Tag Archives: History

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

July 19, 2024 roland.minez 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Water bottles offered at a monument to Tom Simpson

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

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

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

Epics of history painted on the streets of Briancon.

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

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

Father and Son try their hand on the Col de Telegraphe

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

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

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

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

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

Pogacar in yellow but not for long, this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Story of a Pen

July 1, 2022 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

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.

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.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading – Historical Fiction

June 10, 2021 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

Summer time is approaching and it’s time to find the right books to throw in the beach bag, download on the tablet, or remain perched by your favorite rocking chair. Winter is for the dense works that educate, inform, and develop the mind. Oftentimes accompanied by hearty meals and warm drinks. Summer reading demands the opposite. When not out enjoying warmer weather, a bit of well-deserved vacation time, or just decompression from a long year of coronavirus stress it pays to have a good book at hand.

This spring I’ve been indulging in some fiction. Not straying from my normal habit too far, I’ve picked up a few books that have augmented my recent travels around Great Britain. I now offer these works of Historical Fiction for your consideration:

The Long Ships by Frans G. Bengtsson

“A man would have to look far before finding more rewarding beggars than you,” said Orm, “for not one of you but has a tale to tell. If your story is good, Rainald, let us hear it.”

“Stories about sin are always good to hear,” said Ylva.

The protagonist, Orm is a great fictionalized hero of yore, with a named sword and a strong arm. He’s honorable, wise, and quick of wit. He earns the respect of his enemies and everlasting devotion of his friends. He’s also well-traveled. As a boy he’s swept up into the world of sea-faring vikings, raiders of the sea, and spends years (and many pages) on his adventures. In his fictionalized lifetime he’s a slave, bodyguard, warrior, chieftain, treasure hunter, husband, friend, and father. He’s truly a character a reader can seek inspiration and set aspiration to.

The Long Ships is simple good ole, serialized storytelling. It’s not meant to be read straight through as Frans Bengtsson originally wrote the epic tale of Orm in two novels that have only recently been combined into a single book. Bengtsson’s own story is worth a little side-reading on. He’s a historian that poured all he knew about early medieval viking culture and lore into this story. He takes Orm across the known Western world throughout his adventures and makes the character react to Jews, Muslims, and Christian Europe. He processes the scale of the Byzantine Empire and the kingdoms of Africa, while he dabbles in the regional politics of the Norse people. Bengtsson takes the reader on a tour of history within the pages and it has a depth that modern viking tales seem to lack.

Vindolanda by Adrian Goldsworthy

“Now we are friends, until the kings says different. . . You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.” He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half and handed it back.

“I like you, the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.

“I like you,” Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.

It’s no secret that I’ve become enamored with the Ancient Roman Empire this past year. You can’t visit Hadrian’s Wall twice in a year without feeling a gravitational pull. On the second visit I made time to visit Vindolanda, the archeological site of a Roman fort that pre-dated the construction of Hadrian’s Wall in AD 122. While it’s proven a treasure trove for archeologists, it is little more than low walls in the outline of the fort’s buildings and walls. When I was browsing through the gift shop I came across Adrian Goldsworthy’s novel Vindolanda. All I needed to read was that he was a historian of Roman Britain and this was his fictionalization of much of what he knew. Into my library it went and I finished it before my trip to the north of Great Britain was finished.

The story revolves around Centurion Flavius Ferox, a Roman staff officer of infamous repute. He’s stationed in the north of Britannia to maintain relations between the tribes and the Roman garrisons. The novel is set in the early days of Emperor Trajan’s reign and there is much uncertainty in the air about Rome’s stability as an empire and presence in Britannia. As Roman officials and aristocrats arrive from far off Rome, Ferox must grapple with diplomatically educating them on the ways of the local tribes while also sniffing the air for challenges to Rome. Goldworthy’s narrative brings Vindolanda, and all of northern Britannia, alive with his descriptions of life at the fort, relations between the tribes, and where Rome is in its history.

