So what’s a camping trip without a mole? And by mole, I mean the pepper-based sauce from Mexico and not the burrowing beady-eyed critter. Mole (pronounced mo-lay) tastes amazing over fish, chicken, or basically any kind of meat (except over mole meat, which is disgusting).
Mole is an ancient Spanish word that loosely translates to “mix.” The recipe has its roots in the Mexican town of Oaxaca, about 200 miles southeast of Mexico City. Popular legend has it that nuns were rushing to prepare for a visit from the archbishop and they just made up a sauce out of what they had on hand.
Cuilapan de Guerro, a former monastery dating to the 1500s
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption), dating to the 1500s
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption), datring to the 1500s
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption), dating to the 1500s
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption), dating to the 1500s
Souzz visited Oaxaca last month on a business trip, and she managed to squeeze in a mole-making class during her visit (I guess the margarita-chugging class was fully booked).
At the local market
Chef Jose Manuel Baños, at his restaurant, Pitiona
Chef Jose Manuel Baños flanked by a few students
shopping for ingredients
At the local market, the peppers used for mole
The produce was amazing
Lots of great choices at the local market
Plaza de Santa Domingo
Monte Albán ruins, 500-100 BC
Oaxaca countryside garden
Monte Albán ruins, 500-100 BC
Cuilapan de Guerro archway
Souzz raved about her class (and her trip) when she got home. So when we started planning a menu for a backpacking trip with our good friends Lou and Kay, mole-making became an obvious choice (with margarita chugging as a backup). Our destination was Racer Camp Hollow, a favorite of ours in the Blue Ridge mountains near Wardensville, West Virginia.
Rock-hopping along the way
Walking the plank
The view from our camp, not bad
Racer Camp Hollow
Looking down into camp, Racer Camp Hollow
We made a mole verde that used tomatillos, which are smallish green Mexican tomatoes. Our mole recipe also used pumpkin seeds, jalapenos, onions, garlic, cilantro, parsley, and a little bit of chicken stock.
Tomatillos in their husks
After peeling the husk
The whole trick to backcountry mole–besides a penchant for cooking the absurd–is to carry a hand-crank food processor. Our new little toy worked out great, and it weighed less than a pound.
After browning the veggies
Adding the cilantro
Kay provides power to the mixer
It turns out there are actually several makes and models of hand-crank food processors, which had me wondering how many lunatic foodie backpackers there could possibly be? Or maybe people want to cook fancy during power outages? But mostly I wondered if this thing could be used to make margaritas.
The basis for the sauce
browning sauce ingredients
The absurdity of our meal planning came into sharper focus when we decided to include fresh doughnuts for breakfast. We always use a paper bag to shake and coat the doughnuts, which naturally prompted a text exchange ahead of the trip about cow pies.
Here’s the text exchange when I needed paper bags to dust the doughnuts
Have another doughnut!
In any case, dinner was delightful, and we served the mole over rice and some fresh grouper that we had hand-carried from Florida a few weeks back. We followed the main course with Kay’s apple tart for dessert, which made for a pretty elegant backcountry meal.
Florida grouper, vacuum sealed and still frozen
Grouper frying away in the frybake
The finished product – grouper with mole over rice
Kay’s apple tart, fabulous!
Camping with Lou and Kay is a lot of fun under any circumstance, but in particular when you team up for a five star meal at a five star campsite. It’s great to be with folks that know both the outdoors and food…and it’s a total bonus when they also know Heather Locklear trivia (don’t ask).
I was driving north last week towards Canandaigua, in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State, when a purple awning caught my eye. The awning belonged to the storefront ofMonica’s Pies, a shop where just about everything is purple—awnings, signs, milk jugs, jars, t-shirts, carpets, flower pots…even the port-a-potty out back. Monica’s Pies is in Naples, a town of 2,500 that claims to be the grape pie capital of the world.
Driving towards Canandaigua Lake (literally)
Even the port-a-potty is color-coordinated
My kind of place
Special parking just for me
Flowers against the lake
I always thought that I knew a lot about purple—including preserves, juice, wine, Bubble Yum, Pez, and even the Williams College Purple Cow (thanks to my in-laws). But I’d never had a purple-flavored pie before (and if orange can be a color, then purple can certainly be a flavor).
Souzz’s parents flanking a purple cow
At a Williams football game
Purple cows are pretty book-smart
Monica’s Pies dates back to 1983, and it is one of four shops in Naples that feature grape pies. Back in the day, owner Monica Schenk was looking for a way to use a surplus of Concord grapes—a style of grape that had fallen out of favor with local vintners–and she started making grape pies. She sold the pies only in the Fall season, and most of her sales were by the honor system (an unattended box of pies sat out front, along with a money slot).
