This article in the New York Times absolutely fascinated me for a variety of reasons. I have two writing partners who are both writing ghost/horror stuff, so I think that some of the discussion of what horror moviemakers are thinking would be interesting for them. Evil meowing children are pretty darned scary. And I've always been much more terrified by the slow creeping of one slightly off thing after another than of Freddie Krueger, not that I've ever watched those movies because I'm not big on gore as a rule, unless it's Terminator or Pulp Fiction. Anyway, I also find the article riveting because of what it says about the way filmmakers think, and I'm also writing screenplays. And that comedy and horror are similar in that you're going for this involuntary, inexplicable reaction is a very neat concept, since my friend Susan and I are about to embark on a RoCo (romantic comedy) collaboration. [Oh, my God, it IS our RoCoCo! I've been trying to make that happen for a week and it was right there all the time.]
And then it's just a good read. Enjoy it, but it's long.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
DAY FOURTEEN: GENEVA TO DC
What can I say? Sad to leave Europe. Happy happy to see Cid and Lucky. We survived, nay triumphed. It was all good.
Our days were over for the time being as randonneurs, the French word for hikers, said with French drama. Naturally, we changed that to randomneurs for ourselves, since indeed our trip was somewhat random. Wouldn't have had it any other way.
Our days were over for the time being as randonneurs, the French word for hikers, said with French drama. Naturally, we changed that to randomneurs for ourselves, since indeed our trip was somewhat random. Wouldn't have had it any other way.
DAY THIRTEEN: CHAMONIX TO GENEVA
Train trip in three stages from Chamonix to Geneva. Boiling hot. Had to be into the 90s. Arrived and made our way to the Hotel Churchill through the mean streets of the Rive Gauche. This was a four-star hotel a block from the lake. Sounds nice? Not! I really do not know how they assign these stars. The big issue was it had no air conditioning.
Geneva seemed without redeeming features, neither comfort, nor cleanliness, nor grace, nor charm. It was hot, crowded, loud, dirty. All the things one doesn't want Switzerland to be. Many unmuffled motorcycles.
We went for a boat trip around the lake and found a nice restaurant that was willing to feed insane Americans before sept heure (this was an ongoing issue that drove Gus at times into a rage), and had a wonderful meal, then went back to the nasty hotel and fell into a heat induced stupor that served as sleep.
Geneva seemed without redeeming features, neither comfort, nor cleanliness, nor grace, nor charm. It was hot, crowded, loud, dirty. All the things one doesn't want Switzerland to be. Many unmuffled motorcycles.
We went for a boat trip around the lake and found a nice restaurant that was willing to feed insane Americans before sept heure (this was an ongoing issue that drove Gus at times into a rage), and had a wonderful meal, then went back to the nasty hotel and fell into a heat induced stupor that served as sleep.
DAY THIRTEEN: CHAMONIX
The next morning I woke up, had my petit-dejeuner, and was just packing to leave my room when a knock came upon the door. I opened it warily, and ... it was Jeff and Gus!! They had decided to blow off the last day and cable car into Chamonix.
We changed hotels and then went up in the cable car to the top of Le Brevent, where we ate lunch looking out at the entire north face of the Mont Blanc massif. Who should show up but the strange American from the Hotel de la Forclaz. We chatted.
Descended.
Napped.
Ate.
Talked.
Talked to dogs, including the Belgian sheepdog Ibbit.
Slept.
We changed hotels and then went up in the cable car to the top of Le Brevent, where we ate lunch looking out at the entire north face of the Mont Blanc massif. Who should show up but the strange American from the Hotel de la Forclaz. We chatted.
Descended.
Napped.
Ate.
Talked.
Talked to dogs, including the Belgian sheepdog Ibbit.
Slept.
DAY TWELVE: CHAMONIX
A lazy, somewhat boring day. More dog-watching, lounging in cafes. It rained. We found a place for Gus to have a hamburger. I spent time in the Internet cafe, starting this description of the trip. Jeff and Gus went up and climbed from the first cable car station to the top of Brevent. I blogged.
DAY ELEVEN: COL DE LA FORCLAZ TO LES FRESERRANDS OR CHAMONIX
We parted company here. I had climbed my last col and took the bus to Martingny Switzerland and then the Mont Blanc Express back to Chamonix where I checked into a nasty room in a 3-star hotel and immediately went in search of a massage. Successfully I might add.
Jeff and Gus climbed over the Col de Balme from Switzerland back into France
and stayed at the Gite la Moulin in the little village of Les Frasserands.
We agreed to meet the next afternoon at 3 p.m. in the restaurant at the cable car up to Le Brevent, a peak to the north of Chamonix and the end of the TMB for them. I had nervous Sleepless in Seattle visions of us never seeing each other again.
Jeff and Gus climbed over the Col de Balme from Switzerland back into France
and stayed at the Gite la Moulin in the little village of Les Frasserands.
We agreed to meet the next afternoon at 3 p.m. in the restaurant at the cable car up to Le Brevent, a peak to the north of Chamonix and the end of the TMB for them. I had nervous Sleepless in Seattle visions of us never seeing each other again.
DAY TEN: CHAMPEX TO COL DE LA FORCLAZ
Left Champex, walking the Bovine route to col de la Forclaz, and not the much more strenuous Fenetre de l'Arp route.
