberis village to the mountain’s summit. We’d connect with the Llanberis Path and walk roughly parallel to the rail line. Our lodge’s location in the park allowed us to connect to it a third of the way up. On the map the Lanberis was a pleasant line with a gentle curl. We expected to reach the summit in an easy three hour walk. Afterwards, it was an open question how we’d descend the mountain. It wasn’t the most adventurous or ambitious plan for our day in the park, but the weather would compensate accordingly.
The weather was going to be the most active variable of the day. In the early morning the overcast skies appeared a bit standoffish. They only offered a bit of drizzle with light wind in the valley. The clouds seemed to retreat with each step uphill as we followed the muddy track across dewy fields. The initial sensory experience was the smell of soggy sheep shit ushered into our nose by cold air. As we ascended, my eyes were greeted by ever-grander views of the park, and the temperature was tolerable at the base of the mountain. Although it was January we started the hike with jackets off, warming up in our fleece layers. Gazing downward only the dirty-white wool of grazing sheep dotted the treeless, boulder-strewn hillside. There was absolutely no wildlife to be seen. There were no secrets in the exposed landscape. As we ascended past the shuttered Mountain Railway stations we soon learned how exposed our path was.
At Clogwyn Station, about two miles from the summit, and only two hours into our walk, we experienced the last placid moments of the ascent. Up until then we chatted easily amongst ourselves. Old coggers walking their dogs, families with children, and chattering walking clubs greeted us on the path. The conversation and cheerfulness of those we met reflected the best of Welsh hospitality and hardiness. I exchanged some quick banter with descending hikers, but their enthusiasm for conversation was blunted by the ordeal at the summit. We didn’t realize it, but we had reached the bottom edge of the clouds. They had stopped their retreat and were prepared to defend the heights from our assault.
As our path snaked into the clouds, each step took us further into the isolation of our own thoughts. Above 2,600 feet the gray shroud held firm and mist wrapped around the trail. It muffled the sound of crunching rocks, and heavy breathing swept away spoken words. Either the guide’s stopped talking or his voice disappeared with the rest of ours. Hikers dissolved into dark silhouettes after only a short distance. No one turned around in defeat. The summit stood tantalizingly close. It wasn’t raining, but the moisture condensed on jackets and gear. The temperature kept dropping as we ascended and soon we began to notice that frost grew on the seams and edges of our backpacks and hiking poles. We donned goggles. The wind punished the clouds, beating them against the mountain’s face. Every blade of grass and rock was glazed with ice. I stepped cautiously on the slick stones of the path.
Strong gusts of wind from the Irish Sea greeted us at the summit. We were on an island in the sky, surrounded by a sea of swirling icy mist. Glaslyn and Llyn Llydaw lakes, and all the paths leading up Mount Snowden, had vanished far below. My sense of jubilation at achieving the summit deflated as I stood in a queue for the summit. A platoon’s worth of hikers crowded around the marker, taking turns posing for their obligatory pictures at the summit marker. Visibility was only about twenty meters as I grinned for my own. Icy rocks made movement precarious, and some people slid around on their butts to avoid an awkward fall. Later I learned that mountain rescue was called out across the park four times that day to rescue hikers who couldn’t contend with the conditions. It was cold and anti-climactic, but it was icy and beautiful.
In summer, the Snowdonia Mountain Railway cheerily deposits visitors twenty meters below the summit. The station has a café where one can rest and enjoy a tea and scone with a sheltered view of the park. During winter, the building is shuttered for the off-season, and the best hikers can do is huddle against its leeward side, shivering while eating cold lunches. After clearing the summit, I prolonged our moment of success with a few nips of warming whisky from a red flask I had carried with me. An American drinking Scotch in Wales is all sorts of confusing, but it felt right in the moment. Within twenty minutes we had cleared the summit and distanced ourselves from the small crowd at the top. True celebration would wait until our safe return to our lodge that evening.
