Westwards

Against the wind into Luther country

For more photos from the Elbe Cycle route, click here (Czech Republic) and here (Germany)

After a stretch through the Elbe Sandstone Mountains with fantastic views, the cycle path enters the plains west of Dresden and Meißen, where the Elbe meanders lazily between old Slavonic settlements that it occasionally floods several meters deep.  Sometimes the path leads us far away from the river and we cycle for hours, once even for a whole day, without seeing the Elbe.

All the villages have names ending in –ig or –itz, like Aussig and Seydewitz, and "windmill" appears in street names with suspicious frequency. A pleasant southeasterly wind brings cold sunshine and tailwind.  But when it turns to the more typical western direction and we have a hard time cycling against the wind, we figure why all the tour groups on this stretch of the river are riding upstream and eastwards.

In Wittenberg, the birthplace of Martin Luther, an American tour group with earphones waddles through the historic Luther building. A sign in a corner pleads: "Help us sing A mighty fortress, today at 4 pm." Down the street, Luther posted his famous 95 theses on the doors of the Castle church in 1517. The door has been destroyed in a fire long ago, and today the theses are inscribed on a Bronze door. Several groups queue to have their photos taken, and then they queue at the slightly less famous public toilet of Wittenberg, which has its own facebook following and an international guest book.

From here, we ride through the fantastic park sites of Wörlitz and onto Dessau, home of the Bauhaus design school. After one week of cycling we arrive in Magdeburg and finish the first stretch of the Elbe Cycle Route. Apart from the unpredictable wind directions it was a pleasant enough tour, with many sightseeing opportunities and a variety of landscapes and cycle path styles.

A rough and charming cycle ride along the Moldau and Elbe

For more photos from the Czech part of the Elbe cycling path, click here.

„Did you try the Absinth ice cream?,“ we overhear a tourist asking his friend at the Charles bridge. The friend did not, but we did. It was green, soft and tasted slightly of alcohol. Prague was the starting point for our one week cycle trip along the river Elbe, or Labe in Czech.

The path runs along the Moldau River (in Czech: Vltava) for about 40 km before joining the Elbe in Melnik. The first day we took a very small old tow path along the Moldau over bumpy tree roots. Bouncing over one particularly big root, one of our saddle bags got loose and we could watch it roll down the slope. For a moment it seemed to come to a halt before it dropped hesitantly into the river. Fortunately the Moldau is a slow-flowing river and wasn't too cold that day. We were able to fish the bag out with a long stick – and all the sleeping bags inside where still dry. Gear-test passed…

Overall, the cycling route was rougher and less nicely paved on the Czech side, but it was also very charming and nostalgic, passing through several cute villages and towns such as Melnik, Roudnice, Litoměřice and Dečin, all with pretty market squares and Renaissance and Baroque town houses. Soon we began looking for the bakery in every settlement in preparation of the next bumpy trail, tasting our way through sweet Bohemian specialties, most of them involving yeasty dough, poppy seeds and curd. As the area is also a wine growing area we tried the Czech versions of Grüner Veltliner (a popular Austrian variety) and red St. Laurent wine.

For the first two days the weather was sunny with temperatures close to 30 °C. On the third day, temperatures went down to frosty 10 °C, and around noon we passed the Czech-German border near Bad Schandau.

Coming soon: More about the stretch between Bad Schandau and Magdeburg.

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Through black mud towards the Yellow Lagoon – Hiking in the Sangay National Park

For more photos from Ecuador, see: February 2012
After 3 hours of steep uphill hiking in ankle-deep mud we reach an almost mud-free meadow. There we meet two American hikers walking back down. , but they dampen our optimism: „The mud stays with you up to the Refugio, only it's going up and down from here on.“ We had read before that the path might be muddy after heavy rainfalls, and it had indeed rained a lot this year. But we suspect that the locals riding up and down to the high plain on horses are blameable for the better part of the quagmire.

At least the rain only starts after we have reached the Refugio, a simple mountain hut where we have a  quite atmospheric if moderately tasty dinner with two Czech guys in the light of the sole remaining candle (the Americans have used all the candles, and there is no electricity in the hut). The next morning, El Altar, the craggy 5319 m high mountain that we have briefly seen yesterday, is deep in clouds, but we go for the Laguna Amarilla below it anyway. This time, there is no path at all for the first hour, but once we have crossed the Collantes plain and start going up to the 4270 m high rim of the basin containing the Laguna, a clearly defined hiking path materialises. Another hour later we have a stunning view over the lake and some snowfields beyond it. The mountain itself does not show for the rest of the day while we scramble down the rocks, go cross-country over the plain and again wade in mud all the way to the start of the trail 1200 m lower near Candelaria.

 

Conclusion: Beautiful landscape, uncomfortable hut (at 12$ per person per night a bad value) and too much mud.

El Altar and the trail to the Laguna Amarilla are part of the vast Sangay National Park, designated as UNESCO World Heritage site for its extraordinary biodiversity. The complete GPS track can be downloaded here: Download ElAltar.gpx (428.3K) (Copyrighted material, only for personal use)

A trip to the Laguna Quilotoa

For more photos from Ecuador, see: February 2012
The bus winds its way up through the valleys to 3800 m of altitude. In contrast to the weather prognosis we got from several people, the sky is still fairly blue when we arrive at the small village of Quilotoa. We quickly check into a hotel and make our way to the turquoise blue crater lake before the daily afternoon rains set in. The Laguna Quilotoa is said to be one of the most scenic spots in Ecuador. But as soon as we start our descent towards the Laguna, thick fog and clouds drift over the rim and quickly fall into the crater. Within minutes, the Laguna disappears and heavy raindrops splash onto the already muddy path. Unimpressed, the construction workers in charge of preparing a tourist-friendly concrete footpath down to the lake change into sturdy yellow rain-gear, huddle at the side of the path and do not move anymore until the rain stops again. Only one of the men asks us whether we really want to walk down to the lake. A few minutes later, a red and a blue tent-shape materialize out of the fog: Two Germans in rain ponchos hiking back up. „Very slippery and nothing to see,“ they confirm. We half-heartedly continue for another 50 meters or so, catching glimpses of water and coast before we also turn back. When we reach the rim again, the sun is also out again and the Laguna Quilotoa lies calmly and beautifully blue at the bottom of the crater. The workers are taking off their oilskins and reach for the wheelbarrows.

