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by Kathleen Hill Zichy

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by Sandy Summers

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by Barrie Lie-Birchall

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by Rosalie Robison

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by Diana Moes VandeHoef

Getting There Can Still Be Half the Fun
by Chandler Perdue

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by Anna Stewart

A Mystical Trip to Mexico
by Barbara Hilal

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The Road Less Traveled

october quarter 2004

Travels with Wally
by Kathleen Hill Zichy

First, he should never show fear. Second, he should be courteous to all, and always give special attention to the weakest member of the party. Third, he should be witty...

—Conrad Kain, on being a companionable guide

It all began in the village of Geilo. It was a very clear twilight in early August, and I had arrived on the evening train. Years before, I had lived in Norway following my graduation from college. During my six months in Oslo, I had never seen the Norwegian Fjords. I had returned to complete this unfinished task with a hiking trip along the "British Route" and the Aurland Trail.

As I heaved my suitcase from the train, I hoped that it would not burst and leave a far-flung explosion of drip-dry underwear, gaiters and hiking socks on the station platform. I soon discovered that I was on the wrong side of the railroad tracks, and there was no obvious path to the other side. I realized that the suitcase had to be lowered five feet down to the level of the tracks, dragged over the trestles, and catapulted up the embankment on the other side. With no small effort I managed this feat and arrived at the Geilo Hotel, flushed with triumph.

The next morning, I searched for the guides who would lead us into the rugged, sub-arctic terrain. In a small reception room off the hotel lobby, I found Paul Smith and Christian Chumbley, the trip leaders, setting out the fixings for a picnic lunch.

Christian and Paul organized a backpackers lunch with cheeses, ham, fresh breads, fig newtons and chocolate bars as seven disparate adventurers drifted in. One of the last to arrive was Wally Bruce, Peter J. Bruce, a former river rafting guide from Blenheim, New Zealand with a penchant for brightly colored attire-namely shocking pink and turquoise gear. The grandson of Alex Graham, a noted New Zealand climber, Wally hailed from the Marlborough Sound.

Like Christian and Paul, Wally was a leader for the adventure travel company Backroads and led trips in New Zealand. His job was to "shadow" the co-leaders-mastering the itinerary and logistics of the trip-so he might expand his repertoire of travel assignments in the future. Wally had a lean, muscular appearance and a complexion ruddy from 15 years of rafting on New Zealand's Buller River. A veritable river rat, he was.

The first day of our trip began with a train ride from Geilo to Finse and a grueling hike through miles of mountainous terrain, patches of snow and arctic tundra. Although our map had shown a nine mile option for the hike, Paul Smith set a demanding pace, leading a forced march of straggling but resilient hikers to the Steinberg Hut thirteen miles away. He was a leader with inexhaustible energy and thighs the size of a Virginia ham.

Wally was always far ahead of us, bounding up the rocky cliffs with an exuberance and good humor that was tiring to watch. After my first hour on the trail, I discovered the benefit of capilene and gortex when I fell, waist deep, into a rushing mountain stream, emerged with my "bottom bits" half frozen, as Wally would say, and found myself dried out within a matter of minutes. Arriving bone-weary and mud-spattered at a spacious mountain hut, I barely had time for a shower before dinner. We soon discovered that the selection of Norwegian entrees is limited, and salmon has a dominant and unyielding spot on the menu. After a dessert of heart-shaped waffles and lingonberry jam, I tumbled into my bunk, depleted but undaunted.

The hikes were spectacular and strenuous. Wally provided encouragement and a bit of light-hearted humor in an accent both charming and perplexing. Certain expressions had to be repeated several times before I could decipher them. He frequently powered out on the trail and then looped back to find the rest of us. As I was the least experienced hiker, Wally was elected by his co-leaders to the position of my guardian. He did so in a gentle and unobtrusive way that did not mark me as a quivering novice but gave me a little boost in confidence when I was facing a major drop-off or was lagging behind on the downhill.

I had never seen so much rock. We scrambled, stumbled, mumbled, crawled, held on by our fingernails as we slid over cliffs on the British Route, desperately clutching the famous cable-and hoping fervently that our insurance was paid up. At the bottom of the cliff after that hair-raising slide, we were greeted by a small party of Norwegian hikers. An older woman in that group with hair pulled back and greying at the temples asked me what I thought of my descent down the cable. "There's nothing like that in Manhattan," I replied. "We usually take the elevator."

"This is the toughest hiking trail in all of Norway," she informed me. Her statement was confirmed within minutes when we encountered a man with his head wrapped in bloody bandages, being led to the end of the trail by two fellow backpackers.

