The Team Sherpa Blog

                     I awoke in the morning at around 5 o’clock, as I usually do in the mountains. There is something special in wakeing early, starting your day as the world around also rouses itself. I fixed myself a cup of tea, and a heard some shuffleing around outside. I opened the door to a transfigured world. More than 80cm of snow had fallen during the night, most of it blowing up the slope and piling against the Chata. A man was outside clearing a way through to the door of the Chata. Thick fog surrounded us, but no wind yet. The iced up thermometer by the door read -14C. The man looked at me, and stood up straight. He must have been at least 2 meters tall, a hulk of a man with the look of the hills stamped on his face. He asked me my name, where I was from. He was Gyor, “George in English”, the keeper of the chata. I asked about the storm, how things were going to be today. He shrugged, made an expansive gesture with his hand to indicate the snow piled all around him, “You see. In the Nizke Tatra, nobody knows” was how he answered. My plan was to leave early, and continue following the ridge to Chopok. But with this fog, things looked doubtful and I was concerned about what sort of weather the raising sun would bring. By about 6.30, my assumptions were correct; the storm was back with a vengeance. At 7.30, the winds died down again. I decided to push on, or at least hike up to Chabenec (1955m). I was hoping that perhaps most of the wind was concentrated around the saddle, and if I gained some altitude things might clear up. George told me that from here to Chopok (some 21km) the ridge was marked with wooden poles like the ones I had followed down to the chata. He didn’t know what it would be like higher up. At 8.00, I set out. The winds, now at my back as I climbed back up to the saddle, were colder than they were yesterday but the visibility was slightly better. At the saddle I turned East, and began to walk along the broad flat ridge once more. Withing 10 minutes I was enveloped in fog. I would walk to a wooden pole, and squint as hard as I could until I could see the next- and they were only about 15m apart. I slowly began to ascend to Chabanec. At 1800m I stopped suddenly. I was halfway between two poles, but could no longer see the pole I was headed towards. I looked back, and could no longer see the pole I had come from. The world had turned white. No up or down, South or north. The wind had become so fierce that I could watch as my shallow footsteps filled in within minutes. I had been walking on compass bearings between each pole, and decided here not to continue on. This was downright dangerous. I know from my map that the ridge would narrow up ahead, and the North face of Chabenec was a steep and craggy cliff. The South face was not much better. One false step up here could be a disaster. I did not know these mountains, I was alone, and the storm was getting stronger. I turned around, feeling beaten but confident in my decision. I was hiking 15m long stretchs relying on a compass bearing and nothing else; better to go back. I came back to the saddle, and once again had to search for the pole markers that would lead to the chata. I went back inside and George was there, smoking. “I will make some tea. I thought you might be back”, was all he said. He was happy that I had headed out, showing that I had resolve and was not just another tourist in the mountains, But he said that turning back proved I was also a smart person in the mountains I did not know. I asked if I could stay the night again, to see if the storm would abate and then continue along the ridge the next day, “I will go down tomorrow if the weather is the same” I told him. “You can stay, it is a beautiful walk to Chopok from here. You should see it”. I spent the day with George and the Czech brothers, doing chores around the Chata.

George invented all sorts of jobs, from peeling potatoes to cutting wood, but out main task of the day was to go out into the storm and find the spring that had been buried in the last three days as fresh water was running out. Armed with a shovel, a pick axe and ski goggles we headed 150m due west of the chata where George said we would find the marker for the spring. We found a small bit of doweling poking about a foot out of the snow right were he had said. We began to dig and soon realized that the doweling was actually a 2m long spike that sat atop a small gazebo that house the spring. We spent a good hour and a half tunneling almost 2.5m under the snow until we struck the spring. I think this was Georges idea of a joke; he had said the spring was probably covered by the snow, mentioning only that it is "just underneath a little wooden marker". George is a man who is as much human as he is granite and limestone. He can teach you much about the Tatras, and his first lesson would probably be to respect the mountains. When we finally got back, each man with 40l of water, George greeted us at the door. He was wearing a massive apron, edged in lace and embroidered with a hammer and sicle on the front. “Let’s eat” was all he said, but I could see his eyes laughing at his joke. The rest of the day was passed in sharing stories, and talking the way people do when they are up and out of the way of the world; friendships are fast to form, and words flow deeper than they would in the country way down below us. 4 young boys came in at around 15.00, looking worse for the wear. They had also come from Donovaly; they left the same day as I did, but had to call it quits around Skalkou and had spent a miserable night in a tent. At 8 o’clock, I wished everybody a good night and went to sleep. I had already started nodding off next to the stove about an hour earlier.

