Val Bregaglia

Forget what I wrote last week. I had to pull my turtle necks back out of the drawer. It seems that our spring matches the Oregon one - horrible. According to the paper it's the worst since the early 80s. Today it didn't rain. It's hardly good news though, because instead it's been snowing most of the day! All of last week it was too rainy, too windy, too cold for my taste to ride the bike I brought back from Lausanne now almost a month ago. Finally, on Thursday I carried it up from the basement, put on the sticker (yes, bikes are licensed) and tried to inflate the tires... I only have a small hand pump - and failed miserably. Fortunately Pierre was coming up for the weekend, and he rescued me, or the bike, or my ability to ride the bike! So yesterday, after he left and after the rain finally stopped I went on an inaugural ride. I only went for 15 minutes, because it started to rain - hard. I took shelter for a while, but it was obvious that it was not going to stop any time soon, and I rode home under the driving rain. Today I went for a walk - no interest in testing the bike amid flurries!

So the weather is responsible for a few very low key days. I didn't mind, since I had been on the go quite a bit over the last few weeks, and since I was expecting Pierre for the weekend. We were planning on doing a good hike on Saturday. The unstable weather and the low snow line restricted our choices. Pierre, following his mountaineering nose, picked a great one. The only drawback was some 2 hours travel time each way, but then many hikes out of Portland are that far. Also, the road to the trail head was very scenic. We went to the Val Bregaglia, one of those valleys, like the Val Mustair, that extends south of the Alps and has better connections to Italy than to the rest of Switzerland. We first took the train to St. Moritz. There we boarded a bus that took us by the 3 lakes of the the Oberengadin, St. Moritz, Silvaplana and Sils. At the far end of Lake Sils is the Maloja Pass, from which the road drops by some 10-12 switchbacks steeply into the Val Bregaglia.

Our hike was all below the tree-line, which means also below the snow line. I was not eager to repeat the experience of the previous week. There was some sun, a few drops of rain, a partial view of the mountains across the valley, several impressive water falls, and, above all, fields and fields of wildflowers. We hiked from Vicosoprano to Soglio, along a panoramic trail at the mid-mountain level. Soglio is extremely picturesque and sits on a hump overlooking the valley. The houses are very different from the Engadin, with the roofs made with slabs of granite.


Meanwhile the kids are back in school after a 3 week break. The valley and the town have been very quiet. Most businesses had their yearly closure and neither the tourists nor the locals were in town. Even the main road hardly had any traffic. With the kids back in school things are slowly becoming more lively. Still, tomorrow I am leaving again, just for a couple of days, to travel to St. Gallen to visit my aunt. I'll cook a couple of meals and go shopping for new bedding. At 92 she decided she wanted to sleep in the "nordic style", which is how most folks sleep now in Switzerland: no upper sheet, no blanket, just a huge down comforter!

The pictures:

1. Vicosoprano
2. Some woman by some waterfall between Vicosoprano and Soglio
3. Above Soglio

In case you missed it: my April pictures are now posted on Picasa: http://picasaweb.google.com/irenevlach/April2010#

Vercorin

The timing of my traveling period was perfect: the unpleasant transition between winter and spring is over. I am sitting by the open window, finally wearing a t-shirt and no socks. I had forgotten how good wind and sun feel on the skin.

On Friday morning I was awaken early by the sun peeking into my room through the east window. The calling, screeching, screaming swallows made sure I was not going to go back to sleep. Sipping my orange juice by the big living room window I marveled at their flashing white bellies, lit up by the still low sun in a perfectly blue sky. It was going to be another exciting day, as I would travel around Switzerland to spend the weekend in the Alps of south western Switzerland, in the Valais, roughly between the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc. My friends Christiane and Gilbert invited me to spend the weekend with them in Vercorin, a village suspended between the Rhone Valley and the sky, on a knob at the entrance of one of the valleys leading south, deep into the mountains at the border between Switzerland and Italy.

Train #1: Zuoz - Sagliains
Train #2: Sagliains - Landquart
Train #3: Landquart - Zurich
Train #4: Zurich - Bern
Train #5: Bern - Visp
Train # 6: Visp - Sierre
.. and the most colorful part of the trip: bus from Sierre to Vercorin, 40 minutes of switchbacks, sections of the road carved into the cliff, most of the time so narrow that the cars coming down had to stop or even back-up to let the postal bus through.

