Postcard from Chamonix (postmarked 10 March 2017)

This week has been an epic week, one for the record books, in particular for my personal Guinness Book of Records. I'll start at the end where all great beginnings have their roots...

The last ski run of the day started at the summit of Grands Montets, one of six distinct ski areas comprising Chamonix-Mont Blanc, accessible by first riding up a gondola from the base, then a chairlift and finally a large cable car that holds up to 50 excited skiers, each one either staring silently out the hard, plastic windows, all scratched up by thousands of ski tips having rested against them over the years, at the slopes far below, hypnotized by the expansive barren terrain, or, debating intently with his or her ski buddy about the perfect ski to use for today's conditions, or of a recent alpine experience, frequently in some foreign tongue. As we ascend it slowly becomes evident how high above sea level we are: the sky gradually becomes deeper blue, blue within blue -- I am reminded of how the astronauts get to witness how the sky becomes deeper blue, then still darker until it finally morphs into black after they blast off from earth into orbit! The cable car finally arrives at the very peak, over 3,300 metres above sea level, and we all must, unusually, trudge down over 150 metal steps in ski boots, braving the fierce, bitter wind at the peak, carrying our skis and boards, to the actual beginning of the trail, below the arrival station. Before doing so however, nearly everybody pulls out their smartphones to take pictures and selfies despite the howling wind: at this elevation, we can see over all of the nearby mountains to the faraway peaks and even over many of those to the horizon where there are still more snow-covered peaks, most of them very rugged and craggy in this section of the French Alps. Only Mont Blanc, a few kilometres away is much higher than our vantage point on this precipice, majestic against the rich blue within blue sky, usually sporting its own personal wispy, lenticular cloud, as it is at the moment, shrouding its very peak from sight. It is awesome, if not overwhelming, a sight that I will never take for granted, as so very few people ever get here to witness the panorama.

There are now two options for your pleasure: option one is skiing down the expert trail, groomed and well marked to keep skiers from getting lost on the way down. Because we are far above the tree line, there is little difference between the marked trail, which is all covered in snow and perfectly safe to ski, and off-trail which is also all covered in snow but quite risky as it may lead to gullies, cliffs and dangerous crevices. Those people turn right once they've arrived at the bottom of the long noisy flight of aluminium stairs. We choose option two by turning left and traversing over to the top of the Argentière glacier. With our guide in the lead, we know that the way is safe as long as we follow him down, more or less. The slow continual downhill advance of all glaciers does result in numerous crevices forming, sometimes as deep as 300 metres, I am informed, so following the guide is advised. Not only is the sky deep blue and the sun brilliant above us, not only is the frozen icy glacier beneath me covered by a three-metre thick layer of soft powdery snow, not only is the slope steep but not too steep, but it is also wide, so wide that I cannot see from edge to edge, it is a dream. 

I take my first turn and then my next and then I realize I can competently keep my rhythm but am entirely unconstrained as to how long or how wide my turns can be. Fluffy snow kicks up behind me, blinding anybody who foolishly chooses to follow me as I slalom down the huge expanse of freshly fallen snow, sometimes veering way left as I please and other times right, with little forethought or reason, feeling childlike as nothing else (nor anybody else) in the world matters at the moment. The fresh brisk dry air tickles my nostrils as I inhale and it fills my lungs, but my breathing soon becomes more laboured partly due to the rarefied air at this elevation, partly from the effort demanded by my legs. I am mindful of the soft snow sliding under my skis with every second's advance downhill. I feel rather proud as this hors-piste descent is apparently never-ending and I am managing the ride with more skill than usual, which adds further to my delight! It is as silent as it is breathtaking up here on top of the world and time appears to be ticking by slowly for me which I notice and which I appreciate. Of course I stop to catch my breath every minute or two, but these rest stops afford me the added pleasure of gazing around and performing a reality check: am I really here? I do not answer. Before too long I have mastered the summit and have indeed enjoyed one of the longest runs of my life, eventually rejoining the groomed trail for the last section and arriving at the base, over 2,200 metres below, probably a 6 km ride, never to be forgotten.