Even this route was hard for me for a couple of hours up, not the graded switchbacks of the prior passes either, like straight up, over rocks. I found another yoga trick helped, of breathing out on the step if I had to step up over a high rock or tree root.
But coming out finally above the tree line was a total Sound of Music beautiful alpine meadow.
Wound around this shoulder for not nearly long enough to another cowshed buvette where we had omelettes.
Then down and down AND down to the hotel de la Forclaz, which surprised me by being right on the side of a fairly busy highway. I'd gotten totally unused to such things.
For the first time we met some Americans--a Marine from Quantico and his 19-year-old son and the marine's brother from Seattle and a rather nutty American who lived in Europe- and ate dinner with them. There was some friendly one-upping--I'll see your Kilamanjaro and raise you Anapurna--but it was OK. Just nice to have strangers to talk to for once.
Jeff did overhear our friends the horrid Brits in this hotel as well, loudly complaining about the facilities. One insisted that he had been promised "en suite" facilities, of which there were none so he couldn't have them. He shouted at the French hotel keeper, "The name's Scarborough. Spelled like the town." What a twit! Like a French hotel keeper would know this insignificant English town, which defies all possible logic in its spelling.
Even this route was hard for me for a couple of hours up, not the graded switchbacks of the prior passes either, like straight up, over rocks. I found another yoga trick helped, of breathing out on the step if I had to step up over a high rock or tree root.
But coming out finally above the tree line was a total Sound of Music beautiful alpine meadow.
Wound around this shoulder for not nearly long enough to another cowshed buvette where we had omelettes.
Then down and down AND down to the hotel de la Forclaz, which surprised me by being right on the side of a fairly busy highway. I'd gotten totally unused to such things.
For the first time we met some Americans--a Marine from Quantico and his 19-year-old son and the marine's brother from Seattle and a rather nutty American who lived in Europe- and ate dinner with them. There was some friendly one-upping--I'll see your Kilamanjaro and raise you Anapurna--but it was OK. Just nice to have strangers to talk to for once.
Jeff did overhear our friends the horrid Brits in this hotel as well, loudly complaining about the facilities. One insisted that he had been promised "en suite" facilities, of which there were none so he couldn't have them. He shouted at the French hotel keeper, "The name's Scarborough. Spelled like the town." What a twit! Like a French hotel keeper would know this insignificant English town, which defies all possible logic in its spelling.
DAY NINE: CHAMPEX-LAC
Another zero day in glorious Champex. Sublime. We moved to the Hotel Splendide, which indeed lived up to its name. Just the kind of hotel Ginny and I would have loved on our Grand Tour. Shabby genteel, high ceilings, huge rooms, drop-dead views, 
eccentric elderly Europeans. Marred only by the invariable group of Brit trekkers leaving as we checked in, with their mountain of duffles piled in the doorway so you could barely get past.
Took a chair lift up to the top of a mountain. I was terrified until some guys coming down shouted at us, "Sous la bar, sous la bar." Once we lowered the bar (duh!), I loved it. You could look down on the lovely little jewel-like lake and the town and then up at the rocky peaks with bits of negative space (pale snow fields) around and above them.
Gus and Jeff paddled me around the lake like Cleopatra in her barge.
Watched the World Cup final and saw the infamous Zidane head butt.
eccentric elderly Europeans. Marred only by the invariable group of Brit trekkers leaving as we checked in, with their mountain of duffles piled in the doorway so you could barely get past.
Took a chair lift up to the top of a mountain. I was terrified until some guys coming down shouted at us, "Sous la bar, sous la bar." Once we lowered the bar (duh!), I loved it. You could look down on the lovely little jewel-like lake and the town and then up at the rocky peaks with bits of negative space (pale snow fields) around and above them.
Gus and Jeff paddled me around the lake like Cleopatra in her barge.
Watched the World Cup final and saw the infamous Zidane head butt.
Monday, July 17, 2006
DAY EIGHT: LA FOULY TO LES CHAMPEX
Left La Fouley early. Saw the American schlepping trekker again going into the grocery store. Once again, Jeff spoke to him and he stared at Jeff.
We spent a lovely few hours on a not-very-hard hike. I was all happy because I'd decided not to do the steep 1400' climb up to Champex but rather catch a bus up. But at the last minute, we decided to try to hitch and got a ride to a point where we couldn't get the bus without walking a long way and then couldn't get a ride. We walked. It was really steep, really long, really hot and I was really pissed. Got to the town and the hotel I wanted to stay in was full. As a last straw, the horrid Brits were there, staring rudely at us from their commandeered places on the terrace AND Jeff, thankfully for the last time, said hello to the American, who replied, "Bonjour."
We were on our way to the Hotel Splendide, when Jeff saw a hiker hotel, Au Club Alpine, right by the lake and decided we should stay there. I agreed but had a meltdown once we got to the room, flinging my pack into the corner and going into the shared bathroom and weeping.
But Champex turned out to be probably our favorite place and the little terrace cafe was a wonderful spot.
In the dusk we walked out onto a little bridge to watch birds, and in the stilly evening, out over the lake an alpen horn began to play.
DAY SEVEN: COURMAYEUR TO LA FOULY
July 7: Started off again, catching a bus to take us to the trailhead for the ascent of the Col de la Ferret, the boundary between Italy and Switzerland, another day with a 3000+ foot elevation gain. I was feeling a bit better about it though. A bit.