I arrived late afternoon but my friends were not going to get in until late. So, following Christiane's directions, I found my way to their place, walking some 20 minutes uphill, first through the picturesque village, then through the fields. Vercorin is at a lower elevation than Zuoz and spring was clearly further along. The wind was singing in the pine trees and crickets were calling out the first day of summer weather. Since I was ahead of the weekend crowd, the village was very quiet and not one car passed me on the road.

I met Christiane and Gilbert in the mid-70s in Geneva. Christiane and I already shared many memories, including mountaineering, a skiing vacation in Andermatt, and 3 weeks in Greece in 1975. In the 80s they moved to the Neuchatel area, which allowed me to easily stay in touch. Christiane teaches biology at my former high-school, Gilbert was my Dad's doc when he was hospitalized in 2002. Despite the proximity, our visits were always too short, a couple of hours or an evening stolen away from Dad, with the corresponding feelings of guilt. Now all the parents have passed away, the children are on their own, and therefore we again have time to share, time not only to tell each other about our respective lives, but also to discover how we have changed, or not, over the last 35 years. It was such a delight to find out that we still approach a day, and life in general, in much the same way. Gilbert played Faure's Requiem, Christiane with much patience pointed out the many architectural details of the chalets and church of Vercorin. We relaxed, hiked, and of course, ate well and sampled the many excellent local wines.

As I mentioned above, we also built new common memories, and the one that will stand out is Saturday's hike. The start was deceptively easy and relaxed. The plan was to make it to high elevation (Tignousa, above St. Luc) with a cable car. Except that it goes only once an hour and we just missed the noon one. So we walked back into the center of St. Luc, for "l'apero", i.e. a drink (and I don't mean water) before catching the 1pm cable car. The arrival was a high meadow. We were greeted by a marmot and happy wildflowers peppering the slope. The temperature was perfect - it was going to be a gorgeous hike to Chandolin, about one hour. How come we didn't notice that we were sliding into an unpleasant situation? It happened gradually, and by the time we realized we were in trouble we already couldn't make up our minds on whether we should back-track or forge ahead. This is how our hike to Chandolin took 2 hours, of which 90 minutes of traipsing through the snow, mostly up to the tops of our thighs, sometimes to our waists. This, of course, on a slope, often quite steep. The redeeming factors were the knowledge that we had many hours before nightfall, the weather was stable and therefore despite wet and cold feet and legs, hypothermia was not going to be an issue, and, or course, we had plenty of food. The modus operandi was extreme caution because a twisted ankle or knee would have been disastrous. Thank God, we all had our hiking sticks, we all were experienced hikers and we never lost sight of the trail because, very once in a while, between 2 snow fields, we could see a few feet of trail. My bad knee behaved itself and despite my fears, was none the worse the next day. However, the muscles of my good leg, which did the brunt of the work in the snow, hurt so much that on Sunday walking was really painful - which didn't prevent us from going on another hike, but at a cautious lower elevation.

So, here I am, staring out my big window, at the mountain across the valley, trying to gauge how low the snow still is in the woods. Perhaps it's time to get my bike out, and stick to the valley bottom biking trails for a few days. I am not eager to do more stomping around in the snow, although I am afraid I'll run into more snow than hoped for well into the summer.

I am now home for a month. The good weather will also bring back friends to Zuoz. By the way, thank you, Christiane and Gilbert for an absolutely delightful time in your gracious and fun company, in your gorgeous mountains. And thank you, Brigitte, for a quiet evening in Villars on my way back to Zuoz. It was so much more pleasant to travel back this morning in the empty and quiet trains rather than last night's crowds.

Pictures:
1. Anemone printaniere (Pulsatilla vernalis)
2. Village of Grimentz
3. The mountain in the center is the Matterhorn

Finding roots

I returned from Austria this afternoon. It's nice to be back home, although I probably won't be here for very long. The weather has been the worst ever since I left, either extremely cold, or rainy, or both. I am just returning from an evening walk to get some exercise after the many hours on the train. There were flurries, and understandably, the larches still haven't greened up. Fortunately I had been smart enough to pack a wool hat for my trip - because I wore it a lot!