Honor system pie sales
A roadside honor stand for pies
Then and now, her grape pies are very sweet, thick like jello, and come topped with a crumb crust that adds a lot of texture. Souzz said each bite was “like eating really good grape jelly, back when you were a kid.” Huh?
Nowadays, Monica’s Pies is open year round and offers a variety of pies, jams, baked goods, and other treats. The shop has beenfeatured in the New York Timesand on the Food Network, and her grape pie sales alone top more than 10,000 a year. There’s no reason to wine with sales like that.
When I got back home, I shared the story of my new discovery with my Williams-educated purple cow-loving brother-in-law Steve, who is quite the foodie. “I love those grape pies,” he said. “Concord grapes suck for wine, but grape pies rule.” Those Williams kids sure have a way with words.
That’s Steve on the left, with his sisters, and looking more like a college kid than a foodie
A family visit to the “purple valley,” as Williamstown is known. That’s Souzz 2nd from right, probably after eating some jelly.
Our recent trip to great state of Utah featured a lot of variety: a four day backpack on the historic Boulder Mail Trail, a day of canyoneering in Capitol Reef, downhill skiing at Brighton, and mountain biking in the central part of the state. We also caught up with our cousin Brian and our nephew Pat, so we got in some good family time, too.
With cousin Brian, backcountry tour guide extraordinnaire
Souzz with her nephew (and expert snowboarder) Pat, fresh off of a Naki concert
with cousin Brian above Escalante
Over the course of the week, we traveled by plane, bus, car, foot, rope, ski, and bike—not bad for a couple of flatlanders from the east. And we capped off the week with bear watching (ok, so the bear was the mascot at a Utah Grizzlies hockey game).
Souzz hanging below Cassidy Arch, Capitol Reef NP
At the trailhead of the Boulder Mail Trail, with Souzz’s cousin Brian
Mountain biking near Price
Souzz hanging out in Cassidy Canyon
The natural bridge in Mamie Creek, Escalante
Crossing the stream in Death Hollow
Capital Reef NP
Descending into Death Hollow, Escalante
Well, the blog is called souzzchef
Camp in Mamie Creek
Part of our trip was spent around the town of Price, a coal-mining community of about 8,000 that at first glance doesn’t look like much of an outdoor playground. But there are some great mountain bike trails on the plateau just outside of town, and friendly locals told us about a nearby must-see area called the Little Grand Canyonin “The Swell.” After getting some vague directions, we poured over our maps and found what they were talking about—a BLM recreation area in the heart theSan Rafael Swell.
There’s pavement in a few places, mostly where the road washes over
Close to the Wedge
Headed down towards the river
To get to the Little Grand Canyon required about 20 miles of driving on a dirt road…but “it’s a good dirt road where you can go 60 miles an hour,” to quote one of our new friends in Price. We were a little slower than that, but the road was in great shape. There was a BLM visitor center kiosk along the way that provided some information as well as a few good area maps.
BLM visitor center and kiosk
Headed in towards the Wedge
Shade must be nice in summer
Lots of cattle gates
A great lunch spot on the rim of the canyon
A side canyon near the river
Nice interpretive signage
Those are antelope out there
A good sense of location
The locals were right that it’s a spectacular place, with cliffs and canyons as far as we could see. The Little Grand Canyon itself is not as grand as its larger namesake, but there are stunning vistas, petroglyphs, an old (1937) bridge, primitive campgrounds, and an abundance of hiking and biking trails. And what is plenty grand about this place is what’s missing: people, concessionaires, streams of vehicles, and the suffocating infrastructure that can be somewhat common in larger parks. This place is definitely a hidden gem.
Looking to the north
That’s the San Rafael River down there
I must be standing on a rock above Souzz
Selfie, little Grand Canyon style
Looking down canyon
A great hike or ride, but don’t stray too far right!
As we were leaving Price earlier in the day to head towards the Swell, the guy at the local convenience mart asked where we were going. “Aaaah, yes, the Swell, you’ll love it,” he said. “It’s exactly like the Grand Canyon, only way better. And who wants to drive all the way to Arizona anyway?”
My last post was about the Adirondacks, a place that I’ve visited over and over through the last several decades. There are only a few destinations like that for me, with Alaska leading the pack—but Alaska is such a huge geography that it doesn’t really count (are you really going to the same place when your trips are hundreds of miles apart?).
Another regular stop for me is theNantahala Outdoor Center(NOC), a whitewater paddling school in Western North Carolina. NOC was founded in 1972, which happened to be the same year that the movie Deliverance hit the theaters–with its dueling banjos, twisted locals, and scenic paddling on the nearby Chatooga River. NOC’s timing was perfect, as the movie sparked a huge increase in whitewater recreation. And it did so in spite of its dark plot, like a bump in cruise traffic after seeing Titanic.