Sat on the bus across from a couple of nice Aussies, who were traveling in a group that we came to call the "Red Brigade." Got off the bus as it was beginning to spit rain and their guide, a snotty female, said it was snowing higher up.
Started trudging up to the Refuggio Elena and with my newfound Buddhist calm, I made it up without even getting out of breath, and someone in the Aussie group actually thought I was fast. Hah! Little did he know.
Started up from Elena for the two hour, 3000-foot climb to the col. Jeff took my pack at the first switchback, and I climbed almost the whole way without stopping and without seriously losing my breath. Of course I was really really slow, but still the Red Brigade didn't overtake me, except for a couple of Kiwis who were really nice and who we kept passing and repassing.
Meanwhile Gus had zipped up to the top. He's a damned machine. We started calling him Frodo when we could just make out his hooded form climbing high up ahead of us. He also looked in his rain gear like the snowboarding Flying Tomato.
Descended, passing mountain bikers hauling their bikes up to do the hair-raising switchbacks down the other side, I suspect. We read a Jon Krakauer piece in Eiger Dreams that describes Chamonix and the Mont Blanc massif as the "death wish capital of the world." So that made sense. Continued down on a road after passing a little cowshed buvette where we once again passed the nasty Brits plus the snotty American.
As we got to the bottom of the road down the mountain from the buvette, now nearly four or five hours from when we started out at the trailhead, I heard quick jogging footfalls behind me. I turned around to meet the desk clerk from the Hotel Walser in Courmayeur. I was too dazed with disbelief to ask him wtf!!! He was clad only in little shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt and as Jeff noted, he didn't even have a water bottle! We exchanged a few pleasantries and off he trotted. Jeeze!
Descended a little more and finally came to La Fouly and checked into the Hotel Des Glaciers,
run by an aging Swiss hippie in a filmy, tie-dyed dress, long hennaed hair, and palsy. All the work was done by a brisk, efficient young woman, who reminded me of my Camp Miramichee friends. She looked athletic and capable and kept ejecting this big, black cat from the restaurant. Every time she turned her back, he'd sneak in after some new arrival and hang around until she'd notice him again. It was hilarious but when I mentioned the "chat noir" to her, she wouldn't crack a smile.
Sat on the bus across from a couple of nice Aussies, who were traveling in a group that we came to call the "Red Brigade." Got off the bus as it was beginning to spit rain and their guide, a snotty female, said it was snowing higher up.
Started trudging up to the Refuggio Elena and with my newfound Buddhist calm, I made it up without even getting out of breath, and someone in the Aussie group actually thought I was fast. Hah! Little did he know.
Started up from Elena for the two hour, 3000-foot climb to the col. Jeff took my pack at the first switchback, and I climbed almost the whole way without stopping and without seriously losing my breath. Of course I was really really slow, but still the Red Brigade didn't overtake me, except for a couple of Kiwis who were really nice and who we kept passing and repassing.
Meanwhile Gus had zipped up to the top. He's a damned machine. We started calling him Frodo when we could just make out his hooded form climbing high up ahead of us. He also looked in his rain gear like the snowboarding Flying Tomato.
Descended, passing mountain bikers hauling their bikes up to do the hair-raising switchbacks down the other side, I suspect. We read a Jon Krakauer piece in Eiger Dreams that describes Chamonix and the Mont Blanc massif as the "death wish capital of the world." So that made sense. Continued down on a road after passing a little cowshed buvette where we once again passed the nasty Brits plus the snotty American.
As we got to the bottom of the road down the mountain from the buvette, now nearly four or five hours from when we started out at the trailhead, I heard quick jogging footfalls behind me. I turned around to meet the desk clerk from the Hotel Walser in Courmayeur. I was too dazed with disbelief to ask him wtf!!! He was clad only in little shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt and as Jeff noted, he didn't even have a water bottle! We exchanged a few pleasantries and off he trotted. Jeeze!
Descended a little more and finally came to La Fouly and checked into the Hotel Des Glaciers,
run by an aging Swiss hippie in a filmy, tie-dyed dress, long hennaed hair, and palsy. All the work was done by a brisk, efficient young woman, who reminded me of my Camp Miramichee friends. She looked athletic and capable and kept ejecting this big, black cat from the restaurant. Every time she turned her back, he'd sneak in after some new arrival and hang around until she'd notice him again. It was hilarious but when I mentioned the "chat noir" to her, she wouldn't crack a smile.
DAY SIX: COURMAYEUR
July 6:
A "zero day" in AT thru-hiker parlance in Courmayeur at the Hotel Walser, where we had a great room with a loft for Gus.
Slept in, piddled around, took naps, ate wonderful pasta. Love Italy. Much more friendly than France. The little bits of Italian I know flow off the tongue and make my hands move in rhythm.
And the dogs. Oh, the dogs of Europe. They are so good, so lucky to live in a country where they can go anywhere. Not just in Courmayeur. Everywhere. The huge Bernese Mountain Dog that ate with us in Les Contamines, wandering around the restaurant and sticking his big old head in my lap. The terriers, dachshunds and golden retrievers. The trio of unleashed huge brindled hounds that trotted behind their human on a bicycle in Chamonix. The Belgian sheepdog, just like our friend Ritter. The basset hound in the Cafe Monchu in Chamonix. The dog that looked just like Cid's mother in Le Fouly. The Malinois in Les Champex. The yellow labish mutt who was the impressario of the "Courmayeur Fest" setup crew.