One of the most arduous climbs appeared to be an easy 4.5 mile jaunt in the written description of the trip. The climb led to a narrow stretch of glacial moraine at the very top of a mountain peak embracing the Flatbreen glacier. I made my way up a steep rocky pathway, and then faced one of my biggest challenges: The Ladder. Being a city girl from New York, I had never seen anything quite like it. I thought ladders stood upright and were used for changing light bulbs or taking down the Christmas decorations. But this ladder was different.

Looming menacingly among delicate alpine flowers was a horizontal ladder fifteen feet above an arctic stream. My blood froze as I wondered how I would make my way over this fragile link from one rocky embankment to the other. With a bit of cajoling and encouragement from an empathetic guide, and a demonstration of how to walk on the ladder without plummeting to the waters below, I inched my way across to the other side. To this day, crossing that ladder has changed my view of taking risks. It was only the first of many risks I would take in my travels with Wally.

We finally reached that afternoon's goal, a goal which seemed illusive as we made our way up the steep mountain footpath. With each step we expected to encounter the summit around the next turn, and it was never there. The trail led us on and deceived us like a temptress, until we thought we would never reach the top. Finally we made our way over the last heaps of rocky debris and were greeted by a view well worth the tortuous climb.

The pinnacle of our climb was a jagged mountain peak with the sheerest drop off on both sides. The 360 degree perspective of mountains, sheer granite cliffs, waterfalls, glaciers and lakes looked like the world on the first day of its creation. To reach the absolute summit, we would have to crawl on a little strip of earth and rock barely the width of my foot to a small metal wind-catcher a few feet away. I set my foot on this ridge with my heart hammering as the stones fell away on both sides. Reaching out to touch the wind-catcher, I felt I had arrived at the top of the world.

That evening we celebrated at the Hotel Mundal in Fjaerland, an old family hotel with intricate Norwegian carvings and antique furnishing. Wally toasted our accomplishments and told us kiwi jokes as our servers, viking maidens in long red skirts, watched from the shelter of the doorway to the kitchen. He spoke of his daughter Bryony far away in New Zealand with tender affection and a trace of homesickness. We devised irreverent toasts and drank wine in a large dining room that had not changed since the turn of the century. I will always remember Wally as a lighthearted and exuberant companion during eight days of grueling hikes.

The next day we confronted the greatest challenge of all, a challenge so daunting that one climber, a New Yorker whose greatest hike was from her apartment on 86th Street to Fairways for bagels and lox, sat down at the trail head and announced that she had completed her exertion for the day. She would not move from the rock until our return. Accompanied by Jarle Helgheim, an expert Norwegian glacier guide, the rest of us set off to the foot of the Jostedal Glacier. We hiked through the Stardalen Valley before arriving at the foot of the blue-white glacier. Taking a moment to rest among a huge pile of rocks, we stopped for a bite of lunch. On my desk is a photograph of Wally taken at that very minute with a huge sandwich in hand, a red well-worn jersey and a warm smile. He is seated on a throne of gigantic boulders with his baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. As I ate my sandwich, I saw the two trip leaders in a huddle with Wally and the glacier guide. They were talking in low conspiratorial whispers, and I wondered what they were plotting. Wally admitted to me later that it was, in fact, a conspiracy-they were devising an intricate plan to keep me safe on the glacier.

I looked up the glacier with a feeling of terror. I decided that the New Yorker who remained at the trail head had demonstrated great foresight and a desire for self preservation which we should all emulate. Of course, I knew everything about glaciers. They were huge blocks of ice like gigantic ice cubes. Michelle Kwan could skate over the surface without faltering and do perfect triple axles and the death spiral. Experience would be my teacher.

The glacier was enormous. The intense pressure of its descent through the valley had created huge cracks and crevices, deep gashes through the ancient ice. It was covered with snow, and its treachery lay hidden beneath the surface. One could not see if there was a solid surface underfoot or a narrow ice bridge which might give way. I was terrified. I decided I would remain at the lunch spot and wait for the others to attempt this feat.

Jarle approached me as I was seated on the rock. With the commanding authority of a master guide, he told me to stand. I immediately rose to my feet. Without warning, he whipped a rope through the harness on my chest and passed the rope to Wally, beginning the human chain. There was no way out. I could not untie myself without drawing great attention to my cowardice and forcing the whole chain to reassemble. Quickly Jarle bent down and fastened the crampons on my boots-like two sets of claws to grip the icy surface. Fate had determined that I would end my earthly existence buried beneath the Jostedal Glacier.