The afternoon rains stay with us for the rest of our three-day-hike through the area: We start early in the morning, arrive around 2 pm at a hostel and stare out into the grey foggy rain for the rest of the afternoon. But by the evening, the sky clears up, and so does our mood: The hostels along the way serve very good food...

We walked from Quilotoa to Sigchos in 2 ½ days. Day 1 Quilotoa – Chugchillan, Day 2 Chugchillan – Isinlivi, Day 3 Isinlivi – Sigchos, where we took a bus back to Latacunga. Our GPS tracks can be downloaded here: Download Quilotoa-sigchos.gpx (392.2K) (copyrighted material, for personal use only)

Shaky knees in Tierradentro's tombs

For more photos from Colombia, see  January/February 2012   January/February 2008

Small coffee and banana plantations line the steep path up the slope. Suddenly we stand on the Aguacate ridge overlooking yet another deep valley But the ridge itself appears almost perforated by dozens of curious overgrown holes. They are shaft tombs – underground caves dug out over 1000 years ago as secondary burial tombs for whole families.

The tombs of Segovia and El Duende on the other side of the valley are better preserved, with stark geometrical designs in black, red and white that look like African tribal patterns. But the steps leading down into the tombs are so high and steep that they leave us far more exhausted than the hike up to Aguacate in the morning.

Five archaeological sites and two museums in the UNESCO World Heritage Tierradentro area can be visited on a one-day hike from the village of San Andrés de Pisimbalá. Our GPS tracks for the trail can be downloaded here: Download Tierradentro.gpx (171.6K) (copyrighted data: for personal use only)

 

Walking near the edge

For more photos of the Via Algarviana, click here
Hiking the Via Algarviana means not only geographically reaching the end of Europe. In the low-developed backcountry of the Algarve, time has stood still for centuries, it seems. Tiny old women in black never seem to leave their villages. They grow olives and almonds, use communal water pumps, and those who are too far off to get meals on wheels spend their days in the village bar with a simple pre-ordered lunch service and friendly greetings by the few customers. Apart from bread, alcohol and black coffee, hikers have to bring everything they need.

Trekking in the Simien Mountains

 
Spectacular landscape between Gich and Chennek

The path is winding moderately upwards through dry grasslands. The landscape looks like a bavarian pasture after an unusually hot summer, lazy cows included. Wassi, our obligatory scout, is striding nonchalantly ahead, but we are soon out of breath. When we reach the edge of the cliff, looking down about 1000 m, we remember that we are at the height of the highest Alpine peaks. Up here the air is thin.

Far below us, the fields and villages of the Ethiopian highlands stretch out, and from an isolated rock a deer-like animal stares up, attentive but unperturbed. A rare sighting, we learn, of the shy walia ibex that is endemic to Ethiopia. The gelada baboons lousing each other near the campsite are far less nervous about visitors, and thick-billed raven (also endemic to Ethiopia) cleverly extract edibles from plastic bags just as their brethren in Berlin do.

Cooked on the rented, basic kerosene stove, our food is nothing to be envious of, we think. Even Wassi, our scout, who brought nothing but two stone-hard pan-baked breads on the six-day trek, suspiciously inspects the pasta. No meat? “We are vegetarians!,” we explain. Wassi, it turns out, is a religious man, and Ethiopian Christians observe a plethora of fasting rules and periods. For the duration of our trek, he is strictly vegan – but always thirsting for that good Ethiopian coffee, with a lot of sugar. Perhaps it is the lack of sugar that makes us so slow on the slopes...

Mallorca, or: Where are the tourists?

In November, there are more sheep than tourists on the sun island. The beaches may be disappointing at this time, but the long-distance hiking path through the mountains offers great scenery and exhilarating views.

For more Mallorca photos, see http://westwards.typepad.com/photos/mallorca_201011

Two lone tourists are sitting in the small strand bar sipping their café con leche. Everything else is closed in Sant Elm, reputedly a stronghold of Swiss holiday makers. But the barkeeper refills our water bottles, and we continue our way into even lonelier mountains.

Indeed, we only find an open shop two days later, and over the next few days only encounter a few farm workers and locals picking mushrooms, carrying baskets or paper bags. The rare tourists can be identified by their daypacks and walking sticks.

The first stretch of the GR 221, or Ruta de Pedra en Sec hiking path, is not marked at all. From Port d’Andratx until Estellencs, there is no shop and almost no water, and in spite of GPS navigation we sometimes miss the right path.

But the strenuous hiking is easily compensated for: From the mountain ridges above Sant Elm there are wonderful views towards the rocky island of Sa Dragonera. Later, we pass a former Trappist monastery secluded in an almost inaccessible valley and climb to isolated mountain passes of sheer rocks and wild rosemary.

 

Lovely days on the coast

„Take warm sweaters. It’s always cold in Wales“, Helen had advised us. We packed all the raingear, warm underwear, and gloves, expecting the worst.

At 17 degrees and a hint of light rain, we shiver, lamenting that we didn’t bring our woollen hats for the day trip to Blaenavon. But the woman with the shopping bag waiting for the bus next to us smiles: “Lovely day, innit? So sunny!”

“Lovely day!” It’s a standard greeting among the walkers, and indeed the cliffs shine in bright sunlight, there is no cloud to be seen. Manorbier beach is full of holiday makers sitting in folding chairs. Children build sandcastles with specialised buckets in turret shape. We wouldn’t think of dipping into the ice-cold water, as some do. But the British vacationers, we noticed, have sensibly brought their wet-suits.

After a week of walking along the Pembrokeshire coast, the sunny weather still holds. “Lovely day,” we smile at the day trippers. “Isn’t it – it’s not so hot today!,” an elderly woman in a pink summer dress replies.

In a café in Solva, one of the customers nods understandingly at our backpacks. “Strenuous stretch from Newgale, isn’t it.” She then recounts that the weather was fine, too, when she walked the Coast Path a few years ago. “It doesn’t really rain as much here as most people believe,” a shopkeeper insists: “We’ve hardly any rain for weeks!”

For two weeks, we walk in sunshine and a pleasant breeze. Perhaps the Welsh bad weather is just a rumour, or we were just lucky – admittedly, it did rain the day after we had finished our walk. The only drawback was a heavy backpack full of gear we didn’t need.