La Mer de Glace snaking its way through the Vallée Blanche behind me

Yesterday was altogether different: the town's inhabitants awoke to a thick fog which obscured all the surrounding mountains. In fact, the visibility at ground level was not fantastic either so the decision was to take the day off from zero-visibility skiing and instead visit the Vallée Blanche glacier, la Mer de Glace, the largest in France. It is 6 km long and 200 metres deep and is located on the northern slopes of Mont Blanc. An interesting train ride from Chamonix up a steep climb brings us in twenty minutes' time to a spot 400 metres above the glacier's leading edge. I had read that this glacier, in the distant past, filled the entire valley, up to and above the point at which we disembarked from the train (see the picture, above). It was over 700 metres thick at the time! The train itself is powered by electric motors which turn several gears positioned vertically under the train's carriage. These gears interlock with large metal teeth that are secured to the railroad bed from beginning to end. As the motors turn the gears, the train advances uphill.
I apologize for the mechanical details (which fascinated me!) and will now return to the glacier. I am sure that many of you reading this postcard have seen glaciers first-hand if not having at least seen photographs. In this case, we took a gondola down 300 metres along the valley's wall, and then still had to walk 400 stairs further down to the glacier's edge. This is where the fun begins: every winter, a team of engineers spends over a month drilling out an ice cave by digging horizontally into the glacier. The cave is more like a tunnel shaped like a loop which is burrowed 75 metres into the glacier! And into this cave I enter. The ice walls inside are so cold that when I touch them and rub my fingers over them, the ice will not melt -- my fingers remain dry. Can you imagine, I am literally inside the glacier, surrounded by many tons of ice possibly frozen for thousands of years, barely lit by several hidden lights, giving the entire length of the ice cave an eerie shine, deep blue in colour. If you are the least bit claustrophobic, you will likely not be venturing inside. For the rest of you: Add this experience to your bucket list!

Here's hoping you are checking items off your own bucket list!

Ski bum Barry

Postcard from Budapest (postmarked 26 September 2016)

There's a certain liberating thrill, a definitive freedom, from the simple act of departing in the morning from one town by bicycle, only to arrive in a completely different town five or six hours later, before the day's last light has faded to dusk. Every kilometer advanced is accomplished by my own legs pedaling, no engines to fuel, no depending on the goodwill of strangers, just a bike, a bunch of like-minded friends and the immense pleasure of self-propelled transportation.

If this weren't redeeming enough, let's remember that I am in Eastern Europe, where every village witnessed, every twist and turn in the road navigated, every sight focused onto my retinas and every sound channeled to my ears is completely novel to me. I am awestruck by the smallest details, the surprisingly pungent aromas carried downwind of foods cooking or by the most colourful wildflowers in bloom, that are rendered spectacular by my mind. I can't speak for others but my mind is sometimes my best friend, allowing me to feel what others seem to ignore or at the least be indifferent to. Even the warm breeze so often gently pressing against my face while riding provides enormous solace for it is a perpetual reminder that I am advancing through space and time -- that I should take neither for granted!

Following the Danube from Vienna to Budapest, with a half-dozen overnight stops en route, is the epitome of adventure, the zenith of pleasure for a recreational cyclist like myself. Consider that I am free to stop anytime the smell of fresh-baked breads charms my nostrils, beseeching a sampling from the local Hungarian baker. Likewise, when riding by a gelato stand, there can be no valid reason for not heeding its subliminal 'come hither' and passing it by. Gelato stops are not optional, they are mandatory. When cycling 70 km a day, counting calories is meaningless, it is impossible to eat too much, and thankfully equally challenging to drink too much. And so I do both, and I do so in abundance, after all, this is a holiday, not a chore! To ensure that I never for a moment forget that I am indeed on holiday, I endeavour at every opportunity to experience something unique, something not as willingly accomplished back home: A cooking lesson in the native cuisine perhaps, or a scary challenge that shouldn't be refused, or allowing oneself to be lured into a local celebration.

The biking along the river is phenomenal, the path is wide and paved, cars are prohibited, it tracks the river which is beautiful, usually deep blue but sometimes steel grey in colour and always about a half-kilometer across to the flip side. There are plenty of river barges, motoring both upstream and downstream along the river highway, loaded with cargo, which only adds to the interesting and unique views of the Danube. Sometimes I see a high-speed boat cruising by which ferries passengers between the same two cities as on my route, but in only six hours' time. At other times there is no cycle path as we share the road with cars, but we bikes own the shoulder and automobiles are obliged to respect a wide clearance and they always move to the left when they pass. And still other times, we are cycling through fields, along a railroad, or perhaps on a grass path along a levee!

What a treat it is to arrive in the next village, ride up to the pre-arranged hotel, and find day after day that my luggage awaits meet in the lobby. Next, a deserved shower, some fresh clothes, and I am shortly again exploring another new town, whose name is unpronounceable in English, teasing out its secrets, encountering its citizens at random intervals for impromptu conversations about wealth, football or politics. You may find it difficult to believe, or you may agree knowingly, that many of these ad hoc conversations with strangers lead to the most remarkable insights into the native zeitgeist. In fact, sometimes I find myself having the most profound discussion about the most private aspects of my life, and of theirs, too, as disclosure begets disclosure. Social psychologists call this 'fleeting intimacy.' I am an aficionado. Of what good can travel be for, if not for a greater understanding of the human condition?