I found I could babble in French easily if I was talking dogs. And all the owners preened when a family all the way from des Etats-Unis came and praised and petted their dogs.
Long ago when Ginny and I came to Europe, we loved to sit in cafes and (having learned the phrase, I think, from Eugene Ionesco's Le Rhinocéros) "regarder les gens qui passe." This trip we sat in cafes and loved to "regarder les chiens qui passe."
A "zero day" in AT thru-hiker parlance in Courmayeur at the Hotel Walser, where we had a great room with a loft for Gus.
Slept in, piddled around, took naps, ate wonderful pasta. Love Italy. Much more friendly than France. The little bits of Italian I know flow off the tongue and make my hands move in rhythm.
And the dogs. Oh, the dogs of Europe. They are so good, so lucky to live in a country where they can go anywhere. Not just in Courmayeur. Everywhere. The huge Bernese Mountain Dog that ate with us in Les Contamines, wandering around the restaurant and sticking his big old head in my lap. The terriers, dachshunds and golden retrievers. The trio of unleashed huge brindled hounds that trotted behind their human on a bicycle in Chamonix. The Belgian sheepdog, just like our friend Ritter. The basset hound in the Cafe Monchu in Chamonix. The dog that looked just like Cid's mother in Le Fouly. The Malinois in Les Champex. The yellow labish mutt who was the impressario of the "Courmayeur Fest" setup crew.
I found I could babble in French easily if I was talking dogs. And all the owners preened when a family all the way from des Etats-Unis came and praised and petted their dogs.
Long ago when Ginny and I came to Europe, we loved to sit in cafes and (having learned the phrase, I think, from Eugene Ionesco's Le Rhinocéros) "regarder les gens qui passe." This trip we sat in cafes and loved to "regarder les chiens qui passe."
DAY FIVE (Part 2): COL DE LA SEIGNE TO COURMAYEUR
Jeff says he's never seen me so happy as when I got to the top of Col de la Seigne and indeed it was one of the great moments. We bounded down the Italian side like chamoix and entered the Val Veni, a wild, beautiful glacier valley flanked by giant buttresses of stone mountains but flat with glacial rivers winding through.
Came to Refuggio Elisabetta about an hour later, the most beautiful of the refuges I saw, tucked up on a ledge looking out over an ancient, intense blue and white, retreating glacier pouring down from the peak of Mont Blanc.
We were going to spend the night at Elisabetta but we got there about 1 p.m. and decided not to stay but to go on to Courmayeur, a good-sized town on the Italian side of Mont Blanc. Walked down for about an hour and a half, along the streams and lakes pouring down from the glaciers, and then down a paved road alongside the rushing, plunging Veni River. On our left throughout the walk were these high serrated ridges, nearly as high as 15,700 foot Mont Blanc itself. I am more convinced than ever (after having this conviction in 2000 when we hiked in the Bernese Oberland and saw the Rotthorn, the Eiger and the Jungfrau) that Tolkein hiked these trails. This was the landscape of Mordor's Mountains of Shadow and the Veni made me think of the rapids of the Sarn Gabir.
Came to Refuggio Elisabetta about an hour later, the most beautiful of the refuges I saw, tucked up on a ledge looking out over an ancient, intense blue and white, retreating glacier pouring down from the peak of Mont Blanc.
We were going to spend the night at Elisabetta but we got there about 1 p.m. and decided not to stay but to go on to Courmayeur, a good-sized town on the Italian side of Mont Blanc. Walked down for about an hour and a half, along the streams and lakes pouring down from the glaciers, and then down a paved road alongside the rushing, plunging Veni River. On our left throughout the walk were these high serrated ridges, nearly as high as 15,700 foot Mont Blanc itself. I am more convinced than ever (after having this conviction in 2000 when we hiked in the Bernese Oberland and saw the Rotthorn, the Eiger and the Jungfrau) that Tolkein hiked these trails. This was the landscape of Mordor's Mountains of Shadow and the Veni made me think of the rapids of the Sarn Gabir.
Friday, July 14, 2006
DAY FIVE: LES CHAPIEUX TO COL DE LA SEIGNE (Part 1)
July 5:
We woke up and watched the string of "mountain adventurers" stagger out to their shuttles with giant duffles, literally so laden they wobbled under their weight. What on earth could these big strapping men be carrying? Hair dryers? The Mont Blanc volume of the Encyclopedia Brittanica? The bags bear names like "Himalaya Trekking Tour." Spare me. And they are so arrogant. Do not speak or even make eye contact with people outside their group. I realized this is not necessarily national arrogance, since there is one American in this group, who looks a bit like Donald Sutherland and to whom I have developed a particular aversion. It's class. They are encapsulated in their country club bubble and cannot even see beyond it. Jeff also theorizes that they are also a bit ashamed of this whole schlepping thing when they see people our age on our own. Though of course they also despise us, thinking we don't have the money to do it their way. True.
