High Tatras 12,13 july 2003
The boredom had overpowered us once again, so we decided to get a bit nearer to the skies.
The masons cut 2004 into their tombstones then and besides it seemed to be a nice summer time.
Nothing more was needed so the next day four loonies hit the track. Me, Miro The Writing, Krtko, Joseph Gonda and Maroš,
deceased right now, nicknamed Fatso.
We crammed our carriage and after, roughly, two and a half hour of a riotous journey we conquered the little town of
Štrba - supposed to be our gateway to that highest mountain range of ours. Then the camp, parking, procuring a place, a bit of
mess, even harder later on and calming down lastly. Since it were just early hours we didn´t let us have the pleasure of any
single rest-minute before the first-day ascent. The first shot from mountain itself was taken under the familiar arch advising
The healthy ones reach the summit easier!
so we snubbed out our butts and struck out for Mengus valley and Rysy.
That everything was all right and fully professionally organized we cherished till one hour of our footing , when we
began to realize something like: "oh guys, just to get you informed, you´ve simply slid into an adjacent vale!" "Oh damn it!" -
someone shouted and the rest of us agreed - "you bet your life we´ll beat Mount Rysy today!" So whoosh!
straight across the
razor-edge somewhere in the vicinity of the peak of Satan. It was pretty clear, from the begining itself, that wasn´t where the
right way led. In spite of this, the most curious two of us (I and then still fraught with enthusiasm, Fatso) reached the ridge
(see the photo)
and saw, on the other side of it, what´d already been clear from the map, videlicet a wall so perpendicular that
if an eagle had crapped on the top of it, the shit, dropping, wouldn´t have even touched it. Returning down from that crest Fatso
left certain brown markings (Who knows why and what it was?) on the boulders and we went on our way up Mlinicka valley past Round
Tarn
up to the top of Mount Furkot.
The first-day expedition we left off by an interminable, tedious
descent past Wahlenberg´s tarns down Furkot valley up to the camp´s restaurant where we caroused for as long time.
Later on, slightly tipsy , and I emphasize the slightly, we hit the sacks and ... some of us got soaked (Krtko and me).
The second-day´s dawn welcomed us by anything but cheering and encouraging. The clouds, heavy fog, wind and the worst was that
fucking malicious coldness. It soughed all the time something like: "I´ll deal the most fiendlish blow
to your joints!" It´s necessary to say that there really had been a bit of truth in it. The last common picture of us is the one
from The giant (mammoth) fall. Krtko and Joseph retired to the base camp and we both, drenched completely, set off for the Little
cold valley. Everything´d been all right until we got to the Chalet of Zamkovsky, just it was raining cats and dogs.
When we, for
the first time, caught a gloomy glimpse of Tery´s chalet, we sensed that something was going bloody wrong. We saw Mount Lomnica as
well as Ice Peak gorgeously, at least initially we did, which are supposed to be greyish, but they both were white like E.T. in
the sixty-fourth minute of the movie. At first, we didn´t want to admit , but this lingered for at most four
and a half second, because things were turning out obvious - someone or something was going to have a fine play with us.
Thanks to Lord and perhaps to our obstinacy we, at full health, entered Tery´s chalet, where all the people were trying to deter
us from going to the Transverse Saddle. At that time, the visibility was zero, now and then it rose to one meter. and that was
the very jiffy we took advantage of and started for the saddle, just mentioned. Till we made it another five centimeters of snow
came down and we had to bow to it humbled. That´s to say we were clad like before a round trip on Bikini island: I in shorts and
my fellow, Fatso, goody! , with trainers on his feet and, you saphead!, in a tracksuit trousers
with TM-label Army.
Like ever and everything has to, this time again the matter came off to consummate contentment. We met down happily,
packed our backpacks up into the car and made haste towards a motel in Štrba for a typical table-bearing-down supper.
This time High Tatras vanquished us, but we already guessed they would see us even the same summer.