Wally was my lifeline, my friend and my companion on that treacherous hike, holding the rope so tightly that I could not falter. Securely roped between Wally and Jarle, I set out on a hike that changed my destiny forever. The sun was brilliant overhead. We could see for miles as Jarle led us over the ice he knew so well. While we hiked, he told us of a German tourist who had slipped and pulled four companion hikers into a deadly cavern beneath the glacier's surface. I am not certain whether that was to caution me to step carefully into his footprints or to extract a full measure of respect for his authority. In either case, I followed him with total concentration. The punishment for error was swift and extreme. It did not come from Jarle but from the glacier itself. One fleeting misstep, and I was up to MY knees in icy water and snow.

We began a slow ascent over the surface of the glacier, a human chain of ten intrepid climbers. I was the least intrepid and the most fearful, convinced that I would pull the entire group to the same ignominious fate as the Germans. I felt like the mythical character Euridice, and Wally was the Orpheus behind me. I had to make my way out of this frozen hell without ever glancing back at my rescuer or be condemned by the Gods to remain in the underworld forever. Convinced that if I glanced over my shoulder some terrible fate would befall me, I never looked back. I trusted Wally with my life...and trust him to this day.

We were like colorful human dots of red and pink and blue on a mountain of ice that looked like a lumberjack took a giant hatchet to it, leaving deep gaping gashes in the surface. As we approached the edge of one of the deepest gashes, Jarle paused with his ice ax and pick in hand. He stopped to wait for all of us to gather on the edge of the crevasse.

Carefully he probed the depth of the snow and the safety of the ice beneath with his pick. The snow went nearly to the very end of the pick as he calculated the danger. "I don't like this," he repeated several times with a Norwegian directness which increased my anxiety with every repetition. He had discovered a very narrow ice bridge, perhaps eighteen inches wide, with 20 foot drops on either side. There was no alternative pathway over this crevasse in the surface. I stopped-immobilized with fright at the edge of the bridge. Jarle had already crossed to the other side. If I took one step further, I would be standing on a strip of ice with nothing underneath but a 20 foot drop to the surface. I could not move. I turned to stone.

Jarle held out his hand for me, but I resisted. He stepped back on the bridge and grabbed the harness on my chest. "You!! You're coming with me!!" he said. With one forceful yank, he pulled me to the other side. I was so startled that I could not utter a word as the others crossed behind me one by one. The climb continued to the top of an icy plateau, the highest point of our hike, where we could survey the stark beauty of the valley below. I felt the intense thrill of having survived. Our downward journey back to the trailhead was filled with laughter and relief. I was now convinced that I could master any challenge that I would ever face in life. Today, a photograph of Jarle and me, linked together with an elaborate combination of ropes and gear, sits on my desk like a badge of honor.

We returned to the hotel and celebrated our triumph that evening with a festive dinner. The glacier hike with Wally and Jarle had forged a comraderie which would remain. It was Saint Olaf's Eve, and we watched a huge bonfire on the bank of the Sognefjord from the terrace of the Kviknes Hotel. As the sparks drifted through the sky, I realized that this journey had changed the way I looked at life. No problem would ever seem so daunting. No obstacle would ever look so perilous. I had proven to myself that I could face my own fear-slide down cables, cross ice bridges, and live to tell the tale.

This is the first of many gifts that Wally gave to me, although he always said he hated gifts. He gave the gift of his experience, his insight and his ability to inspire others with his kindness. I never saw Jarle again, but I hear he continues to lead the fearless and undaunted up the face of the glacier. I hope one day I will see him again. Then I will tell him how much this experience meant to me.

I caught a plane from Bergen to Oslo the next day, and Wally went on to lead trips throughout the world. Later, I would get postcards from strange and exotic places--one of Wally having his hair cut by a barber from the Outerbanks of North Carolina, looking very much the New Zealand mountain man. I went back to the challenges of my life in New York and my work for NYU Downtown Hospital, climbed Kilimanjaro, hiked the Ilhara Valley in Turkey and endured the attack on the World Trade Center... all because of lessons Wally taught me about taking risks and defying fears.

Kathleen Hill Zichy: New York City: When she is not walking over ice bridges and sliding down cables, Kathy is raising money to build a new emergency center for NYU Downtown Hospital. She has travelled in New Zealand, Tanzania, Turkey, Norway, France, Italy and Austria, and is about to head off for kayaking school in Morocco. Her greatest pleasures include teaching English to Chinese immigrants at a settlement house on the Lower East Side, learning the Argentine tango, and kayaking in Akaroa, New Zealand.