Tag Archives: Mountains

Body, Cycling, History, Soul

Le Tour: An Experience to Live

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

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

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

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


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

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

The Tour Comes to Town.

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

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

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

Heroes from the Past, on a mural.

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

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

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

The Col de Galibier

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

The serpentine road up to Alpe d’Huez

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

Victors of the past.

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

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

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

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

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

The Peloton

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

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

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

Water bottles offered at a monument to Tom Simpson

The tour continues, and a new generation of riders have arrived to push themselves to the limit at the event. An estimated billion fans across the globe tune in to watch Le 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.   

Artists immortalize past champions.

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

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

Epics of history painted on the streets of Briancon.

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

Climbing Up the Col d’Izoard

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

Father and Son try their hand on the Col de Telegraphe

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

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

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

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

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

Pogacar in yellow but not for long, this time.

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

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

Fans catch the excitement.

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

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

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

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

Book Reviews

What We’re Reading – The Soul in Cycling

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Lanterne Rouge: The Last Man in the Tour de France by Max Leonard

“Normal people feel an attachement to a guy that is struggling through the Tour just to survive in the race, because that’s what normal people on bikes would do. They’re not superstars like the guys at the front end of the peloton. It’s equally as hard for the guys at the front, but they get results. The guys at the back are suffering like hell just to get to the finish.” – Phil Liggett

It took the COVID pandemic for me to return to the bicycle after over a decade away. For the most part I’ve ridden alone. On the occasions I’ve ridden with other, more experienced riders I’ve regularly been outpaced and out-climbed. Really as a late convert to cycling I’ve aged past the era of optimism for achieving greatness in the sport. I don’t identify with the champions and the feats of prowess on two wheels. No, I’m just happy to be in the peloton. 

Foolishly I signed up for a race less than a month after purchasing my first road bike last year. Unsurprisingly, my 15-20 mile Sunday morning rides were inadequate preparation for the Southwold-Roubaix. After 44 miles I absolutely ran out of gas. “Bonked,” I later learned, is the correct term. Too bad that the course was 57 miles and only my pride carried me to the finish.

Which brings me to another term I’ve whole-heartedly wrapped my arms around: Lanterne Rouge. On the railroad a red lantern is hung on a train’s caboose to signal the station master the last car of the train. It’s also a signal that no cars had broken free and remained stranded on the track. Lanterne Rouge has also been adopted by the press of the Tour de France to describe the last rider to complete the Tour without abandoning the race or being eliminated for missing the time cutoff. In this term I identify with the mentality of a rider certain of missing victory, but still persisting to the finish line. 

Max Leonard, a British author and cycliste, explores the history and meaning of the lanterne rouge. As Leonard reveals, lanterne rouge does indeed capture the heroic hopelessness of the last rider, but it also the complicated relationship between sportsmanship, capitalism, honor and ignominy. In his book he tells stories of twelve lanternes rouges and the different facets their tale reveals about the term. 

 Each chapter offers something unique, so I’d be doing a disservice if I tried to summarize them. However, I can’t emphasize enough how much I appreciate Leonard’s approach to the complexity of the lanterne rouge and overlaying it with the complexity of life and one’s legacy.

Higher Calling: Cycling’s Obsession With Mountains by Max Leonard

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses . . . then, I account it high time to get to altitude as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flouish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the bicycle.” – Max Leonard

This is the second book from Max Leonard that I’ve read and the second book that combines historical context with the philosophy of cycling. Needless to say, I’m a fan. In these pages he takes the reader into higher altitudes and teaches, philosophizes, and researches the draw of cycling up (and down) mountains. Historically, he decides to narrow his narrative to the peculiarities of the French Alps, specifically the Cime de la Bonette. 

Competition is a central component of cycling. The human desire to pass another at the finish line or to challenge oneself to improve one’s performance are strong motivators each time someone gets into the saddle. However, when the incline increases the mountain takes over. A man and bike are all set against the unforgiving pull of gravity and the force to overcome it. Despite all his training and experience cycling up mountains Leonard admits that it never gets any easier – he only gets faster. 

In professional racing, adding mountainous elements came about as an evolution. Early 20th Century roads through the mountain passes were primitive and undeveloped. Often unpaved, mired in mud, exposing riders to frigid temperatures and brutal windchill on descents. Adding Alpine stages to the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia took daring, salesmanship, and suffering. It’s no wonder heroic exploits in the mountains are fondly remembered and the routes themselves revered within the cycling community.