Deliverance Rock then
Deliverance Rock now
My first visit to NOC was way back in 1988 for a kayaking class, and I returned the next year for a four-day clinic in whitewater open canoe. I’ve been back maybe ten times since, mostly to brush up on various hardboating skills (learning to roll, river rescue, tandem paddling, playboating, etc.), and have introduced a few friends to the place along the way.
Souzz’s first trip to NOC, in the 1990s
A rare shot of me with a kayak, from about 1988
On the Ocoee, tandem with Souzz
American Gothic style
KB during a clinic at NOC
Running the Chatooga at NOC some years back
My first taste of canoe instruction
Endering (almost) at the base of Nantahala Falls
Tandem with Souzz on the Chatooga
I was at NOC this past weekend for some more paddling instruction, this time in an ultralight Alpacka packraft. Alpackas weigh in at six pounds and stow easily, which makes them perfect for fly-in or carry-in trips. We were roadside for this trip, but there are trips further afield down the road.
Alpacka packraft, ready to paddle
The full view
My instructor for my clinic wasWill Norris, and I shared with Will that I wanted to get more comfortable in this boat so that I can do more remote trips. On a more general level, I shared that my goals were to have fun and push myself. I didn’t mention to him that those two pursuits are often the same thing for me (although I think he figured it out).
NOC has changed a lot in 30 years, maybe even more than I have. This used to be a sleepy little place, and now there’s a big gear store, a full service restaurant, a tourist train stop, and permanent slalom racing gates across a lower section of the river. And the facilities are much improved, with the old hostel lodging mostly replaced with fancy cabins.
The view upstream
The gear shop has quite the selection
Looking out the window of the gear shop
The bunks used to look like this
Souzz’s sister relaxing in some more modern accommodations
A past trip with Souzz, her sister, and her niece
Gone are the days of pilot bread and banana chips, and apparently pedicures are mandatory
Most noticeable is that there are a lot more people around, and especially more rafters. The raft crowd doesn’t always get a lot of respect from hardboaters, but rafters create the market that makes for good gear and dam-release whitewater. I’m glad they’re here.
Over the course of the weekend, we paddled three different rivers, the Nantahala (an easy warm-up), the Chatooga (a nice class III), and the French Broad (some bigger water). I refined some strokes, tried some new moves in harder water, and had a chance to revisit some of my motivations for paddling.
Will asked me how I got into paddling, and I shared that I’ve always been drawn to things that I was told I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) do. I’m also drawn to places that are “off limits” because of skills barriers (harder whitewater, glacier travel, requiring avalanche knowledge, etc.). I’ve been fortunate to do some of those things (and fall short at others), and to see at least a few off-limits places. I hope there are more to come.
Koontz Flume, Gauley
Baby Falls, Tellico
As I look back on another trip to NOC, I find myself wondering why someone with an explorer’s mentality has “go-to” destinations in the first place. Psychologists talk about “place attachment,” but adventure travel seems like just the opposite. My favorite place is often the new destination that I’m planning to visit, and once it’s discovered I usually don’t have much interest in going back.
And yet there are a few places–like NOC–that keep me coming back. Maybe I come back because I get to experience myself more than experiencing a place. Maybe it’s harder to reflect if my mind is busy taking in a new view. Maybe the unknown of a familiar place is me?
We spent part of our holiday this year in Southwest Florida before heading north to enjoy the snow in Buffalo. While in Florida, we made a new (to us) dish calledCioppinofor Christmas Eve. Cioppino is a soup/stew that features seven different kinds of seafood. It originated with Italian immigrant fishermen in San Francisco in the late 1800s, who were apparently inspired by an older tradition from their homeland. That’s a whole lot of tradition behind what might be a new tradition for us.
The story behind Cioppino is that unlucky Bay Area fishermen would walk around the docks and collect fish from the more successful boats, and then would add tomatoes and white wine to a large pot and make a stew from their random catch. They would expect to return the favor when they had better luck. Sharing a bit of one’s catch sounds like a “holiday season thing to do” no matter the time of year—and shouldn’t every season be the season of giving, anyway?
It was easy for us to get into a seafood theme in Florida, since you are never more than 60 miles from a beach anywhere in the state. A beach theme also seemed to go with the mellower pace of things here–although the calypso vibe isn’t as obvious when you see two people at the local mall fighting over the last cheese log. There are, I suppose, practical limits to the season of giving.
My brother-in-law, who is a history professor, shared with us that the original Cioppino took some inspiration from an Italian dish called theFeast of the Seven Fishesthat is traditionally served on Christmas Eve. In Italy, the Feast of the Seven Fishes is called La Vigilia, or “The Vigil.” My brother in law is a fountain of Italian history; he really should do that for a living.
