Day 4 on the Haute Route - Switzerland
Note: this post is written in the present tense, but the events described happened several days ago
Greetings from Cabane des Dix, high in the Swiss Alps. Today was the most exhausting day we have had on the Haute Route. As our guide, Rinaldo, said: “You can go big, or go home.” For reasons that seemed sensible at the time, we decided to go big.
This morning we slept in until 7:00 at Hut de Praefleuri, and had the best breakfast of the trip: muesli and Nutella crepes. I started referring to the saintly hutkeeper woman (gardienne de cabane) who was taking care of 80 skiers by herself as “Notre Dame de Petit Dejeuner”
We skied out of the hut at 8:00, virtually the last people to depart. All of the tracks led to the left, but we had agreed with Rinaldo to “go big.” With some trepidation, we skied off to the right.
Going big meant adding a two-hour summit ascent onto the front end of a full day of skiing. We climbed and climbed through untracked snow, watching the sun paint the tops of the mountains that surrounded us on all sides.
After 90 minutes of trudge, trudge, trudge, Rinaldo pointed up to a broad snow field, and a rounded dome summit. When I asked him the name of the mountain, he said “Mont Sans Nom.” Only much later did I realize (to the amusement of my team mates, I suspect), that Rinaldo had dubbed the summit “Mount No Name.”
As we approached the top, the clouds closed in on us for the first time in the week. Rinaldo got concerned about the weather, and hustled us off the summit as quickly as he could. We have learned that when he says, “Let’s go!” he means now. None of us dallied.
The 30-minute descent (on basically the same terrain we had just climbed) was close to heavenly: light, soft, untracked powder. Jonathan and Drew, in particular, looked absolutely poetic as they carved perfect turns down the slope. I probably looked more like an atonal opera than a poem, but the skiing was amazing.
Halfway down, a minor catastrophe was narrowly avoided. When we stopped to catch our collective breath, I planted my right ski pole, and buried it up to the grip in the deep powder. Somehow the basket at the bottom had come off. With five hours (and three days) of ski touring ahead, skiing with only one functional pole would be practically impossible. While I dug futilely with my avalanche shovel, and Rinaldo grimaced (realizing he would have to lend me his pole, or I wouldn’t make it), Jonathan turned on his skis and started climbing back up the slope, and along a ridge line.
After 10 minutes, Rinaldo, who was still concerned about the weather, said, “Let’s go,” and he started shouting for Jonathan. There was no response. After another anxious five minutes or so, Jonathan returned. He was out of breath, covered in snow, and holding my lost pole basket triumphantly. He had climbed 100 meters through the deep powder in his boots, because he “saw something black in the snow, and what else could it have been?”
As Rinaldo reattached the pole basket, and checked all of my other equipment, he kept saying “On-bee-leevable” over and over. It really was a remarkable rescue effort by Jonathan.
As we continued the descent, Mike casually told me that in the Marines, someone who can’t keep their gear together is referred to as a “soup sandwich.” I was clearly the soup sandwich of the day
We rejoined the tracks of the other Haute Route skiers on a narrow ledge above a large frozen lake. Rinaldo had mentioned that there was a long traverse before the next climb, and he was right. For four kilometers we skied down the narrow, gently sloping track. My right (uphill) thigh burned, and I tried to maintain concentration, so I didn’t face plant my way off the track and onto the frozen lake below. Several times the track flattened out, and we sweatily double poled, skated, and herringboned our way along. That sounds like more fun than it was. Later, we couldn’t agree whether this was “the traverse from hell,” or “the traverse to hell.” It was definitely a traverse, though, and hell was involved.
We put the climbing skins back on our skis near a pretty waterfall, and started a long gentle ascent. In one of his very few noticeable mistakes, Rinaldo promised a break after 20 minutes of climbing. He must have forgotten, or really been worried about the worsening weather, because we went for two straight hours. Trudge, trudge, trudge.
Even though it was overcast, and snowing, it was very warm. I took off my jacket, my sweater, and my gloves, and skied along in my long-underwear top. We all got a much-needed laugh when Jonathan went one better, and skied for an hour with no shirt on at all.
At long last, Rinaldo paused and pointed out Cabane des Dix, where we would be staying. It was just after 3 pm, and we had been on our skis for over 7 hours. To my great, exhausted, chagrin, the hut was at the top of a steep 150-meter hillock, jutting out of the valley. Collectively we groaned, and started up the hill.
As we saw how the trail climbed upward, Drew shouted, “Kick turn!” in the same tone of voice that a surfer would yell “Shark!” Zephyr, Drew, and I, the inexperienced ski tourers in the group, steeled ourselves for risk and humiliation on the steep kick turns to come.
As Drew navigated the steepest kick turn on the hill, just ahead of me on the track, his downhill ski started to slip. I shuffled forward, and planted my ski pole to brace him. In my brain-fogged state, I said with alarm, “Your boot is out of your binding. Do you want me to fix it?” In extremis, he had the presence of mind to say, “Of course it is out of the binding. We are ski touring.” To his credit, he did not add the words, “You idiot.” In extremis
, all I could think to say in response was, “Duh!”
Very, very tired, we stumbled into the hut and took off our ski boots. Our day of going big was over.
Although we were too late for lunch, Drew somehow convinced the hutkeeper to make us a plate of rosti. We presented the meal of cheese and potatoes to Jonathan, in appreciation of his ski-pole-basket rescue.
“On-bee-leevable” Rinaldo repeated.