Our path of descent took us through the mists and past Clogwyn Coch, a section of imposing slate cliffs just northwest of the summit, once again in the realm of legend. Edmund Hillary and his team trained on these cliffs before their successful 1953 climb to the summit of Mount Everest. (It is still possible to rent a room at the Pen-y-Gwrd hotel, where Hillary’s team stayed.) We sheltered off the beaten path, by a small mountain lake under Clogwyn Coch’s cliffs, devouring sugary and salty snacks and skipping stones across the still water. From the lake’s edge we gazed up at the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch, their tops hidden from view. Huge boulders lay scattered underneath the cliffs and across the hillside, as if giants had cleft and hurled them. Lines from Tennyson’s “The Passing of Arthur” came to mind as we tread on the downward path:
“. . . So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and just of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake . . .”
The route back to our lodge avoided the frigid exposure of the ridgeline trail. What we gained in protection from the wind we lost in slog through mud and boggy ground. I’d learn that all green ground isn’t solid. Constant rain and snow filled marshland and swelled the valley streams. While only a few miles from our lodge, at the foot of the mountain, I brazenly walked across the boggy ground. At one point in the journey I took two confident steps into a watery hole disguised as solid earth. Like the cartoon character Wile-E Coyote overrunning a cliff, I plunged up to my thighs into a stinking morass of mud, water, and sheep urine. My companions laughed as I leaned on my trekking poles to extract myself, thankful the hole wasn’t deeper and no longer fearing wet feet at any stream crossings.
After nearly 8 hours, and about 15 miles, our group had returned to the lodge’s door. Before long we had started a roaring fire in the hearth and made a giant pot of spaghetti and meat sauce. Comfort food for the weary of foot. I exchanged soaking gear and muddy boots for an ice-cold lager and a steaming bowl of pasta. With my pen in hand I reflected on my walk across the Snowdon Massif, on the lush green mountain side and misty clouds, great blocks of grey stone and white mists. I thought of Arthur and his sleeping knights hidden in caves and British mountaineering pioneers dangling from ropes on the black cliffs.
That night a heavy rain swept through our valley. Secure in our lodge I slept the deep sleep of the enchanted as the rain lashed against its stone walls. The harsh weather did nothing to dull my enthusiasm for Snowdon’s charms. In the morning the valley still held tight to its cloudy blanket. Although I had walked to the summit, I still had not seen it nor gazed out to sea. The green slopes of Mount Snowdon remained sheathed in a thick cloud of ice and wind as I left Wales that morning. It was a perfect manifestation of the Welsh flag – a green and white field behind a mythical red dragon. I have since converted this alluring imagery into dragon-filled adventure stories for my son. I’ll keep telling those stories until I can revisit this island in the sky, the sentry’s lonely outpost on the British Isles, and finally gaze across the Irish Sea.
Note: this is a re-write of the travel vignette Walking Mount Snowdon, Wales, originally published in February 2020. Take a look at the accompanying Photo Essay of Mount Snowdon for more atmosphere. Thanks for reading, again.
~ AZ
The Llanberis Path disappearing into the near distance. The top third of the moutnain was bathed in clouds. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A hiker disappearing into the mist along the wind swept trail.
Hikers queuing at the summit. No sun, no view, just ice and triumph. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Hikers huddling against the closed cafe windows, hiding from the wind just below the summit. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A trail marker disguised by ice. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Wandering off trail on the return hike. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Only a short distance on the map. Photo by Andrew Zapf
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.
“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”
The Italian winter of 2020-2021 saw one of the greatest snowfalls in recent history. For those of us in the plains below, it was endless rainfall; but up above among the peaks; it was light snowflakes which make the powder of skiers’ dreams.
In terms of the lives and livelihoods lost from the virus; the story of a lost season of epic skiing doesn’t quite reach the threshold of a tale of woe and suffering.
Luckily, this isn’t a story of woe (but there is some very real-physical- suffering).
Necessity is the mother of invention. And with epic snowfall, closed borders, and regularly updated decrees from the Italian government on what we couldn’t do; we had to find a new way to experience our beloved mountains in winter.
Since fate has a way of bringing you what you need; I conducted training with the Alpini– or Italian mountain troops- who taught me the basics of Ski mountaineering, or Ski-Alpinismo as they call it in Italy.
An Alpini Eagle’s Wings Catch the Snow.
