Category Archives: Travel

Getting There…

Link to Morocco Part 1: Marrakech

Mercedes with 527,000km

Our Joy Rider (with Rolling Stones headlight decor)

Taghia is tough. Getting to Taghia sets the tone. I met Juan, Alvaro, Carlos and Heraldo at the Marrakech airport at 7:45, just after the northern African sun had set and the night began to cool. My four companions had arrived together and were waiting for both me and the hired car to arrive. We took the car Juan had arranged with our gear haphazardly strapped to the roof for the next eight hours.

The trip was not too far but the car was old. All night, oncoming cars flicked their high beams at us. Where the lights aimed was the least of the things to worry about in this old Mercedes but apparently not everyone on the road could see that. The speedometer ticked off a marvelously low 0 kph though I am certain we did about 90 kph (56 mph) at times. Fortunately the mileage gauge stuck at 527,000 km so we didn’t have to worry about how far we went (for when we had to walk back). The young driver made two roadside stops after using his cell phone light to check the engine temperature gauge. During the stops he popped the hood and refilled the radiator while we four burst from the back seat to have a stretch and a piss while Juan laughed from the front. I wouldn’t say we were uncomfortable but with four men in the back seat two had to lean forward nearly the entire ride for space reasons. By one in the morning this was not a problem as we figured out we could place one of our bags on our laps and lay forward on it to sleep between potholes.

Berber Woman

Young Berber woman on the side of the road to Taghia

As we neared Zaouia (after a two-hour detour to buy necessities) the road became less and less “finished.” At some point a lug nut detached itself from inside the right rear wheel. Luckily the hub cap kept it from escaping to the road and it only clanged along with us into the mountains rhythmically. In one of the very small towns we had come to, the boy pulled to a stop next to a large house that was under construction. From behind a cement wall lumbered a large Moroccan man, greeting the boy and then us. Juan valiantly tried to communicate to find out where we were and what was going on but gave up with a shrug of his shoulders as he told us he was pretty sure we had further to go and that the man would drive us now.

Less than an hour further along the four of us in the back seat jumped from our dazed state as the bottom of the car bottomed out on a large rock. The man stopped after scraping the overloaded car backwards off of its perch. We got out and helped him move a large boulder that seemed to have intentionally been placed in the middle of the dirt road. A hundred meters on and we stopped again. Another large boulder. Beyond it two more lying together. We moved them all and walked along beside the car to keep some weight off the low rider. When we found a spool of high tension power line we stopped and conferred. The car wasn’t going on… the road was clearly blocked for a reason. Without much debate, and hoping Juan knew where we were from his previous trip, we grabbed our bags and started marching.

Farm fields on the way to Taghia

Corn and potato fields on the way to Taghia

By four in the morning the silhouettes of a few small structures appeared out of the dark night. We had made it to Zaouia, our pick-up point for the donkeys the next morning.

After an early start and a hearty breakfast under a portrait of King Mohammed VI, we set out with two fully loaded donkeys. We walked along a fast-moving stream among terraced farm fields. The land was harsh and the stream bed soon became the bottom of a twisting gorge.Small orchards lined the way between naught rows of weak looking corn. Ingenious mini-canals cut away from the stream and ran along the trails and then into small shacks that dumped the water back into its current. Inside the shacks water wheels turned car alternators to push electricity along the black cords hanging along our path.

Donkeys on the path to Taghia

Donkey Jam

After passing between the steep sides of Isfoula (2553m) and Tilemsine (2615m) we were able to see the cliff faces of Oujdad (2685m) and Ifrig towering above the yet seen village that hid in this remote mountain landscape.

Our Berber donkey boss was a young man. The eldest son of Said Messaoudi, the owner of Gite Tawajdat, black lines tattooed beneath his eyes. Permanent mascara to help with the bright son, it made his eyes look sharper. He bummed smokes from Juan and gave the donkeys a whack every now and again when they decided to take a break. They knew the way and where all the good spots to stop and eat were.

Moroccan Donkey Guide

Our Berber guide to Taghia

Taghia blended with its terrain. The rocks that made up the walls of its homes were the same grey and purple hues of the scree that lay in every direction. Steeply growing up the mountain sides it occupied, we were in the middle of Taghia before we knew it. Between the flat stone structures ran children, chickens and sheep while a few dogs barked aggressively from the roofs of their owners houses. All around us were the mountains and cliff faces we had come to climb.

We had arrived in the Cirque de Taghia Zaouiat Ahansal and gone back in time 200 hundred years.