Our favorite seafood place in Southwest Florida isSkip Onein Fort Myers, a locally owned market on Highway 41 that features fresh caught everything. Skip One is primarily a shrimping outfit, but they trade part of their shrimp catch with other types of boats to bring in a full bounty—sort of the commercial fishing version of Cioppino (ok, so that analogy is a bit of a stretch).
Skip One, in Fort Myers
Small space, big punch
Not the best marketing
Lots of choices
Modern day recipe shopping
Love the signage at Skip One!
Souzz marvels at the selection
Things are fileted right in front of you
For our dish, we used a recipe from Giada De Laurentiis, and for our seafood we chose grouper, snapper, sea bass, clams, shrimp, mussels, and scallops. In addition to the seven types of seafood, Giada’s recipe includes white wine, diced tomatoes, garlic, shallots, onions, and fennel. We added the seafood to the broth just ten minutes before serving in order to avoid over-cooking it.
Snapper, Bass, Grouper
Making the base
Lots of ingredients
Souzz drinks the cooking wine, go figure
Shrimp, which is Skip One’s specialty
We’re told that Italian restaurants in San Francisco serve a lot of variations of this dish, and some even provide a bib to their patrons (if you’ve seen me eat, that’s another hint for why we chose Cioppino). In the tradition of the city, we served our Cioppino with a beautiful loaf of San Francisco-style Sourdough bread.
Pretty fancy garb for cooking
That’s my niece on the left, Souzz on the right
My sister, neice, and Souzz
My sis with the bread, and even the hot pad is color coordinated!
With my brother and mom. And is my head really that huge? (don’t answer that)
The finished dish
All in all, Cioppino was a fun new recipe, pretty easy to prepare, and delicious. Tradition or not, it’s one thing we did this year that is worth repeating next year (but we’ll order our cheese log ahead of time).
A few years back, I wrote about the amazingfood scene in Buffalo, New York, a scene that is partly the result of the melting pot of immigrants from back in the day (and by “melting pot,” I don’t mean theforgettable fondue chain, where $100 buys you an appetizer and the need for a cholesterol check). Many of Buffalo’s best-known dishes are ethnic creations like kielbasa and pierogi, dishes which are now competing for attention with more recent additions like Buffalo wings and sponge candy.
Sponge candy from Watsons
I’d of course heard ofBuffalo wingslong before I met Souzz, but marrying into a Buffalo family means you get to learn about a lot of other new treats. One example is the signature sandwich of Western New York, a beef on weck. The beef on weck is a Buffalo classic: a coarse-salted roll with caraway, thin-sliced roast beef, fresh horseradish, and au jus.
Beef on weck
“It’s just a fancy beef sandwich,” I once blurted out from under my newly purchased Buffalo Bills hoodie. Endearing yourself to your in-laws is difficult stuff, I soon learned, and no food in Buffalo is “just” anything. Dinner choices often have storied histories and serve to unite generations–regardless of whom your daughter might have just married.
Weck is short for kimmelweck, a style of roll that you don’t see unless you are in Buffalo–or are in a restaurant with chefs that wish they were. The sandwich’s origin is hotly debated (well, maybe not hotly debated, but people do occasionally talk about it). Some say the kimmelweck was adapted from a roll that was served at funerals in Germany, and others say that an enterprising bartender decided to salt rolls to get people to drink more (Seriously? Has lack of consumption ever really been a problem in Buffalo?).
Regardless of how and where the sandwich originated, it is a Western New York staple. And the locals agree that the classic area restaurant for beef on weck isSchwabls, in West Seneca. Schwabls is on a non-descript corner that isn’t really on the way to anywhere, and yet it has been serving Western New Yorkers in one form or another since 1837. Its small dining room is perpetually filled with hungry locals that come to enjoy a sandwich or some other German-style dish. Schwabls also has a friendly staff, a stately dark wood bar, local brews, and a lot of seasonal drinks, too.
I felt very authentic walking into Schwabls over the holiday wearing my still-new-looking Bills hoodie. As usual, the place was packed, with a lot of folks enjoying beef on weck as well as their signature holiday drink, theTom and Jerry(similar to egg nog, maybe like drinking a sugar cookie).
Our server asked us just exactly how we wanted our roast beef, and she meant every word. Beef on weck at Schwabls is hand-cut, in order to avoid cooking the roast beef more with the heat of a spinning blade. The care that Schwabls takes in preparing each and every sandwich is in itself worth the visit. Oh, and Tom and Jerry were nice to see, too.