I can say with complete honesty that there were some real page-turner episodes for me in this book. Both battles and feasts held me with rapt attention and there is enough human element to make me identify with Centurion Ferox. This novel brings to life the meager facts of what is known about Roman Britain, which incidentally owes a great debt to Vindolanda’s archaeological offerings.

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cronwell

“Don’t go to Cridianton,” he told me.

“My wife is there,” I said. “My child is there.”

“Alfred is at Exanceaster.” he said

“So?”

“So the man who takes news of the battle to Exanceaster gets credit for it.” he said

“Then you go.” I said.

The Last Kingdom made this list because 1) I read it, 2) it’s also a popular Netflix series, and 3) there are serious flaws with it. I also happened to be at Bamburgh Castle, in the far north of England, where the protagonist was born and spends the entire novel (and series) trying to get back to. I genuinely enjoyed the first 300-or so pages of this. The Danish colonization of England is an interesting period as the descendents of Red Orm settled on the eastern shores of the island and battled the Saxons and Britons. I’ve been to the cities of York and Lincoln that have shared history with each civilization and seen the evidence of that history in the names and architecture that remain. For 90% of this book, it holds up.

***Mild Spoilers*** It all falls apart when the protagonist, Uhtred Ragnarson, stops following the societal rules for power, security, and advancement of his own era and starts adopting the decision making paradigm of the 21st Century. The quote above, when Uhtred decides to follow his wife to Cridianton, instead of claiming credit with King Alfred at Exanceaster, makes no sense for the early medieval societies he lives in. This diversion from reality pushes the accuracy levels of the subsequent novels, not to mention the whole television series, way down as Uhtred keeps failing to learn from his mistakes, refuses advice pertinent to the society, and spends years of his fictional life making illogical decisions. It’s too much and I won’t endorse it beyond page 324.

However, I can’t recommend Bamburgh Castle (pictured in the banner above), it’s vast beach, and lovely village highly enough.

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.

Body, Mountains

Aosta: History and Climbing

September 21, 2020 Bryce Mitchell 2 Comments

“I expected snow, not icy concrete,” Rich shouts from about twenty feet behind me. Halting, I lean into my ice ax and gasp for a few quick breaths of the frigid February air. We’re halfway up a steep 600-ft snow slope. Time does strange things when you’re zoned in and kicking steps. “I know, let’s take a minute” I mumble back. “It’s probably best,” Rich retorts. “This could be where that one climber slipped and cracked his femur.” I shudder. “Yeah, I can see why, let’s stop here and grab a snack. It’s really packed down solid now.” We both plop down in hardened divots of the icy hard pack. Looming above towers a 650-ft icy couloir, the first objective of our adventure. Sprawled before us lies the tiny mountain town of Lillaz, our humble refuge for our week in Italy’s northern Alps. With my back crammed into a snow dugout and my rucksack precariously resting beside I finally can appreciate the grandeur of the valley.

Every year hundreds of climbers and thousands of Nordic skiers flock to this rugged corner of Italy’s Gran Paradiso National Park. Lillaz isn’t Chamonix. You won’t find raucous crowds or a flashy après ski vibe. It’s a resilient town with a unique history and an esoteric sense of solitude. One doesn’t stumble aimlessly into this valley. Everything about it is intentional, the inhabitants, the intrepid bands of ice climbers, and the deep ruts left behind by the endurance skiers. It’s deliberate and yet unassuming. One experiences Lillaz for a reason.

Lillaz rests in the historic Aosta Valley forty miles from the French border and three hours from Turin, the capitol city of Italy’s Piedmont region. The journey from Turin Airport into Italy’s least populated region whisks one into antiquity. As we speed past the medieval castles and ancient vineyards, the alpine walls of the valley envelope us. Dead ahead sits the most impressive fortress, the Castello di Fenis with its mighty buttresses and unscalable towers. It’s impossible to not contemplate the past during the journey into the valley. This region has played a role in Italy’s history for thousands of years. The very name Aosta originated with Caesar Augustus after his generals violently wrested this region from barbarian tribes in 25 BC. But it’s not Caesar that captures my imagination on this drive through the plains of the Po River valley, instead it’s Hannibal of Carthage, Rome’s most capable adversary.