India said,
April 7, 2009 @ 12:53 pm
Down in New Zealand, we are glad we are reading about Peter’s trek and the perils of the route after he is safely down and knocking back beers with South African mercenaries. Somehow the conversations we had over crackling cell phone connections did not mention much of the danger. While he was scaling cliff faces and getting frostbite, we are coming to a better understanding of what makes New Zealanders love living on the edge of the world.
On Monday, we moved to the Beach House, a fabulous understated house steps away from a kilometers long beach. It is in a tiny surfing village called Waimarama (could be a boy band) with only a small cafe and a shop selling cool drinks and tinned goods. While we are only 25 kilometers from the house in the wine estate, it feels like an entirely different place. The beach and the incredibly good weather have improved our moods dramatically and we are slowly understanding why people fall in love with New Zealand. It has been a gradual affair for us, but we are coming to appreciate the quiet beauty of this far away country and the modest courage of its people.
Two days ago the kids and I ventured out for what we thought would be a short horseback ride. As we are in the middle of farmland, we were told to look for someone on horseback about 20 kilometers north of here to guide us to the track. I was not expecting the handsome man who greeted us, holding a gorgeous baby atop his horse. He smiled warmly and we followed him up a hillside to where an equally beautiful, petite woman was waiting with four saddled horses. We all hopped out and were soon headed up the mountain. It was an exquisite fall day - brilliant blue skies, some of the trees turning golden already - perfect for a ride.
As always, I was a bit nervous with both Lu and Zola on new horses going up an extremely steep incline. My fears were soon alleviated when I discovered that Peter, the handsome Maori man who greeted us, is the Horse Whisperer. None of the horses were using bits in their mouths, and all would stop with a gentle tug and move forward with a slight kick. Not your usual trail horses. Peter told me that he and Colleen, his pretty wife, have 60 horses and six kids (all under age 11). I was genuinely surprised - they look like they are in their 20s and are actually both under 35. They doted on the adorable two-year old, Salem, who went on the ride with us like she was their first-born. As the ride progressed, we all feel a little bit in love with this family.
To Zola’s delight, Peter asked him to take the lead on the way to the top of the mountain. When Zola turned around to ask if he could canter, Peter shouted, “Of course!” Before I could stop him, Zola was running up the narrow ascent, whooping with glee. I quickly followed him and together we raced around the turns. Lu hung back with Colleen, but Peter, holding his tiny daughter with one arm, galloped up behind. We took turns leading the way up and as we rounded a final corner, came upon the perfect picnic setting.
There was a lone picnic table, decked with a white tablecloth, perched on the rocky ledge with 360 degree views looking back over the Tuki Tuki river valley, the wine estates, Te Mata Peak, and the turquoise Pacific ocean. Unexpected and fabulous.
Peter quickly laid out a feast of salmon, New Zealand mussels, cheeses, bread and fruit. The adults and Zola sat talking in the warm sunshine while Lu and Salem built castles out of rocks and took turns peering off the ledge. I could have stayed forever. Peter and his wife Colleen were lovely, entertaining company, the kids were blissfully unaware of time, and the views were spectacular. Finally, however, Zola got to urge to ride fast on his horse again. Bfore we could stop him, he was back on his horse and raring to go.
Since neither Peter, Coleen, or baby Salem wore helmets, Zola begged to take his off. I relented, partly because I also wanted to feel the sun in my face as we headed back down the mountain but mostly because I felt so safe on these amazing horses. We started our descent and alternated between cantering on the uphills and gawking at the views on the downhills. Lu asked to ride with Peter and before I knew it, she was cantering along beside me and urging him to go faster, faster, faster! It was a joy to be riding on such well-trained horses, out in the mountains, with my kids.
When we got to the bottom, I realized that I needed to go into the nearby village for some cash. Peter quickly jumped in and asked if Zola wanted to stay to ride the horses back up to the paddock. He was in his saddle in an instant. Of course, Lu also wanted to stay and Colleen insisted that it was be just fine for her to continue playing with Salem. I did a quick dash into town for cash and groceries. When I returned, I found two very happy children, covered in mud and horse hair. Zola was washing the horses, his city Vans covered in muck and his face plastered with a grin. Lu was digging in the dirt with Salem, sitting at the top of a small hillock with an amazing view out over the river valley. Peter and Colleen were busy putting saddles away and laughing together. Although they needed to be back in town by 4:30 to pick up their other kids, they seemed to be in no rush. I finally dragged the kids to the car, Lu wailing to stay until she feel asleep exhausted on the drive home. Throughout the day, Peter and Colleen professed their love for Hawkes Bay (the area where we rode), New Zealand, and their family. Their happiness was contagious and I found myself envious of their contentment with their homeland and their lifestyle. I am sure that it is not all bliss, but on this day, it seemed idyllic.
Yesterday I decided to go for a run along the beach. I had read that at low tide you can get from Waimarama beach to Ocean Beach, 8 kilometers north, along the coast. About 15 minutes into the run, I came to a wide river about two feet deep. I decided to take off my shoes and run barefoot for a while. I ended up running for almost two hours, through the shallow warm water. On one side, there were steep cliffs, on the other, tidal pools and crashing waves. I realized at one point that if a rouge wave took me, or a landslide came crashing down, no one would know where I was or what happened to me. Perhaps not entirely responsible on my part, but it was a fabulous feeling to be so completely free. I could have run for hours (although my shins are paying the price today for running barefoot). This, I believe, is what people love about New Zealand. Not as dangerous as the Haute Route, but for a brief moment I was living on the edge here.
Peter arrives back today and we have only a week or so before our own search for a home and a place to call our own hits us.
How I Lost Thirty Pounds in Thirty Days said,
May 3, 2009 @ 8:54 pm
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