It seems that every time I visit Buffalo, I learn a little more about the food scene, and maybe a little more about other things, too. My meal was great, my brother-in-law shared a lot of history, and there was some good local color, too. I may have some more work to do to blend in up here, but at least I didn’t order a “fancy beef sandwich.”
As we awaited the arrival of one of the bigger hurricanes on record, my 92-year-old mom had a question for me. While typing away into her iPad (she’s pretty high-tech), she asked “how do you spell the word hussy?”
Pre-storm, care free! (photo by Norma A.)
Johnny and Margie and her iPad, awaiting Irma
To backtrack a bit, I came down to Fort Myers, Florida to visit my parents a few weeks back and decided to stick around to help out during Hurricane Irma. As expected, we were ordered to evacuate, so we headed across town to a friend’s house that was outside of the evacuation zone. Their fortress of a home (high ground, solid construction, hurricane shutters, generator…and incredibly gracious hosts) was a very welcomed refuge.
Shutters makes it dark…and safe
Our hosts generously took in several others in similar circumstances–so all in all, there were 17 of us (12 adults, five children) in a three-bedroom house, along with a dog and two gerbils (hey, what’s a hurricane without a few gerbils?).
Watching the water build out front
This tiny window required standing on a stool, offered the only view of outside
Water still building
Can’t get much higher…but it didn’t
During the height of the storm
The storm itself was pretty exciting for a Virginia boy, tons of rain and wind that left a lot of standing water and downed trees (it was worse elsewhere in the state).
Lots of standing water, but all of the homes that we could see were above water
Could have paddled to the neighbor’s
Another look at the street
Unlike areas to the south–and unlike Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands during Hurricane Maria–we were fortunate to get through without much damage. We did a lot of prep beforehand, moving anything that could blow away, but we also got lucky with the storm track.
Last minute, had time to take off an old satellite dish
No roofing cement? No problem, just put back the old screws
There was some flooding and damage in the surrounding neighborhoods, but for us the challenge was mostly about the long (several days) power outage, the seasonal heat, a shortage of gasoline, and a few health issues that thankfully resolved.
A mystery palm frond appeared in the pool…even though the cage was completely intact. A good Irma mystery.
Through it all, I learned a lot from the locals, who know a thing or two about hurricanes. Here are a few random tips:
Back into the door: Garage doors are one of the weaker parts of a house, and bad things happen when the wind gets in under your roof. A trick is to back your car next to the door (from the inside), set the brake, and wedge in some wood (or whatever) between the door and the bumper to give the garage door more strength.
Strings attached: Our friends had a hanging light above their front porch that couldn’t be removed ahead of the storm. So they tethered it with parachute cord, tying it off to the front pillars on the porch. It made it through, which was nice–but we also know that some folks lost everything, so we tried to keep it all in perspective.
Keep water out, but keep it in, too: It’s old news that a filled bathtub means you can flush the toilets if you lose water, but tub stoppers often leak. Our friends put a little Saran wrap around the plug to help the seal. We never lost water, but we had plenty on hand just in case.
Give your freezer a quarter:Food safety is a big deal after a power outage, so one trick is to freeze a glass of water and put a quarter on top. If the quarter is still on top after power returns, the food in the freezer didn’t thaw and refreeze–and the meatloaf is ok to eat (although I still hate meatloaf).
notice how close the car is to the (soon to be closed) door
Hanging light tethered
A little saran wrap around the stopper
Quarter on top means freezer food is safe
In the coming days, the Fort Myers News-Press was still delivering and was one of our main links to the community and the state!
Lastly, there are some things that I knew before the storm but that were good to see in action again:
You can’t have too much power (unless you are a dictator): Having a few UPS’s (uninterruptible power supplies) on hand is a good thing. The UPS’s work well for charging anything and the batteries last much longer than pocket-sized phone chargers.
Siphons suck: Spend a million dollars on a good one, as the gas in your car is a great resource to feed a generator (if you are fortunate enough to own one). Inexpensive siphons don’t seem to work well with newer cars, and sitting on 15 gallons of gas with no way to get it into a generator is a bad feeling (ask me how I know).
It’s dark, even when it isn’t: With spotty cell coverage, no internet or tv, and radio coverage that was hard to follow, it was amazing how little we knew about the storm. This was true both before, during, and after–even though we were right in the middle of it. At first we had cell reception and Souzz texted us images of the storm track. But the cell towers eventually went down and it wasn’t until days later that we heard details about the damage in the Keys and elsewhere across the state. Looking back, the lack of communications was equal parts unsettling and unburdening.
the track was good to know
football scores and hurricane info, together
Reaching in: People from outside of the area wanted to help…and they did, simply by connecting on the phone (once our phones worked). Friends, family, the NMFA crowd, the 34th crowd, and Red Cross peeps, you know who you are. Connecting with friends by phone or text was a huge boost.