Although historians debate the exact location, it was Hannibal that bypassed these precipitous crevasses, towering ledges, and alpine heights with 100,000 soldiers and 40 African elephants during his journey from northern Africa to modern-day Italy in the Second Punic War. The endurance required is almost unimaginable. In similar fashion and a few centuries later, another historic figure traversed this dangerous valley to reach fertile fields of Italy. The meteoric young French general, Napoleon Bonaparte etched his name into military lore by crossing Switzerland’s Saint Bernard’s Pass and into the Aosta Valley with 40,000 troops in the Spring of 1800. Bonaparte’s southern advance was halted at the Italian Fort of Bard, which we unwittingly speed past on our highway journey into Lillaz. These historical episodes reveal that at great costs a few passed through this inhospitable valley, but most would never dare to inhabit this austere region. This valley is rugged, and its inhabitants are no strangers to its allure and hazards. Understanding the history of this region helps contextualize the modern adventurer’s experience.

The area surrounding Lillaz is an alpine adventurer’s paradise with over 140 multi-pitch ice routes and fifty miles of Nordic ski track. There are two parallel valleys that extend from the towns of Lillaz and Cogne—Lillaz and Valnontey. Beginning at the town of Cogne, all Valnontey’s routes rest within view of the 13,323 ft mountain, Gran Paradiso. Rich and I spent three days of climbing in Valnontey and two days in Lillaz. The route—Lillaz Gully—that Rich and I climbed the first day was six pitches of a combination of steep snow, easy mixed sections, and waterfall ice; a perfect route to loosen the nerves and stoke the excitement. There are few locations in Europe that offer the assortment and variety of ice climbing lines in such a close vicinity. The British make the trip across the channel when they tire of the Scottish storms and weather cancellations on Ben Nevis. The French are here to avoid Chamonix crowds. The Italians, well, because it’s home. Wherever you may call home and whether you seek long days of vertical ice or beautiful days winding through Nordic ski trails, Lillaz is perfect.

After our mid-slope snack, Rich and I continue towards our morning objective. The couloir’s ice is in perfect condition. Utilizing dual ropes, Rich leads the first pitch while I take the second. Swapping leads increases our rate of ascent and keeps the body warm. Each section completed offers a wider and more beautiful view of the valley and Gran Paradiso. Climbing in the Aosta valley requires total focus. One must constantly remain present and aware of the sounds, and dynamic nature of the ice. From the thundering of avalanches careening across the opposite sun-soaked side of the valley to the soft thud of an ax striking a hollow section of ice, all must be heard and understood. We top out after the final pitch, 4.5 hours later, toes numb, hands unable to grip, but with beaming smiles. There really is no such feeling as the completion of a climb. Cold beer and savory Italian pizza spur our descent. That night, over wine from one of the region’s top vineyards we swap tales with two of our friends, Baz and Annabelle in Lillaz’s top ice climbing restaurant—Bar Cascate. I can think of no better way to end a day in the mountains.

The next morning early before the sun has emerged from behind the ridge, Rich and I hungrily stumble into the lodge’s dining room. Three separate bands of climbers huddle together, discussing the day’s agenda over thinly sliced prosciutto, peaches, and buttered crescents. The four young and haggard Italians offer a welcoming nod. The French duo barely recognizes our disturbance. The light chatter continues unbroken. We unassumingly slip into our seats, joining the room’s quiet anticipation. It’s a mixture of excitement and wonder, all stirred together by a unifying respect for the valley. We’ve come from the far corners of the world with one task, to explore Aosta’s alluring beauty. Suddenly, the sun begins to emerge from behind the Gran Paradiso. Like a signal flare all seem to notice. It’s time to climb.

Bryce Mitchell is a contributor to Pushing Horizons.