Hiking the Zugspitze

Hiking up to the top of the Zugspitze from the German side and back down to the Austrian side took us three days. At 2962 meters, the Zugspitze is Germany’s highest mountain.

(For more photos from Germany, click here: May/June 2007  May 2008  August/September 2008  October / November 2008  August 2009)

 

Day One

A string of coloured flags is fluttering across the Partnach stream. Hikers and mountain bikers step gingerly into the ice-cold water of the stream to cool their feet, or down huge glasses of beer and Apfelschorle (apple juice with mineral water) to cool their heads while a helicopter is delivering fresh supplies to the Angerhütte.

Sherpa Gyalzen has been working on the hut every summer since the 1990s and brought a touch of Nepal into the Bavarian Alps. This evening, the hut's manager plays the dulcimer for the guests. There is not much to do on a mountain hut except for music, beer and cards. Around 10 pm everybody retires to the dormitories. It was a fine sunny day and thus the hut is quite crowded, two people on each mattress.

 

Day Two

“It's not far now!” The cheerful elderly lady smiles encouragingly at every hiker walking up. “Downhill, I've been walking seven minutes now!” Indeed, ten minutes later, the Knorr Mountain Hut comes into view. After a short break we continue, still facing a few hours more of uphill walking. Beyond a field of gravel on one of the many rocky outcrops around us, we spot a modern building. “But where is the Zugspitze?” Natascha complains. “We should be able to see it by now.” The modern building turns out to be a large platform with the Munich House, Germany’s highest mountain hut, a few fast food cafeterias and summit souvenir shops, and a German as well as an Austrian ropeway station. Everybody seems to be busy on the cell phone, calling Mom and Dad and friends to tell them where they are right now.  Then, they have a beer and take the ropeway down.

Day Three

“Republic of Austria,” a metal sign behind the wire-fence declares. At the Gatterl, about 2000 meters high and opposite the Knorr Hut, the German-Austrian border is marked by a proper gate. Perhaps it's only to prevent the cows from changing sides. The rolling green mountain pastures on the southern side of the mountain range seem impressively Tyrolean to us. A couple of middle-aged Nordic Walkers walk briskly past a small pest chapel. Both have taken off their shirts, and she is walking in an XL-sized dark blue laced brassiere. A group of senior citizens push their rented mountain bikes uphill. The Austrian village of Ehrwald can’t be far away.

Japan’s introduction to Alpine tourism

Until the 19th century, only Shinto pilgrims visited the inhospitable mountains of central Japan. The British missionary Walter Weston was the first to appreciate the beauty of this region as a holiday destination, likening the mountains to the European Alps. Today thousands follow in his steps to re-enact Switzerland.

(For more Japan photos, click here: 2006,  2006 (Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage), February / March 2009, April 2009,  May 2009, June 2009)

What a breathtaking sight: Mount Yarigatake, the Japanese Matterhorn! The British missionary Reverend Walter Weston spent a few years in Japan in the 1890s, climbing some of the highest peaks in the country during his holidays. The more triangularly shaped Jônendake he likened to the Weißfluh, and in 1896 he published his musings on Japanese Mountains as „Mountaineering and Explorations in the Japanese Alps.“ Thus the Japanese got their very own Alps – and eventually the urge to book five-day tours to the “Swiss Alps”, to see the real thing.

From Switzerland, they also adopted a penchant for cable cars and gondolas. The most famous route for crossing the mountain range of the Northern Alps involves no less than 7 different vehicles: Trolleybuses, cable cars and ropeways. In summer it is also possible to cover some of the distance on foot instead. Then, thousands tramp over the wooden planks prescribing a path through the moorland and admiring the Alpine flora..

June, however, is still winter at Murodô / Tateyama (2500m). The road for the trolleybus has only been opened in Mid-April, dug through a 20 m high covering of snow. From the plain of Murodô we look down on the local campsite: a few coloured tents on a lot of white. “Just follow the bulldozer tracks to reach the campground!,” the ski lift operator advises before swishing down the slope.

Only a handful of campers have carved shelters for their tents into the high snow mountains. “Last week we had winds of 80 km/h,” remarks Ashley, an Australian outdoor fan. Mary-Joe, a hardened French Himalaya climber, spends the night outdoors in her sleeping bag, just to save some packing time in the morning. And Daniel from Brazil, a part-timer at one of the hotels, practices high altitude running in his free time. He hopes for a career as a professional marathon runner.

Even Japan’s oldest mountain hut in Murodô, which has been turned into a museum, cannot yet be visited because the tiny wooden structure is still covered with snow. Originally it was built in 1726 for pilgrims set for the holy mountain of Tateyama. Today, Murodô consists of half a dozen “mountain huts,” huge buildings with double rooms and showers for the pilgrims on the “Tateyama Alpen Route.” Most stay only for a night, diligently taking photos of the Tateyama mountain, of the rare Japanese ptarmigan, which is less shy than anticipated, and of the volcanic activity in the “Valley of Hell” before heading to their next trolley bus.

A week later we meet a descendant of Reverent Weston’s local mountain guide, Kamonji Kamijô. The family is now operating a restaurant near Kamikôchi, in a different part of the Northern Alps. Reverend Weston presented his guide with a used Ice Axe which is still displayed proudly above the charcoal grill. With his book and his enthusiasm for the mountains he gave the whole region prosperity – thousands of camera-wielding tourists yearning for “local specialities” to try and then bring home as souvenirs make for better customers than the old pilgrims of late, who took on great discomfort to visit a shrine built on a 3000 m high mountain top.

“The Weston Festival? I don’t know exactly what happens there,” the employee at the Kamikôchi Tourist Information apologises. “After all, I always have to work in the information centre! But I heard that it is very nice.” We are just preparing for a two-day trek and want to know what we are going to miss. Apparently a few women sing a song about the mountaineering exploits of Reverend Weston near the memorial plaque put up in his honour. There is also a small procession in his memory, but without any costumes. Solemnly, the official adds: “Reverend Weston can’t take part unfortunately, because he is already dead.”