Beautiful Oujdad on the path to Taghia

First glimpse of the faces we had come to climb

Link to Morocco Part 3: Crushed Head


A Lesson from Kandersteg, Switzerland

Under Bluemlisalphorn and Oeschinenhorn

beautiful Kandersteg scenery - Alvaro

Kandersteg, nestled under jagged Alpine summits in the Berner Oberland region of Switzerland is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and home to some of the best ice climbing in the Alps.  Dreamt up by Alvaro and I, by the time the 2010 New Year’s ice climbing extravaganza rolled around we had more than 15 people hailing from Switzerland, Germany, Colombia, France and the U.S. coming along.  Klemens, got stuck with making the arrangements. Funny thing was that Klemens had never met Alvaro or I… this trip could have turned into an epic disaster.

Kandersteg International Scout Center Group Room

Our room + gear in the KISC

Thankfully, Klemens was a relaxed and very capable CERN physicist who was also able to decipher how many people would be showing up and where that many people could go.  He found a great base at the Kandersteg International Scout Center, with a room that could fit more than our 15, complete with a kitchen to cook in at the affordable rate of 23 CHF per night… it doesn’t get better.

The ice climbing was spectacular.  We started with some easy one pitch stuff and top ropes in the Stock area just below the top of the Sunnbuël lift.  After two days of hard top roping and getting acquainted with the world of ice again I was in the mood for something a little longer.

Ice climbing in Stock sektor Kandersteg Switzerland

Adrien top roping in Stock Sektor

The next morning, with my novice but incredibly resilient childhood friend Nikolai, I headed to the Oeschinenwald climbing area.  More accessible than Stock, the falls along the ski slope coming from the Oeschinensee (a beautiful mountain lake) has many multi-pitch ice climbs.  With only one set of tools between us we had to pick a route that I could set anchors on then lower the tools back down for Nikolai to use.  This technique is a terrible idea; it should be problematic simply by the nature of lowering axes down a frozen waterfall.  After three hard pitches and 120 meters of grade IV ice we made it to the top and had time to throw a top rope over a dangerously appealing 20m pillar near the top of our climb.  The day was clear, the climbing hard and scary, all in all a great finish for Nik’s first ice climbing trip that would end the next morning as he headed back to the U.S.

Here is where we come to the beginning of a sequence of events that culminated in a few rules that should always be applied to climbing if not life.

1) Mind the sequence of events

2) Don’t be a jerk

3) Don’t scream if you don’t want help

Nikolai and I were tired, the day was turning to dusk and it was time to go down.  We made several uneventful rappels.  Just before the last 60m rappel I made my way across a small but steep, snow-covered, ravine and planted my ice tool in the frozen ground while Nikolai made his way down to me across easier ground.  Throwing the ropes just as the sun set I made my way down over the edge and began descending.  As I went I saw a group of five or six climbers who were just getting started. I yelled down as I threw the rope over a second balcony. “Rope, ziel.”

The climbers yelled from below, “Your ropes aren’t touching.”

Ice Climbing in Oeschinenwald sektor Kandersteg

Nikolai basking in the glory of his first ice climbing adventure... we still had both ice tools!

“OK. Thanks.” I continued sliding down my ropes and underneath a massive icicle to where I could see a large knot in my rope.  After fixing a prusik knot to my rope, freeing my hands, and working out the most unholy knot I have yet come across I finally got to the ground.  I felt relieved and tired as the dark, cold night settled around us.  Yelling up to Nikolai, who had no idea why everything had taken so long, I said, “Ropes free.” Then made my way over to the other group of climbers to introduce myself.

“Hey, my name is Dan. Where you guys from?”

“Half of us are German, the other half English.”

The group had set two top ropes on the first pitch of ice Nikolai and I had gone up.  Nikolai descended and we made to leave.  As I packed up I realized I was an ice axe short. I had left one of my trusty Black Diamond Vipers next to the rappel station.  Nikolai had been freezing when I finally got the knot out and freed the rope and he’d been focused on getting down.  It was dark as asphalt now and we were spent.  No problem.  I had retrieved a guys ice tool two days before in a similar situation… surely these guys would do the same. Climbers help each other out.

“Hey fellas, do you think you could do me a favor.  I left an ice tool above the first pitch and would really appreciate it if you grabbed it for me.”

“We can try, where is it?”  I explained and asked where they were staying.  It couldn’t have been easier.  They too had a room at the Scout Center and were using the ‘yellow’ kitchen.

“Great, we’ll stop by your kitchen later tonight. Thanks.”

That night the yellow kitchen group showed up empty-handed but said they would go back to the same fall in the morning.  I started to get an uneasy feeling and debated going back but instead drew Alvaro and Adrien, part of our group, a detailed map and told them they would enjoy the climb.  Surely one of the two groups could get the axe.

The next morning I took Nik to Bern to catch his train.  Hoping Alvaro and Adrien would get the axe I took a rest and explored Bern.  That night, Alvaro showed up empty-handed.  Adrien had hurt his knee on the approach, they had moved slowly and the axe was not there when they arrived above the first pitch.  I wondered over to the yellow kitchen.