So that said, of course, WE had not arranged for a shuttle over the first few miles of road walking up to the little Ville de les Glaciers, not knowing such a thing existed. So we start walking. Already Jeff and Gus have taken a lot of my stuff, but the weight of my water is wearing me down as well as my anxiety. About a half mile down the road, however, a car passes and we hitch a ride. Nice French guy who was going up to bring someone else back down. Cuts off a few miles and about an hour.
So we get to the trailhead in this wild valley above the treeline, mountains shooting up to heights of more than 10,000 feet of rock and grass and snow fields.
A short walk to the Refuge des Mottets, which is a converted cow barn and cheese factory.
It's amazingly primitive, like a large version of the Appalachian Trail huts with the addition of mattresses. You sleep 10 or so across on plank shelves. Glad we didn't do that! The other refuges are like rustic hotels with really nice restaurants.
So we started up the switchbacks from Mottets. I was so scared of getting that horrible out of breath thing that I was stopping at every switch and looking out. It's amazing how far you climb and how fast even at my snail's pace. At one stop, Jeff and I watched a couple of border collies herding a flock of sheep across this treeless, green mountainside. The sheep moved like a cloud of white across the green with these relentless black specks darting here and there at their heels.
Pretty soon we were looking down on Mottets from quite a height and could see a group from our hotel arrive and start up. And higher and higher. The leaders of the group caught and passed us, but Gus was just a dot high up on the side of the mountain. This path is not vertigious scary, just snakes up a big green mountain side. I was still moving and not in terrible shape. At one point we had to cross a stream. I was OK but the nice French guide (an actual guide who guided) helped me across and on the other side, Jeff took my entire pack.
When I started off after that, the real mental and physical shift for me took place. I do not think I could have done this if my faithful sherpas hadn't carried my stuff, but Gus had waited for us and had said rather shortly that I should just keep going, and I was thinking to myself, "But you don't understand! I can't!" and suddenly I realized I could. The real trick for me was to stop trying to go fast, to keep up with Jeff and Gus, or anyone else, to find a sustainable pace, even if it was a tiny tiny slow slow pace, and then do yoga breathing, focus on the breath, especially breathing out each time. That seemed to slow my heart rate and quiet my mind. I stopped counting steps, I stopped thinking about anything but putting one foot in front of the other, I kept moving, and bloody hell! The next thing I knew I was on top of the 8300-foot-col and stepping from France into Italy.
We woke up and watched the string of "mountain adventurers" stagger out to their shuttles with giant duffles, literally so laden they wobbled under their weight. What on earth could these big strapping men be carrying? Hair dryers? The Mont Blanc volume of the Encyclopedia Brittanica? The bags bear names like "Himalaya Trekking Tour." Spare me. And they are so arrogant. Do not speak or even make eye contact with people outside their group. I realized this is not necessarily national arrogance, since there is one American in this group, who looks a bit like Donald Sutherland and to whom I have developed a particular aversion. It's class. They are encapsulated in their country club bubble and cannot even see beyond it. Jeff also theorizes that they are also a bit ashamed of this whole schlepping thing when they see people our age on our own. Though of course they also despise us, thinking we don't have the money to do it their way. True.
So that said, of course, WE had not arranged for a shuttle over the first few miles of road walking up to the little Ville de les Glaciers, not knowing such a thing existed. So we start walking. Already Jeff and Gus have taken a lot of my stuff, but the weight of my water is wearing me down as well as my anxiety. About a half mile down the road, however, a car passes and we hitch a ride. Nice French guy who was going up to bring someone else back down. Cuts off a few miles and about an hour.
So we get to the trailhead in this wild valley above the treeline, mountains shooting up to heights of more than 10,000 feet of rock and grass and snow fields.
A short walk to the Refuge des Mottets, which is a converted cow barn and cheese factory.
It's amazingly primitive, like a large version of the Appalachian Trail huts with the addition of mattresses. You sleep 10 or so across on plank shelves. Glad we didn't do that! The other refuges are like rustic hotels with really nice restaurants.
So we started up the switchbacks from Mottets. I was so scared of getting that horrible out of breath thing that I was stopping at every switch and looking out. It's amazing how far you climb and how fast even at my snail's pace. At one stop, Jeff and I watched a couple of border collies herding a flock of sheep across this treeless, green mountainside. The sheep moved like a cloud of white across the green with these relentless black specks darting here and there at their heels.
Pretty soon we were looking down on Mottets from quite a height and could see a group from our hotel arrive and start up. And higher and higher. The leaders of the group caught and passed us, but Gus was just a dot high up on the side of the mountain. This path is not vertigious scary, just snakes up a big green mountain side. I was still moving and not in terrible shape. At one point we had to cross a stream. I was OK but the nice French guide (an actual guide who guided) helped me across and on the other side, Jeff took my entire pack.
When I started off after that, the real mental and physical shift for me took place. I do not think I could have done this if my faithful sherpas hadn't carried my stuff, but Gus had waited for us and had said rather shortly that I should just keep going, and I was thinking to myself, "But you don't understand! I can't!" and suddenly I realized I could. The real trick for me was to stop trying to go fast, to keep up with Jeff and Gus, or anyone else, to find a sustainable pace, even if it was a tiny tiny slow slow pace, and then do yoga breathing, focus on the breath, especially breathing out each time. That seemed to slow my heart rate and quiet my mind. I stopped counting steps, I stopped thinking about anything but putting one foot in front of the other, I kept moving, and bloody hell! The next thing I knew I was on top of the 8300-foot-col and stepping from France into Italy.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
DAY FOUR: LES CONTAMINES TO LES CHAPIEUX
July 4, Tuesday:
So we started off from the Grizzli in the morning. Kind of confused. I was going to walk the first 45 minutes or so with them to this old church, Notre Dames de la Gorges, which was flat and I'd always wanted to see that place. It's on what was an old Roman road.