I left last Tuesday, right after lunch to go to Landeck, in the Tirol, where Roswitha, my cousin's wife, picked me up. It's exactly 100 km from Zuoz to Landeck. It took me 3 1/2 hours. The first hour was with the little red train, to the end of the line - no big deal, except that the bathroom was closed. I had planned on using it since the rest of the journey was going to be by bus, and I knew those buses don't have bathrooms. In case you are not familiar with the regional geography: the river Inn, which flows by my house, leads all the way to Landeck, meaning that you can get from here to there following the valley. This is how it happened on previous trips. This time, though, at the Austrian border, the bus, with me as the only passenger, climbed up the mountain on the south side of the valley, at least 10 switchbacks, and way up there, joined with the road of the Reschenpass, which leads from Landeck to Italy. At the crossroads is a village, Nauders. I think in the winter it's a ski area, but on that day it felt as abandoned as Zuoz. Up here I had to switch buses, as it's the turn around point of the Swiss bus. The driver was kind enough to show me the bus stop for the Austrian bus. I had a 35 minute wait. The stop is on the outskirts of the town, between fields. No bench, no roof, no toilet, no restaurant, nothing but a sign by the side of the road. And a cold wind, and it started to rain. Gradually I pulled all my successive layers out of my suitcase. Finally the bus arrived. Except for two kids, about 3-4 years old, I again was the only passenger. They each had a huge lollipop and sugar all over their faces. The bus rolled into town itself, stopped, and the driver and the kids got off - to return all cleaned up. Now we could start our trip down to the valley in earnest. The same amount of switchbacks, and the kids doing acrobatics all over the bus, walking from the back to the front on the backs of the seats, half hanging from the ceiling. The dad (the driver) thought it was a lot of fun, enjoying the show from the rear view mirror.

Meanwhile I was petrified, scared that a kid was going to lose his balance in one of the switchbacks, or that the proud Dad was going to drive the bus off the edge because he was watching the kids instead of the road. All of a sudden we came to a stop in the middle of nowhere: road construction. A backhoe was in the middle of the road, and no worker in sight - we were going to be here for a while. Pretty quickly a line of semis formed behind us. And all those men got off their vehicles, including the young twins, to relieve themselves at the side of the road! To entertain themselves during the long wait the twins took turns at the steering wheel of the bus, playing with various switches, opening and closing the bus door, with both me and their Dad on the outside. The Dad reassured me that they were not strong enough to release the emergency break... Fortunately, once we got going, the trip was smooth to the end. I suspect that the twins fell asleep because it was very quiet. Since nobody got on, we made up for lost time and I arrived just about on schedule.

Roswitha drove me to Strengen, a small town some 15 minutes from Landeck, on the road of the Arlberg pass. This is where my paternal grand-father came from. Roswitha, her husband Guenther, their son Wolfgang, his wife Kitty and daughter Hanne, all live in the old family house. My own father took me there for the first time in the late 50s. We returned periodically, about every 10 years. I was welcomed back with the warmth and kindness so typical of our Austrian relatives. Each times it feels so right, so good. We get reacquainted, catch up, share more good times. As a gift I brought a book from my father's library and they appreciated very much to have a something tangible to remember him by. Many ghosts and memories crowd the house. All those from my father's generation have died, but the old family house, the town, the torrent, the covered bridge, the chapel in the woods, all remain mostly unchanged.

On Thursday I travel further east, to Salzburg. My paternal grand-mother is from Hallein, a small town to the south of Salzburg. There I was welcomed, again with much joy and warmth, by cousin Ingrid and her son Wolfgang. They were kind enough to organize a dinner with son-in-law Gusti and his partner Suzie. Salzburg is one of my favorite cities. I have been there several times, starting in 1964 with the whole family. Most of my visits were in the summer when the city is invaded by crowds of tourists and it was a pleasure to experience it during a less popular time - although there still were a good number of folks, as the marathon took place on Sunday and all the athletes were about town. Ingrid took me to the Celtic museum in Hallein, famous since before the Romans for its salt mine. My parents honeymooned in Hallein, and we visited the pastry shop where they used to hang out. Many ghosts and memories in Salzburg/Hallein as well. In 1972 I spent Easter there with my sister. Our uncle Pepi introduced us to two young men and we spent a night dancing to Sargent Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band album. The men still remember us, one of them now is Ingrid's doctor, and he sent his regards. Unfortunately he was out of town for the long weekend! Despite the excitement of being back in Salzburg, the most important aspect of the visit was to spend quality time with Ingrid and her son, to catch up, to rediscover each other - and we did! Last night, as I was packing, she gave me one of her authentic Austrian hats - something I will treasure forever!