Hiking the Nakasendo

In the Edo Period, the Nakasendô (“the way through the mountains”) was one of the main roads connecting Tokyo – then known as Edo – with the provinces. Traders and craftsmen as well as local rulers had to travel along these mountain paths. Near Magome northeast of Nagoya, the mountains and forests are particularly dense, and civilisation seems to be particularly far away.

(For more Japan photos, click here: 2006,  2006 (Shikoku 88-Temple Pilgrimage), February / March 2009, April 2009,  May 2009, June 2009)

Here, time has stopped. Or else it has been turned back. The houses are built from wood, and no electric wires and satellite dishes are to be seen. A postman in indigo-dyed uniform and with a round straw hat, cloth shoes and a wooden box slung over his shoulder is delivering letters. The steep stone path continues up over the pass, but the locals don’t go there – nor do they know about bus timetables or accommodation beyond the mountain pass. It is the neighbouring prefecture and therefore very distant. In one of the small shops we talk to a wrinkled old woman who gives us a jar of Fuki-Miso as a present. Fuki, she explains, is a bitter spiky flower that grows in early spring in the deep forests. She has been out to collect it herself and mixed it with miso paste to sell to the tourists.

“Hen hao!” “Zhege ma?” Suddenly a group of Taiwanese tour group is swarming the one narrow road leading through the village. They fill all the souvenir shops, eat Goheimochi, the flat rice cakes covered with a delicious sesame-walnut paste, and constantly bump into each other taking photos with their mobile phones.

Behind Magome the bus tourists peter out. The path now leads through freshly planted rice paddies and bamboo groves. Three day hikers from Nagoya point out a dôsôjin stone, a votive tablet dedicated to the god of journeys. Just before the post station of Ochiai the old stone pavement has been restored and the winding trail leads through a shady green forest that feels cool even on a sunny day like this one. Soon we pass a traditional teahouse.  A man with long grey ponytail and several rounds of Buddhist prayer beads around his neck is adjusting something at the little Shinto shrine in the garden. “My, isn’t it getting hot,” he opens a conversation, only to state a few sentences later: “What I like about Japan is that the religions don’t fight here.” We agree and resume our path.

In the days when the Nakasendô was one of the major roads connecting the distant provinces with the capital, the teahouses and inns were divided by rank: Some would only serve the high-ranking Daimyo and other travelling dignitaries, while others catered for the common people.  Most of these establishments had to close in the 20^th century when a railroad was built serving the area.

“It is forbidden to sell drugs or counterfeit money,“ announces a wooden sign high above our heads, while another one explains the details of payment for the stable boys. The announcement boards, which were built to symbolize the government’s high authority, have been re-erected in recent years for the benefit of tourists eager to discover the Edo Period.

“It is only in the past 10 or 15 years that people have started to hike the Nakasendô for entertainment,” explains Ogiso-san. He is 70 and has recently moved back to Ôkute. His family has owned the house in the small Nakasendô post station for over 300 years. Ogiso-san leads us to the village elder, as we are looking for a place to pitch our tent for the night. The local elementary school has been closed down 5 years ago, for lack of children, and we get the permission to stay on the disused athletic field. In the evening Ogiso-san shows up with beer and potato salad and it turns out he and Isa went to the same university in Tokyo.

The next morning we take the school bus down into the valley to the train station, where we board a train for Nagoya and return to present-day Japan.

From O to W - trekking the Torres del Paine

(Click here for more photos from Patagonia)

High above Lago Paine, the Patagonian wind hits: A particularly strong gust sweeps us off our feet and into the aptly named bushes of prickly heath. We lick some blood from our pricked fingers and continue into the valley and towards the campsite at Lago Dickson. It is our first day of the Paine circuit trek in the Parque Nacional Torres del Paine and we have had to change in and out of our rain gear several times during the hike. “So, this is the notorious Patagonian weather!,” we think, nodding off to the sound howling wind and dropping rain.
The next day the weather is still unsettled. A skinny Brit is walking in sneakers and with no other rain gear than a “mac in a pack,” a garment like a plastic bag in raincoat shape. He is carrying no tent, and the next campsite where he can rent one is about 10 hours walk away, according to the map. “Oh well, I like adrenalin things,” he says casually while examining his blisters.
Although the 6 to 8-day “circuit” is well-marked and not particularly demanding, it is considered as the real “challenge” in the park, and to our surprise we meet no other women-only groups on the trail. In comparison to the more popular “W” route on the southern side of the mountains, there are fewer refugios here, and the trail crosses the often stormy Paso John Gardner, at 1241 meters the highest point on the Paine circuit.
When we walk over the pass, we are lucky to have excellent weather and none of the dreaded wind at all. On our way up, we even have leisure to pick some tasty pink berries from those bushes of prickly heath for our breakfast cereals.
From the top of the pass we get the first amazing views onto the Grey Glacier. Its fractured ice sheets are stunningly blue, as is Lago Grey, the lake beyond. Chunks of light-blue ice are drifting in the greyish-blue water. A certain type of artificially blue candy popular in our childhood, which was called glacier bonbon, comes to our minds. And indeed, the “Paine” in the park’s name means “pale blue” in an indigenous language.
This night we stay at the Campamento Los Guardas, one of several gratis camp sites in the park.
“Do you know what is wrong with my stove? Yesterday it worked!” Two boys are fumbling with a liquid fuel stove, complaining that the gasoline is just flowing over. Like them, most of the hikers we meet have apparently never pitched a tent or used a camping stove before renting one from their hostel in the nearby town of Puerto Natales. Their lack of outdoor experience and consciousness of environmental pollution is obvious near the campsites and along the trail. Often the banks of little fresh-water rivers are littered with toilet paper, and we meet people merrily sitting in the streams covered in soap and shampoo, proud to match their own image of a hardened outdoor guy.
“Are you coming to the bar? Two Pisco Sour for one during the happy hour – I don’t even know what it is, but everybody is talking about it…,” a German woman is pleading with some new acquaintances. We have reached the W-route, which allows trekkers to move only short distances between comfortable refugios and take in the spectacular lookout points up in the valleys as day trips from there. In this part of the park the agreeable Chilean national drink made from grape spirit, lime juice and sugar is readily available and accompanied by stunning views over the oddly shaped peaks from the bar window. Even Isa admits after the second drink that another two would be entirely acceptable.
On the last day we get up at 4:45 to see the sunrise at the famous “towers,” the Torres del Paine. At first the rock is just disappointingly grey, but suddenly its colour changes to a baby pink and then into a flaming orange. On our way back to the campsite, we come across some more prickly heath bushes – for a delicious berry breakfast.

