Tag Archives: Outdoors

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.

Photo Essay

The Beautiful Sultanate of Oman

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Summer in Oman is unrelenting. The heat rips the air from your lungs and the humidity weighs on you like a wool blanket. It’s miserable. But as the earth’s northern hemisphere tilts away from the sun a magical thing happens. Around November the ground no longer radiates heat, rather it collects moisture during the night. Occasionally it rains in December. By January you’d almost forget it was the dead of winter. In these months are the treasures of Oman most accessible. 

2022 began with a flop. Mere days after celebrating the flipping calendar our home was struck by the Omicron coronavirus. During our quarantine we paced around our home, anxious, nervous, eagerly awaiting our release. The days of cool mornings and moderate days were slipping away like sand through a clenched fist. 

Below are the photos from three successive weekend adventures. First, we warmed up our hiking boots with a local hike over the hill behind Muttrah. The area is dotted with fortifications built to defend the area from the Portuguese in the 16th century. We gazed down into the city from above, explored the market by the harbor, and inspected the fortifications of the Muttrah Fort.

Trail markers in Oman are painted yellow, white, and red. We hiked the relatively short Trail C38a. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The family ascending from Riyam. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Trail markers painted on the rocks. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Crossing the mountains between Riyam and Muttrah. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Treasures of Muttrah Souq. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Muttrah Fort overlooking the Port Sultan Qaboos. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The next weekend we drove 140 kilometers to visit the famous Wadi Shab. After paying the boatman to cross to the trailhead we hiked underneath the protective shade of the wadi’s high canyon walls. Our reward was a refreshing swim at the pools before retracing our steps.

The trailhead at Wadi Shab is only accessible by boat. There is a ferryman to carry you across. While not as dramatic as crossing the River Styx, it still pumps up the imagination from the outset. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Skirting the edge of a small canyon wall in Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Skirting the edge of a small canyon wall in Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Wadi Shab's floor is strewn with boulders. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Aqueducts for the small farms at the entrance of Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Crystal clear pools of water in Wadi Shab. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Finally, we went even further afield. East and then south until we reached the golden Wahiba Sands. 13 miles into the desert we reached our campsite. Sorry, glampsite. Prepared dinner, luxury tent, and viewing platform to set up our telescope. It was only one night in the desert, but we spent the quiet hours of darkness literally watching the world turn beneath the heavens.

Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Exploring Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Dinner with a view. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Our lonely tent on the Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Sunset in Wahiba Sands. Photo by Andrew Zapf
After the sun disappeared and the moon followed it below the horizon the wind rose and breathed life into our campfire. Photo by Andrew Zapf
At the top of the sand dunes. It seemed like the heavens were a little bit closer. Photo by Andrew Zapf

There’s more in Oman to see and do. In fact, these photos are being posted while we pack a bag for another weekend adventure. Tomorrow we head to the interior. Maybe we’ll find ancient markets, Arabian fortifications, or mountain splendor. Or maybe we’ll find all of that and more!

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.

Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Derbyshire Three Peaks Challenge: A COVID Dash

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There were only twenty four hours. What’s the plan?
It was a ticking clock. A challenge.
England’s Coronavirus rules were strict. No overnights allowed, no pubs or restaurants open.
No rest. No refreshment. Only a return to where we began.
We were on an island. The borders with Wales and Scotland closed.
Where in England could we go? What was possible?
The Peak District! That’s only three hours away!
A Three Peaks Challenge, you say? Can it be done in 24 hours?
A challenge worthy of its name. Who’s in?
Andy, Bryce, Soren from the work bubble. Let’s go!
Prep the evening prior. It will probably rain.
It’s England. It will rain.
Early rise. Load the truck.
Bryce is at the door on time. Drive away while the city sleeps.
The miles pass. Who are these other travelers on the road?
Where could they be going? Will the trail be crowded?
More miles pass. No second guessing now.
Parking lot is nearly empty. Yes, it’s raining.
First steps into the park. Uphill.
It’s a plateau. No trees to stop the wind.
It’s July, but the wind feels like September.
Across the gloomy moor. The stony path to Mordor.
Soren quips, “If I take one more step this is the farthest I’ve been from the shire.”
The peak of Kinder Scout looms. We pass it by.
The haze gets thicker. Sense of direction is muddled.
Came across another hiker. “Don’t get lost in the mist,” she warns.
She steps off the trail. Her cackle swept away by the wind.
Reached Bleaklow Peak. First summit.
Rain batters our faces. Unwise to linger.
Retreat to lower ground. Cold lunch.
The next marker. Only a kilometer away.
Higher Shelf Stones. The second peak.
Nearby an aircraft’s wreckage. From 1948 the B-29 “OVEREXPOSED”
There’s a memorial. There’s a plaque.
Back across the moor. One final summit to bag.
A lonely sheep grazes. It looks out of place, like a civilian on the battlefield.
Kinder Scout rises above the plateau. An imposing walk.
Vertical staircase. Legs burnout finally.
Small steps and large breaths. The final push.
Nothing stopping the wind up here. Lean in and brace for gusts.
Final summit. Third peak.
Find shelter. A pile of boulders.
Deep in the rucksack. A cold beer.
Sweet taste of success. Float down to the truck on a cloud.
17 miles over 9 hours. It rained.
Stretch out the legs. Cram back in the truck.
Three more hours to drive. Clock ticking.
The shadows get long. The minutes pass quickly.
Home. COVID dash complete.
Rest. Return to Isolation.

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

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

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

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

The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.

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

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

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

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

Tre Cime

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

Fearless scout.

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

Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.

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

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

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

The view from the Italian Positions.

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

A well deserved glass of Prosecco

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

The route of 52 tunnels.

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

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

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

Lisa studies the military engineering.

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

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

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

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

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

Marie inspects her historical artifact.

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

Lisa analyzes the route up.

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

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

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

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

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

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

A memorial to the Fallen in Asiago.