In addition to the history of categorized climbs in professional cycling races, Leonard introduced me to the concept of Everesting – the endeavor to gain elevation equivalent to the summit of Mount Everest – even at the pain of cycling the same hill 68 times in a day. He discusses the science of training at higher altitudes, the natural and artificial ways to elevate oxygen in red blood cells. He also reflects on the military history behind the construction of concrete bunkers high above the French-Italian border and the brutal fighting in the frozen terrain of the Dolomites between the Italian and Austro-Hungarian soldiers during World War I. 

Leonard brings the seasonal life of the highest cycling routes to full life. He interviews shepherds witnessing the decline of their traditional ways. He joins the work crews as they cut through a winter’s worth of snow and ice to re-open the mountain passes in time for spring. And he speaks of the Bonette as if it were an old friend. Reliable, strong, and always ready to entertain a challenger or two.

Le Secret de Gino Bartali by Kike Ibáñez

“Gino était un cycliste de ceux d’avant, qui fumaient et buvaient du vin, de ceux qui avaient appartenu au cyclisme épique, au cyclisme réservé aux héros.”

“Gino was a cyclist of those before, who smoked and drank wine, of those who had belonged to epic cycling, to cycling reserved for heroes.”

I stepped into a bookstore in Marseille to find some relief from the rain on a cool autumn day. Among the shelves and stacks of colofrul books the soft pink cover of Kike Ibáñez’s Le Secret de Gino Bartali stood out. I can’t remember the last time I read a comic book or graphic novel, but the alluring title pulled me right in. 

Gino Bartali was one of Italy’s greatest cyclists and his rivalry with Fausto Coppi is legendary. However, this book dwells briefly on Barali’s cycling credentials on its way to telling a story of his resistance activity during the Second World War. Gino Bartali used his cycling fame to ride between Florence (Firenza) and Assise where he transported falsified documents to help Italian Jews escape the fascist regime of Mussolini. 

The drawings are beautifully done and the language simple enough for the novice French linguist. Not all of cycling’s history is often written in the great races, and this short book is an excellent addition to any library.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Body, Mountains

The Fan Dance

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In the early morning hours before the world has woken up it is possible to hear the faint crunch of boots treading on gravel and the quiet labored breathing of determined hikers. You won’t hear it every day, but in the Brecon Beacons the ritual reemerges regularly. Those sounds of quiet urgency come from the lungs and feet of the latest aspirants to join the Special Air Service (known worldwide as the “S.A.S.”), the United Kingdom’s military special forces. 

The Brecon Beacons National Park is a beautiful expanse of green rolling mountains pocked with small lakes in southern Wales. To these recruits the beauty of the park is overshadowed by their immediate task – to complete a daunting 64 kilometer crucible through the park. Known as “Endurance” they must complete the course including a summit of the park’s highest peak, Pen y Fan, in under 20 hours. Standing at 886 meters, Pen y Fan gives the trial its second name: The Fan Dance. 

Rolling green mountains of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Wales. Photo by Andrew Zapf

If waking up pre-dawn is your thing then you can play along with the military recruits in a commercialized version of the event with the pay-to-play Fan Dance Series. At a mere 24 kilometers, it still manages to add over 1,600 feet in elevation. The third option is to wake up on a Saturday morning, enjoy a leisurely breakfast with coffee and scones, and attack Pen y Fan in the warm light of day. 

Up until last month my five year old son had never climbed a mountain on his own. In the past he’d been pushed along trails in a stroller or carried when his little legs got tired. Something happened on his fifth birthday. A switch flipped. He started displaying grit and determination. His inner dialogue started coming out and I could hear him whisper encouragement to himself on our hikes. “You can do it.” He’d say, only to himself, but also loud enough for the sharp ears of his dad.

Start of the path from Pont ar Daf car park to Corn Du and Pen y Fan summits. Photo by Andrew Zapf

I planned a challenging, but achievable day for him. Starting out at the Pont ar Daf car park along the route A470, the direct route to the top was only 2.2 miles on a gradual slope. In the morning I fed him yoghurt and granola for slow release energy, and packed a few snacks for the way up. At the top my wife and I promised him a rest, playtime, and a small picnic. The day was set to be his.

There were no soldiers on the trail with us that morning. Only other hikers. Singles, couples, and families. For some reason our son picked out a smaller child being carried by another father and singled him out for competition. He must beat that kid to the top. At each rest stop he’d look around for that kid. If he saw him he urged us to keep going forward. His inner competitiveness propelled him to the top.