All this jazz is well and good, but I know you've come to read about Budapest. Fortunately for me, the last 25 km of my journey from Vienna is accomplished by riverboat. There can be no better tactic for arriving in Budapest, to witness its beauty, to sense its charm and personality, to breathe in its soul. The parliament buildings, the churches, the statues commemorating past glories, that adorn the city's riverbank are both breathtaking and spectacular, no doubt little changed over the centuries.

There are two impressions that epitomize Budapest for me, now and forever etched into my memory. One is the profound artistic sensibilities that pervade the city, evident in its buildings new and old, in its myriad public sculptures, and in its communications with its citizens. No aspect appears to be left to chance, every message is thought through and is delivered with a sometimes surreal impact. The second is that its inhabitants give me the distinct impression that life is for living, so spending evenings with friends or family in the city's outdoor bars, cafés and restaurants is paramount. They are numerous and always bustling.

Marry my two impressions of Budapest and you get "The Ruins," the area in the Jewish Quarter that is comprised of dozens of bars, carved out of beat up, often abandoned buildings. Even more remarkable is how all of these bars (and restaurants, too) have been so imaginatively, artistically decorated, you wouldn't be embarrassed to think that you stumbled into an art gallery. And yet even one more time remarkable, the decor is always constructed of repurposed artifacts, objects otherwise destined for the landfill, that is to say, garbage, now reanimated for one more cycle of life! Three days in Budapest is not nearly long enough to become blasé, or worse bored, by its vibe. Its natives seem to get it, they are all friendly, eager to help a visitor with directions or suggestions. Maybe this is what happens when communism fails and its void must be filled with something that has promise of a better tomorrow!

Here's hoping for better tomorrows in your future, too!

Barry of Budapest.

Postcard from Antequera - postmarked 22 June 2016

I had been looking forward to this day with the excitement of a schoolchild before recess since the middle of February, four months ago.

For unknown reasons that I have yet to determine there are many Via Ferrata routes set up in Andalucía. My best guess is that the oldest and most famous, the Caminito del Rey, which still exists today, may have served as a challenge to the local climbers who possessed plenty of free time, some powerful drilling tools and a need to create something challenging where before there was nothing but rock. I write this because as the hands of fate have decreed, the local guide that I hired two days later to lead me through the magic of the Torcal mountains, was the very same, the one who, along with two friends, in 1997 actually built the Via Ferrata that I was now about to climb. Serendipity comes in many flavours, this time must have been cherry garcia. I had imagined that a provincial or regional government had constructed the Via Ferrata, but I was wrong, at least in this case. 

The Torcal mountains, near Antequera, are indeed magical like none other in the world, this because the mountains were eons ago underwater. Not that the sea here had receded, but rather here the mountains rose out of the sea and kept rising for well more than 1,000 metres. Thanks to their long life spent underwater followed by their recent history above sea level and to all the known theories of erosion by rock genre, the resulting formations of rock slabs teetering upon other similar slabs appear amusingly cartoon-like! The vistas, in all directions, nearly defy explanation, where every turn of the head and every step forward present yet another view of improbable juxtapositions of immense pizza pie slices of rock. 

I had never hired a guide for a hike previously but we had little choice of accessing the mountains from our home base in Antequera except by minibus. Therefore I hired said minibus, and the guide was included. Another fortuitous decision as the route that he led us on would have been impossible to find without his lead. We walked along unmarked paths often so narrow and so close to the edge of various cliffs that it was simply smart to pretend that it wasn't so! His 'office' was the Torcal mountains, his playground growing up, and it was right next store, a couple of kms away, to where he and his friends decided to build their own personal Via Ferrata nearly 20 years ago!

By now you may be asking what exactly is Via Ferrata. Today it is a challenging climb up mostly vertical rock faces, with many twists and turns thrown in for good measure. Iron 'staples' are secured into the mountain face, spaced apart just enough to make the ascent difficult. These staples stand in for footholds and handholds allowing us to climb. Where there are ledges or cracks in the rock, there are fewer staples if any. All the while we are perched hundreds of metres above the ground far below. Throughout the journey, we are wearing a climbing harness and we are clipped onto a cable running the entire route with a caribiner. If ever one slips and falls, the attached caribiner would limit the fall to a foot or two or three at most. In fact there is little risk of injury, however anyone with a fear of heights or a fear of cliffs would be wise to stay away -- there is plenty of both! There are often other challenges along the route. In ours today we had to zipline across a ravine that revealed a 200 metre drop below our dangling feet. As the zipline was not downhill, one had to pull oneself hand over hand from one end to the other, all the while being suspended by the line. Very scary for some people; in my case: just plain fun! It was ironic however to learn two days later that our hiking guide explained how the zipline is no longer safe, how it needs to be completely replaced, but that the new Swedish owner of that mountain will tolerate climbers but not a repair party. What was scary for some and fun for others was evidently dangerous for all!