Ski mountaineering also known as ski-touring is the act of climbing up a mountain with specially modified equipment in order to ski down them. On the bottom of the skis are “seal skins” which allow you to move uphill without sliding back down, and your heels are free to allow a more fluid movement. When you are ready to go down, you take off the seal skins and lock your heel in.
Simple right? Well sort of. Like all things, the devil is in the details. I had been interested in ski mountaineering for many years, but in the Pacific Northwest, where my lifelong passion for the mountains was solidified, the skills and equipment necessary to participate appeared too high.
Those of us in America at the time accepted that in-depth knowledge of avalanche conditions (a science and art that can take a lifetime to acquire) and expensive equipment from Europe was required. Plus, if the desire to ski came upon me; I could always go to a resort, which would whisk me-effort free- to the top of the mountain with none of the costs and risks.
Thus, the dream to ski-mountaineer remained unrealized; to lie where all the other adventurous dreams of the day burned.
Until there were no resorts. Then the dream became a need. And, thanks to the Alpini, I now had some of the necessary skills. We decided that every free weekend that month; we would head to the mountains.
As a family, we drove up to the breathtakingly beautiful mountain village of Arabba in the Dolomites. In a normal winter, it is a world renowned way point in the classic Sella Ronda ski tour.
Snow covers the road signs in the Passo Campolongo
This wasn’t a normal winter. The snow was piled so high; it felt like we were driving through a white tunnel as we approached. The lifts were closed. The village quiet. The slopes empty.
With our friend, John, my wife and I rented our ski-alpinismo equipment. Then we promised to meet before dawn of the following day.
At 0530, in the darkness of the winter night, Lisa and I got dressed and sleepily struggled to put together our equipment. Then we trudged outside and met John.
Together we stepped into our gear and began climbing the empty slope. Alone, among the trees, we saw the beginning of the sun lightening the valley below us. Slowly, the sun began to share its warmth with us.
The Sun Creeps out to warm the Valley.
Lisa, a member of the ski patrol, quickly mastered the technique to glide as much as possible on the skis while climbing.
John heads up, led by the light.
Technique mattered, because this was hard work. Our heart rates soared as we trudged uphill. The suffering alleviated by the tremendous natural beauty around us. It was, according to John, our own “Private Dolomites.”
This being Europe, once we reached the top, a small mountain rifugio, or cabin, was improbably open. I can only imagine the lady who served us was hoping the government would soon allow the the resort to open. We had cappuccinos and strudel, filled with the pleasure of hard physical work finally accomplished. Then we headed down.
The snow was perfect and all too soon we reached the bottom where we had started hours before.
Lisa and I were addicted. After a spirited fondue dinner with another couple, we agreed to go again with them the very next day.
Derek, Cassandra, and Lisa push through the powder.
As before, in the winter darkness, we met and began to climb uphill. The mountains on that side of the valley were steeper and the wind stung our face with its bitter cold. At times our skis would slip and we worried we might fall down the face. We climbed higher and struggled at the limits of our stamina.
The wind bites us.
When we were ready to ski down, our frozen fingers had trouble preparing our equipment for the descent.
But once again, we were filled with joy as we took long swooping curves on empty slopes of fresh powder. We had in the parlance of ski mountaineering, “earned our turns”, and as result the descent was even sweeter.
Lisa and I headed out another time that month to ski-tour. Under blue skies we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful rock faces and snow covered peaks that stretched to the horizon.
Snow covered peaks stretch out endlessly.
At the end of the month, in the iconic Olympic ski town of Cortina; we arranged ski lessons for our two oldest daughters. With lifts closed, I carried the girls up the hill after each run.
Then in one of the serendipitous twists of fate, we met Prince Hurbertus-the father of our daughters’ instructor. He is an Olympic skier who represents Mexico at international competitions in a Mariachi spandex suit. We had followed him since our first child was born in Mexico City.
Prince Hubertus, also known as Andy Himalaya and Royal Disaster welcomes the next generation Mexican Olympic Skier.
We commiserated with him on the lost ski season of epic snow.
Except for us, it hadn’t been lost.
We had been introduced to the hard earned joys of ski mountaineering; where hours of laborious climbing were rewarded by fleeting minutes of floating velocity.
We had a new passion and will still be ski mountaineering even when the resorts reopen.
The dreams of the day made possible.