As we were getting ready and milling around checking out, we got our first taste of these groups of Brit and American trekkers who hire these "guides" who basically drive vans around that said "Mountain Guides." and schlepp these people giant bags of shit around. And yet these groups are entirely conceited and arrogant, will not speak to anyone else. More on them later. This was the first encounter. One of the "guides," a scrawny dude with a goatee, was sitting on the curb when I was strapping my pack on, looked down and saw I still had my sandals on. I gasped and laughed, and he also laughed and then pulled his chin to pretend he hadn't seen and laughed. So I ran upstairs and got my boots, came back down and the goatee dude was telling his "trekkers" and the hotel manager that I had lost "my head," or was crazy or something. I told him in French that I understood him. He looked slightly embarrassed. I didn't care. Thought it was a pretty good joke on me.
So we walked down the road to Notre Dame de la Gorges, along a road the Roman legions covered as they crossed the Alps into Gaul. Pretty cool, along a beautiful little river.
Left them at the church and had a coffee in a lovely cafe next to the church, waiting for the bus which came at 10 a.m. I paid up and left and only then realized the bus didn't stop right there but about a quarter mile down the road and of course, I missed it. It wasn't a big deal. I walked back, not having any distress from the pack or the slight uphill climb back into time. The day before it had been like a tight band across my chest. Not just out of breath but in pain.
So I got to the tourism bureau and with some difficulty they finally found a cab willing to take me to Les Chapieux, which turned out to be pretty much one of those you can't get there from here places.
Two hour cab, $200 cab ride. I will say no more on that. But absolutely, unbelievably beautiful up and up and up and then down to Les Chapieux, which is not a town at all but a little group of a couple of houses and the Auberge, which is a dortoir, where everyone sleeps in bunks together.
But what a spot! Wild, isolated, vertical, a river running through it, cows, dogs, a herd of goats taken up and up onto the side of the mountain opposite, where the goatherd stayed with them all the long afternoon.
I only was there about 45 minutes when Jeff and Gus came marching down the mountain.
They'd had a very hard day up over the Col de Croix du Bonhomme, but spectacular. Gus again proving himself to be the total rubber billy goat.
But the trip over the mountain in the cab had proved that I had no choice. It was over the Col de la Siegne into Italy the next day for me or die. And that night I was more than a bit scared that it might be the latter.
So we started off from the Grizzli in the morning. Kind of confused. I was going to walk the first 45 minutes or so with them to this old church, Notre Dames de la Gorges, which was flat and I'd always wanted to see that place. It's on what was an old Roman road.
As we were getting ready and milling around checking out, we got our first taste of these groups of Brit and American trekkers who hire these "guides" who basically drive vans around that said "Mountain Guides." and schlepp these people giant bags of shit around. And yet these groups are entirely conceited and arrogant, will not speak to anyone else. More on them later. This was the first encounter. One of the "guides," a scrawny dude with a goatee, was sitting on the curb when I was strapping my pack on, looked down and saw I still had my sandals on. I gasped and laughed, and he also laughed and then pulled his chin to pretend he hadn't seen and laughed. So I ran upstairs and got my boots, came back down and the goatee dude was telling his "trekkers" and the hotel manager that I had lost "my head," or was crazy or something. I told him in French that I understood him. He looked slightly embarrassed. I didn't care. Thought it was a pretty good joke on me.
So we walked down the road to Notre Dame de la Gorges, along a road the Roman legions covered as they crossed the Alps into Gaul. Pretty cool, along a beautiful little river.
Left them at the church and had a coffee in a lovely cafe next to the church, waiting for the bus which came at 10 a.m. I paid up and left and only then realized the bus didn't stop right there but about a quarter mile down the road and of course, I missed it. It wasn't a big deal. I walked back, not having any distress from the pack or the slight uphill climb back into time. The day before it had been like a tight band across my chest. Not just out of breath but in pain.
So I got to the tourism bureau and with some difficulty they finally found a cab willing to take me to Les Chapieux, which turned out to be pretty much one of those you can't get there from here places.
Two hour cab, $200 cab ride. I will say no more on that. But absolutely, unbelievably beautiful up and up and up and then down to Les Chapieux, which is not a town at all but a little group of a couple of houses and the Auberge, which is a dortoir, where everyone sleeps in bunks together.
But what a spot! Wild, isolated, vertical, a river running through it, cows, dogs, a herd of goats taken up and up onto the side of the mountain opposite, where the goatherd stayed with them all the long afternoon.
I only was there about 45 minutes when Jeff and Gus came marching down the mountain.
They'd had a very hard day up over the Col de Croix du Bonhomme, but spectacular. Gus again proving himself to be the total rubber billy goat.
But the trip over the mountain in the cab had proved that I had no choice. It was over the Col de la Siegne into Italy the next day for me or die. And that night I was more than a bit scared that it might be the latter.