The biggest challenge for me today was dealing with the very high winds blowing. While waiting for the zipline to get set up, we all perched on a ledge -- imagine sitting astride a large horse and you'll get the picture -- which dropped precipitously on two sides very far below. Even though we were all clipped in, we were on an exposed peak, and the strong wind nearly blew me off the ledge several times. Of course I would have only fallen a couple of feet, but dangling from a cable, scratched up and possibly upside down wasn't my idea of entertainment. 

Apparently the climbers rate the routes, K-1 through K-4; today's was a K-3. I understand the K-4 will have sections under a rock ledge where you are obliged to basically maneuver upside down along the rock ceiling like a spider, from the entry to the exit of the ledge, with just the staples fixed into the ceiling as your guide. Yep, I definitely want that challenge! There are other interesting features, too, elsewhere, like the monkey bridge, where you have to cross a ravine along a bridge made of three wires, one to walk on, the other two for your hands to hang on to. I am uncertain why it is called a monkey bridge, but I can guess having a long tail might come in handy.

Regardless of the various tests of courage, it is always a thrill to simply stop at any point along the route, lean back and gaze at the landscape from high up the face of a cliff, the valley below stretching many kms before another stark mountain obstucts the horizon, the cloudless blue sky uninterrupted by clouds, the sight of a herd of seemingly tiny goats passing below at some random place, the sound of their bells clanging all the way up to my ears and with their requisite shepherd dog keeping them moving along. Once the bells are out of range and between gusts of wind it is eerily silent while resting, giving me pause to reflect on my good fortune to be here at all, to have sought out this excitement far away from home and to look forward to the celebration party that is sure to follow our successful arrival at the summit at some nearby, unknown, secret restaurant in the middle of nowhere that likely does not even exist on TripAdvisor! 

Here's hoping that you, too, are from time to time happy to be celebrating something in the middle of nowhere!

Ferrata or Bust Barry.

Postcard from Cordoba - postmarked 27 June 2016

How many times in a person's adult life can you expect to do something completely novel, something never experienced, something imagined but never attempted?
I am not talking about driving a new model car nor dining in a new restaurant. Rather, something that tests one's mettle.

Today I chose to go whitewater kayaking for the first time! No instruction, no course, no YouTube video to guide me through the dos and don'ts.

While the others jumped into the two standard inflated rafts for the planned whitewater rafting adventure, I jumped into a kayak! You probably know that I have kayaked for many years but with precious few exceptions, all my experience has been on one sole lake in the Laurentians: no current, no rapids and certainly no white water!

With a dose of good fortune for me, the whitewater gods created the Rio Genil with many sets of exciting rapids, each set with increasing difficulty as the current flows downstream. I was luckily informed of this in advance so I was ready to be likewise increasingly challenged the whole afternoon. I decided it sensible to try some daring maneuvers early on, to take some risks, because failures and errors at the outset could become lessons learnt for the hardest passages towards the finale. It was a prescient decision.

When I first heard the tumultuous roar of the first set of rapids ahead, my heart started to beat a bit faster; I couldn't yet see what was coming as the river is continually winding with numerous immense trees hanging over the water's edges, completely obstructing the view ahead. We were in a canyon of sorts and the riverbanks were thick with foliage. Many of these trees have broad branches jutting out horizontally close to the surface, probably vying for some of the abundant sunshine streaming down. If I am not careful, the current can drive my kayak along the shore and off comes my head at the next branch! Almost as bad, many of these trees have tentacles which grow off the upper branches hanging straight down into the water; these harmless looking vines are spiked with thorns, ready to rip at your clothing or exposed skin. Please don't ask me how I know these details with such precision!

The cacophony of the approaching rapids is growing in loudness, now I can also feel the booming of the cascading waters and I see the two rafts ahead jerking to the left, then to the right, as their occupants paddle furiously to keep from capsizing. I know I am next, ready or not. I am also cognizant that I took on this challenge willingly, so against any natural tendency to be fearful and anxious, I chose to paddle more assertively, daring the river to control my destiny. My kayak was sucked into the first of several drops in the river, I was being splashed from all sides, soaked from directly ahead as the front of the kayak went underwater repeatedly, the noise was deafening but I screamed, "Si, si" (translation: "Yes, yes, give me your best!" ) and paddled hard to keep my kayak pointing ahead no matter how it was being bashed sideways from the churning, screaming white water.

