Executive Summary (and moralizing)

For all you executives out there reading my blog - you know who you are - this one's for you.

You: who don't have time to read the whole blog. Here's the trip in a nutshell.

You'll also find the moral(s) to my story - the place where I sum up what I learned from this trip, why it was worth it all in the end, why I did it, and how I've grown as a person from it.

But keep in mind - those of you who are skipping all my finely considered prose and just reading this executive summary - I'm offering special prizes to all who claim to have read the whole blog and can answer three questions testing their knowledge of what is contained in these pages...

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
I spent a month canoeing through the Czech Republic, from roughly its centre to its western border with Germany, where I stopped paddling because I wasn't having much fun. The trip failed to live up to my expectations because: (1) almost no one spoke English, so I was by myself and lonely most of the time, and (2) paddling upstream for nearly 20 days (240 km) was a real pain.

Stats
Total km paddled/wheeled: 485
Total days paddled/wheeled: 24
Total days off: 5
Total paddle strokes (estimate): 288,000
Total beer consumed en route (estimate): 30 litres
Total rocks hit: 5,641

I decided on a whim to backtrack to Karlovy Vary for the International Film Festival there, where I watched 3 films a day for 9 days, while camping in a stadium with hordes of other film buffs. It was the best film fest I've ever been to. I had a great time. I managed through much effort to sell my canoe to a fellow in Prague at a great discount, and headed for Slovenia for no good reason.

The couchsurfer I stayed with in Slovenia got me into climbing that country's highest mountain, Triglav, which I did - and it was the best experience of the trip. I finished my week-long stay in Slovenia on the Adriatic coast.

On the way back to Amsterdam to catch my flight home, I stopped in to visit Vikki and her boyfriend Sergio (they had joined me for a few days of paddling earlier) in Bern . Loved it.

The End


Now for the moralizing:

"Why did I need to do this?" I often asked myself. I've been home for 3 weeks now, and the answer is still in progress. I've developed various theories (and they all hold some truth, I think): that I needed to suffer to make me appreciate how good my life was; that I needed to exorcise unfinished business from my 20s - like the idea for this trip - before I could grow up and move on. Now, I think I just needed to make a break with my life in Wakefield. I could have done anything. I just needed to halt the forward momentum (or was it kick me out of my inertia?) of my complacent, easy, contented, unchallenging, unambitious life. Throw a wrench in its works.

One of the personal realizations that grew out of this trip was that I have consciously set up all sorts of limitations on my life and what I can do, believing, perhaps, that I could find happiness by narrowing my options, shaving them down to fine point. But I painted myself into a corner here in Wakefield - made my world so small that I became desperate to break out. I still think Wakefield is a very nice place to live - and plan to continue making my home here - but it can no longer be my whole world.

It was silly, I suppose, to try to make it so. But it's the same old story with me: swinging from one extreme until I'm driven to the other; I live in Toronto, then flee to Wakefield.

The trip also raised the question for me: is there much value in travel anymore? Maybe 50 years ago, before globalization had really taken off, and tourism to boot, travel was a way to experience truly different cultures. But now, much of the world is different only in superficial details, and the parts of the world that are still quite different are usually also quite fucked up, and not places you'd want to go.

Now, I feel a much stronger desire to get to know this region better - I've never explored the Laurentians or the Eastern townships, for instance, or New England - than to travel to distant places.

Somehow, also, this crazy trip has made me more normal. I've seen how I've been afraid of "normal" my whole life (another self-imposed limitation), and how this trip was part of that. I couldn't simply behave like all the other tourists in Europe - I had to do something never done before. Yet when I quit my supposedly adventurous canoe trip and started seeing Europe in a way closer to other tourists (although, admittedly, couchsurfing is not exactly mainstream, at least not yet), I enjoyed myself much more. Next time, I may even buy a guide book.

