Mount Rysy and Transverse saddle 13,14 august 2003
"Guys, Tatras ruffled my feathers pretty much last time" - someone´s voice rang out.
"What about giving them an another try?" - someone else´s turned up and there already was an indubitable grin
looming in my dial, one of a child, who feels, that the toy his father is carrying is right for him. We´d had a right
hunch, not even the whole month passed and something cracked in our heads again.
The original plan, fortunately, the same like the effected one that time, had been to have a look down on our northern neighbour
from the peak of Mount Rysy and to get through several chalets, naturally, some tasting of mountain beers and crossing The Transverse
Saddle between Small and Grand valleys. Then with slightly altered line-up: me, Miro The Writing, Krtko, his brother Dudo and so
called Gajdi, in UK, presently.
05.30 a.m., in Zvolen - still swollen kissers, narrowed eyes, bed niff, but already then tiny smiles discernible. 08.00 o´clock, in
Štrba - the same camp like last time, this time, however, as cracking sight of the peaks as one could even wish. So we didn´t tarry
and we even gave our customary beer or two a miss, or didn´t we actually???
One thing was pretty certain - that time we slipped into the right valley. Not being unacquainted with how the world goes, but maybe
there was less to blabber about. You know, the more devoted of you surely, a precept still holds, pretty simple, maybe unbelievable
one: Nice weather equals fine crowds of people, beautiful weather is beautifully large crowds of people, fantastic weather means
unbearable jam and we had a divine (heavenly) one. I have to say, though there are advantages and drawbacks, that sometimes it´s
better to set out while pouring cats and dogs. So we dodged among the crowds for several hours, it was a genuine slalom course at
our pace, until we reached the chalet familiar as The Chalet below Rysy.
Then someone: "Aha, a bicycle there." and someone other:
"You stinky liar!" and presently we all together: "Darn it, that´s true!" There was an old ruined Ukraine hung on the chalet´s
wall - may it be somebody had been downhilling. As soon as we darted towards the summit someone shouted: "Miróóó". For the whole
of 27 years they´ve tried to persuade me I´m also called this way, so I lifted my head that direction. I almost fell onto my arse.
The biggest mountain extremist, Maco, a bit lesser one, Peter, and their amiable fellow Jane. Whence they´d climbed up, that´s
necessary to view, I only say, that when we peeked down there even people about us spewed.
We didn´t stick around on the peak,
because there were all the Poles, Slovaks and another number of hungarians - of course, we had and have nothing against them, but
some tens of them needn´t have been there at all. We set several poses for chance reporters´ shots - the one with Mount Lomnica in
the background is really worth not to be missed.
The descent, you know what they can be like, was propelled by the sole expectation,
that was the expectation of "duathlon".
The initial round of this favourite competetion as well as the others took place in the well-known camp restaurant - "Lord forgive
me I cat remember its name!" When I happened to meet Dudo in the toilet a thought struck us both: "Don´t pay" and we went to air
ourselves or was it: "Let´s air ourselves." and we didn´t settle up? Like the Czechs use to say: "Na tom teï nesejde.", because
the waiter in question had a dog-like nose, the eyes of a hawk and an indian chieftain´s courage. First of all he´d sniffed us
out, then sighted us in absolute dark and finally he even summoned up courage to pull us indoors and to make us reimburse.
In brief - we hadn´t paid, he´d caught us, and finally we chewed him out that he was the only one to be blamed, as for the score -
2:1 in favour of us. We hit our beds late enough, the calm spread throughout the camp. Now try to put yourselves to Krtko´s shoes
place: He´s drowsing in his tent, there is calm and darkness in every corner of the camp, and suddenly his tent´s zip is begining
to open. Krtko wakes up and opens slightly his eyes being dreaded. There is no chance to see anything in that darkness, the only
thing he catches is a murky person at the tent´s door. "What´s going on!" -Krtko hisses and the someone disappears somewhere in
the dark instantly. Of course, the rest of us was sleeping sweetly at the time. Next morning, the occurrence had its finale. We
got up at the first dew and espied a person roaming there, evidently, for the purpose of self-enrichment. Definitely a kind of
local mangy (filthy) bag-sniffer.
That´s what was in essence the begining of our second day. Itinerary: Little Comb, Mammoth Fall, Little Cold Valley, Zamkovsky´s
and then Tery´s chalets, Transverse Saddle, Chalet of brigands - pooh, that beer there - and Old Smokovec again.
Everything stuck
with the plan. Krtko with Gajdi made their way slowly but safely, me and Dudo, what another way, peripously and flipping fast.
After all, we met up at Tery´s alive and well. What we saw up there is describable in only way: "man here, another one there,
people there, a crowd of another ones here, sunbathing over there, others doing the same close to, there are some washing
tee-shirts and vests, scores of others dangling their feet in water, next thirty-eight of them slumbering back from noise,
several dozens loitering among the tarns and as big batch squashed inside the chalet."(see the photos)
Drawing near to the
saddle there was no problem in discerning the chains, since they were hung like those chinese cracker festoons. Using some
different words - net forty-five minutes of being hemmed like a dullard between two another panting chain-devotee. A superb
opportunity to take up with someone, marry him or her and even to manage to split up. Simply, there wasn´t any other idea
inside the heads of some of us, so we cut it crosswise. Isn´t the saddle called Transverse, after all?
At last, we vaulted
over to The Large Cold Valley and eftsoons the premier port of call (stopover) came - The Chalet of brigands. Now, we dare
to aver that we had never before drunk, nor have we since, more inferior pint of beer, apropos it was Stein. However,
Gods must love it, because they sent down cats-and-dogs pour onto us. In Old Smokovec we were completely dry and with
that Gajdi´s apt dry humour we struck out towards home. The return journey as ever chirpy, canty (boisterous) even
incongruous at times.