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

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading This Month – August 2020

July 11, 2020 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

This past month has been a busy one. As society emerges from months of isolation the demands of stir-crazy families, a modern economy, and extended work hours in our day jobs has drastically cut down on the available reading time. I’ve turned to a few audiobooks during my commute to feed my appetite, but have still managed to read a few pages each night from a trusty hardbound, real-life book. This month’s reading selection features a mix of what was on-hand and what was easy to consume in these days.

The centerpiece for my reading this month has been The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson. Since last autumn I have been eagerly awaiting its release. There are few authors I’ve bothered to set up a Google Alert for, and he is one of them. For Father’s Day this year my wife purchased it for me and which fit neatly into the mental space I’ve made for the 80th Anniversary of the Battle of Britain.

The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson

“And so, with family turmoil, civic trauma, and Hitler’s deputy falling from the sky, the first year of Churchill’s leadership came to an end. Against all odds, Britain stood firm, its citizens more emboldened than cowed. Somehow, through it all, Churchill had managed to teach them the art of being fearless.”

In true Larson style, he weaves the historical narrative of the Battle of Britain, which began this month in 1940, with that of the human experiences of Winston Churchill, his family and closest associates in his first year as prime minister. Historical figures, especially the giants like Churchill, can be so famous that we view them as a two-dimensional version of themselves. Larson’s true skill is drawing out primary sources – letters, diaries, speeches, etc. – from the unlikely corners of history to inflate these 2D oversimplifications into three-dimensional, flesh and blood people with human foibles, emotions, and insecurities when the outcome of monumental events were uncertain.

Furthermore, Larson reveals a wartime England that still clung to the normalities of life. Air raid sirens, shelter wardens, and rubble have been well-captured by history, but it was also a time when night clubs stayed open, debutantes were still presented to society, and the love-struck sought flowers and chocolate to express their affections. Probably the most memorable chapter for me describes the night of Queen Charlotte’s dance of 8 March 1941 and the death of jazz band leader Kenrick “Snackhips” Johnson as bombs rained down on central London and exploded into packed hotels, night clubs, and shopping districts.

The Splendid and the Vile showed that Londoners didn’t simply turtle into a year-long shell only to emerge when the Nazi’s turned their military attention to invading the Soviet Union in May of 1941 True, many nights were spent sleeplessly awaiting the Luftwaffe, fighting fires, and digging the wounded and the dead from the rubble. But other nights were spent with lovers, dancing in clubs, courtship, and adultery. Churchill’s family enjoyed the privileges of the privileged society and spent weekends in the country in comfortable homes and exceeding their ration coupons. It was an exciting time to be alive for the English and the prospect of nightly death sharpened their appreciation for life. Larson magnificently portrays how life went on in England through the stories of Churchill’s daughter, Mary Churchull, and private secretary, John Colville who had their own stories of love and disappointment.

WIth this book I have renewed appreciation for Larson’s writing and added respect for the English spirit as they persevered with living and fighting when the second world war seemed the most hopeless and bleak.

Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain by Len Deighton

“The Luftwaffe, hitherto a tactical supplement to the blitzkrieg, a force that had taken orders from the army, was about to take upon itself a strategic role. Moreover, it was asked to create a strategy, and then to translate that strategy into day-to-day tactical objectives for its bombers and fighters. The experience of its staff officers was not equal to this task.”

It’s been in my head for months to learn about the Battle of Britain while living in England. 2020 marks the 80th anniversary of the start of the battle and there are several events across the country to mark England’s success in defeating the Luftwaffe’s attempts to crush the Royal Air Force and England’s fighting spirit. I’ve sung the praises of Len Deighton for years. He’s one of my father’s favorite authors and his Cold War spy thrillers are some of the most enjoyable reads I have in the past five years. He’s also had success writing alternative histories – which have been converted into a television series. Deighton has also written some histories, and with his storyteller’s pen, has done an excellent job of making them readable and digestible

While he tells a remarkable narrative, Deighton does analyze the Battle of Britain beyond the mythical heroic Royal Air Force pilots and their advanced Spitfire and rugged Hurricane fighter aircraft. He delves into British aircraft production, the Luftwaffe staff shortcomings, German short sightedness. Probably the greatest feat Deighton reveals is the immense difficulty and achievement in the logistical balancing needed to build, employ, and maintain the Royal Air Force Fighter Command at a time when wooden-framed, cloth-covered aircraft were still in the British inventory. It’s a quick read and the way he organized his sections I was able to read a little at a time without having to commit to a full study of the battle.