Taking the milk bus to the mountains

Camping at the Laguna de la Plaza  (click here for more Columbia photos)
“Si Señora, and a pound of cheese.” The shop assistant takes one of the big round pieces of soft local cheese out of the fridge. It is 5:45 in the morning and still dark, but the small grocery store at the plaza in the village of Cocuy is already open and well visited. Men wearing brownish woollen ponchos and quite fashionable brimmed hats are having strong coffee and a sweet Danish pastry before starting their day.
We pack the cheese carefully in the top pocket of the bag-pack and board the daily milk bus, the only way of transportation to the pastures above Cocuy. The milk bus is a veteran school bus that has four blue 180 litre milk barrels installed in the rear, instead of seats. Apart from the poncho-clad local farmers we are seven tourists on the bus, and as soon as the first snow fields come into view the Columbian family puts on sun lotion and UV filter sun glasses. The bus stops every few meters and a local with visibly Irish ancestry collects some bottles, buckets or canisters full of fresh creamy milk, while the driver precisely notes down the quantity.
After a bit more than an hour the bus finally drops us at the entrance of the Parque Nacional Natural El Cocuy. At 3700 m, the air is crisp and chilly, and we are looking forward to our hike to the Laguna de la Plaza. “An easy day hike of about seven hours,” the girls at the park office had assured us. Although the path rises very gently, we are soon panting and have to reduce our pace. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea to do the trip from the Caribbean coast up into the eastern Cordilleras in just two days, we realize. We decide to stop every 30 minutes in order to make sure we drink enough. For a while this plan works out quite well. Between podgy succulents we progress, somewhat short of breath, through the dry mountainous landscape. After about 2 hours the path becomes steeper and we pass some turquoise blue lagoons that have formed in clusters amid swampy yellow pastures. Snow-capped mountains with names like Pan de Azúcar (sugar loaf) and Pulpito del Diablo (devil’s pulpit) peek over the lower crests. “This evening we can make a great risotto with onions, carrots and this yummy-looking white cheese,” we are still discussing our menu when we begin to notice a faint pressure in the forehead and the sinuses. We shorten our walking-resting rhythm to a ratio of 25:10 minutes and strive for the Cusiri pass, at 4300 m the highest point in our route. Despite the recommended frequent rests and drinking a lot of water we both feel miserable by the time the pass comes into sight. “No, thanks, I don’t feel like eating” Isa faintly declines a cookie. Checking our different maps for the route on the other side of the pass, we find out that the pass is more likely 4500 m high than 4300 m. “Huh, but we aren’t acclimatised!” With the added psychological momentum our stomachs rebel. We decide to track back to the small lagoons and to camp there. In about half the time we had needed uphill we reach a nice campsite, but it takes us ages to put up the tent. Every bend forward to fetch something out of the backpack, or even more difficult, to hammer the tent pegs into the ground, leads to sharp pain in the head and a disgusting accumulation of saliva in the mouth. “Urgh, the cheese! I’ll put it here outside the tent!“ The mere thought of risotto makes us feel sick. An hour later we drop onto our thermal mats. “Is this my sleeping bag?,“ Isa asks feebly before nodding off.
The next morning we feel much better. We find that the word “risotto” evokes positive associations, and after a hearty breakfast of porridge and coffee we make a new attempt climbing the Cusiri pass. This time we have enough breath to marvel at the views, and at yesterday’s turning point, we triumphantly eat some crackers.
From the Boqueron Cusiri (the sign posted here gives its height as 4410 m) we descend on a steep gravel path into the next valley and through boggy terrain up to the next mountain pass. Patio Bolas is just 60 m lower than the Cusiri pass, but we feel still fine and can enjoy the yellow and red shrubs and cactuses. Nevertheless it takes us about 6 hours to reach the Laguna de la Plaza at 4300 m, and we are glad when we can pitch our tent at the designated campsites at the shore.
This evening we have a delicious risotto, and although the temperatures go below zero during the night we sleep very well. The next day we hike all the way back to the road, where the milk bus passes in the morning and brings us to the village of Guican, from where we take another bus back to Cocuy.

In the cloud forests of the Sierra Norte

“Seat numbers 19 and 20, departure time 8:30,” the friendly clerk at the Flecha de Zempoaltepetl bus company tells us. A number of people are already lingering in the waiting area. Old women with long pleats clutch huge bunches of flowers, their orange blossoms wrapped in newspapers. A shaky octogenarian with a crumpled hat changes in and out of different jackets and sweaters several times while continuously rearranging the contents of his plastic bags. At 8:20, a rickety bus arrives, and everyone crowds around it. “We have numbered seats: there is no need to rush,” we think but bustle forward anyway, just in case. A worn tyre is being rolled out of the bus and away into the terminal. The driver gets off the bus with a small wrench in his hand and sets to work on one of the front wheels. This seems to take longer, and the passengers sit down again. After a while, the driver gets back on the bus and starts test-driving it back and forth. Once more, a hopeful crowd forms at the gate. Apparently the repair failed: the bus drives off. Finally, at 9:10, another bus arrives and we and our fellow passengers quickly take our appointed seats and fill the luggage rails.

In Cuajimoloyas, a village over 3200 m high in the mountains, we are immediately ushered into the “information module” where Evencio, our guide, already awaits us. He is 45, somewhat stout, and wears a baseball cap. “The villages around here have traditionally formed a community to use their resources together,” he explains. “The forests, for example, are all village property.” Eight years ago, the tourist office of Oaxaca, the nearest city, initiated an eco-community project designed to let tourists experience the diverse nature of the Sierra Norte, populated mainly by the indigenous Zapotecs. The trained local guides explain the numerous plants of the cloud forest, and visitors can stay in purpose-built huts or use designated camp sites in each of the five participating villages. There are small restaurants in each locality. The fees for accommodation and use of the services are used for the whole community, Evencio tells us. “The villagers are quite happy with the project.”