DAY THREE: LES HOUCHES TO LES CONTAMINES
July 3, Monday:
So we left the hotel, walked down to the cable car and took it up to the top of Bellevue, a climb of 1500 feet and a couple of hours cut off. We were going to over the higher route to the Col du Tricot but took another of many wrong turns and went down to the Col du Vosa instead of turning to the left by the old abandoned hotel on top of Bellevue. So once we realized our mistake none of us wanted to climb back up to Bellevue so we took the "lower, easier" route. Thank God! This "lower, easier" route very nearly killed me. It was hot, fairly beautiful in that kind of Swiss way of long valleys and glimpses of mountains and sweet little villages and houses and cows and dogs, but one hard climb up out of a valley and another of our wrong turns with a steep climb were very very hard for me.
I should say now that Jeff is obsessive about going light. We came on this trip with my pack only weighing about 10 pounds but when you add water that raised it to probably 15-16 pounds. This is way light! Most people hike with packs weighing between 20 and 30 pounds, but we weren't going to camp and we were taking basically the clothes on our backs with extra underwear and socks. I sneaked in an extra shirt and sports bra and we also had sleeping clothes so we could wash our clothes every night. And of course i had to have binoculars, digital camera, bird book (a real killer), a copy of Trollope's The American Senator, a little book to write in and keep my bird list. It all adds up and combined to drive me into the dust by the end of the 16 km or so. At the very end, it was threatening to storm, Jeff and Gus had gotten out of my sight, we were very close to Les Contamines, like 10 minutes or so, when it started raining and I saw this hideous steep climb. I wanted to lie down and die. But I put on my raincoat and started up, like five steps at a time, got to the top and Les Contamines just as the sky opened up. Jeff and Gus were there and I burst into tears and said I couldn't do it.
We got a hotel room in the Grizzli Hotel, pretty nice, I slept thinking I might be dying or having a heart attacks, but woke up feeling like I might live another day but could certainly NOT do the next day of the TMB, which is one of the hardest. So we decided that I would go around somehow to Les Chapieux and meet them at the Auberge de la Nova.
Went next door to a restaurant and had fondu, nearly choked on one nice gob of stringy cheese.
So a pretty dispiriting day. Jeff was very encouraging however, and as Gus said, "You're here, aren't you." Which was true.
So we left the hotel, walked down to the cable car and took it up to the top of Bellevue, a climb of 1500 feet and a couple of hours cut off. We were going to over the higher route to the Col du Tricot but took another of many wrong turns and went down to the Col du Vosa instead of turning to the left by the old abandoned hotel on top of Bellevue. So once we realized our mistake none of us wanted to climb back up to Bellevue so we took the "lower, easier" route. Thank God! This "lower, easier" route very nearly killed me. It was hot, fairly beautiful in that kind of Swiss way of long valleys and glimpses of mountains and sweet little villages and houses and cows and dogs, but one hard climb up out of a valley and another of our wrong turns with a steep climb were very very hard for me.
I should say now that Jeff is obsessive about going light. We came on this trip with my pack only weighing about 10 pounds but when you add water that raised it to probably 15-16 pounds. This is way light! Most people hike with packs weighing between 20 and 30 pounds, but we weren't going to camp and we were taking basically the clothes on our backs with extra underwear and socks. I sneaked in an extra shirt and sports bra and we also had sleeping clothes so we could wash our clothes every night. And of course i had to have binoculars, digital camera, bird book (a real killer), a copy of Trollope's The American Senator, a little book to write in and keep my bird list. It all adds up and combined to drive me into the dust by the end of the 16 km or so. At the very end, it was threatening to storm, Jeff and Gus had gotten out of my sight, we were very close to Les Contamines, like 10 minutes or so, when it started raining and I saw this hideous steep climb. I wanted to lie down and die. But I put on my raincoat and started up, like five steps at a time, got to the top and Les Contamines just as the sky opened up. Jeff and Gus were there and I burst into tears and said I couldn't do it.
We got a hotel room in the Grizzli Hotel, pretty nice, I slept thinking I might be dying or having a heart attacks, but woke up feeling like I might live another day but could certainly NOT do the next day of the TMB, which is one of the hardest. So we decided that I would go around somehow to Les Chapieux and meet them at the Auberge de la Nova.
Went next door to a restaurant and had fondu, nearly choked on one nice gob of stringy cheese.
So a pretty dispiriting day. Jeff was very encouraging however, and as Gus said, "You're here, aren't you." Which was true.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
DAY TWO: CHAMONIX TO LES HOUCHES
July 2:
We walked a hot road walk 6 or so km from Chamonix to Les Houches, the traditional start of the TMB, and stayed at a nice hotel, Le Belle Pris, with a pool and a beautiful garden,
where we sat and drank and looked up at the mountains and then ate a delicious dinner with only one strange Savoyard dish of chunks of something with cheese.
We walked a hot road walk 6 or so km from Chamonix to Les Houches, the traditional start of the TMB, and stayed at a nice hotel, Le Belle Pris, with a pool and a beautiful garden,
where we sat and drank and looked up at the mountains and then ate a delicious dinner with only one strange Savoyard dish of chunks of something with cheese.
DAY ONE/TMB/THE DEPARTURE AND ARRIVAL
JUNE 30-July 1:
I'm going to try to do this in order of the days and not do an overview first.