The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan

“I struggle for your rights despite my fears. But your rights have to be balanced against our needs for survival. That is why you cannot be satisfied. For you, every viable solution will always be lacking in justice. In a peace plan, everybody will have to do with less than they deserve.”

In a departure from the Battle of Britain theme, I downloaded the audiobook of The Lemon Tree for my commute into work. In a vary Erik Larons-esque style, Tolan weaves the long history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with the story of a single home built by an Arab family and later occupied by an Jewish family. The home, and the lemon tree that was planted in the garden, become the focal point for all of the contradictions, injustices, and mutual hope that characterizes the evolving conflict. It’s a story looking backwards, not a solution looking forward, but it’s greatest feature is the empathy a reader can gain for both sides.

I listened to this as an audiobook and hearing the stories orally added an additional layer of hurt to the injustice.

The 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene

“The prudent man might seem cold, his rationality sucking pleasure out of life. Not so. Like the pleasure-loving gods on Mount Olympus, he has the perspective, the calm detachment, the ability to laugh, that comes with true vision, which gives everything he does a quality of lightness – these traits comprising what Nietzsche calls the ‘Apollonian ideal.” . . . Odysseus loved adventure; no one was better at the experience of pleasure. He was simply more reasonable, more balanced, less vulnerable to his own emotions and moods, and he left less tragedy and turmoil in his wake. . . . In a world where people are increasingly incapable of thinking consequentially, more animal than ever, the practice of grand strategy will instantly elevate you above others.”

Finally, the end of my COVID-induced physical separation and work absence has given way to a rushing return to the office. A backlog of emails, papers, and activities to coordinate has eaten into the reading time I previously enjoyed. I turned to Robert Greene for a daily dose of professionally thought-provoking material. Having finished The 48 Laws of Power a few months prior I decided to pick up another of his works, this time The 33 Strategies of War. Each “law” is packaged into a chapter of historical case studies, analysis, related parables, and cautionary counter-examples. In short, Greene gives a readers’ digest of political-military content for the busy and the rushed. I tend to read a few pages each morning over coffee, allowing my brain to engage with the material as the caffeine stimulates my central nervous system.

Geared toward the non-military professional, The 33 Strategies of War employs lessons of past conflict for common usage. There may be some disappointment for those that view their industry as cutt-throat and hope to find practical advice on wielding the knife. It’s not prescriptive for action, but encourages the reader to think with a clear vision.

Don’t expect to become a new Napoleon after reading this work, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself with a more ruthless inner monologue in your daily interactions.

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.

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

Adventures Among the Relics of War

July 10, 2020 roland.minez 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

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

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

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

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

Chamonix: Mountain Temple

April 10, 2020 roland.minez 1 Comment

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

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

A climber scrambles up the sheer face of Le Brevent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The descent to the Mer de Glace glacier.

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

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

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

The Aiguille du Dru from the Mer de Glace glacier.

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

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

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

The guides assemble for their annual ritual.

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

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

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

Lisa ascends a rock face in the Aiguille Rouges.

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

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

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

Book Reviews, Mind

Author Focus: Erik Larson

November 15, 2019 Andrew Zapf 1 Comment

In the past thirty years I have read many books. Sometimes I have gone down the rabbit hole with a particular series or author until my desire for their work flames out. There are, however, a select few authors in my library that I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for their next publication. Such is my relationship with Erik Larson ever since I was swept up in the Devil in the White City almost two decades ago. Since 2003, I have kept his subsequent releases at the top of my Christmas list. So, while we all wait for the release of The Splendid and the Vile, his latest endeavor, I’ll take a look back at my top three Larson books to-date.