The eternal pleasures of hard physical work accomplished.
Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.
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.
Le pedimos a San Fermín, como nuestro santo patrón, que nos guíe en la corrida de toros y nos dé su bendición.
We ask San Fermin, being our patron saint, to guide us in the bull run and give us his blessing.
My heart was beating in my ears. My sweaty palms were helplessly empty. I had failed to bring a few Euros to buy the morning newspaper and my fidgety hands resorted to adjusting and readjusting the red sash tied around my waist. It was a flimsy talisman in the sea of fear and courage. At the bottom of Calle de Santo Domingo I was flanked by stone walls, exits blocked by a phalanx of police and a thick crowd of mozos – bull runners. There was no escape.
Above our heads an icon of the Saint Fermin rested in a small alcove, just out of reach of our outstretched arms.
Le pedimos a San Fermín, como nuestro santo patrón.
The stone walls reverberated with sounds of chanting. Puny candles flickered weakly over the assembled.
Que nos guíe en la corrida de toros y nos dé su bendición.
We were asking for protection, for courage, and for deliverance. In only a few minutes we would need all three as the first bulls of San Fermin were released into the streets of Pamplona, Spain..
Viva San Fermín! Gora Fermín!
The prayer was over. Shortly I would be making immediate and urgent demands on whatever grace god had bestowed on me. I moved to the top of Calle de Santo Domingo, just to the south of city hall. My plan was to cross Plaza Consistorial with the bulls and chase them up Estafeta.If I was lucky. As I waited with nervous energy, bouncing on my toes, my courage coalesced around my compatriots waiting nearby. My pañuelo rested on my shoulders like a magic cloak,tied in around my neck in a lifesaving slipknot – to release at the slightest tug while running. The first rocket shot into the air and the crowd quivered as it popped overhead, signaling the opening of the gates and release of the bulls onto the Encierro. Valientes began running immediately, clearing a space that would take the bulls 30 seconds to cover. My friends and I stood like boulders against the rushing wave of humanity. At last we saw the horns of the bulls bouncing up and down as the crowd parted in front of them. We turned, and ran like the devil was chasing us. The bulls’ heads were low to the ground as they powered uphill toward us, and gaining ground.
Watercolor depiction of San Fermin, patron saint of Pamplona
The Fiesta de San Fermin, better known as the Running of the Bulls, takes place every July in the Basque town of Pamplona, in northern Spain. It’s an idyllic setting of olive oil and pintxos 355 days out of the year, but for those other ten days the festival of San Fermin transforms the town into a crowded, raucous venue for one of Spain’s oldest and most controversial traditions. With origins in medieval Spain, celebrating an Ancient Roman-era saint, the tradition has morphed for centuries and grafted parts of different customs to become what is today.
The modern version of San Fermin is a combination of typical saint’s festivities with regional bull fighting. Bulls from the surrounding area are brought to the city for the bull fights. On their designated day, bull breeders move their bulls from holding areas through the streets of the city to the bullfighting arena where they wait for the afternoon’s bullfights. Young men demonstrating their foolhardy courage only began running in front of the bulls later on. To run as close as possible in front of the bull, known as “on the horns”, is seen as the perfect balance of skill and bravery in a delicate dance with death. Many towns still have bullfighting events and some form of bull running, Pamplona rises above all others in the public’s imagination.
Pamplona has been drawing outsiders, adventurers and thrill seekers ever since the fictional San Fermin of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises published in 1926. Aside from the daily running of the bulls, San Fermin has become famous in recent years for nightly concerts, excessive drinking, and partying of all sorts. Tour companies specialize in experiences that cater to budgets of all kinds – from luxury hotels to overcrowded campsites. The festival has broken free from many of its local moorings and drifted into a global, heavily commercialized event. It no longer feels like a religious festival, nor a simple test of bravado – it’s turned into an unregulated spectacle devoid of meaning, the bare knuckle boxing of sprinting.
