Chamois and Gypaetus Barbatus

My friend Buck arrived today from the United States to run Saturday's cross-country ski marathon. Having not slept in some 36 hours, he turned in early and I am using the quiet evening to write. You'd think that all my evenings are quiet, but that's not the case. Last Friday Brigitte arrived for the weekend, so the evenings were spent in conversation. Monday was rumauntsch class, yesterday the detective movie on TV. It's the only night of the week when I watch TV, and invariably one or another friend calls. Ruthlessly, I tell them I'll call back at 9pm when I know who the murderer was. So last night it was Pierre. I had just hung up with him when Paul skyped from Brussels, and after that long conversation it was Eric's turn! All much fun, but not what I would describe as a quiet evening. And this morning at 8:15am I was back on Skype, this time with sister Francoise in Australia!

One of the conversations Brigitte and I kept coming back to was the reconnecting with my father's second wife and her son. For those of you who don't know: Mom died in 1970. Dad remarried in 1972 and separated from that wife in 1977. Shortly afterward he got into a relationship with the woman who would be his partner for the next 30 years, until his death. Some of you also know that Jocelyne, Dad's partner, declared a few years ago that she couldn't stand me. She also gradually cut Dad off from most of his friends, and eventually estranged herself from the whole family. She last visited Dad a whole week before he died and did not come to the funeral. Despite my sisters' efforts to reach out to her, she no longer is in contact with us. However, just as we were losing her, we reconnected with Dad's ex-wife. It was a difficult marriage, we didn't like her, we all were hurting from our recent losses (she was widowed as well). Her son came to Dad's funeral and reintroduced himself to us. He is now in his 40s - I had neither seen him, nor had any news from him since I emigrated to Canada when he was 13. One thing leading to another, Brigitte visited Marcelle (the ex-wife) last week, and had a really pleasant time. It is quite ironic that we are reconnecting with this difficult and painful past, but in a very positive way, as we are grieving not only for our father, but also for Jocelyne whom we all used to like.

We've just had a terribly cold week - probably record breaking, to hear the locals complain. The only sign of spring is the fact that the days are getting longer. The river, which was running unobstructed just a week ago, is again freezing up in many places. Much strategy is required for any ski outing or walk. The cold takes a lot out of me and I need to eat to keep my energy, but it's too cold, really, to stop to eat. Fortunately the area is dotted with mountain restaurants that are eager to serve hot drinks and goodies. Sometimes I scarf down a sandwich just before getting off the train, to make sure I can make it all the way to the next warming opportunity before hypoglycemia hits. Those of you who have been hiking or skiing with me, know what I am talking about. Skiing or walking is ok despite the cold while the wind is in the back. On many days there has been a bitter cold and strong east wind that's no fun to deal with. Sometimes I can barely see the trail because my eyes water despite the glasses. And when I get home I am exhausted. I thought I was becoming a wimp until I realized that my sister was even more tired than I am!

At least, some of these cold days were also absolutely gorgeous. That means a cloudless sky, ice floes sailing down the river, steps and ski poles screeching in the cold dry snow, and the 4,000 meter tall peaks huge, clear, towering above the glaciers. I took advantage of these sunny days to explore a couple of high altitude side-valleys. At times the beauty of it all is almost overwhelming. With Brigitte I saw chamois (a goat/antilope kind of animal) and Gypaetus barbatus, Bartgeier, a huge vulture kind of bird recently reintroduced into the National Park and now expanding throughout the valley. On my own I skied to the mouth of the Morteratsch glacier. Said mouth actually is an ice cave. While in the summer it's dangerous because of crumbling ice, in the winter the cave is stable and safe to visit. A feeling of awe and timelessness, since this ice now visible to my eyes has been part of the glacier for perhaps hundreds of years, and also a feeling of loss, since the glacier itself is shrinking at a scary pace. When I was a kid the hike to the mouth was indeed substantially shorter.


All would be fine if my back wasn't acting up again - for no reason. Today was spent alternating walking up to the train station every hour to pick up Buck (I didn't know when he would arrive) and lying on my bag of frozen peas! I hope that between the peas and the Aleve I'll be ok tomorrow!