Soon we pass enormous agaves, some of them with inflorescences up to 6 or 7 m high. They flower only once in 20 or 25 years, we learn – “but this is not the right variety to make pulque, the traditional alcoholic drink.” Those are smaller, and we see them later in the day. The deeper we get into the forest, the stranger it becomes. Weird-looking trees tangle around us, most of them covered with hairy moss that is hanging down in strands from the branches. Some trunks are dotted with bromelias: sturdy red flowers that sink their roots directly in the bark and look rather like a demanding variety of potted plants.

After a few hours hiking in the deep forest, we emerge onto the rim of a deep valley. A brief vista over very green mountains and valleys stretching to the horizon before we steeply descend about 1000 m into the canyon. With 15 kg of camping gear in the backpack, there is not much time for looking at the local flora. When we finally arrive in Latuvi, we are happy to pitch our tent, explore the one and only shop, and cook a dinner of rice, potatoes and beans with cheese. That would have been the vegetarian option in the restaurant, too, we are told later.

The next day, light rain starts as soon as we set off, and it doesn’t stop for the next 28 hours. It becomes clear how the cloud forest got its name and how flowers can grow high up on a tree trunk without being parasites. On the old stone steps of a prehispanic trade route, we saunter along a small river, while the canyon closes in on us. Suddenly, Natascha stops: “What is this? A piece of black rubber?” But then the small fire salamander slowly moves. It looks like a toy, with a skin like chocolate pudding and orange cream and very cute feet. “Don’t touch it!” Ricardo, today’s guide, rushes back: “It is very poisonous! If it bites you, you will die within three or four hours.”

In the early afternoon we arrive in the small hamlet of Lachatao. It has 400 inhabitants, claims Elena, the restaurant owner, but the perceived population is 20 at its best. We are told to pitch our tent on the lawn in front of the large 17th century church of Santa Catarina. In the evening, just after dusk, the door of the church is open, and a faint light flickers out of the interior. Curiously, Isa takes a closer look. The cramped interior is lighted by numerous candles, and in the front row three old women are eerily praying and singing.

The next morning it is still raining. We stuff our wet tent in a plastic bag and climb on the back of the camioneta, a pick-up functioning as a local bus. The only other passenger is Michaela, a 55 year old woman in a grey woollen sweater who is going to the market “because in Ixtlan food is fresher and cheaper than in the village shop.” Michaela seems to be less enthusiastic about the eco-tourism project. “How much did you pay Elena for dinner? And how much did it cost to camp in front of the church?” she enquires suspiciously. It seems that she is neither familiar with the aims of the programme, nor feels that she profits from it.

In Ixtlan, we only have to wait for five minutes until a crammed bus arrives that will take us back over the mountains, to Oaxaca, the big city. Our fellow passengers are land folk with woollen jackets and large bags, going to the market. It is still raining, and on the mountain passes the fog is so thick we can barely see the trees along the road. The adolescent driver chats merrily with his similarly youthful conductor and sings along with the schmaltzy songs his tape recorder roars through the bus. When we arrive in the valley of Oaxaca, the sky clears up, and the passengers take off their jumpers and head for the market.

R. Messner vs Count Trauttmansdorff

Botanical Gardens in Merano

„Have you seen everything?" the elderly man in braces staffing the cashier and book stall at the Messner Mountain Museum Ortles ("MMM Ortles") asks us with a schoolmasterly air. Yes we have. In fact, there is not much to see in the first place, nor is it particularly interesting. Without any recognizable order, oil paintings of glaciers and snow-capped mountains, especially of the 3905 m high Ortles/Ortler, the highest mountain in the region, cover the walls. Some pictures bear a dedication, but most lack any information regarding the place name and the painter. In a small dim room we watch a video alternating between snowy mountain images and excerpts from some speeches by Reinhold Messner. It takes us minutes to figure out that we are already watching the documentary on Hermann Buhl, a famous mountaineer of the 1950s, rather than the waiting loop. Also on exhibition is the tent Messner used during his North Pole expedition. Isa is surprised. „I thought he does only high mountains?" But the hostile weather conditions are the same in the pole regions and on extremely high mountains, and we begin to suspect that this is what appeals to Messner in the Vinschgau region.

„For once we are not going to shirk the rain," we decide stubbornly in the face of the dark clouds and continue our hike on the Goldsee Trail. 10 minutes later we are marching through a hail shower that eventually gives way to light snow. And after a further 20 minutes, the sun comes out again. The capricious weather slows down our hiking pace considerably as we have to change in and out of our rain gear several times. Like most paths in the Vinschgau Valley, the Goldsee Trail was built during WWI by the Austrian army. Caves hewn into the rocks like hollow empty eyes dot the hillside. German-speaking Southern Tyrol then belonged to Austria, and here ran the front line with Italy, complete with bunkers, forts, and cannon positions all the way up to the Stilfser Joch.

"It’s amazing what one is able to do! I never thought we would make it up here," the young mountain biker standing up in his saddle says over the shoulder to his friend following close behind. The mountain pass at the Stilfser Joch connects the German-speaking Vinschgau Valley with the Italian-speaking Veltlin Valley by a road winding up in 48 switchbacks. With inclines of up to 18%, the 24 km-stretch covering 1800 altitude meters is clearly much beloved by gasping cyclists. Even today, groups of men in black and yellow spandex tights have made the strenuous tour and now have a well-deserved Bratwurst at the stall run by an earthy indigenous with a white beard, a traditional Tyrolean hat, and a very peculiar accent.

To escape the damp cold in the mountains (and in our tent!) we move on to the quaint little town of Merano, 1000 m deeper down in the valley. Merano has been called a spa town since the 19^th century, without actually having any mineral spring. A smart mayor had the idea that the mild climate would be ideal for winter treatments and thus invented the concept of a climatic spa – long walks propped up with grape cures and healthy whey drinks. Mineral water containing radon was only discovered in 1933, and it took Merano until 2005 to open a real Thermal Bath. Nevertheless, the concept worked: In 1870 the Austrian Empress Elisabeth (Sissi) and her daughters spent the whole winter in Merano, making the town one of the most en-vogue spas for the European aristocracy. During her visits Empress Elisabeth stayed in the gothic castle of her friend Count Trauttmansdorff, who is more famous for a creamy rice dessert named after him. A few years ago, the huge Merano Botanical Gardens have been opened on the grounds of Trauttmansdorff Castle. Hillsides full of exotic plants grow eagerly in the mild climate – and yet the gardens feel somehow empty. For us, it is the image of the travellers of old who, often under dangerous conditions, brought unusual seeds from distant shores, and of amateur scientists categorising and drawing the plants, that gives Botanical Gardens their atmosphere. In the gardens of the Trauttmansdorff Castle everything is too new and well-cropped, without any shadows of the past. But at least it is warm, and we continue happily on the "Sissi Path," taking in the mansion where Her Majesty’s horses were lodged and the hotel where her brother once stayed.