Again, the next morning I woke early and this time helped George to dig out the front door. It had snowed all night again, but the fog had lifted a bit and a different wind was blowing- this time from the North, coming down from the saddle. I had my things packed, and I was speaking with George when he introduced me to two your Slovak skiers, Milos and Sam, that had come in during the evening after I was asleep. “They are going to Chopok today” was all he said. I introduced myself and told them I had planned to follow the ridge there as well. “We could go together” suggested Milos. I looked to George, but he was busy stoking the fire. “I think that would be a good idea”, I replied. As we were getting ready to leave George handed me a set of battered and many times repaired Snowshoes. “The snow could be deep. You can leave these at Chopok; somebody will bring them back”. We set out at 7.30, and while there was still a strong wind visibility had double compared with the day before.
 

Milos and his friend Sam were ski alpinists. I was worried about keeping up with them, as they were on ski but they told me not to worry. They did not travel fast; they had little experience with this type of skiing. The snow was indeed deep, up until the ridge which had turned into hard snow and ice because of the relentless wind over the last two days. We made it up Chabenec without much trouble, the view revealing nothing beyond the fact that we were in the mountains and the guests of natural forces stronger than ourselves. There was a very short and steep descent from the summit, and half way down I heard a snapping sound from my right snow show. I took a look and saw that the steel foot plate had completely snapped through at the pivot point. I also noticed that they had been welded here many times before, and that they were reinforced with a strong leather strap at the same point for just this sort of emergency. Thoughtful of George.
 