All this happens fast, very fast, so I slowed down time in my mind to give myself a fighting chance. Soon enough I was again into calmer water and I paddled toward the shore to enter into the countercurrent and relax for a minute, catch my breath and re-evaluate.
I succeeded the easiest of what was to come so I decided to try to turn my kayak perpendicular to the current after the next set of rapids and see how I could control the forces attacking me. This didn't work out so well and I was quickly thrown out of the boat into the freezing cold water. Thanks go to the rafting organizers for the full wet suit and even the neoprene booties to keep me 'warm' so all I had to do was right the kayak and somehow get back on it.

The next few rapids went very well, too, so it was time for another challenge: the rafts, at one point, turned around and paddled hard back upstream to get their bows into a 'hydraulic' which essentially locks the boat in place, the waters flowing all around with the bow getting sucked down into a 'hole.' I tried the same trick, and managed to hang in there, magically stuck in place, the waters rushing around me, but my boat was neither moving downstream nor upstream without further effort. The problem arose when I backpaddled to extricate myself and the boat was swept perpendicular, capsized again, the cold, rushing water engulfing my body pulling me under, trying to scare the wits out of me, but I prevailed by remaining calm underwater for a few seconds longer until I could surface, breathe and then kick back onto my kayak anew.

A lot of excitement so far but I knew the hardest and scariest rapids were still ahead, waiting their turn to torment me!
What makes rapids more challenging, generally, is when the water level drops more precipitously, like mini waterfalls, with an uneven riverbed below and boulders strewn about causing the water to be very turbulent from many directions at any moment.
I had succeeded to control my kayak through each set of rapids so far, I had capsized twice, and now the two last and most difficult rapids were just ahead.
Again my heart started to speed up as I noticed that the rafts ahead of me had completely disappeared from view to a lower level! How high was this waterfall going to be? Had I reached the limit of my brand new skill? 
With no time to debate the answers, the explosions of the fast moving current smashing onto the boulders below now filled my ears, I squeezed my paddle tighter and pushed my backside more firmly into the seat, trying to become one with the boat. I let out a scream and went over the falls, a couple of metres, no more, but the front end of my kayak was completely submerged and I was being whipsawed from all sides. I paddled as fast as I could think, reacting to the paroxysmal forces quickly to keep my kayak always pointing downstream, afraid to allow my craft to turn sideways as then my fate would be sealed. 
The current launched my boat nearly out of the water, then rapidly a fresh set of waterfalls to maneuver through. I was yelling at the water, I believe, from pleasure, both telling it and reminding me that only one outcome was possible as I continued to steer my boat away from boulders and directly into the direction of the whitest, the frothiest waters. I was nearly catapulted out of the kayak at least twice but somehow willed myself to regain my seat and squeezed my paddle tighter as I used it as fast as I could to keep my craft more or less parallel with the current. I was quizically instantly reminded of my first experience landing my own aircraft, the instructor at my side yelling at me "right aileron, left rudder, left aileron, less throttle," so fast that I couldn't process the instructions in time, the runway approaching frighteningly fast. Here, too, I was silently shouting instructions at myself, left, right, right again, faster, harder, left...

Falling out of the kayak in the middle of the rapids now is dangerous compared with my earlier capsize experiences in calmer waters. This thought keeps me focused.
In one sense the experience seems to go on forever with the turbulent water appearing to have no end in sight as my focus is on the next two seconds, the next two metres. In another sense, I have already succeeded, I have arrived once again in calmer waters, my ultimate challenge achieved, and I am wondering how is it that it feels to me as though I am just stepping into the kayak at the start and not stepping out at the finish 90 minutes later!

Here's hoping you know better, whether your journey is just now beginning or has it already ended?

Whitewater Barry

Postcard from Les Arcs - postmarked 23 March 2016

Hi!

The unparalleled views from the various summits that encircle Les Arcs in the French Alps melt my heart. There are no words colourful enough for me to describe the panorama before me... but I will try...

First we must back up in time as it takes a forty-five minute sequence of lifts, a poma, a chair and a gondola, before arriving even near to any of the summits.