Is Europe better than Canada? That was one question in the back of my brain as I left for this trip. I had chosen Europe for my destination because I didn't want to go to another oh-so-interesting-in-its-disfunctionality Third World country. I wanted to go somewhere where they seemed to have it a bit more together - socially and environmentally - than we in North America. It's a hard question to answer after so short a trip, but my impression is quite positive of Europe. It's not that it's significantly better, but in subtle ways, I prefered the cultures I found there to Canadian culture. Perhaps the most significant difference I noticed was that Europeans seemed generally less afraid of each other than Canadians. I think that our much vaunted politeness is actually a sign of our fear of each other; it stems not from graciousness but from a reluctance to get involved, to open up to strangers, to be intimate. Perhaps because we have the space here, we tend to take it (that and our largely British heritage, of course). But in Europe, they don't have the option of running away so much. They must engage each other.

I don't want to overstate my case, though. Canada is a wonderful place to live, and in some ways is better than Europe, such as with multiculturalism. Europeans, with their more rigid sense of national identies, have a harder time with immigrants than we do. Also, Europeans have lousy breakfasts - how I missed the greasy spoons of my birthplace.

Was the trip "worth it"? I suppose I got what I needed out of it - but I don't think it was particularly good value. I didn't need to blow all my savings to get what I needed, and I could have had a lot more fun doing it.

Anyway, believe it or not, I'm not sick of canoeing yet. In fact, I'm just killing time here, rambling on about my feelings, etc., while waiting for a friend to come over to take the canoe out on the Gatineau for a little afternoon spin.

Thanks for reading.

Wrapping up: a sea, and more mountains

Piran's rabbit warren of streets.




The town was full of little brown boys playing soccer.



Roofs of Piran. How about some rooftop gardens?



Piran, jutting out to sea.




Piran, with the Julian Alps in the background.

Vikki with her Guatamalan friend, Maura, in Bern, Switzerland.



The Reitschule squat in Bern.





After the emotional and altitudinal highs of climbing Triglav, a couple days of lazing on the beach was the perfect counterpoint. I don't usually enjoy beaches much, but I was tired enough after my climbing and hiking adventure that I didn't get bored of the beach until the second day. And the liberal Mediterranean attitude towards clothing helped too - though I did get a bit burnt in the nether regions.


I first arrived in Piran at around 8 in the evening. I located the hostel, but was determined to camp by the ocean, so set off, fully laden with gear, down the coast, in the direction someone told me there was a campground. The fact that it was back in the direction my bus had just come didn't help my moral. I walked for an hour and a half, the uncushioned straps of my malfunctioning hiking pack raising red marks on my shoulders, the tread of one of my shoes flapping half-off with every step - an incongruous sight shouldering through the relaxed, well-fed and tanned crowds strolling amongst the seaside touristic flotsam. But such was my determination to find a little piece of ocean breeze of which to breath deeply as I drifted into contented sleep, I carried on all the way to the campsite.


The first sight - and sound - that greeted me at the camp was of an accordion, and accompanying singing. A pleasant surprise. But it went steeply downhill from there. The campground was basically a long, thin strip of road and gravel, chain link fences on either side, packed with cars with doors open and radios blaring, and young, partying Slovenians, shouting and drinking. From nearby, the thumping of a dance club competed with the puttering and squealing of a go-kart track. A good time, no doubt, if one were in the mood. But I was not. Fortunately, some respite from the mayhem could be found on some none-too-level terraces of grass somewhat above the throng. I set up camp in the dark, content in the fact that at least this was a degree better than walking endlessly through a tourist wasteland, laden with absurd amounts of canoe camping gear - a portage without a boat.


The next day I checked out Piran. It doesn't take long - it's a small place: a rabbit warren of tiny streets all crowded together on a peninsula jutting out into the Adriatic, with a fortification protecting the old city from the inland side. The coast is an unbroken stretch of restaurants, with large boulders draped in sunbathing bodies, spilling into the calm, clear, warm water. After a few hours of soaking up this Mediterranean atmosphere, I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks. Something about the combination of perfect climate and a civilization that has had centuries to settle into its own rhythms, makes a perfect recipe for contentment.


Later that evening I went for a walk through the hilly suburbs, and passed many a yard from which I could hear the happy sounds of people dining outdoors.