The unsung heroes of San Fermin - the municipal workers that clean the streets each morning, after a night of partying, in preparation for the running of the bulls. Photo by Andrew Zapf
I wasn’t alone in Pamplona. I had flown in a day before the festival began, invited by an old classmate – Dennis Clancey – as he pursued his dream of filming a documentary about San Fermin. The town was placid and had not yet donned the classic white uniform of the mozos or the red panuelo of San Fermin. Large wooden fence posts along the Encierro route were the most visible preparations made by the municipality in advance of the coming siege of revelers. In addition to my classmates I hadn’t seen in years, I also met and shared drinks with a dentist from New York, an equestrian consultant from Valencia, and ajournalist from Chicago. In the calm pre-fiesta atmosphere they gave me an education on the history of San Fermin, the route the bulls would take,and strategies for running that could save my life.
Author celebrating the camraderie with fellow bullrunners. Joshua Selfridge, Randal Waters, Jorge Contreras
Red wine and stewed bull meat for lunch.
Parade of gigantes in the streets of Pamplona
Dennis Clancey - filmmaker, adventurer, and friend. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Jorge Contreras - traveler, equestrian, and friend. Photo by Andrew Zapf
San Fermin still strives to be a local affair. Peñas, or social societies of Pamplona attend the bullfights as a group and set giant tables in the street for each midday meal. For a few Euros, and foresight of a reservation, it is possible to book a spot in the shade midday to enjoy a refreshing Navarran red wine and traditional stewed bull meat. For one such meal I was surrounded by friends and acquaintances, witness to parade of gigantes and local musicians. Amongst the hordes of tourists, local families and peñas meet in the streets to celebrate their camaraderie, love of life, and their dearly held traditions.
Among those traditions are the daily series of bullfights. Bullfighting takes place all across Spain, not just in Pamplona. The sport is controversial because the bull is predestined to die. During San Fermin six bulls run in the morning, ushered to the arena by the thrill seeking crowd, where these six bulls die that same afternoon. I’ve attended bullfights in Plaza de Toros and watched the bleeding bulls, gasping for air, continue to fight until their literal dying breathe. It’s an experience impossible to be unmoved by. El Toro Bravo, the Spanish fighting bull, is the peak of its species. Majestic and noble they are the symbol for a proud country. Seeing them cut down slowly is brutal. However, veneration and fidelity still surround the bullfight.
Spanish postcard attempting to depict the artistry and respect in the sport of bullfighting.
It took time, but I came to learn and respect the hugely symbolic aspects and religious metaphor of the bullfight. I spoke with bullfighting aficionados, read articles and books, and watched the fights myself. Ernest Hemingway, an inspiration for many things, was also an expert on the sport. Although he is readily associated with San Fermin, it also ignited in him a lifelong affinity for bullfighting. Published in 1932, his work Death in the Afternoon is a study of the sport. It’s an exploration of the artistry and elemental nature of fear, courage, panache, and death within the sport. Although the names and rivalries are dated to another era, the principle features of bullfighting remain true today. Firstly, Hemingway describes the fight as a three-part act that mirrors the Christ story. In each phase of a bull fight the bull is challenged with three successive torerors – picadores, banderilleros, and matadors. In the end, Christ dies and so must the bull.
Secondly, Hemingway analyzes the skills required for the grim tasks of the toreros. In the first two acts, the bull’s strength is sapped as spears and barbed blades are thrust into the bull’s powerful muscles. These subalterns must draw upon their own courage and skills to perform their tasks. Mistakes against Toro Bravos can lead to lifelong disfigurement or death. However, the performance of the matador, who delivers the final death blow, is how a bullfight is ultimately remembered. Death in the Afternoon possesses excruciating detail on brave and intimidated bullfighters. Hemingway parses out the differences between raw talent and refined skill. The bullfight is an art form where the only colors are shades of bravery and cowardice.
Spanish postcard attempting to convey the artistry of the bullfight.
Aficionados of bullfighting believe that to kill a bull in the ring is the most respectful and honorable way to take the bull’s life. They believe that the bull is a noble animal that is shamed when taken to the slaughterhouse. Although the outcome is certain, the bull is afforded a final day in the sun to fight with all its strength and determination. Revered bulls are remembered for their bravery when mortality wounded. The Bullfighting Museum at the Plaza de toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballería in Seville displays the taxidermied heads of legendary bulls.