Half-way to Italy, half-way to France

The Stockalper Palace in Brig

„To Milano“ is written on the yellow road sign, and a cardboard announcement at the fence of a chicken farm promises „Polli freschi” – fresh poultry. A stooped woman carrying a watering can shuffles along the narrow cobbled alley towards her tiny garden. Geographically we are still in Switzerland, but houses built of coarse stone blocs, crooked lanes and Italian names on the gravestones behind the church give Simplon Dorf the feel of Bella Italia. From the Swiss town of Brig we have just hiked over the Simplon Pass to the southern side of the Alps. Although this trading route has been used since Roman times, it was not until the 17th century that Kaspar Jodok Stockalper, a merchant from Brig, developed it and started a prospering trade in salt and silk over the Alps. Stockalper also launched a postal service by horse and shortened the delivery time of a letter from Geneve to Milano to only 8 days in summer, or 10 in winter. Originally from an already wealthy family, Stockalper became indecently rich over the years. To show off this affluence he built a sumptuous palace with an arcaded courtyard and three square towers topped by gilded onion domes in his home town Brig. His family became influential in regional politics for generations. Not everybody liked Stockalper’s grandeur, however, and his pious motto (which he had written on the wall of his dining room) did not help: „Sospes lucra carpat.“ The meaning of this anagram of Casparus Stockalper is “God’s favourite should skim the profits.”

After two weeks in the German speaking Upper Valais (Oberwallis) we headed for the French speaking Lower Valais (Unterwallis) to visit a friend we had met in Uzbekistan last September. Nicole lives in Les Collons, a small village in the Val d’Hérence. “It is not a proper village” she explains, “Just a resort village: It doesn’t have a church.” And indeed, although Les Collons has three streets lined with chalets (named after their altitude Les Collons 1800, Les Collons 1850, and Les Collons 1900), it is strangely deserted in summer. “Only 50 people live here permanently,” Nicole tells us. From her balcony we have a breathtaking vista over the Bernese Alps to the left and to the snow-capped Matterhorn to the right. On the opposite site of the valley we see several “real villages” with church towers glued to the steep slope of the mountains.

“Pop! Pop!” Through the thin tent tarp we hear the soft noise of corks being pulled out of wine bottles. French (and French-speaking) campers meet all our expectations: Sitting in their flower print camping chairs they have lengthy four-course dinners accompanied by numerous glasses of the local wine. Of course they brought porcelaine dishes and proper wine glasses. After all, wine has been grown in Valais for centuries. Poor farmers from these rugged valleys used to go abroad as mercenaries (the famous Swiss Guards in the Vatican are from Valais), and many brought home different kinds of grapevines to try on their local soil. Some of the vineyards are 1,000 metres above sea level, making them the highest ones in Europe. We especially liked the white flowery Fendant. Mostly, however, we stuck to the tasty Swiss tap water – we will soon enough be in regions again where potable water is rare. More Alps for now, but after the summer we will be off to Central America.

 

Rice Balls and Raclette below the Matterhorn

Coming up the mountain, we suddenly see about sixty Japanese sitting on the lawn in front of the Riffelberg Mountain Hut. Most of them wear thin cotton gloves and hats with big screens against the strong sun. Some have clipped their sunhats to the collar of their chequered shirts, in case a sudden strong breeze comes up. From their open knapsacks they take out Onigiri, rice balls wrapped in seaweed, that smell oh so Japanese.
In the course of their “Swiss Alps in Seven Days” tour, every Japanese tour group visits Zermatt. They are shuttled up to the Gornergrat ridge in the historic cable car to get a good look at the famous Matterhorn and the other 28 snow-capped 4000m peaks in the area. From the ridge, the groups walk down a couple of cable car stations over the green meadows, admiring the Alpine flora. In front of the Riffelberg Hut, they then have their pre-packed Japanese-style lunch while they marvel at the characteristic, slightly bent peak of the Matterhorn. As on most days, a frothy white cloud adorns the eastern side of the peak like a fancy plume. The Matterhorn certainly looks unclimbable, and until 1865, nearly everybody thought it was.
Six times had the British mountaineer Edward Whymper failed to climb the Matterhorn from the Italian side when his attempt from Zermatt met with success on 14 July 1865, just ahead of an Italian party. On the descent, however, one member of his group slipped, carrying away three more climbers into death. Only the breaking of the rope saved Whymper and two guides from the same fate. Although a formal investigation as to whether the rope had actually broken or had been cut freed Whymper of any charges, this terrible incident haunted him his remaining life. Today the broken rope from the first ascent can be admired in the Matterhorn Museum of Zermatt. Since 1865, many climbers successfully reached the peak - among them the 23 year-old Theodor Roosevelt in 1881.
Numerous others died during their attempts. Their graves can be visited on the mountaineers’ graveyard behind the small village church. Tombstones with sculpted ice axes, or even with real ones attached to them are common. We even see a grave with a crucified Christ adorned as a climber, axe and rope hanging from his dead body.
The village of Zermatt is very much geared towards tourists. The main road is lined with souvenir shops and sports shops, selling everything Swiss, from chocolate to watches and pen-knives. Among the day trippers and tour groups mingle serious mountaineers with ropes slung around their shoulders, ice axes and crampons fixed to their backpacks.
No cars are allowed into the village. Yet there is a constant reverse gear background noise, created by legions of small electric vans buzzing through the streets. Even the local police whizzes around in a dark blue plastic box.
On our hikes around Zermatt we keep meeting Japanese. “Konnichiwa,” we smile at every one of them, eager to practice our Japanese. “Konnichiwa…” Most don’t even notice. “Eh, ‘Konnichiwa’?” Some do. “Nihongo daijōbu? You speak Japanese?” One middle-aged woman takes the opportunity to ask how far it is to walk to Zermatt. Is the path very steep? And we have walked up all the way? Excitedly, she keeps grabbing our elbows while talking. It is her second visit to Switzerland, but the first time in Zermatt. Tomorrow they will visit the Jungfraujoch and stay there at the hotel, at an altitude of over 3000 m. In the evening, walking back to the campground, we see the Japanese staff of the restaurant “Fuji of Zermatt” in traditional garb, having a quick cigarette in the backyard. But from the other side wafts the cheesy smell of Raclette.

