05.13.19

Ticino:
    A train ride down south through sleepy villages…the furthest corners of Switzerland are typically less than three hours away, especially by train. The architecture changes from German to Italian. Bright colored facades and stucco. Old granite stone cottages dotting the hillsides behind rows of grape vines strung up in long rows between more granite posts until we arrive in the hills and shadowed one-way bridges of Intragna. Vines crawl over centuries-old stonework and water runs from the mountains to the Melezza which feeds into Lago Maggiore along the Italian border. Why do the Swiss speak up to four languages? Look at a map. At every border region there’s a cultural crossover with centuries of assimilation and generational shifts. England isn’t sharing a border but it’s the international language of business so most Swiss are raised with German, French, English, and then “Swiss-German” and at least some Italian. In Intragna we hear only “bonjourno” and after a fantastically rich dinner at a traditional spot we retire to a tiny Bed & Breakfast where we shower and rest up for the next day’s walk toward Locarno.
    It’s still in us. Do you know how often we reference the Trail still? How often we wonder aloud about the CDT? It’s a tough habit to kick. A full seven months later and my knees have finally begun to heal. I could scarcely run for all these months…well, more of a fast hobble. I’d dart in front of traffic numerous times only to the painful realization that my legs didn’t work the same way anymore. Then, a generous wave with my head down and onto the sidewalk. I thank the Swiss hills, which have required a new kind of stamina. Climbs happen in shorter bursts but are far more numerous and demanding than the long equestrian slopes and switchbacks of the PCT. A couple weeks ago I realized that it no longer hurt on the most treacherous downhills and I wasn’t pointing my toes downward for support. What a great feeling. Now we just walked and walked.
     We’re both carrying the same backpacks that we exited into Bishop, Ca with back in October. Their bright poly-fiber and plastic weaves and angles have faded. Small holes and tears from the trail are found in contrast to the brilliant sheen of the packs we see alongside us on the trains. Of course, no one’s even carrying an 85 L pack because no one else seems interested in camping. The hiker-trash smell lingers faintly along the shoulders and foam padding of the packs…but this is my pack. My rucksack. This bag has carried everything for what’s been at least 3,000 miles since Campo last year. All the side trails, towns, and multitudes of smaller excursions since it all ended. But here we are in our little stone cottage B&B: A couple glasses of smooth Italian wine and a bit of Phil Collins without a hint of irony.
   Why Phil Collins? It just happened. One night just north of Aqua Dulce. Exhausted, looking at lots of stars with Freebird and Red Flower from Austria and Germany posted up just below us in the windy manzanitas. We shared a pair of ear buds and listened to the only available music at the end of a long hot day. I realized then I hadn’t just enjoyed music in ages. It’d felt mandatory and compulsive, like living out a contract with myself that was finally ending. And there it was. Home. “Cuz I don’t remember.” And who knew where home would be after this? Who knew what came between Campo and Canada…
    So we started early in the morning and walked around and backtracked and found the Wanderweg pointing here and there over creeks, down through narrow alleys lined with flowers and figurines all set and manicured beyond post-card status, through green fields and hanging vineyards and grey granite walls the distant barking of dogs and the laugher of children and the ringing of the church bells. There wasn’t any particular direction this day and we found ourselves on top of a great hill amidst the ruins of a castle looking down into the valley below. We turned and went down the trail through deep stretches of forest, steep sections and switchbacks that led up and over the pass and down toward another valley. It’s nice when you can just walk. I suppose the apps are good for that. There’s also the fact that whichever direction you choose you’ll come across a bus, tram, train, gondola, or rental bike station sooner or later. Switzerland has integrated contingencies for all possible human situations and there’s opinions…oh, yes. Opinions about various things, namely food and drink. There’s the Swiss Way and then ‘all other less pragmatic options’. I have learned the importance of raising one’s glass not to acknowledge a gathering, but to acknowledge the importance of each different drink brought to the table…which can be many. Each Canton has its secret recipes, family traditions, and bacterial cultures hidden in the back of dark cellars beneath restaurants and grottos. These conversations can last as long as there’s food in front of you. A particular flavor of Schnapps, aged with the right fruit for a specific amount of time, added to your winter fondue kit. I like it. It’s still disorientating, coming from a place where food generally means fuel and especially since the PCT where nuance meant Cholula and pepper seeds on GMOMSG Ramen. And have I tasted anything more satisfying since? I don’t know. There’s been moments, but that first bite of hot food coming off the propane stove after 20 miles…it’s hard to beat.