My second day was spent much as the first, except that I considered it the official end of my trip, as tomorrow I would be starting to make my way back to Amsterdam and my flight home. I celebrated that evening with - what else - a plate of spaghetti carbonera, and a huge glass of wine (I found that here, on the Mediterranean coast, the central European fixation on beer gives way to wine, with correspondingly low prices).


A day of travel got me to Bern, the capital of Switzerland, where Vikki and Sergio had landed after they left me in Cheb. Vikki had a Guatemalan friend, named Maura, whom she was visiting there, and she was living in a squat (more on that later).


I tried to find Vikki at the squat, but it was all locked up, and the drug dealers and users outside were no help either, so I took a tram out to the suburbs and a campsite by the Aare river. I love public transit in Europe, and it's especially good in Bern. Electronic signs at stops countdown the minutes until the next tram (never more than 10 minutes), and LCD screens inside the tram display upcoming stops.


The next day I met up with Vikki and she showed me inside the squat. Outside it's covered with graffiti, but inside it has a courtyard covered in ivy, offices for non-profit groups, a gym space, a theatre, a cinema, a bar, and the apartments where Vikki and 13 others live, sharing common areas. It's like a community/cultural centre, where no one pays rent (although the city did recently get them to start paying for utilities). It even has a website (http://www.reitschule.ch/). Such well-organized, city council-recognized squats can be found throughout Europe.

Switzerland is known for its harm reduction programs and general tolerance for hard drug users, and it was in evidence outside the squat. The addicts actually had nothing to do with the squat, but were there because the city encouraged them to congregate in this area by operating a soup kitchen and giving out clean needles nearby. The coordinators of the squat weren't too happy about this, and had complained to city council, but understandably didn't have much leverage with which to bargain with.

So evenings outside the squat form an interesting tableau: over to one side, the junkies huddled over their tinfoil; centre stage, an outdoor bar; and on the other side, a game of ping-pong on an outdoor table. A graduated triptych of depravity. Not a bad place to bring a date.

That afternoon, we made a stab at the H.R. Giger museum (he's the amazing artist, best known for designing the aliens in the the movie, Aliens), in a nearby town. It wasn't quite nearby enough, though, as we failed to make it before closing time. But we did get as far as the town of Fribourg, a 20 minute train ride from Bern. We wandered around the town a bit before heading back; it was French speaking (while Bern is predominantly Swiss-German), and I discovered that, unlike Quebec French, I actually enjoy trying to speak European French. Je m'excuse to mes freres in Quebec, but French on the continent just sounds way nicer to me.

That night, back in Bern, I was treated to a walking tour of the old city - which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site - by Pan: a Swiss friend of Vikki's who used to live in Guatemala. I had an image of the Swiss as a reasonable, quite, unremarkable people, but that was altered significantly by Pan's tour. He showed me fountains topped with colourful statues of people eating live children, huge clocks with figures that become animated when the hour strikes, and Bern's famous bear pit, which has been around since the 16th century (the city is named after the German word for "bear"). But the pit was set to undergo a major transformation: after years of protests from people concerned about the welfare of the bears, a new enclosure is finally being build for them, where they will have access to the river and, presumably, an escape from the rain of debris that tourists and locals could inflict on them at will in the past.

Pan also showed me the Munster, a towering Gothic cathedral, with a scene carved over its main portal depicting the Last Judgement, with the righteous in heaven on the left and the damned in hell on the right. (If ever this scene is updated for modern times, I might suggest using the one outside the squat, with the ping-pong players in heaven, the addicts in hell, and the bar representing the real world.) The hell scene (obviously the one to which I gave most of my attention) was something straight out of Hieronymus Bosch. You can look straight up through the open mouth of one screaming sculpture to the sky above.

We ducked down for a quick look at the ornate dining room in the Kornhaus, a building that used to be a storehouse for wheat and wine and was now a cultural centre. The huge underground space looked like an expensive place to eat, but would probably be worth it for the ambiance alone: thick pillars and arches, dimly and warmly lit, gave a unique sort of bunker/cathedral feel to the space.