Wutaishan: a Buddhist holiday destination

Playing badminton in the courtyard of our hostel.

(Click here for more China photos - June - July - Sunday Market)

We had spent several hours in a cramped minibus winding up the mountains. When we finally reached the pass of the mountain, the Wutaishan (五台山) valley lay before us. A group of fellow travellers got off the bus to climb to the temple at Yedou peak, one of the five holy mountains after which the area is named.

Wutaishan is one of China’s sacred Buddhist mountain ranges. More than 100 temples, most of them Lamaist, are scattered across the area. Because of the remoteness of the region, they have survived the cultural revolution nearly intact.

The temples with their strings of colourful prayer flags, their photographs of important Lamas and their prayer wheels were beautiful, but it was the atmosphere that got us. Taihua, where we stayed, is a small tourist village in the centre of the Wutaishan valley: nearly every house was a restaurant, souvenir shop, or lodging. Apart from a few Western and some more Chinese tourists, their customers included scores of monks and nuns belonging to various Buddhist sects.

During the day we saw them eagerly touring the temples, praying and chanting. Some ran clockwise around the white stupa containing Buddha’s relics or approached a mountain temple in the slow traditional pilgrim’s way of kneeling and stretching out on every third step.. In the afternoon and evening, however, they had some time off. Then they went shopping around for religious goods in their vivid robes (red, orange, yellow, grey or brown, depending on the sectl). Like the other tourists they had an ice-cream or a Coca Cola and showed off their new sunglasses and sunhats. Once we saw a nun ringing the various models of prayer bells in a shop, trying to find the ideal one for her.

A group of about 10 young Tibetan monks stayed at the same hostel as we did. All of them were very curious about foreign countries and we regretted our poor Chinese.
We went off hiking in the surrounding hills for a day. Although the mountains are not that high, there were few trees but many alpine flowers, including Enzian and some sort of Edelweiss (at least we think so). Cows were mowing on the green meadows. None of the paths was clearly marked, and some just disappeared somewhere in the pastures, but occasional stone heaps and scarlet cloths in the bushes indicated that these were also used by pilgrims.
So we were again on a Buddhist pilgrims’ route!

88 Pages of Shikoku

“We are now at Temple Nr. 45 of the 88-temple pilgrimage, the Iwayaji-Temple. The main hall is up here, the Kobo Daishi hall is on the left side. Be sure to be back at the bus down in the parking lot in 20 minutes,” the guide urges her group of about 20 Buddhist pilgrims clad in the traditional white pilgrim’s garb from head to toe. It is ten past seven in the morning, and we watch them hurry through the temple grounds, busily lighting candles and incense, offering their name cards (inscribed with their name and a wish) and rattling breathlessly through the Diamond Sutra in front of the main hall and the Kobo Daishi hall.
Meanwhile, their bus driver hauls two huge bags up to the temple office. They contain the group’s pilgrim’s books and traditional scrolls, all to be stamped and signed with a beautiful calligraphy (300 Yen each).
After 20 minutes the group leaves on time. This was their first temple for today and there are still eight to go until five in the afternoon. With this tight schedule the tour groups cover all 88 temples in 11 days.
The 88-temple pilgrimage was established by the 9th century Buddhist saint Kobo Daishi, who was born on Shikoku at the site of today’s temple Nr. 75, Zentsūji temple, as the son of the local ruler. A widely travelled monk and founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism, he brought not only religious impulses, but also modern engineering and agricultural innovations from China to Japan. His followers believe that completing the pilgrimage and being buried with the pilgrim’s book will bring them closer to paradise.
Today most pilgrims do the 1440 km tour by bus, car or taxi. But as there have been a number of documentary programmes as well as a feature film, “Road 88” by Nakamura Genji, walking or cycling has become increasingly popular. Not all pilgrims are deeply into Buddhism, as an elderly man in full gear explains. “I’m not really that religious. This is the fourth time I’m walking – it’s good for my health.” On the other hand we also met Imakawa-san, who was on his 121st round (80 times by car and 21 times by bicycle). “The pilgrimage gives me mental power,” he said. “If I concentrate, I can move those dark clouds.” At least it did not rain that afternoon.
The bicycle is also the transport mode of choice for an unlikely group of pilgrims: the homeless. A growing number of long-term pilgrims just keep circling the island. From No. 88 they continue on to No. 1 and start all over again. For them it is a socially acceptable form of being out-of-society, and they prefer the pilgrim’s life to the blue tarp tent in a public park in Tokyo. One of them, a mid-forties cyclist in blue training slacks and a white singlet muses: “Sometimes I think I should return to a normal life and look for work, but the Buddha protects me well. And, you see, Kobo Daishi is so kind to me…” and he proudly shows us the Buddha sticker on the tail-light of his heavily laden bicycle.
We walked the Shikoku Pilgrimage in six legs, the final one, temple No.44 to temple No.88, in April. When we walked for the first time, seven years ago during a holiday, our main interest was hiking in a rural part of Japan. But we became more and more enchanted with the land and the people of Shikoku, an island full of greenhouses and rice paddies, old hunchbacked Japanese working in the fields and quirky culinary delights such as eggplant soft ice cream.
At first we felt a bit like impostors: not being Buddhist, we didn’t participate in the religious rites. Eventually we started reading the Diamond Sutra. Chanting to (foreign) gods felt strange and daring. But with some practice, reciting the Sutra made us slow down from the continuous movement of the pilgrimage and let us appreciate the temples. At temple No. 81, Shiramine temple, we even bought one of the conical pilgrim’s hats to reach our goal in style.
“Congratulations! You must be exhausted,” a fellow pilgrim greeted us warmly when we finally arrived at Okubo temple: Nr. 88. He handed us some sweets and his camera. “Could you please take a photo of me in front of the main hall?”