“Sorry man, we didn’t climb there.  There was another group already on it.”

“OK, well if you come across someone who found it please let me know.”

I went back to my green kitchen feeling dejected and angry with myself.  What a dumb mistake.  I made plans to go there the next morning with Marieke.  Alvaro, also made plans to climb there with another from our group.  Sylvie, a sweet rock climber with a cute French accent.  Marieke and I would walk around the first ice band and wait for Alvaro and Sylvie to climb up to us on my ropes, then the four of us would climb the rest together (with my found axe).

By now, several alarms should have gone off in my rational mind. For one thing, the ice tool probably wasn’t there anymore.  Secondly, the yellow kitchen crew had started climbing at sunset, this is not safe let alone pleasant on ice; they weren’t legit.  Third, what would I do if I didn’t find the missing axe?

The next morning we set off early.  By mid-morning Marieke and I had sourly discovered the ice tool was not where I had left it.  We had no choice but to descend.  We passed one Italian couple who decided to have a domestic dispute on the side of the ice cliff… bad energy today.  Further down I passed another climber on the same climb. His name was Igor and he made a mistake.

Oeschinenwald sektor Ice Falls in Kandersteg

Oeschinenwald sektor Ice Falls

As I came to a small ledge to set an anchor before freeing myself I could see across to him and told him, “Nice climbing.”

“Thanks. How is it ahead?”

“Nothing to worry about, you are through the difficult stuff till the next pitch.”

“My name is Dan.  Hey, I left an ice tool up here two days ago.  Can you keep an eye out for it?”

Igor answered, “Oh, you’re the American guy who left his axe here.  Yeah my friends found it.  They have it in our hotel.”

Great, what a relief. “Seriously, where are you staying?” I asked with great naïvety.

“We are staying in the Scout Center.  We have the yellow kitchen.”

Whoa, the gears turned.  He was part of the yellow kitchen crew.  Those guys did find my axe.  “Great, thanks I’ll come get it tonight.”

Next along the traffic jam that was this ice climb, I came to Rachel, Igor’s partner, Alvaro and Sylvie all piled on top of each other on the same micro ice ledge.  Rachel was attempting to start climbing but had too much slack in her rope.

With the cry of a little mouse Rachel whispered, “Igor, take.”

Igor and Rachel were on double ropes and one rope was tight while the other hung loosely below her gloved hand.  Did this guy know how to use doubles?  I yelled up for her. “Igor slack on red. Take!” Finally the ropes both tightened and Rachel picked her way up the ice fall.  Whispering sweet nothings up to Igor to ‘communicate’ her needs.

Alvaro and I exchanged some words.  I silently hoped he would decide to come down and set top ropes with me so we could all share his and Sylvie’s ice tools.  Unfortunately, his heart was on the climb.  Marieke joined me at the anchor I had established and could feel the burning I had buried under my Gortex.  I told her about Igor’s friends who had my ice tool.  Marieke, the ever positive, sensed what I thought and said, “Maybe they found it and didn’t tell each other.  You probably just talked to the wrong guy.”

Mad with the yellow kitchen crew and frustrated that Alvaro couldn’t see my predicament (not being able to climb) I grunted and made myself ready for the next rappel.  Ice climbing is inherently dangerous.  Ice breaks and flies, it’s cold and wet and you are flailing around with sharp instruments; you need to have some sense.  Unfortunately, the Italian couple had apparently finished their argument and decided to throw their ropes at that very instant.  It sailed down the fall and nearly hit all of us.   I was about to lose it.

The day passed as I undulated between anger, resignation and finally calm. Climbing with another friend’s axe burned away some of my confusion and resentment as I hacked my way up the ice with no thought for form.  After dark, Alvaro and Sylvie still had not come down.  Marieke and I packed up our stuff and decided to make our way to the car, we were their ride but we didn’t need to wait at the ice fall any longer.  Shitty day, but at least I knew where my ice tool was.

Halfway to the car we stopped dead in our tracks.  A shrill scream had pierced the moonless night.  Marieke tentatively asked, “Did you hear that?” Just as an unmistakable scream shattered the air around us again.

“Oh shit.  That doesn’t sound good.”  It was a woman screaming high up on the ice cliff.

We listened to make out what was going on.  Blood curdling screams made the hair on my neck stand on end. Screaming, “I can’t. I can’t!”

We heard Alvaro’s voice.  It was unmistakable.  He was too far to understand but we knew he was talking.  Was Sylvie hurt?  We had to go back.

We turned on our heels and pounded back up the trail through the otherwise serene, snow-covered pine forest.  Fifteen minutes later we arrived.  Four of our friends were still there.  They had packed up hoping Alvaro and Sylvie would reach them before they left when they too had been frozen by the shrill screams much too high up the cliff for this late in the day.