It takes a community: A neighbor that we had never met until the eve of the storm gave us five gallons of gas when we couldn’t get a drop anywhere. Shara and Kevin gave us gas and food and support, Dave fixed our generator the day before the storm (!), Janet from Publix grocery store offered hugs, Jonathan (the pool guy) gave us a big lift, and a total stranger stopped his car to help my mom, pretty cool.
My dad and brother with our hero Dave
The dogs did their part!
It takes a community…or a community chest!
My sis and Marlis
For days, anywhere you saw people in town, Irma was all that they could talk about, and sharing stories was definitely a part of the process. I can’t even count the number of conversations that started with “how did you do in the storm?”
As we put things back together, we went out of our way to thank the employees at Home Depot or Publix or CVS–places that are filling critical needs in the community. Each of those folks had their own story, but they were out there helping us (maybe later they’ll write a blog that is more interesting than mine).
I also recognize that storms hurt even more for those with fewer resources, so we feel incredibly fortunate to have had so much help to bounce back. And our hearts go out to those that lost so much to Irma–and now to devastating Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico and the Caribbean–and we are contributing to relief efforts. Our little adventure was pretty manageable when you view it in the context of the areas that were hardest hit.
As for my mom’s question before the storm, she was posting an update on Facebook, and her post ended with “Irma, you hussy, be gone!”
I’ve wanted to hike hut-to-hut in Switzerland for years, but planning such a trip always seemed like a daunting task. For starters, there are more than 150 huts in the Swiss Alpine Club system, which seemed totally overwhelming. And the language barrier for someone that doesn’t speak Swiss German is big, as almost all of the websites and information are in Swiss German (go figure).
Enter our good friends Reto and Annika, who live near Zurich and know a thing or two about these huts. They helped us plan a three day trip of about 30 kilometers on the Greina Plateau in the south central part of Switzerland–and by “helped us plan,” I mean that they planned it. Best of all, Reto came along (perhaps he thought we could use a chaperone?).
Reto and Souzz at Rheinfall, near Zurich
Annika and her best friend (oh, wait, I think that’s Reto)
Getting from Zurich to the trailhead near Vrin was ambitious enough, requiring four hours, three train rides, three cups of coffee, two bus rides, and a kilometer of walking up a village road.
Along the way
The marker is Vrin
Reto scouts future trips
On the train
In the village of Vrin
The start to our hike
From the trailhead, it was about 9 kilometers and 800 vertical meters to get to the Terrihutte, which is a beautiful stone structure on a point at the head of a valley.
One of many stream crossings
Souzz and Reto
Another stream crossing
A beautiful spot!
the last leg of the hike
I look like I am helping Souzz through a tough section, but Reto actually did the hard part.
The Terrihutte was built in 1925, although it has been renovated and expanded multiple times since. It has space for 110 in shared bunk rooms, as well as a full kitchen and a bar with cold beer and wine (as with most huts, restocking is done by helicopter). It also has electric power generated from the creek below, quite the luxury.
Food at the hut was simple but hearty. Potatoes, meats, soup, breads, butter, and salads are typical, all served family style in a dining room that offers ridiculous views.
ok, so it’s cloudy…but a pretty cool view
Mashed potatoes and meat
A busy room
Huts kind of have some views
The huts are also highly social places, even if you don’t speak the language. We were generally sitting across the table from someone who hiked the same hard kilometers that we did, which means we had a few things in common–including sore feet and tired legs. And, despite our ugly American language skills, many of our fellow hikers were gracious enough to reach out in English (which was a good thing, as hearing Reto and his family laugh as I tried to say the word for “three” in Swiss German wasn’t very encouraging).
We filled our water bottles here
A charging station in the backcountry, pure magic!
Souzz in our dorm-style room
The next day we headed up and over our high point at Greina Pass (2703 meters) to theMedelserhutte. It was a 15 kilometer hike, including some scrambling and a descent of a long snowfield. There were also some really fun glissades (the easy part) before a short ascent to the hut.
Headed up to the pass
Capricorn against the snow
With Reto at Greina Pass
Headed down the snowfield
Glissading is fun, no matter how old you are!
With Souzz, looking down the pass
The Medelserhutte is in a saddle with a commanding view to the west. It is a smaller hut than the Terrehutte, with 55 bunks, but still plenty roomy. Despite an early-ish start to our hike, we didn’t get there until nearly 6pm–but that was still enough time to catch sun on the back patio and watch Capricorns (a type of bighorn sheep) run the hillside.
Looking down valley
An inviting front door
A room with a view!