From there, the hearty strap their skis to their backpacks and climb. Depending on the particular objective, the uphill walk may take from 15 to 45 minutes. Thanks to the 3,000 metre elevation, I struggle with the climb. Difficult enough in ski boots on the crusty, uneven snow on the edge of a mountain top where one slip can ruin your day, the rarified air intensifies the effort. Climb a little too fast and it begins to feel like you are breathing through a straw! But we do this because so very few skiers do and the otherwise inaccessible couloirs that I will soon ski down take my breath away. But I'm jumping ahead of myself.

I arrive at the summit -- only here can one gaze around in any direction of the 360 degree palette of options, and see forever! The immense blankets of snow spill away below me, the wind having sculpted them into arrays of textures further enhanced by the myriad of shadows realized by the sun's rays, that slowly fade downhill into the distance. Very far below, there is no longer any snow remaining and one can see across to a hamlet, a handful of centuries old homes, patiently awaiting the warmth that always comes with spring. I look up at the horizon, 20 or 30 km even 40 km away to see ranges of snow-covered mountains, some presumably perched above their own ski villages. The air is crisp and so transparent that it feels as though I can reach out and touch the other side. Not a cloud in sight, the sky is perfectly blue although broken now and then by the wispy contrails of jets passing so very high above in all directions whisking their passengers to and fro. I imagine that some of them are straining to see straight down to the very summit on which I stand. It is magical on this sun-drenched day for how can my eyes tire from this that is nature's splendour?

We approach the couloir with trepidation, its pitch is so steep that I cannot see the slope itself even whIle standing at its precipice with my ski tips over the edge. Almost scarier than the steepness is the narrowness, I must manage each turn immediately after the previous one -- there is no space to serpentine downhill as when skiing the vallons. One more concern: falling is not an option. I would slide down at least 250 metres and possibly crash into one of the rock walls on either side of the couloir. It is not terrifying, frankly, as I know I am capable of navigating the challenge, but I am apprehensive, which emotion I conclude will keep me safe. All my senses heighten as I enter and make my first turn. I not only feel the snow's reaction under the weight of my skis but I can hear the comforting sound it makes, I can see the powder kicking up behind me in my peripheral vision, I can almost taste it as I breathe in and out. I have no time to revel, I turn again and again as I advance down the (did I mention?) narrow, steep, scary couloir, stopping every 15 turns to catch my breath and look up at what I have just successfully accomplished. My confidence is boosted, and coupled with the gradually widening couloir, I continue with more finesse than before, and with more satisfaction, too! I cannot be sure that I am skiing better than ever (which I doubt) but I am certain that I am replete with contentment, with the joy of taking the chance to succeed as opposed to abstain, to marvel at the beauty with each pause as opposed to passing up the opportunity and descending an easier slope. Unlike other sports that require motors (like water-skiing) or opponents (like tennis), or even cycling (which requires a path to follow), skiing hors-piste avails the athlete to choose his own route, and speed, and style so long as the laws of gravity prevail. The fluidity or sense of flow that can be experienced is lacking in most other sports but ever-present for me here, now.

Just yesterday, a man was skiing a couloir (alone) at the neighbouring ski resort and fell. All we know is that he was found dead, below, an hour or two later. I suppose with all the millions of skiers that love the sport, and the many thousands that crave the hors-piste challenges, these horrific accidents are bound to happen. Of course I am safe and never alone when I ski. In fact we wear a location beeper if ever the unlikely avalanche occurs and our backpacks contain collapsible shovels, in case.

There are few areas in the world where one can ski down steep, untracked hors-piste slopes from a 3,200 metre elevation down to 1,200 metres, the last 300 metres through the woods, without seeing another human other than those in your own group. And for me, the frequent pauses to recover my breath give me pause to gaze around and remember that the possibilities are infinite!

Here's hoping you can pause, breathe and be grateful, from time to time, too.

Barry

Postcard from Croatia's Dalmatian Islands (postmarked 02 July 2015)

Eastern Europe.‎ It's not the like anywhere else on Earth. And Croatia, having been ruled by the Italians, the Slavs and others, in turn, over the centuries is a special place within Eastern Europe. Somehow, though, the Croats, despite what they have been through in just the past three decades, are a mighty friendly bunch, ready to help at every juncture. And nearly all are fluent in English, albeit with their own unique brand of accent. 