Within minutes the six of us at the base of the frozen waterfall made a decision as a group. Something had happened. Gus and Maty were experienced climbers and had both done some rescue work. Unfortunately it was difficult for us to communicate as they spoke French and I decidedly did not. Maty would lead up the first pitch, fix a rope and continue up on a second rope. Gus meanwhile got the Kandersteg rescue team on the phone and filled them in. They sent a team to figure out if we needed a helicopter. In the meantime, we had looked through Sylvie and Alvaro’s packs. Sylvie had left her extra warm jacket and thermos and didn’t have a headlamp. Alvaro had left his headlamp.

Maty completed the first pitch, fixed the line as planned and climbed on. The rescue team arrived as we received a call from Maty. “Their rappel rope is stuck. Nobody is hurt.” Maty had climbed up to Rachel, the mouse whisperer, and found her stuck hanging with her hair deeply knotted into her belay device. Alvaro had descended beside Rachel and Igor when Rachel had begun screaming.

Ice climbing rescue

Alvaro's picture of Maty cutting Rachel free!

Igor had used a tree so far up the snow slope above the third pitch that their ropes didn’t reach the ground. Rachel had panicked. Alvaro had rappelled to Rachel, attached her to his rappel and gone down to free the rope as she begged him not to leave her. Freed from her first predicament Rachel had managed to get her hair into the belay device 5 meters lower. Maty meanwhile climbed to Rachel, took out his knife and cut her hair. In his hesitant English he repeated to the scared woman, “sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Below the snow field Maty showed Alvaro and Sylvie his fixed line to rappel on. Once Igor and Rachel were with him Maty told them to go ahead and use his line as well so it would be faster for all. Igor flatly answered, “I don’t use other people’s ropes.”

Maty, ever calm, later told us that he felt like hitting the asshole but instead descended. The rescue team had left. We were all frazzled and cold. Igor got down and without a word began pulling his rope to no avail; the rope was stuck. I offered to help him. We walked up the slope, he locked off his belay device and I said to him, “I’ll pull with you. Ready?” Then grabbed him and ran down the slope with him hoping our combined weight would break the rope free. When nothing happened he screamed at me.

“What are you doing? Get off of me. I’ll ask for help when I need it.”

Whoa. I walked away and let him struggle by himself. His rope would not pull. Gus had to climb back up to retrieve some gear Maty had left and without a word dropped Igor and Rachel’s stuck rope.

Hours had passed in the dark, freezing cold night since we had first heard screams high up on the cliff. Nobody had said thank you. Not to any of us at the bottom nor to Gus who had freed the climbers. What would they have done if he hadn’t climbed up? They had no other rope. Rachel was paralyzed with fear. Igor was at the top. Alvaro and Sylvie could not have helped them.

Back at the scout camp our other friends had figured out where the hospital was incase someone had frostbite and gone to get my axe.

Odile and Priska, two strong swiss climbers walked to the yellow kitchen knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Hey, are you guys missing two people?”


“Your friends are OK. They are on their way down with some of my friends.” Said Priska.

One of the yellow kitchen crew exclaimed, “Yeah! I told you they wouldn’t make it back before 9.”

Odile, appalled, changed the subject, “They said that you have my friend’s ice axe.”


Odile and Priska stood in the kitchen and waited.

“It’s in our room.”

Odile and Priska stood in the kitchen and waited some more.

“Oh you want to get it now?”

Odile politely answered, “Yes.”

Kandersteg International Scout Center Kitchen

Alvaro, Sylvie and Maty checking out the picture of Maty cutting Rachel's hair back in our kitchen.

Upon my reunion with the rest of our group and my stray ice tool I felt exhausted. Nobody in the yellow kitchen crew had seen anything wrong with the situation. I have since concluded that some climbers have no business being ice climbers. Kandersteg is beautiful, just don’t let the inevitable jerks that seem magnetically pulled to great climbing areas around the world get a hold of one of your ice tools.   Also, carry a knife in case you need to cut some hair because, well, someone might not quite own it.

Connie die Deutsch Abentur Bus

Connie in Switzerland

Road tripping is great.  Having a VW minibus to do it in is ideal… so you would think.  This is where the story of Connie the Adventure Bus begins.  I am not sure who said it first but sometime around the beginning of 2010 the idea of acquiring an old style VW transporter conversion van was manifest.  I was on my way in a new direction and was making some plans for the coming climbing season.

Alvaro became extraordinarily enthusiastic as his good friend Timo had a bus and it worked great.  So we went about finding one.  Alvaro placed notes on buses he saw on the street, we all searched on-line.  In the meantime my path had become muddled, the U.S. Law Schools I planned to attend come Fall didn’t seem as appealing.  Could a bus solve my problem?  Perhaps a bus could put me on a path that would be easy to drive into the future on.