    And we walk and walk. Now we’re married. Things are moving at such a clip that we’re both trying to keep up. I suppose I waited a long time to do those things. Twice as long as my sisters. There’s no real way to predict these things. We just work. Somewhere along the trail we became part of the same idea and we’re just moving that idea forward as a team now. And we both like Phil Collins, which everyone knows is the key to any international marriage.
     Down down alongside the river now through the red & whites again. Deep forested trail with seeps trickling out of the mountain walls, pipe strings emptying into little cement cisterns, cats wandering among goats, the occasional ‘bonjourno’. Over cable suspension bridges. Picking lunch spots. What are we doing? We’re just walking. Why? It feels right. It has always felt right. That is, sitting in boxes still feels claustrophobic. We scan the trails and trains each weeks, wondering where we’ll end up. The land is stunningly diverse even if it’s difficult to get completely ‘away’. I don’t imagine I could ever tire of wandering the Wanderweg.
     We ask ourselves what’s changed since October 11th…what’s really happening here? When we said ‘goodbye’ at the San Francisco airport we were both still nearly possessed by the trail magic and had lost a good amount of our former identities along the way. In the lengthy phone calls that followed we just marveled at how strange everything was and how all-encompassing the past 6 months had been. I hadn’t even been capable of imagining what would transpire and follow just for showing up on the Mexican border. In fact, I’m still trying to come to terms with it and find my footing some days. The whole spirit of adventure becomes a distinct habit of its own. The outlook and myriad possibilities. The trails that remain un-hiked. The overlooks and views yet to be appreciated by the golden dusk light.
   But is anything a thru-walk in the park? I returned to New Mexico dazed, destitute, running on spirit and heartfelt exhaust that plenty of people mistook for bravado…realized that I hadn’t even begun to really process the loss of my mother…and four months later I was here in Zurich. Two months after that I was married to my Hummingbird...and we were crouched over our cookstoves in an official campground after stacking rocks by the river, walking along its cold banks, returning under the trees and talking some more about life, where we were at…at least where we thought we were compared to where we thought we were before.
     In the morning it rained hard and we stayed in the tent until 10 am before moving under a shelter and making instant coffee and drying a few things off. The sky wasn’t going to be in our favor today with only a little window of good weather. The goal had been to hike up Valle Verzasca to the tiny village below the big peaks but it would be a wet slog and the trails were technical enough that it wouldn’t make for a pleasant hike. The best option was Locarno. We’d take a bus and walk around the footpath on the lake and have some touristy tapas and a couple wood-fired pizzas in a little grotto before returning to a hotel for showers and resting up for a 30 km day.
    In the morning we woke early again and took Die Post bus, which would take mail and people up the narrow winding roads of the valley to our starting point. It took about an hour to get there while other day hikers, couples, and locals piled in. The sky looked ok. It was overcast but dots of blue shone through here and there. When we got to the top we grabbed a couple coffees at Ristorante Alpino and ate breakfast on the stone benches in the town square (everything is made of stone) and wandered out to find the trail that would lead us all day over foot bridges, beneath great waterfalls, through centuries-old abandoned farmland and the remains of old alpine cottages where people eked out a living against the elements. Some were in different stages of restoration, others we marked verboten to enter due to their fragile states; roofs partially or completely caved in, living quarters full of fallen support beams and hay. Pretty surreal. The trail continued up, over, down, around and we parallel the waterway which grew as they approached the dams below, sparking green-blue coursing over great marbled recesses. Nearly everyone else we passed had a professional camera at hand. It was a part of Switzerland few people saw, the vertical mud and stone always giving way to more wonders.
   At the end of the day we were beat. We’d done about 15 miles which felt like 20 and we dropped out of the mountains into a small cluster of historic building surrounding a church spire where some other hikers grouped and waited for another bus to take us back down to Locarno where we’d catch the ICE back into Zurich. It was a long day. More processing. Things that seemed to make more sense in the woods. Sometimes I noticed my overall outlook on life itself changed with the physical demands of the trails. The voice in the head, silent and attentive while scoping a potential photo…grinding and cynical on the muddy ascents, digging in, leaning forward, trying not to slip. Slipping anyway. Hungry. Exhausted. But by the time we sat down on the train we’d resigned to normal giddiness. Somehow, no matter how challenging, no matter what lies ahead and what lies behind…a good day on a good trail is magical. Restorative. Worth it.
    The day comes to a close with the amber lights of Zurich coming into view. The city, arching around the north side of its lake. The lights that stretch out and thin like a crescent moon. The tiny flicker of the hillside homes. It’s late and we’ve gotten beyond tired. Instant soups, smelly hiker clothes in a pile, things put back into places. Generous cards and congratulations from generous and wonderful people. Red heart balloons and white roses and leftovers from the official proceedings on Thursday.
    All in a week. And sleep. 


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