We went on six hikes during this holiday, roughly one every other day. Each successive one was increasingly challenging. The highlight was the fifth, the six-hour climb up Croatia's second highest peak, Sveti Jure, at nearly 1,800 metres above sea level. Many peaks here begin with the word 'sveti' so I had naturally assumed that it was the Croatian word for 'peak' or 'mount.' Only after a week did I notice that nearly all churches were also named Sveti something. Turns out that both churches and mountains are normally named after a saint and Saint Yuri won the title for our hike selection. There are several routes to the top of Sveti Jure and we chose what turned out to be the most difficult. Starting at sea level, in the town of Makarska where we had spent the evening and night before, we walked uphill through the town's suburbs to its outskirts and the trailhead. From the trailhead and for the next two hours we climbed the steepest slope of my hiking experience. Much of the slope was covered with rockslides and being too steep to hike up safely, it was criss-crossed with switchbacks, themselves so steep that we needed a break from the burning sun baking us from above and grilling us from below, and from our sweaty effort, every 45 minutes. A lone tree casting its shade across the route was all it took for us to call for a pause to eat and drink and rest. At other sections later on we had to leap from boulder to boulder to make progress. These sections are always fun and remind me of a childhood adventure that I might have enjoyed, but for which I am today grateful. For a welcome break, we also had to traverse flowering alpine meadows, lush with tall grasses bent over in the blowing breeze and peppered with pockets of whites, yellows and purples. And suddenly, it seemed, we were passing through a dense forested valley replete with birds flitting through the canopy above and a soft leafy bed beneath our feet. No difficult climb would be complete without some scrambling. Both arms and upper body strength were requisite in these sections of the route where it is necessary to hoist ourselves and backpacks, too, several feet straight up using rocks, crevices or tree roots as handholds The burning sun was relentless but fortunately the increasing elevation resulted in the air becoming cooler as we ascended... from 30C at the sea to 14C at the peak, the cool, thin air at the summit was indeed both refreshing and welcome. Even more refreshing is that because this mountain has a large television tower at the summit which requires regular maintenance, there is a service road from its base to the top, and, so we have an air conditioned taxi van waiting for us at the summit to whisk us back to town far below, all arranged two months beforehand!

The port town of Hvar on the island of Hvar has earned itself a reputation of being party-central for all of Croatia. Appropriately, ‎hotels, restaurants, cafes and all services cost nearly double compared to the rest of Croatia. In return we see the young, jet-set eastern Europeans at play. Thanks to a fortuitous twist of fate we are spending two nights at a $400-a-night hotel and get to partake, too, while in luxurious surroundings, enjoying scrumptious buffet breakfasts, cascading swimming pools with swim-up bars, a private beach and more. The town harbour is surrounded on three sides by numerous cafes and lounges that quiet down only at dawn. From what I can discern, most of the young revelers are drunk by 1am but stay out much, much later, likely requiring a review of selfies and friends' pics the day after to know how much they had enjoyed themselves the night before. Not judging, just saying. The hike that I had charted for this island took us through fields of wild lavender up to the higher reaches of the area. Unexpectedly, en route, we fell upon perhaps the world's only lavender festival, an annual event lasting two days in the tiny village of Velo Grablje. This town boasts a lavender mill where the plants are processed to produce their oils and essences. The next day we rented scooters and visited the other large town on the north side of Hvar, Stari Grad. Always to be remembered as the location where I enjoyed the best ice cream in Croatia, it will also be an overnight stop on my next visit to this country; besides the rich, cold, tasty ice cream, it is nearly void of foreign tourists, yet one can still rent a bicycle or charter a sailboat as well as choose from one of a couple of dozen quaint restaurants for al fresco dining along the picturesque harbour. One quickly becomes accustomed to, and thus forgets to explain, that every home, restaurant and shop in these ancient harbour villages was built centuries ago, by hand, from stone and mortar, with electricity and plumbing incorporated years later. The windows cut into the walls are ornate with carved perimeters, the cement railings along stairways and terraces are adorned with small statues, all the roofs are covered with the ubiquitous, Mediterannean, curved, red clay tiles. The streets in all the old towns are made from the same stone, worn smooth by centuries of pedestrian traffic. There are never cars in the old towns as even the widest streets are too narrow, but even so, motorbikes and scooters are forbidden. There are few street names and barely an assigned address in the old towns. Directions to a guest apartment or shop are given today exactly as they must have been two millennia ago, with a series of hand gestures and a reference to a clock tower or church. 