Well, eventually we found Daniel.  Now on the cusp of Rock and Roll success with GoneZoo, Daniel worked with Alvaro and had a bus!  His bus had not been through inspection in some time.  Named “Kurt,” the bus was stashed away in his barn waiting for me to come along.  After some friendly negotiations I figured out that Daniel could not sell Kurt.  Daniel would rent us the bus for the Spring and Summer but would sign the title over so I could get this freedom machine through inspection and on the Autobahn! I recall leaving his house remarking, “Well perhaps I will get lucky and you will change your mind by the end of the Summer.” While Daniel looked on and replied that he just couldn’t part with so many good memories.

Perhaps I should have thought this through a bit more.  It all seemed so perfect.  I handed over a thick envelope of cash as collateral, put some temporary tags on Kurt and drove into the sunset.  Well the sunset came and went and well into dark Kurt decided to shit the bed and break down at a stop light.   Unable to even get the starter to turn over I hopelessly called ADAC.  The mechanic had no quick solution… I would need a new starter.  The next day Alvaro, Marieke and I had planned to drive to Munich to pick up another friend on our way to Austria and the first of many mountain adventures with the bus.  Push started by the ADAC mobile mechanic we made it the rest of the way to Karlsruhe without having to stop again.

The next morning started in a rush.  Alvaro went in search of a replacement starter while I took out the old one.  This wouldn’t stop us.  All the time Alvaro asking, “Are you sure this bus doesn’t have any tricks?”

“What do you mean, tricks?”

“Every old car has a ‘trick’ you know…”

After hours of Alvaro scouring the parts stores throughout Karlsruhe he called Daniel to ask what he would do.  Daniel simply asked, “Did you tap the starter with a hammer?”

Alvaro, then called me, asking the same.

I replied with a wave of revelation, “Oh no, Daniel told me about this.  We have to tap the starter if nothing happens.  Oh god.”

Connie Basecamp in Austria

Two hours later with Alvaro back and the old starter back in we gave the engine a little ‘love’ tap and behold Kurt came to life.  Marieke, calmly taking in the situation all the while said, “Kurt is a lady; she needs a girl name.”

Behold the re-birth of Connie the Deutsch Adventure Bus.

Since then Connie has managed to break at the most inopportune moments, the most significant of which left her with a cracked head and the inability to move.  Now after having her engine rebuilt, floor pulled up and replaced, and walls insulated she is almost a beauty.  Along the way, Daniel had to sell her to me because he needed the cash.  I think I made off pretty well too, making some great friends including Omare the Jordanian Miracle Mechanic and permanently acquiring my adventure bus.  Just imagine which mountain she could take me to next!

Some great VW Bus resources:

“The Samba” U.S. based VW forum

“The Brickyard” UK based VW Bus forum

Bloody Helmet

Link to Morocco Part 2: Getting to Taghia is tough

Not too many people outside of the climbing community go to Taghia.  There is no hospital in Taghia and so there I hung, 25 meters above a rushing mountain stream, as warm sticky wetness dripped down my back.  I had definitely just blown it.

Juan crossing the dry stream bed to my Taghia Hospital; a.k.a. where my helmet was when I should have been wearing it...

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck”

Alvaro yelled up from below, “Are you alright?” His tone indicated that he wasn’t quite sure if I would answer.

“Yeah.” I said feebly.

I reached my right hand up and touched the back of my head and felt the blood that was leaking.

“Lower me a little.”

As Alvaro did so my feet wobbly touched the ledge I had miraculously not collided into as I careened upside down the 9 meters to my point of impact.  The fucking rock had broken on the first pitch of the first climb.  Shit.

I took off my shirt and tied it around my head as tightly as I could.  Then I stopped again, tried to chill, wiped some blood from my neck and forehead, and looked at my dully aching arm.

“Alvaro, I think I can go back up and get the gear.”

Juan who had appeared from inside the narrow gully further up-stream yelled something to Alvaro who couldn’t see me.  Then asked if I was O.K.

“Yeah, I think so.  Just cut on my head.”

Juan yelled back over the sound of the water, “Good.  Alvaro can lower you and he and I can get the gear.”

Minutes later I stood next to the stream watching red drops come off my blood soaked shirt run down my arm then drip into the clear mountain water.  I took off my harness and handed it to Juan who stood close by watching me.

“Don’t go back without us.  We will get the gear and come right back down.”