So today was the return journey. I opted to not repeat the adventures of Tuesday and took the Transalpin train into Switzerland, a detour as far as miles go, but definitely more pleasant and no longer than the trek by bus via the mountain passes. Despite all my travels in various parts of the world, the Transalpin will always be more exciting than any airplane. Today was especially delightful, with very few people on the train, which made for a very quiet day. Nobody spoke beyond a few words of politeness, the young man across the aisle was working on sheet music. An hour or so after leaving Salzburg we were again following the Inn, which I can now hear under my window.

It was a quiet week in Zuoz

This is the first afternoon I am spending entirely at home since my arrival. I am feeling somewhat guilty, because once in a while the sun makes it through the clouds, and I hate spending a perfectly good day indoors. But, I wanted to get some things done before setting out again tomorrow for a week of visiting relatives in Austria. Among others I had to study for tonight's rumauntsch class - this course's last one. Over the weekend I contacted a few fellow students to gauge their interest in asking the teacher to continue with private classes. No level II course will be offered before September, and we are a small committed group that would like to take advantage of the current momentum. Now the question is whether the teacher is interested. I also justify this afternoon's idleness with the fact that tonight I'll walk to class. It was transferred from Samedan (15 minutes from Zuoz by train) to S-chanf, the next town down the valley - an easy walk. Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon out in the cold, hoping to identify some new birds. Today, in the comfort of my home I could observe a couple of kestrels cruising back and forth in front of my window!

So this was a quiet week in Zuoz. I am always amazed how time flies even in idleness! It's an opportunity to absorb more of my surroundings and learn. The big event was the opening of the fishing season. The papers featured various articles about fish, the fisheries, eating fish, etc. It's another sad story: just about all waters have been impacted by hydroelectric projects and therefore it seems that most fish are either non-native, or surviving only through massive human interference: the adult fish are caught when ready to spawn, "milked", i.e. both the eggs and the sperm as pressed out of them, and released again. The fertilized eggs are then kept in a secure facility, and the young fish are raised in ponds until they are released into the rivers and lakes, ready to be caught by the avid fishermen. It's not exactly the industrialized fish hatchery as we have them in Oregon, but there's hardly anything natural about the fish's life cycles. Shockingly, the questions of wild vs man-hatched, of habitat and biodiversity have not been raised in any of my readings.

Hunting is also very popular in the region. The management of game is very sensible. A few years ago, the agency responsible for wildlife decided to ban supplemental winter feeding of big game (deer, elk, chamois). Instead most of the forest was closed to human access during winter. All the trails, both cross-country and hiking, that I have mentioned over the last few months, are primarily located in fields, or just at the edge of the forest. This closure allows the animals to roam freely, without any disturbances causing them to waste energy. That means no snowmobiles, no heli skiing, not even snowshoeing. Having spent the last few years of my life supporting efforts to close areas to snowmobiling and to limit heli skiing to protect wintering animals, this appears like a very sensible and progressive management decision.

I have been fairly open about my quandary, extend my stay here, or move back to Portland in the late fall, as per the initial plan. A few days ago I drew a table, with the pluses and minuses of both staying here and moving back to Portland. All it did, so far, is highlight how difficult the choice will be, as well as the fact that once again, there will not be a perfect choice. Living here is very much in synch with my values: a quiet and simple life, almost no stores, no need for a car, nature at my doorstep rather than a 90 minutes drive away. And yet, I do miss my garden, the farmers markets, fresh produce, my friends, and above all, the relative ease with which I can visit my kids. So today I paid a visit to the real estate agency for a reality check. I was hoping that once we sell the apartment in the fall, with my share of the proceeds I could buy another apartment for myself, smaller, less luxurious, without the front row view. The reality actually was quite a blow. Unless I find a well-paying job, there's no way I can afford another apartment!

The discovery about the forbidding price of apartments in Zuoz comes on the heels of a job interview - just last week I was interviewed for a job as English teacher for adults! They desperately need such teachers in the valley, and I am pretty sure they will offer me at least one evening class per week, starting in July. It's not paid very well, certainly not enough to afford another apartment, but it's a foot in the door, something to close the gaping hole in my resume, and one more networking opportunity.

Sunday's NY Times has an article on the Engadin (thank you Claire): http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/05/09/travel/09next.html?pagewanted=2&hpw

In case you missed it: my March pictures are now posted on Picasa: http://picasaweb.google.com/irenevlach/March2010#

Le Plat Pays

I am back in front of my big window, looking at the mountains. The fields are greening with a white fuzz of wild crocuses. It looks like even the larches, the predominant trees of the forest across the valley, are about to leaf out (needle out?). The old snow has receded further up the slope but new snow has sprinkled the lower reaches. Considering how cold it was at the lower elevations over the last few days, I am not surprised. Did you notice how I am dressed on the picture?