View of Corn Du from the top of Pen y Fan. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Once he knew he was going to win the undeclared race he slowed down to play with some rocks. He’d seen a lot of castles in our English travels and wanted to replicate them with the plentiful building materials at hand.  He picked out three rather large rectangular rocks and carried them the last quarter mile to the summit of Pen y Fan. (There were quite a few out-of-breathe adults that admired him/expressed their shame to me while at the top). 

For a five year old, a 4.5 mile hike with nearly 1,600 feet of elevation gained on The Fan Dance is a triumph.

Mother and son enjoying the view from Pen y Fan. Note the rock carried to the top lying in the grass. Photo by Andrew Zapf
A small mountain, but a big accomplishment for a five year old.

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, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Snowdon: Island in the Sky

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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

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, Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

The Hard Earned Joys of Ski Mountaineering

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

― T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

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

Passo Giau Covered in Snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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Photo Essay, Soul

Two Pubs of Helvellyn

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One of my favorite things about the hiking culture in England is its blending with the pub culture. I abhor excess. In my view the key to happiness is moderation. However, if the best thing after a long day of hiking is a meal and a pint in a cozy pub, is it excessive to have that twice? Twice, you ask? Twice in a lifetime? No. Twice in a weekend? Not what I’m getting after. Twice in a day? Yes, that is exactly what I mean. 

The plan was simple. Hike Helvellyn twice. A true Hobbit’s Tale – there and back again. The summit peaks out from a plateau with beautiful ridges emanating in multiple directions. On either side a village. Comfortably situated in England’s Lake District National Park it’s a hillwalkers’ dream.

We started our day at Thirlmere reservoir, on Helvellyn’s western side. At that early hour our only accompaniment was the sound of our boots on the path. Our group was five strong: Bryce, Soren, Randy, and Sean. Their average age was in the mid-twenties. I was the middle-aged outlier. We had two options (not really, I’m being facetious). Either eat a smashed sandwich from the bottom of our packs somewhere on a predictably cold, windy and wet mountainside, or dry our gear while dining on a pub classic. The hard way or the right way. Rain was already lashing through the air. I advocated for the latter. Everyone agreed. We set off to the east bound for Glenridding and a warm lunch. 

Striding Edge and Swirral Edge are the focal point for most visitors in the Helvellyn range. Google them. You can’t help but be enchanted by the images. Their straight rocky spines slice through the air like a serrated knife. We crested the summit accompanied by an aggressive rain. Magnificent views were masked. Coming off the summit we had a few false starts finding the trail leading to Striding Edge. The weather was unrelenting. We braced against gusts as we traversed, keeping a suspicious eye on the nethers below. Alone on the ridge it felt like we put our souls on Anubis’ scales of judgement. A bad deed or negative thought enough to tip the balance and send us into the abyss. 

Fortunately, the closest pub to Helvellyn, The Travellers Rest, lay directly on our path. Our first pub of the day. For an hour we dried our coats on the radiator and plotted our return route over wide plates of cumberland sausage and fried potatoes. The salty food paired perfectly with a late-morning pint and hearty appetites. The pub was a hiker’s delight. Plenty of benches and chairs arrayed for stretching legs and an unobstructed view of Ullswater lake. Did I mention I love the confluence of the hiking and pub cultures in England? We could have lingered for a second beer, but there was a mountain between us and our campsite. 

Our return journey via Swirral Edge took us back into the clouds. At one point we lost the path. The bit of scrambling was a welcome addition to our experience. It wasn’t exactly trailblazing, but hauling ourselves back onto the Helvellyn plateau with a bit of finesse charged our energy with a shot of adrenaline. The views weren’t any clearer when we reached the summit marker for the second time, but there was a pair of hikers to take our photo. It’s the only photo of the five of us, together, but it captures the feeling of joy at its highest.

I don’t know how many calories we burned that day, but we replaced a fair share during dinner at the second pub – The King’s Head Inn. Five tall lagers. Five thick, fatty American-style hamburgers were a fine reward for a day on the mountain. Fatigue made the conversation a little quieter, but the spirit remained high. 

So, what’s the answer to the question? Was our pub attendance that day excessive? I think not. English pubs are the focal point of the community. In the hiking community the pub is a place to scheme and storytell, dry gear and refuel. I can think of no better place to frequent . . . frequently.

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

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“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.

First pitch of the Lillaz Gully. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

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. 

Gran Paradiso. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

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.

Right after the traverse that leads to the first pitch of Pattinagio Artistico. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

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.

Post-climb beers. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

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.