I agreed then walked to a small cascade and stuck my whole head under the frigid water as I washed the blood off my shirt.  I climbed out, sat down and re-tied the shirt around my head.  What a stupid move.  I had left my helmet on my mattress in the small Hutte we were staying in not expecting to climb… paradoxically I had brought a rope, harness, shoes and gear ‘just in case.’  Bad decision.  I surely couldn’t climb with a cut that would reopen and bleed half way up the 600-meter face of Oujdad in the High Atlas Mountains.  At least I was in a beautiful place and my brains weren’t spread out all over the ledge I had narrowly missed as gravity showed me who was boss.

A few minutes later, Alvaro, Juan and my new friend (the headache) joined me.  We started back to the Hutte as ominously dark storm clouds appeared from the East.  I wished the clouds had appeared an hour earlier as I walked slowly on with unsteady feet guided by unsteady eyes.  Within seconds of stepping into the shelter of the rustic Hutte operated by Ali and his family the sky opened.  I made to go and clean myself up while Alvaro and Juan went to ask about bandages. At some point Alvaro also snuck back into our room and snapped a quick photo of my helmet.

Lara working while a storm raged

The Angel of Taghia removing my 6 sutures after a beautiful week of climbing!

The nurse-climber in action...

As I washed the last bit of blood from my chest and hair Juan walked up and said that there was a nurse with the Italian party that was in the Hutte with us.

A few minutes later the angel of my trip showed up with a rather large first aid kit and an Italian friend, video camera in hand.  As the lights went out in the Hutte a small collection of Italians and Spaniards gathered while Lara the Italian nurse simply told me that she had sutures and that I needed some but unfortunately she did not have any anesthesia…

“Sorry” she said under the light of Juan’s headlamp.  The next minutes were spent digging my fingers into my legs, or anything else that happened to come close, every time Lara pierced and tugged.

Flooded stream bed in Taghia

Six stitches later we all walked outside where the dry stream bed that flowed past our Hutte to join its larger sibling (whom I had bled into) was a raging torrent.  The rain had stopped and the post-storm dusk light lit the scene well.  The dry bed was raging full with mud filled run-off as I realized how lucky I was… because of my cut I had narrowly missed getting stuck on the cliff in a downpour which would have made my first day of climbing in Taghia, Morocco not fun at all.

One question lingers: Was it kind of Alvaro to qualify my stupidity with evidence?  Leave a comment; let me know what you think. Maybe I’ll even post the picture!

Marrakech, Morroco… on the way to the Atlas Mountains


Snake charmer in Djemaa el Fna

My senses awake as I enter the North of Africa.  Arriving in the hot morning with no plan or reservations I hop on the local bus (L19) and take it to the center of Marrakech’s medina, the Place Djemaâ el Fna.  Using one of the plaza cafes to get my bearings I drop my bag, sit down and order a Berber whiskey more commonly known as mint tea.  Trying to appear less bewildered than I am, I see monkeys being dragged around on chain leashes and groups of snake charmers blaring away on Pungi’s with their black Egyptian cobras and puff adders coiled in front.

Marrakech’s red medina walls reverberate with the sounds of Afro-Arab culture as old-world donkey carts roll among the traffic of daily life.  Snake charmers, storytellers, and musicians of all variety captivate Moroccans and foreigners alike.  After stumbling around some narrow streets, I find a riad that I like.  With a pocket full of dirham (DH) and my bag stashed, I head back out for the streets.

I am not a shopper, in fact despise having a lot of shit.  However, the souks of Marrakech captivate me.

Typical shop in the souks.

In the circus of stores aggressive salesmen were surprisingly kind, hock handmade crafts of every variety.  I actually enjoy this shopping.  I feel good about getting a good deal and giving these people some hard-earned cash.

The place comes alive at night with food stalls that magically appear.  The music, already intense becomes more layered with varieties of texture.  Like a loosely woven blanket the thread of one group weaves with another.  It is overwhelming as the sounds surround you.  There is no escape.  It seems best to sit close to one group and let their music entrance you.  It’s very clear how one could be influenced and controlled like a charmed snake by this place.

“Almost” beautiful dancers draw a crowd.  They wear veils, only showing the skin of their hands and ankles.  But, they have no curves?!  These are the she-boys… they can move with best of any belly dancers.  Across from them the marketing department of a food stall yells, “Tastes like chicken.” Then, “Hey, Ricky Martin and Jessica Simpson, come sit here.” His food looks good and the stall is up wind from the greasy steam of 100 other stalls blazing away.

Dinner in the plaza

I sit, ordering some stuff, not too sure what it is, but definitely consisting of vegetables, couscous and some seafood.  Perhaps seafood next to the largest desert in the world is a bad idea.  I eat with my clean hand and share my table with a longhaired Japanese guy who has a tongue ring (I mention the tongue ring as it makes for one of those awkward moments that is completely due to my own stereotyping that I will mention further on).