          We continued along a spectacular ridge to Kostliska (1937m), then Contouring around the South side of the face, things began to get a little dicey. The Face was windswept and ice, and a very steep angle. The Edge of my snowshoes was making things dangerous, and Milo also decided this was no terrain for skis. We stopped, put on our crampons and got out our ice axes. I felt much safer like this, and made sure with every second step I was firmly planting the spike of the axe. When we reached Kostliska, the weather seemed to break a bit. The wind had died down, and even the sun was visible as a weak disk shining through a murky sky. We descended to Krizske sedlo (1775m) then climbed up to Pol’ana (1890m).
By the time we reached the top the clouds had risen, and had even broken in some places. My spirits were up, as I looked back on the ridge we had just crossed. I once again stowed my ice axe and we continued along the top of the Dumbier Massive towards Derese. The North face of these mountains were spectacular, with cliffs and crag poking through the hard snow. It was also avalance territory, and the cornicing of at the ridges’ edge was beautiful. We ambled on towards Derese, passing just under the 2004m summit, and as we rounded a corner I caught the flash of Alpinists skiing down from the ridge between Derese and Chopok. The South face here was skiing paradise; should one be so inclined to move very quickly in the mountain very quickly this would be a good spot to choose. We moved between massive spires of rock that jutted out of the ridge and threaded our way towards the ski station that sat just below the summit of Chopok. Eventually we came to the gromed section of the ski area, and the skiers were staring at me. For Slovakian, snow and mountains equate to skiing; walking is restricted to summertime. I was a strange site to them, as I crossed the top of the ski area in crampons. We walked up to a chalet beside the chairlift and went inside. I ordered us the kofolas, Slovakias national drink (after beer, which isn’t considered a national drink here. It is a food group). Sitting down to a meal of dumpling stuffed with plum preserves and drenched in butter, we shared a table with a group of good natured skiers who could not believe that a Canadian would travel all the way to Slovakia to go hiking. “You have many mountains in Canada. The Rockies are famous here, every Slovak wishes to go there!” noted one man. “But in the Rockies, I cannot eat dumplings and drink a beer for lunch when I am hiking!” I responded. Somebody produced a flask, and passed it around. “it is made from the fruit of the tree in my mothers garden. It will keep you strong for the rest of the day!” said the owner of the flask. I drank, and smiled a content smile. I was noticing a pattern here in Slovakia; schnapps are still considered a healthy way to warm the body and spirit whilst in the mountains. I think I was begninng to agree with the theory. After lunch, I left Milos and Sam at Chopok. They would ski down the hill, and head back to Bratislava that evening. I was continuing on to chata Stefanik, another 8 or so km away along the ridge. I stepped out of the chalet into blue skies and blinding sunlight! Looking to the west, the ridge once again should the way and I set out in a good mindset. I walked across the stunning face of Vel’ky Prislop, and as the snow was softening I was thankful that skiers had been here before me today and packed a trail for me to follow. The rampart of Dumbier (2043m), The highest peak in the Nizke Tatra dominated my horizon, and up some 50m above me rose the jagged edges of Konske. The even level of snow on the South face of these mountains made judging distances and scale deceptive. My Altimeter told me I was at 1900m, and I felt as if I was much higher. These mountains felt huge for some reason that I could not explain. At Krupova Sedlo, I took my first steps onto Dumbier. As I began to climb, clouds once again started moving in. Soon I was once again in the fog. I knew I was hiking about 15m below the ridge of the mountain, but I could not see through the cloud. My Altimeter told me I was at 2020m, when the slope began to descend. I followed some ski tracks, and out of the mist a ski alpinist came up the same path. “Have I passed Dumbier?” I asked. “It is behind you. You have missed it. Come, I will show you.” I followed behind him, and he led me right up to the ridge. Dumbier has no definitive summit, only a point along it’s apex that is higher than all other. And that point is marked with a massive double cross, the Slovakian national emblem. Out of the mist rose the cross, encrusted in ice and sheathed in snow. I walked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world on the other side, but saw only grey cloud. I posed for a picture, and started heading back down. “Hey!! Stop!” the man shouted to me. I stopped. Just as I turned around, I saw the cloud rise off of the whole of the Dumbier massive in once graceful movement. The whole of the ridge I had crossed, from Pol’lana right up to the massive cross that was suddenly silhouetted against a sapphire sky. It was as if a magician was pulling a silk cloth off of a table, and underneath was a whole mountain range. I gaped. I stared. I finally started breathing again and fumbled for my camera. “This is very special” the man said. “Many people stand here in the winter, but they do not have a chance to see this. Perhaps the mountains know you have come from across the world to visit, so they are making a show”. I had to agree.
After basking in the sun on Dumbier, I headed down the western slope of the mountain a broad saddle. Ski alpinists were making there way up the slope in an effort to catch the beautiful view, but clouds were already moving in again; sadly, they were going to make it too late. On the saddle is a large chata named Stefanik. It was already 16.30 by now, and I was very tired from the long days walk from Durkova so I decided to end here on a high note. I really was an anomaly here- the only person on foot, with a backpack. Most people walked up to the chata from a parking lot 200m below, and then skied up onto Dumbier. Everybody wanted to hear the story of my crossing from Durkova, and more than once I had to explain that I prefer walking in the mountains and no, I had not forgotten my skies. Inside was a cheery scene, with large groups huddle around rough tables. It was the Easter weekend, and in Slovakia that means skiing! After changing my clothes, I ordered a large bowl of Goulash from the chata keeper and enjoyed it as I thought about the days adventure. I was awoken from my day dreams by the men at the next table- one of which was the alpinist I had followed up to Dumbier. They wanted to hear about Canada, and to get the conversation going a bottle of something fiery was produced and we sat down to exchanging stories. Three of the men had been competitive skiers on the National ski team- they remembered competing often with Canadians, and told me they were always gracious adversaries. About an hour later, the 4 boys I had met at Durkova tubled into the chata. They looked completely spent, but happy. It seems as if they too had had a wonderful day. They sat alone in the corner by the fire, and I ordered a round of beers for them. Soon they joined our group, and we all drank our fair share of beer and schnapps until the sun was setting. I went out for one last look. The clouds had once again lifted, and the whole range was set on fire by the setting sun. I climbed into my bunk at about 21.00, and slept like the dead. Tomorrow would bring another advenure