What Hemingway couldn’t know, and many now lament, is how much of a spectacle San Fermin would become in the Twenty First Century. The festival atmosphere of San Fermin far outpaced the community veneration. The crowds of Pamplona demanded the biggest and strongest bulls, which emphasized brute strength over skillful finesse in the bullfight. The atmosphere of Plaza de Toros became infected with cheap sangria and irreverence of the streets. It takes a calibrated eye and informed person to sift through the fiesta modernisms to appreciate the spectacle of the bullfight in Pamplona.
Crowds press against the wooden barriers to catch obstructed views of the bulls. The increasing number of people that attend each year squeeze the tradition from San Fermin. Photo by Andrew Zapf
I was not gored on my first running of the bulls. I didn’t fall or get injured on the course. I didn’t get very far, but I consider it a rousing success. Over two sanfermines I would run the Encierro seven times. I’d start each run at the same exact spot, but each attempt was unique. Different bulls, different arrangements of escorting steers, sueltos and mozos. On my best run I crossed the Plaza next to a line of bulls, and then chased them the length of Estafeta. I ended up in the Plaza de Toros standing on the yellow sand of the arena. I’d kept pace with the slowing bulls, avoided colliding with other runners, and kept ahead of the shutting gates as they closed behind the procession.
I’ll always remember that feeling of finishing my run in the arena. My legs burned from a kilometer of sprinting, sweat soaking into my shirt, and my panuelo scratching at my neck. The stands were partially filled with spectators, mocking the valientes or “the brave ones,” who arrived two minutes early, and cheering the mozos as the bull run came to its completion. The morning was still cool then, but the July heat would burn down by the afternoon. I lingered trying to imprint the feelings of the morning’s triumph into my memory.
The author, wearing a green shirt, on one of his earliest bull runs, San Fermin, 2011. Photo courtesy of Dennis Clancey
My other runs ended with less glory. Some would end in exhaustion on Estafeta, or on Calle de Mercado only a 50 yards from my start point. Many times I’d collide with other runners, some jostling for their own position. Many frozen by fear. Each year San Fermin is increasingly crowded with uninformed, inebriated partygoers with no respect for the traditions of the Encierro. I’ve overheard too many conversations of the ignorant runner assuming the course is safe due to the mere fact they are allowed to be there. Not understanding the danger a torobravo presents to life and limb.
On my last run, in 2012, I stood at my mark as the bulls were released. I waited stoically for the bulls to arrive, affixing my feet to the cobblestones. As I had done six times before, I waited until I saw the shoulders of the running bulls before I dug my toes in and turned for a full sprint toward the center of the course. In three steps I slammed into a wall of gawking tourists, paralyzed with indecision, crowding the course. In an instant I was on the ground, arms protecting my head as the bulls ran past. I had exploded off my mark like an olympic sprinter and the force of the collision left me with a headache for days – probably a minor concussion. It wouldn’t run again that year. It was an inglorious end to my bull running career.
Whatever god there is protected me in Pamplona on those mornings, and I hope Saint Fermin continues to watch over Navarra. I had joined the ranks of the many that have seen Pamplona and left changed on a fundamental level. After that final collision I packed a bag with a change of clothes, a bottle of wine, and fresh cheese and headed for the coast. San Sebastian, on the northern edge of Spain, is a calm refuge from the boisterous atmosphere of fiesta. That’s another tradition of San Fermin – escaping to the Basque countryside to rest. A young Winston Churchill wrote after his first taste of combat in 1895 that “nothing in life is exhilarating as to be shot at without result.” In the same vein, the intensity of running with the bulls in the morning and emotion of witnessing their death in the afternoon fed a desire to appreciate the life I had. I may not go back to Pamplona again for fiesta, but I cherish the perspective it has given me on life and death, bravery and cowardice, and the traditions that bind us to our ancestors.
Viva San Fermin! Gorani San Fermin!
Author in the streets of Pamplona. Fieste de San Fermin, 2012
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.
Çanakkale içinde vurdular beni, Ölmeden mezara koydular beni, off, gençliğim eyvah!
Çanakkale içinde sıra söğütler, Altında yatıyor aslan yiğitler, off, gençliğim eyvah!
In Çanakkale they shot me. They buried me before I died, oh, my youth, alas!