Bern is a natural fortress, built in a loop in the river, with high cliffs sealing it off. Looking down vertiginiously from one such cliff, I noticed a net maybe 50 feet below. "Is that to catch people who fall?" I asked Pan.

"There's signs over there," he pointed, "asking people to please not commit suicide here."

Too bad - it's a beautiful place to die.

Walking the streets with Pan, delicious local beers in hand (street drinking is allowed here - in fact, Pan couldn't even comprehend why it would be illegal), I had a hard time seeing why anyone who lived here would want to kill themselves. Indeed, I was struck by how happy and contented most of the people I saw appeared to be. The cost of living is high, but so are wages. Bern reminded me somewhat of Ottawa. And like Amsterdam, it manages to combine Germanic efficiency with a laid-back joi de vive - in other words, the best of both worlds. Also like Amsterdam, there are many bikes and mopeds instead of cars (although no where near the scale of Amsterdam). The city even lends bikes for free by the day.

I had expected a more rigid, conservative Switzerland, but instead found a cosmopolitan place full of strangers who actually talk to each other on the street. Little scenes in Bern - scenes you would never see in Canada - such as a grandfather riding on a push scooter with his grandson, or a family with backpacks departing for a camping trip at the train station, left me with a warm feeling for the place. Although my visit here was brief, I think that Switzerland was my favourite country I visited, and I'd like to go back to see much more of it.

And the surreal thing that happened on my way back to my campsite on my last night there did nothing to diminish my feelings for the place. Pan had ended his nighttime tour at the Rose Garden - a park high up on a hilltop, overlooking the old city and river below. The last tram had left at midnight, so I began the half hour walk along the river to the camp. The streets were deserted. On the second story of a building across the street, my eye caught an open, lighted window. Then I saw the huge black woman in it, cleavage everywhere, holding her breasts up in a clearly propositional manner, eyes imploring: come up. In true Canadian fashion, I smiled a half-smile meant to convey, thanks for the offer, but I'll pass tonight, and quickened my pace from the scene.

And that's pretty much it. Took the train to Amsterdam the next day, sat in a cafe and enjoyed the street life one last time, splurged on a 2-star hotel, and flew home the next day, bumping into a couple of people on the plane I know from Wakefield (one of which I couldn't quite place, until I asked where I knew her from and she said we met skinny dipping at Brown's Lake. Oh yeah...guess I didn't recognize her with her clothes on).

TRIGLAV - part 2

The day began with a bus ride from Ljubljana to the town of Moystrana, a little further north than I had been the previous day; Damjan had said that this was an easier spot to begin an ascent of Triglav from.

It involved a 4 hour hike up the Bistrica river valley to get to the base of the mountain. You could drive this route, but I'm glad I walked, because it was stunningly beautiful. I realized it had been many years since I'd walked among real mountains, and was struck with the feeling: how did I ever live without this?

The fast flowing river was an amazing aquamarine (I think because of all the limestone in the area), the mountains kept looming up higher and higher on either side the further upstream I progressed, and I passed a waterfall that sent me into ecstasies of joy. I'm not sure what it was about this waterfall, called the Pericnik, that made me fall in love with it. It wasn't huge (50 metres), but it was perfect. And you could walk behind it. I spent about an hour admiring it from all angles, dancing about its base like a giddy schoolgirl, before continuing up the valley.

At 4pm I reached the first of the mountain huts that conveniently dot the landscape in Triglav National Park, Slovenia's only national park. This hut (lodge would be a better term), being at the bottom of the mountain, is one of the few that can be reached, and supplied, by car. Most of the others can only be supplied by opposite ends of the technological spectrum: helicopter or mule. Consequentially, food is expensive, washing water is non-existent, and it's recommended you carry all your own drinking water in. Still, it's well worth the cost to not have to carry a tent or food up and down the craggy peaks that comprise the park.

Anyway, I mention the time, 4pm, because the sign at this lodge (altitude 1000 metres) said it was another 4 hours of hiking to get to the next lodge (2300 metres), nestled below the summit of Triglav (2800 metres). It would be cutting it a bit close to make it before nightfall, but I decided to go for it.