The first adventure was The Mad Rabbi of National Airport. While waiting for our flight to JFK, I noticed a strange robed figure standing near our gate, weaving and bobbing and bowing to the windows. My heart started pounding. Clearly whoever this was suffered from some mental disorder, which could include preparation for martyrdom. Eventually the figure turned slightly to reveal somekind of headgear that looked like an empty ink cartridge and a open book held in his hands. More heart pounding. They called our flight. I'm going, "please please do NOT get on this flight." As we got closer he began to unwrap himself from both his robes, so you could see his yarmulke, and from thick black plastic bands that were digging into the pudgy flesh of his arms and chest and that held the strange little black boxes onto him in various places. Jeff said they were rat traps to catch the evil thoughts.
Thankfully he did NOT get on our plane.
The flight itself was uneventful, as was the Swiss Air flight to Geneva. We sat in the very last rows, on the aisles. I didn't feel as bad as I'd expected to when we got there. But was very pissed off because the Chamonix Shuttle wasn't there to meet the plane. I wandered around in a snit for about 45 minutes and was just about to buy a bus ticket when she showed up, breathless, a Kiwi it turns out, and told us we still had to wait another hour or so for another flight with some customers on it. I was even more pissed. We went and had a beer and then the five Brits she picked up, for whom we waited an hour and a half, were pissed at us for making them wait a couple of minutes and didn't speak to us the entire way.
Ah well. We got to our hotel, which turned out to be outside Chamonix and not very nice. Hotel Les Lanchers, but my God, our first views of Mont Blanc were enough to totally blow your mind. A torrent of rock and snow with long crumpled rivers of glaciers, and then these needle spires of rock extending east from the summit, like the teeth of Mordor. Quite, quite spectacular.
That night we slept through dinner and so we walked into Chamonix (about 20 minutes) had a great dinner and watched France v. Brazil in the World Cup. Lots of yelling, and screaming, and horn honking and dancing in the streets draped in the French flag. We walked back to our hotel along this river path, fully lighted until we took a wrong turn and walked about 10 minutes in the pitch dark along a glacial torrent, until we realized we'd gone wrong. Got turned around right and got back to the hotel about 12:30 to realize we were totally. 100 percent locked out. Really a bite in the ass. We found a Brit hotel owner across the street who tried to help, invaded a house behind the hotel and woke up some woman who owned a different hotel, who basically told us we were SOL. Finally went down to this other hotel to try to find a room to sleep in and damned if the waitress there didn't used to date the bartender at our hotel and she called and woke him up and got the entry code. We got in and went to sleep. END OF DAY ONE
I'm going to try to do this in order of the days and not do an overview first.
The first adventure was The Mad Rabbi of National Airport. While waiting for our flight to JFK, I noticed a strange robed figure standing near our gate, weaving and bobbing and bowing to the windows. My heart started pounding. Clearly whoever this was suffered from some mental disorder, which could include preparation for martyrdom. Eventually the figure turned slightly to reveal somekind of headgear that looked like an empty ink cartridge and a open book held in his hands. More heart pounding. They called our flight. I'm going, "please please do NOT get on this flight." As we got closer he began to unwrap himself from both his robes, so you could see his yarmulke, and from thick black plastic bands that were digging into the pudgy flesh of his arms and chest and that held the strange little black boxes onto him in various places. Jeff said they were rat traps to catch the evil thoughts.
Thankfully he did NOT get on our plane.
The flight itself was uneventful, as was the Swiss Air flight to Geneva. We sat in the very last rows, on the aisles. I didn't feel as bad as I'd expected to when we got there. But was very pissed off because the Chamonix Shuttle wasn't there to meet the plane. I wandered around in a snit for about 45 minutes and was just about to buy a bus ticket when she showed up, breathless, a Kiwi it turns out, and told us we still had to wait another hour or so for another flight with some customers on it. I was even more pissed. We went and had a beer and then the five Brits she picked up, for whom we waited an hour and a half, were pissed at us for making them wait a couple of minutes and didn't speak to us the entire way.
Ah well. We got to our hotel, which turned out to be outside Chamonix and not very nice. Hotel Les Lanchers, but my God, our first views of Mont Blanc were enough to totally blow your mind. A torrent of rock and snow with long crumpled rivers of glaciers, and then these needle spires of rock extending east from the summit, like the teeth of Mordor. Quite, quite spectacular.
That night we slept through dinner and so we walked into Chamonix (about 20 minutes) had a great dinner and watched France v. Brazil in the World Cup. Lots of yelling, and screaming, and horn honking and dancing in the streets draped in the French flag. We walked back to our hotel along this river path, fully lighted until we took a wrong turn and walked about 10 minutes in the pitch dark along a glacial torrent, until we realized we'd gone wrong. Got turned around right and got back to the hotel about 12:30 to realize we were totally. 100 percent locked out. Really a bite in the ass. We found a Brit hotel owner across the street who tried to help, invaded a house behind the hotel and woke up some woman who owned a different hotel, who basically told us we were SOL. Finally went down to this other hotel to try to find a room to sleep in and damned if the waitress there didn't used to date the bartender at our hotel and she called and woke him up and got the entry code. We got in and went to sleep. END OF DAY ONE
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