A British couple sitting across from me asks to settle their bill, throws a fit, “We didn’t ask for that. I’m not paying for something you just brought to me.”

I think, seriously? This lady is upset over 50 DH… less than 8 dollars.  Not to mention she did eat what they brought her.  Embarrassed by my occidental peer, I decide that I will be gratefully generous when it is my turn to pay.  Talking to my Japanese table guest I find out he is extremely well-traveled.  Although this is nearly always the case with Japanese people I meet on the road.  He explains that this will be his last big trip as his marriage is planned for the following year.  This is the awkward cultural moment as the Chris Rock spoof song No Sex in the Champagne Room plays in my head, “if a guy has a tongue ring he’ll probably…” Because we are communicating rather poorly and I have this Chris Rock song in my head I decide to play it safe and say, “Oh, your spouse (gender neutral) doesn’t like to travel as much… that’s too bad.” The conversation peters off, as I no longer know what to say.  I feel ridiculous.

The night rushes on, children boxers, more music and another mint tea overlooking the plaza.  What a scene.  The people are grateful for every Durham you share and Arabic word you attempt.  They make this circus a comfortable spectacle that I will not soon forget.

Walking outside the "red" medina

Transportation Details:
Frankfurt Hahn (HHN) to Marrakesh (RAK) via Ryanair 177€ round trip with extra bag
Marrakesh Airport to Place Jemaa El Fna via local bus 19 (L19) ~2€ one way (20 Dirhams)
The local bus system is easy to use, safe and inexpensive

Hotel Atlas, on the left down Rue pietonne (through the arch and down the ghetto alley right of Cafe Glacier) ~8€ per night (90 Dirhams)

Useful Info:
There is no black market for money so you don’t have to worry about getting a bad exchange rate. Any booth or bank will give you Dirhams at a fair value.

Link to Morocco Part 2: Tough to get to Taghia

The Eiger, Switzerland

The Eiger from the east side (and Mönch behind)

Image via Wikipedia

From Grindelwald up the East Ridge to Ostegg Hutte along the impossibly long ridge to Mittelegi Hutte then up Mittelegi Ridge, over the top and down the South Ridge. Brutal.

Now, Mittelegi Ridge has the title of being ‘the most popular route‘ on the Eiger. Like popular kids at school, when paired with its redheaded step-brother (the Ostegg Ridge) it is not enjoyed. Way to grueling to be popular in the sophisticated mountaineering world of the Alps the combination makes for questioning looks by Swiss Alpinists who do not understand the masochistic objective.

After our long day and the relief of Mittelegi Hutte my climbing partner, Alvaro, and I had the distinct privilege of meeting the four amigos of Bulgaria. These guys took crazy to a different level and really had no business being on the Eiger. I enjoyed their banter so much that it was tough to call it a night. To understand this a little better you have to understand that Mittelegi Hutte is a managed Hutte during the months of early June to September.

Alvaro making an alpine start on Mittelegi Ridge

Generally, to be the manager of a Hutte at 3000+ meters you are ‘special.’ Jutta was no exception. Probably about 55, never married, and rather motherly in an exaggerated almost scary way she made it her business to explain the rules to us in a strange high-pitched conglomerate of French, English and German. Imagine, after climbing for 10 hours at altitude being told how to do something that will take MORE effort. Now, imagine you come from a country in which corruption is a pretty significant problem and you are out for an adventure between debauchery and episodes of heavy drinking. Welcome to the scene at Mittelegi Hutte on 21 July 2010.

Tarzan (Bulgarian climber numero uno) was the star. With slightly askew teeth Tarzan enjoyed telling Jutta that, ‘we will now play poker,’ to her determined rebukes. The story took on a new twist as we all sat discussing possible scenarios for summit day… and the ensuing descent. Normally you should have these things well planned.

Unfortunately, being the ‘most popular route’ results in several inevitable things. 1) People that have no business being there are there 2) Those people are so excited about climbing this route they don’t worry about how they will get down 3) Numerous accidents and rescues throughout the climbing season.

After several minutes of frustrating and rather annoying conversation Tarzan’s compatriot blatantly stated his intent, asking, ‘And what would happen if we just got on the train at the bottom of the South Ridge without a ticket?’ This question is important. The answer would determine between a descent via the West Ridge, which has no train, and is rather tricky to an unfamiliar party or the South Ridge that is long but generally considered more straight forward and has the ‘railway at the top of Europe‘ at its far end.

Jutta was aghast. ‘This is not allowed. You must have a ticket.’

Tarzan’s friend: ‘Well we don’t have any money and we have to go down.’

Jutta: ‘Well you can make a paper ticket and pay later.’

Other Bulgarian: ‘But the point is that we don’t want to pay.’

Jutte: ‘But this is the way you take the train.’