Here I am, musing about the weather, fully aware that I am avoiding tackling the more difficult subjects. Many of my readers have been extremely generous with compliments about my writing - which now ups the ante for me. What were the salient events of the last few days? How can I describe them, and at the same time extract some meaning from them? I don't want this blog to read like a travel log. However, turning my not terribly interesting daily life into a story is a daunting challenge. Today I toyed with the idea of stopping the writing, but it feels like I would not only let my faithful readers down, but also myself. I decided that it's good for me, both for my soul and for my brain, to rise to the challenge, and therefore I'll make another attempt, with the help of a cup of tea.

Last week, returning from the Swiss lowlands I just spent 3 days at home before going on my next trip. Barely time to do laundry and repack before leaving for Brussels one more time. I got home earlier this afternoon and will be here for a week.

It was fun to travel to an unfamiliar part of the world. I visited Brussels on Friday, Amsterdam on Saturday, Brugges on Sunday - a city per day. Those of you who know me are aware that I usually prefer to travel more slowly. I would have liked to spend more time in Brussels, to get a good feel for the city. I actually had spent time in each of these cities in 1970, on my first trip abroad ever. In 1971 I spent a whole week in Amsterdam - my high school graduation trip with my school mates. In those days it felt like I was very far from home, while this time I was awed by how close everything is. It took me only 6 1/2 hours, door to door, from my friend Paul's place to my sister's in Lausanne! Amsterdam was only 2 hours by train from Brussels, Brugges even closer. Paris is just over an hour from Brussels.

I am not a shopper, but I was enchanted by the shops, especially the candy stores. Each one was a marvel of decorating, color schemes and delicacy. Belgium is known for its chocolate, but cookies are also popular. I saw a store selling all things made of or relating to honey. One for olives and olive products. There was the hardware store carrying exclusively items for house boats.

Because we were so much on the go, we took most of our meals in restaurants. This was a great excuse to sample some of the many local beer, the traditional frites et moules (French fries and mussels), and gauffres (waffles). Ordering risotto in Brussels, though, was a mistake.

Belgium of course, also is the home of Tintin, the famous comic character. I am sure my kids know in which book the chinese boy appears along with Tintin and Milou.

Amsterdam was a major disappointment. Filthy like no other city I have ever seen. On the flight home, I asked the Dutch man sitting next to me how such a rich and popular city could let garbage become a problem of this magnitude. I was reassured when he explained that this was exceptional: the day before had been the Queen's birthday, with much partying, and since the garbage men are on strike, all the waste was still around, much of it in the canals. Not a pretty sight.

Traveling within Europe felt both strange and familiar. At times I had a hard time figuring out where I was. It was fun to speak French despite having left Switzerland, except that Paul and I speak in English to each other. Paul and I met in Canada in the late 70s, and with all our banter about the old days, once in a while I would have to pinch myself to bring my awareness back to our present location, Brussels, Amsterdam, Brugges. One day while we were sipping coffee on a sidewalk cafe, a woman sitting close to us, hearing us speak English, asked me where I was from. How can it be so hard to answer such a simple question? I stuttered, half French, half English... Switzerland, hum, US. She made things even more complicated by asking where in Switzerland: Neuchatel, hum, Zuoz... At least I am not the only one with this predicament. It seemed that in the Brussels/Nethelands area, everybody speaks 3-4 languages, and most people I interacted with have lived in various places on earth. Starting with Paul. While I feel equally at home and attached to Portland, Zuoz and Neuchatel, he doesn't feel attached to any place. We had a conversation about where we'd want to live if we could live anywhere. My choices were between the above 3, Portland, Zuoz and Neuchatel. He picked cities where he has never lived before. Would it be easier for me to figure out the next step in my life if I were more free, if I didn't build such strong bonds with places? Can I change?

The point of going to Brussels, etc. was not for sightseeing, but to catch up with Paul - and catch up with did, every night to almost 1am! Several times I was so lost in our conversation that I would forget where we were. While I am a little frustrated because there was no time to visit these beautiful cities in depth, I definitely feel that we caught up with each other, got to know each other much better and discovered that we can have a grand time together.

Thank you, Paul, for being such a gracious and patient host. And thank you Brigitte for one more time letting me spend the night at your place. The bottle of wine from Dad's cellar and the accompanying conversation were the perfect end to another great trip.