Rooms were pretty nice
I guess I’m not much of a conversationalist
Souzz and Reto
Reto spies some Capricorns
Our entire route
Soaking in the sun after a big day
Capricorns roaming the hillside
Looking back, Reto and Annika made it easy for us to do something that would have been very hard for us to do on our own (impossible?!), and for that we are very grateful. Visiting Switzerland with their help was priceless, spending time with them and their children before and after our hike was a treasure, and we are still glowing about our trip.
As for our time in the huts, I caught myself wondering how the Swiss built these places. But mostly I wondered why my legs were so sore. And then I wondered what another beer would taste like.
Souzz and I are in the midst of a trip through Switzerland, Austria, and Germany. It’s been a great chance to experience new cultures, new cities, and new mountain ranges. We’ve also met up with great friends along the way in Henggart, Switzerland, and Lofer, Austria.
With Reto in Greina Pass, 2355m
Making zopf (braided Swiss bread) with Annika
In the hills above Lofer with Eva, Christiane, and Isabelle
One of the things we’ve noticed during our travels is how much American culture is exported, and often it’s not our best. We’ve heard middling American rock music, seen ads for TV shows like Murder, She Wrote, walked past a Starbucks in a 16th century building, and spotted a lot of unremarkable American products. Interestingly enough, there are also a lot of foods specifically marketed as “American-style.” Don’t get me wrong, as I’m proud of a lot of what our country produces…but we didn’t find too much of that in our travels.
Reto and Annika, our hosts in Switzerland on July 4, grilled these for us, pretty thoughtful!
Tasted pretty American to us. 🙂
Perhaps a lesser known part of U.S. pop culture is the phrase that titles this blog, which American sports fans may recognize from the opening of ABC’s Wide World of Sports during the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. If you aren’t familiar with the show, it ran for nearly 40 years and featured sports that would rarely get air time in the pre-cable era—sports like pro surfing, track and field, whitewater kayaking, and ski jumping.
In the Wide World of Sports’ opening (clickhere to see a 30 second version from the late 1970s), a voice-over says “Spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport, the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat. The human drama of athletic competition, this is ABC’s Wide World of Sports.” As the words “agony of defeat” are spoken, an unnamed ski jumper falls and flies off into the crowd—and an American catchphrase for epic failure is born.
A screen capture from the ABC opening
By now you might be wondering what all that has to do with traveling in Europe, which is where the small Bavarian village of Oberstdorf comes in. We had planned to visit Oberstdorf because it offers amazing hiking and is somewhat off of the beaten path–hoping for an authentic experience where locals wouldn’t respond to our terrible German in perfect English. So far it’s been just what we were expecting (and yes, our German is still terrible).
As we were planning our day’s hikes via Google, we learned that the ski jump here in the village is where the “agony of defeat” crash happened during a World Cup competition in 1970. Thankfully, the Slovenian jumper that took that horrible fall,Vinko Bogataj, was not seriously injured. He returned to competition the next year, was later a professional ski instructor, and is now a very successful artist. It’s clear that he has not agonized much over that jump.
The ski jump, as viewed from the tram
The hill as it looks today
Looks plenty steep
The near ramp is where the agony of defeat was born. We took this from the tram
Vinko Bogataj returns to Oberstdorf in 1991
There are many reasons to come to Oberstdorf, including the incredibly friendly people, the charming town itself, the hiking from the summit of the Nebelhorn (2224 meters), and a lot of other natural attractions (including theBreitachklamm, a fantastic stream-carved gorge). Not surprisingly, none of the reasons to come here have anything to do with the history of the ski jump.
A flower box in town
Our hotel balcony
A beer garden in town
St. Johannes Baptist Church
The main street downtown
A band plays in the beer garden
This was not on our list of activities
The view from the summit of the Nebelhorn (2224 meters)
Looking down the valley from the Nebelhorn
Some years ago, Vinko Bogataj was invited by ABC to join in an anniversary celebration for the Wide World of Sports, since his fall had helped open the show for decades. When he got the call, Vinko had no idea what ABC was talking about.
Thankfully, there are at least a few parts of our culture that we have kept at home.
This weekend we joined good friends for a quick getaway to the nearby Blue Ridge mountains and a stay at theRosser Lamb House. The house was built in 1915 as the home of Hiram and Lucy Lamb and their nine children, and it is now one of thePotomac Appalachian Trail Club’s primitive (no power or water) rental cabins. It is located in Lamb’s Hollow (of course), adjacent toShenandoah National Park.
The spacious sitting room
The dining room, just off of the kitchen
The renovated kitchen
SNP Map #10. The Lamb House is in the lower left quad
Looking down into the valley near Stanardsville
A peek at the two decks and the screened in porch
Shenandoah National Park was created during the Great Depression, and the formation of the park resulted in more than five hundred families being forced by the U.S. government to leave their homes. Many of these families had been on land that they had occupied for generations, and entire communities were uprooted and moved to the east—including some to a subdivision in nearby Madison County called “Resettlement Road” (seriously).