Isaac’s Storm: A Man, a Time, and the Deadliest Hurricane in History

“People seemed to believe that technology had stripped hurricanes of their power to kill. No hurricane expert endorsed this view. None believed the days of mesoscale deaths were gone for good.”

Within days of finishing Devil in the White City I started reading Isaac’s Storm. Larson first began writing the dual-narrative non-fiction story with this book. In it he weaves the story of meteorology in the United States with that of Isaac Cline, a regional meteorologist. On the face of it, there does not appear to be a rich history in a historical weather drama, but Larson was successful in crafting a compelling disaster story from his historical research and Cline’s own correspondence and writings. Larson would move on to write about wars, spies, murders, and other great tragedies in his other works. I still remember this book after 15 years because it made the weather suspenseful, he transformed the benign history of a bureaucracy and transformed it into a thriller. It’s great writing and affirmed my dedication to reading Erik Larson’s ensuing books.

In The Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin

“Throughout that first year in Germany, Dodd had been struck again and again by the strange indifference to atrocity that had settled over the nation, the willingness of the populace and of the moderate elements in the government to accept each new oppressive decree, each new act of violence, without protest. . . For Dodd, diplomat by accident, not demeanor, the whole thing was utterly appalling. He was a scholar and Jeffersonian democrat, a farmer who loved history and the old Germany in which he had studies as a young man. Now there was official murder on a terrifying scale. Dodd’s friends and acquaintances, people who had been to his house for dinner and tea, had been shot dead. Nothing in Dodd’s past had prepared him for this.”

I was gifted two copies of In The Garden of Beasts when it was published. My affinity for Erik Larson was well known at that point by my friends and family. This book became important to me as a guide for being “alone and unafraid” at a time in my career that I was embarking on a series of overseas assignments. Again, Larson weaves two narratives into a rich historical narrative set in pre-World War II Nazi Germany, built on the real-life correspondence of William E. Dodd, the American Ambassador to Germany, and his daughter, Martha. From their vantage point he tells a tale of seduction, ignorance, violence, and growing fear. Germany was a fallen imperial power and nascent democracy, and awash post-World War I awash with shame and resentment, fascism and bolshevism. In The Garden of Beasts helps remind us that the Nazi menace didn’t appear overnight before invading Poland. It grew out of a decade of resentment, economic struggle, and increasingly violent rhetoric – witnessed firsthand by the businessmen and diplomats living there during Hitler’s rise and consolidation of power. Another forgotten aspect of the pre-Cold War era is the flirtation by many Americans with Soviet Communism, including Martha Dodd. It’s a powerful and gripping read. Larson’s chosen subjects and writing style evoke unexpected emotions from the reader given what we know now on Nazi Germany’s arc through history.

Thunderstruck

“Within twenty-four hours Captain Kendall would discover that his ship had become the most famous vessel afloat and that he himself had become the subject of breakfast conversations from Broadway in New York to Piccadilly in London. He had stepped into the intersection of two wildly disparate stories, whose collision on his ship in this time, the end of the Edwardian era, would exert influence on the world for the century to come.”

By far this is my favorite Larson book. At the peak of his craft, he brings two narratives so distinct and unconnected at their outset that the reader may be forgiven for jittery excitement as they merge later at the book’s dramatic conclusion. Larson masterfully brings the scientific history of radio communications together with a true crime thriller. The benignity of the science, juxtaposed with the criminal narrative lulls the reader into a soothing rhythm of alternating storylines, only to be jolted when narrative accelerates to the finale. The less I write to avoid spoiling the effect the more I hope to convey my endorsement of this book. This is a sure-bet read.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

The Long Ships by Frans G. Bengtsson

Vindolanda by Adrian Goldsworthy

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cronwell

The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson

Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain by Len Deighton

The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan

The 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene

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

“People seemed to believe that technology had stripped hurricanes of their power to kill. No hurricane expert endorsed this view. None believed the days of mesoscale deaths were gone for good.”

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