In Çanakkale are rows of willows Brave lions rest beneath them, oh, my youth, alas!
Istanbul is a deep well. Its sweet waters sate any thirst for history. For two years I lived in the Ottoman capital city, once the center of two vast empires and a megacity of a proud republic. Daily I drank from this well. Each gulp brought hitherto unknown names into my consciousness. Names such as Taurus and Nemrut, Kaçkar and Cappadocia, Bodrum and Antalya filled me with wonder. As is my habit, I began reading aboutthe land and its people. The history stretched across these names like a skin bringing life to long-dead Byzantium. Clashes of great armies, deeds of heroism and treachery, and the mysterious and magical came alive. However, it is the name of Çanakkale that still drips with emotion.
Çanakkale is a tiny town at the end of the Dardanelle Strait and is the exact opposite of it’s northern brother which teems with millions of people crowding the Bosphorus Strait. The connection to Istanbul seems unlikely, yet throughout all its wars Istanbul, and Constantinople before it, has relied on Çanakkale to defend the Dardanelles against hostile armadas. It is the guardian of the gateway to the great city.
Çanakkale Naval Museum. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The Dardanelles Strait is pinched between the Anatolian mainland and the knobby Gallipoli Peninsula. The 1914 British campaign to force the Dardanelles, seize the Gallipoli Peninsula, and capture Istanbul is how most of the western world knows the area. The Gallipoli Campaign also looms large in the Turkish Republic’s founding story and the legend of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. It is here that his decisive action spoiled the invading army’s advance and the sacrifices of his soldiers became an inspiration for a nation seeking independence.
Bus tickets were cheap in Turkey. For a few Turkish Lira, at a good exchange rate, I joined one of my habitual traveling companions on a journey to this sacred peninsula. It was a long trip and we boarded in the dead of night; too early to be described as morning, but well after last call. The bus headed west and left the urban landscape behind. After the dawn both sides of the highway were flanked by neverending fields of sunflowers – a staple of Turkish bodegas and markets. Similar to short haul flight, an attendant walked up and down the aisle serving refreshments and snacks from a narrow rolling cart. Only stopping once for a truck-stop breakfast, the bus deposited us in Çanakkale by late morning.
A statue of an Ottoman solider carrying a wounded Australian to the ANZAC trenches. The Gallipoli Campaign has been dubbed "The Last Gentlemen's War" for the multiple displays of humanity between the two sides during and after the battle. After the Allied evacuation, the Ottoman military went to great lengths to locate, mark, and respect Allied graves. In a famous speech in 1934, Atatürk's said:
"Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives … you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side-by-side here in this country of ours … You, the mothers who sent your sons to far away countries, wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well."
Photo by Andrew Zapf
The town rests on the eastern edge of the strait. For millennia it was positioned to influence the sea trade between the Black and Aegean Seas. During World War I it hosted the Ottoman military headquarters for the defense of the Dardanelles. Much of that era is consigned to national parks and memorials on the Gallipoli Peninsula. What remains in the town is the Çanakkale Naval Museum, which has many naval warfare relics including the big guns from the shore batteries that fired on the British Royal Navy in March 1914.
The British Empire had developed some impressive new battleships in the dreadnaught class prior to World War I and Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, wanted to utilize them in a naval dash to capture Istanbul. Questionable British generalship met a resolute Ottoman defense and the plan was spoiled. Hastily, and with supply lines running all the way to Egypt, General Sir Ian Hamilton launched a land invasion of the Gallipoli Peninsula. It was a disaster.
The causes of the Allied failure are too numerous to be listed in this story. Just as the Western Front had gone subterranean with trench warfare, so did the fighting on the Gallipoli Peninsula. The Australian soldiers of the Australian and New Zealand Corps (ANZAC) earned the name “diggers” for the hundreds of miles of trenches they hollowed out on the tiny peninsula. Waves of men disappeared in fruitless charges across machine-gun swept no-man’s lands. The hillsides turned into a moonscape as vegetation vanished under the pummeling of artillery shells. These places are now memorials, cemeteries, and places of remembrance. Even in 2012 I could see remnants of trenches and brass shell casings still loosely held by the dusty earth. Under the hot Mediterranean sun I could only imagine the misery of the months spent on those hillsides.