We went sailing on our first day in Croatia, around the Elafiti islands which spread north from Dubrovnik in the Adriatic Sea. Of Croatia's 1,240 Dalmatian Coast islands, 14 of them are Elafiti. One advantage of traveling in a group of ten is that we get to charter our own sailboat and so chart our own course!‎ We set sail for a nearby, uninhabited island, one which has an underground cave, that is to say, the cave is accessible by swimming under a natural arch made from the rock cliff above and entering thus. What I found uniquely exhilarating is that the daylight enters the inside of the cave by the underwater entrance as there is no other source of light. As a result our bodies are illuminated by an eerie blue light, but only from below. We all look like aliens to each other with a blue glow reflecting off our bodies, but only on the parts of our bodies that are underwater. The top of our cave is about ten metres above us and the floor is about the same depth below. The seawater is warm and buoyant making it delightful to swim and difficult to leave the sea and climb back into our sailboat. Did I forget to mention that here and everywhere else that we traveled, the water is unusually crystal clear? We can easily see down ten to fifteen metres and discern details on the sea floor! A little later, after sailing further north, we have docked at the smallest island fishing village, Sudurad on the island of Silovo Selo. It has only one cafe, where we all ate at a long table set up outdoors on their terrasse, shaded by a living roof made of a variety of flowering vines. This was to be the first of many, many meals shared by friends, at a long table with ample glasses of beer and wine, fish soups and salads, grilled seafood delicacies, banter and laughter, much like we often see in the movies wishing we could partake in the experience, too. Perhaps of all my memories of traveling through Croatia (and Montenegro, too), the ones of lunches and dinners will be the most savoured. We were without exception the only group to be living life 110%, from our midnight drinks on the top of a castles's turret in Korcula to our post cycling lunch at the Konavle winery south of Dubrovnik. How do I know? Because sadly, the majority of other diners spend a great deal of their mealtimes ignoring each other and their surroundings while silently texting somebody else somewhere else.

On that note, here's wishing you are living life, too, in whatever place you may find yourself today!!

Barry, now part Croatian, part Canadian

Postcard from Alpe d'Huez - 1,800 m elevation (postmarked 29 March 2015)

Hi!

‎There is no debating the unparalleled, spectacular views from Pic Blanc (3,330 m).  The colour of the sky is not just blue, but blue within blue; the snow capped mountains surround us 360 degrees around at varying distances, 10, 20 and even 30 km away, their peaks piercing the heavens and often caressed by wispy clouds. And the snow is not white but brilliant, bleached white, almost blinding. Notwithstanding the fierce struggles and tumult all around the world, it is eerily silent here, probably the same silence that a deaf person must experience. As though all this were insufficient, unlike anywhere else in the French Alps and for reasons unknown to man, there is most often a temperature inversion here, with the valley below our alpine village colder than above in the mountains, resulting in a blanket of clouds forming below our village, filling the valley completely. It seems as though our 240 kms of skiable slopes are on an island, suspended above a bed of clouds. Hence the name known locally, l'île de Soleil‎.

Now that I have diligently described to you our island of paradise‎, let's talk about skiing! What uniquely distinguishes this 'station de ski' is the 'hors piste' or off trail skiing. It is our guide's mission in life to steer us away from the groomed trails and into the most challenging descents accessible. We invariably start each effort by skiing under an out-of-bounds rope clearly identified with signs in several languages and various pictograms warning of the risks of falling off cliffs, skiing over rocks and getting buried in avalanches. Fair enough, but each of us is carrying a beeper in case we get caught and buried in an avalanche; and each of us wears a backpack containing a fold-up shovel and other instruments in case somebody else gets buried. Feeling safe, one by one we follow the leader, traversing along the very steep edge of a mountain, the left side rising seemingly vertically to its summit, the right side falling precipitously down to a nasty ending. Below my skis follow two narrow tracks as I concentrate on leaning very slightly left as I glide forward. Finally we arrive at a plateau. There are many at Alpe d'Huez and as we are far above the tree line, they are all barren, covered in virgin snow, interrupted by rocky outcrops which we navigate between.

This lunar landscape is most exceptional and disorienting, too, as the guide weaves his way forward and down, sometimes leading into a giant bowl 200 m long and equally wide where we can each find our own fall line to ski down fresh snow, leaving behind fresh tracks. Where he is ultimately leading us is to one of many couloirs, which are steep, narrow, snow-filled gullies, 300 or 400 m long, sometimes only as wide as the length of my skis‎, or so. Negotiating these narrow couloirs is as challenging as the sport can offer and I am frankly overwhelmed with pride if I manage the challenge well -- that is to say not every descent is as fluid and successful as I plan. 

This station claims to have the longest black diamond run‎ in Europe. My friends and I are good skiers but it still takes 15 minutes to get to the bottom which we normally save for the last run of the day -- the only run we make that is 'sur piste' or on the marked trails. The difficulty of skiing hors piste has its rewards: the shear pleasure of descending the mountain by way of the natural landscape, not always sure of where the next slope or turn leads. Incredulously, navigating the same vertical drop of 2,000 m as sur piste takes us over an hour. Once at the very bottom I am normally exhausted, beat up, overheated and blissfully ready to get back to Pic Blanc and do it all over again!

May all your runs take you downhill!

Pic Barry