George and Emma Meadows Lamb. Photo courtesy of PATC
George Lamb. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
More than 500 families received letters like this. Photo courtesy of Blue Ridge Heritage Project
Resettlement Road. Photo courtesy of Blue Ridge Heritage Project
Emma Meadows Lamb. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
The Lambs had been in Lamb’s Hollow since 1845. Nevertheless, they got the word that they were to be one of the relocated families. But in a twist of fate, the U.S. government ran out of funding for the park before the Lambs were forced to move. So the park border stops just short of the Lamb house, and they stayed there well into the 1960s–when the house was eventually sold to be used as a hunting lodge.
Rosser and Rosetta Lamb. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Rosser and Rosetta Lamb with Sevilla and Thurman. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Sevilla, Rosetta, Thurman, and Rosser Lamb, at their front porch. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Rosetta Lamb and son Thurman. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
In 1995, the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club acquired the house and its surrounding property and began what became a 17-year project torestore it. The house has been described by a park historian as “a tribute to a mountain family living out the American dream in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.” And a fine tribute it is.
We spent our weekend hiking on the nearby trails, enjoying the stream-side setting, cooking in the spacious and renovated kitchen, and imagining life here some 100 years ago.
The Blue Ridge Heritage Project Memorial in Albemarle County. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Larry Lamb and Kristie Kendall. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Larry Lamb with the chimney that is a central part of the Memorial. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Larry and Kristie were incredibly gracious in sharing the history of the house and the surrounding area, and both of their organizations are doing amazing work.
Larry’s father, Thurman, was born in the house in 1925, and Larry visited the house often as a kid. He shared that his grandparents, Rosser and Rosetta Lamb, were “kind, humble people who loved the mountains and their home.” There were also stories of corn growing on the hillside, a smokehouse, a big garden, and family gatherings that featured banjo music and dancing the Virginia Reel.
Larry Lamb’s Aunt, Sevilla Lamb, playing guitar. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
Inspired by the history of the house, our friend Lou brought his guitar
The Virginia Reel!
As for food during our trip, we tried to use recipes that we thought might be common back in Rosser and Rosetta Lamb’s day. Cherry trees were popular in the Blue Ridge, so we made a cherry pie. The Lambs made sorghum molasses, so we baked molasses cookies and muffins. They grew corn, so we had corn on the cob. They likely atewild ramps, so we had some ramps. The streams in the park had wild trout, so we made a trout dip. They had a smokehouse, so we smoked some fish.
soon to be smoked trout dip
Apps on Friday night
a portable smoker
smoked salmon, 30 minutes start to finish
molasses and apple muffin ingredients
molasses and apple muffins
the muffins, after baking
Molasses cookies, ready for baking
Molasses cookies, not bad!
Pickled ramps, a first for me
A pickled ramp
The finished pie
Ice cream and pie, through the miracle of dry ice
Of course, it’s a lot easier when you get your food from the local supermarket and keep it on ice in a giant cooler—a little different than in Rosser and Rosetta Lamb’s day.
Later on the trip, we visitedFar Pocosin Mission, which is about a two mile hike from the house. The Mission was founded in 1902, and historians describe it as the center of the community at the time. Now, 115 years later, the Mission is slowly fading into the forest–but there are old foundations, stairs, and chimneys that are still visible. Rosser Lamb attended church at the Mission, and his children went to school there.
Remains of the Mission worker’s cabin
peeking into the Mission worker’s cabin
artifacts on the Mission worker’s cabin
A foundation at the mission
Steps to an old cabin
I’ve enjoyed hiking and backpacking in and around Shenandoah National Park for more than 30 years now, and I confess that I haven’t always thought much about the human history. But we found the house and the mission to be powerful reminders of the people that were here before the park. The house is a fine tribute to the Lamb family, and to a lot of other families that lived in the neighboring hollows. I really can’t imagine what it must have been like for those that were forced to leave.
Main headstone in the Lamb Family Cemetery, just up the hill from the house
The Lamb Family Cemetery
Paying our respects for those that went before us
Lastly, it turns out that Pocosin Mission was founded by a very distant relative of mine,Frederick William Neve, a fact which was fascinating to me—but was either irrelevant or annoying to Souzz and our friends. After all, how many times can you listen to someone say “hey, I’m related to the guy that built this!” without wanting to scream?
Actually, I know that answer, and it’s four.
Frederick Neve, the Archdeacon of the Blue Ridge. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb
A young boy at the mission, early 1900s. Photo courtesy of Larry Lamb