Judging from the fact that everyone and their dog climbs this mountain in Slovenia (I did pass someone climbing with their dog), I suppose I had imagined the ascent to simply be a long hike upwards. But as I started to really gain altitude, the reality quickly hit me that this was much more like rock climbing than I had anticipated. The path was basically straight up a thousand foot cliff face. Fortunately, there were many iron rods and handrails hammered into the rock face to assist climbers up the most difficult stretches. It occurred to me that such "defacement" of the wilderness would be a hard sell in Canada; here, we still believe in the preservation of a "pristine" wilderness. In Europe, conversely, people seem to have long ago given up on such notions, accepting that humans live here. It's not unusual to find a castle plunked defiantly atop peaks throughout Europe. To Canadian sensibilities, it might seem a defacement, but I kind of like it. I think that the idea that wilderness can only be "pure" if no trace of humanity can be found in it reinforces the myth that humans are separate from nature. Better, in my opinion, to strike a harmonious balance between nature and civilization. I doubt that there are any mountains in Canada both as high as Triglav and as accessible to novice climbers.

As I climbed, I sweated equal parts exertion and growing fear. A flatlander like me wasn't used to looking down and seeing such dizzying expanses of air beneath. One misstep could easily get you killed up here. Ironically, the higher I got, the more I felt like I was digging myself into a hole; I knew that getting down is usually even harder than getting up. I just tried to focus on the rocks in front of my face, and not looking down - although the view was thrilling. Another irony was that, to climb something so high, you spend most of your time looking down.

I felt I was in something of a race against the setting sun. I was in full sun for most of the climb, as the cliff was facing westward - the shadow cast by another mountain range across the valley slowly creeping up the cliff below me. For hours, the sun seemed to hang at the same height over the opposing mountains - me going up, it going down, the two movements balancing out. Finally, shortly before reaching the lodge, the shadow caught up with me, quickly plunging my sweating body into cool mountain air. I had a quick "bath" in a snowfield.

I reached the lodge just 15 minutes before its kitchen closed, and got a hot meal of sauerkraut and meat soup, and a cold beer. So civilized. The lodge was only about half full, so I got a whole dorm to myself. Man, I slept well.

I got an early start the next morning, wanting to summit early, due to reports of bad weather coming later in the day. It took me an hour and half to walk to the last lodge (2500 metres) before the summit. I paused here for a rest. Inside the cosy confines of the lodge's dining room, I watched a group of Germans getting suited up for the final ascent. They had helmets, poles, and self-belaying systems, for clipping onto the railings. They started me worrying that I was unprepared, gear-wise, for this challenge. I was still wearing the only footwear I'd brought to Europe: water shoes designed for boating.

I went outside to look at the path ahead. It lead straight up. I could see a tiny procession of ant-like climbers inching their way upward. Maybe this is high enough, I thought, trembling from more than the cold. Maybe I don't need to go all the way. But I banished such thoughts; I knew I would regret it if I didn't finish the job at this point, after all the struggle to make it this far. Only another hour to the summit, the signpost said - then I could hightail it back to solid, flat earth before the storm clouds rolled in. How I yearned to be back on ground where to trip would mean nothing worse than embarrassment.

As I climbed I realized that I was now above all the other peaks around me. I tried really hard to concentrate on nothing but the next foot or hand hold in front of my nose.

Then the clouds rolled in. While it was a shame to lose that mind-numbing view, it was also a relief, for I could no longer see just how high I was. I was especially grateful for the lack of a view when I had to walk along the top of a narrow ridge, dropping off into nothingness on either side.

Because there are two paths to the top of Triglav - one on each side of the mountain - I passed a number of people on their way down after climbing to the top from the other side. I stood aside for 5 minutes as a long procession of teenagers passed by - a mixed group of Argentinians and Canadians. They were dressed for a walk in the park: sweatshirts, track pants, sneakers. After seeing the uber-outfitted Germans, it reassured me to see that people less prepared than me had survived the summit. Germans, I have come to realize, are the yuppies of Europe - they're not likely to undertake anything unless they've spent a small fortune on it.