ANZAC Cove, Gallipoli Peninsula. Photo by Andrew Zapf
I visited the cemetery for the 57th Infantry Regiment (Ottoman) where wreaths are still laid. I looked up at the cliffs at the edge of ANZAC Cove where thousands of soldiers waded ashore expecting flat beaches. Commonwealth governments still hold annual remembrance ceremonies there. And I stood at Lone Pine Hill, where one desperate charge after another wiped out a generation of Australian men. The sombreness of the peninsula was overwhelming.
57th (Ottoman) Infantry Regiment Cemetery and Memorial. "I don't order you to attack. I order you to die. By the time we are dead, other units and commanders will have come up to take our place." Mustafa Kemal supposedly ordered them to fight until the death with these words, thereby salvaging the day for the Ottoman Army.
Photo by Andrew Zapf
Lone Pine Hill. The defeated Australian soldiers took pinecones from that last pine tree back to Australia and planted them. Those transplanted seeds grew, and in a gesture of reconciliation Australia brought pinecones back to Gallipoli where a descendent of that coniferous witness now shades the graves there. Photo by Andrew Zapf
After drenching myself in the bloody memories of Gallipoli we needed to reset our emotions and mentally return to the modern world. From underneath the early-summer sun the cooling embrace of the Aegean Sea beckoned. Through our boutique hotel we had arranged a few places aboard a scuba charter. The Troy was a shambles of a dive boat. The decks were unkempt and the cabin moldy. Sun-bleached wetsuits hung on a narrow rod where unrepaired rips were displayed unashamedly. The life preservers looked dangerously close to being demoted to anchors. Naval precision it was not.
A picture is worth a thousand words about dive boat Troy. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Author aboard the dive boat Troy.
Diving in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Turkey. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Archeological site of the ancient city of Troy. For a century this ramps was believed to be the main gate where the Trohan Horse was brought into the city. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Archeological site of the city of Troy. The first archeological excavation was in 1870 by Heinrich Schliemann. His amateurish techniques and use of dynamite damaged many areas of the site. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Exiting the opening of the Dardanelle Strait the boat passed the ancient city of Troy where Odysseus devised the Trojan Horse in the most memorable feat of military deception. Ancient Greeks and Trojans fought over this critical terrain long before the Byzantines and the Turks. Our boat eventually anchored only a hundred yards from shore along the Turkish coast. Short dirt cliffs met the Aegean Sea with spectacular indifference. Groceries were delivered by an inflatable dinghy from a local village for the homemade lunch of manti. This ravioli-type dish is composed of minced lamb and beef, parsely, onion, and spices stuffed into tiny dumplings, covered with a butter tomato sauce and drenched in yoghurt. Served with big chunks of fresh bread for mopping up sauce it is the perfect companion to physical exertion. The smell of cooking onions wafting from the galley intermixed with salty sea air. The bow of the boat nodded in agreement with the rhythm of the water. It was a leisurely atmosphere on board as divers unhurriedly entered and exited the water.
I hadn’t been diving in years. A great rush of saltwater cleansed my spirit as I took a giant stride off the bow. In an instant I was weightless, reduced to the essentials of life – breathing air and peering into the depths of the unknown. It was unremarkable diving, though. Visibility was poor and aquatic life was sparse. I explored the bottom for a half hour before my air guage summoned me to the surface. After changing four o-rings on a scuba tank, my faith in the rental gear shaken, I elected to forgo a second dive. Instead I swam on the surface and sunbathed on the warm decks. The water was calm and lapped gently into a calming lullaby. I was at peace.
A simply Turkish breakfast. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The next morning the hotel set a simple breakfast on an outdoor table. The white cheese, green olives, and amber honey tasted fresh as the morning was young. Turks cherish their street cats, and that morning a trio held vigil as I scooped out the inside of a perfectly soft-boiled egg. I cradled a saucer while using my palm to monitor the temperature of a traditional hourglass-shaped tea glass. It’s impossible to hurry a breakfast such as that. In a few hours I would be on the return bus back to Istanbul. In between delicate sips I reflected on the weekend that had been, the wars that had been fought there, and the legacy of a peninsula at the beginning of a new millenium.
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.
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