This went on for some time. There was no progress. As the conversation continued to go nowhere Tarzan made a point of standing behind Jutta performing a pantomime routine that seemed to alternate between   sexual activity  with the Hutte manager and imitations of a rather obstinate older Swiss hutte manager’s body language.

Finally a breakthrough as culture became foremost in the discussion. ‘In our country it is OK to get on the train without a ticket. Two things can happen when the conductor gets to you. If you have some money you can pay the conductor, less than the ticket, and he will let you ride to your destination. If you don’t have money the conductor will make you leave the train at the next station. At that point you run to the opposite end of the train and get back on. When the conductor gets to you again he makes you get off and you run back to the original end of the train. This can go on for the entire train ride. What I want to know is what would happen if the conductor here came to me and I had no ticket. Would I have to get off or could I give him a little money?’

Now this may seem pretty straightforward to those of us familiar with how most of the world works. Unfortunately Jutta was totally uncomprehending of these possibilities. Alvaro and I, having finished our dinner and tiring of Tarzan’s hip pumping behind the apron wearing Jutta, decided we had to call it a night.

The next day we all made an alpine start. The next 5 hours were tough and gradually Alvaro and I grew further and further ahead of the four Bulgarians. The weather worsened.

Eiger summit with Monch in the background

At the summit, strong winds forced us to our knees. Tracks went in two directions… the West Ridge descent and the Southerly way. With deafening winds by mid-morning and seemingly worse conditions on the way we went south. Maybe we would make it to the Jungfraujoch Station by the last train at 1645.

Several hours later and only a few hundred meters down we realized things were not going well. This was especially evident as our frozen rope whipped in the wind perpendicular to the ridge defying gravity through the power of an unsympathetic gale.

Uh oh. As bad as things got over the course of our day I kept thinking, ‘I hope those Bulgarians turned around.’ By 1600 we had reached a saddle between the Monch Massif and The Eiger South Ridge. Our rope was hemorrhaging its insides as it had been severely cut on some sharp edge. Alvaro looked at me with painfully resigned eyes. Our only option was to keep going and to do this we had to go UP. Legs burning, no protection and cutting wind we forced our way slowly up each knife-edge ridge. Each corner and vista only making the world of safe warm places seem farther and farther away.

Gradually the light slipped away. The wind, unabated by nightfall was ruthless. To keep from dying of exposure we stopped in the closest thing to a refuge we could find. About 4 rocky meters across, the knife like ridge had opened up just enough. We moved rocks for the next two hours constructing a wall of loose scree to hide behind.

Cold morning after a forced night out

The rope uncoiled below us acted as a bit of insulation. Thankfully we had carried our sleeping bags and a small jet boil for such an emergency. After bringing some snow to a boil we sipped hot Gatorade and hunkered in to face the bitter cold. Completely focused on my own precarious situation I only briefly thought of the Bulgarians who we had lost sight of before reaching the summit. They were surely done for if they had not turned around and I was sure they had not.

Not really sleeping but not daring to expose ourselves we finally stirred with sunrise. Through the night we were pelted by freezing rain but by boiling more snow we managed to warm ourselves up. We packed our bags and began moving.

Up and down the ridge continued to leave no room for error and offered no shelter from the wind. At 1000 we reached a small lip where the ridge tapered off to the South East.

Finally the wind stopped. Silence. We skirted the South side of Monch and emerged several hours later on a massive glaciated plane. Overjoyed when two American climbers intercepted our path from the other direction we felt a wave of relief. What a night.

Once in the train station the sheer volume of tourists overwhelmed us.

Alvaro, as we entered the stillness... finally

I made my way down to the bathroom and destroyed a toilet while Alvaro bought our train tickets. No wonder the Bulgarians had been curious; the tickets cost 88 Swiss Franc each. I guess you can charge that much when at the top of Europe. We descended, sitting in the comfort of our train seats, exhausted. Out of the world of ice, the green valley surrounded our train car and a bright, peaceful sun drowned the wind.

‘Alvaro, do you think the Bulgarian guys are alright?’

‘I don’t know but the ticket guy told me that 5 helicopters had to rescue a party from Jung Frau last night.’


The train pulled to a stop and Alvaro pointed then jumped up.

‘Hey guys!’ Tarzan happily smiled on the far side of the train window in old cut off jean shorts and no shirt. He had seen us and come over.

‘Tarzan, we thought you guys would be dead for sure. How did you get down?’

‘We made it down the West Ridge… 27 hours. The others are at the base, I came for the car. We drive to Zermatt for the Matterhorn today.’

‘Man, we are glad to see you. Nice, good luck on the Matterhorn.’

‘We see if the weather is OK.’ As the train shrugged forward and pulled away.

Clearly there are people who are crazier than I am.

Alvaro's digital work on our map

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