My first hint that I was almost there was the sound of singing: a group of low, male voices carrying through the fog from an indeterminate place slightly above me. When I arrived on the summit I was greeted by the sight of a group of about 20 French "pathfinders" - boy and girl scouts, dressed in brown uniforms of shorts and long-sleeve shirts, white scarves, and black toques. Their leader was backing up, camera in hand, trying to get a group shot, and nearly backed right off a cliff.

There was no great view to savour, due to the clouds - just mist and rock - though at least I had already seen the view in the film I saw earlier. But I did savour the victory for 20 minutes or so, then started heading down the other side of the mountain.

Suddenly the cloud blew away and I was treated to the sight of brilliant white clouds several hundred metres below, and above: the brightest blue sky you could imagine . It was like the view out an airplane window - that same crystal clear light. I was simultaneously treated to a sudden and alarming increase in the wind. I could see the clouds below running into the side of the mountain, then whipping up over the peak like frothing rapids. The weather up there was clearly changing fast. And I wanted to get down even faster.

I made it down to the lower cloud level, back in the bosom of the mist, out of the fierce winds. This path down turned out to be much more gradual than the one I had come up, which was a relief, since it would have been very difficult to descend the cliff I had come up. I even found myself on a (relatively) wide mule track for awhile, doing switchbacks down to the next lodge, at 2100 metres, where I had lunch and something warm to drink.

I spent the rest of the day walking through the park, a different way than I had come in, towards Bohinj lake. Slowly the landscape began to transform from the the weird, alien, rock-strewn world of the high peaks, back to the more familiar world of evergreens, lakes and meadows.

Whenever I passed other hikers, I had to decide how I would greet them. The little guide I received from the tourist office on climbing Triglav suggested saying "dober dan" to those I met - which means "good day" in Slovene. I did this at first, but got few responses in kind, and soon realized that almost all my fellow trekkers were foreign tourists like myself. I heard "hello" in many languages while in the park, and tried out the range of my repetoir. But never knowing the nationality of anyone until they opened their mouth (and often not even then) it was always a crap shoot. So I eventually just settled in to the international language of default, with an English "hi" to all I met.

I finished the day at another lodge that, being beside a lake, had water for a cold outdoor wash by the pump. I met a couple there - an Italian woman and a man from Montreal, both working in Holland. A question I often get is, "How are you able to get 2 months of holidays for travel when you live in Canada?" It seems Europeans are aware of the paucity of North Americans' holidays. I tell them I had to quit my job. I asked this couple how much holidays they get in Holland, 4 weeks maybe? They tell me, somewhat ashamed of their riches, that they get 8 weeks. It must be nice, I think, to work in Holland, and have 2 months a year to see all that Europe has to offer.

The Italian woman voiced the usual disdain for Germans, who were talking at the the next table, and whom she could understand, as she spoke German. "They're always complaining," she complained. Maybe if I could understand them, I would feel the same, but I feel like defending the Germans. All the time I've been in Europe, I've never heard a kind word for them. I suppose they are like the Americans of Europe - the people we love to hate, and are allowed to be prejudiced towards because they're on top. I can understand how being invaded and occupied twice in the last century might turn people against them. But I am impressed by their love of the outdoors, of travel, and of adventure travel in particular. Most people, including Canadians, if they travel at all, it's in their youth. As they get older, they usually just want to go to a beach and bake in the sun. But not Germans. They're out there climbing mountains, paddling rivers, hiking through the wilderness well into their "golden years". They're fit, organized, prepared. If anything, they're too good, and that's what makes people uncomfortable around them.

That night, I had to share my dorm, but still slept well - especially knowing that I was dry and safe from the storm that unleashed rain and lightning outside for much of the night. The next morning I hiked down one last mighty cliff, back down to the waterfall by Bohinj lake I had visited several days ago, and caught a bus back to Ljubljana.

From there I caught the last bus of the day to Piran, a heartbreakingly picturesque medieval town on the tiny stretch of Slovenian Adriadic coast. From the country's highest point, to its lowest, in a day and a half. I could still see Triglav to the north. Climbing it was the high point of my trip.