Vysoká, Dec 28th 2007
The kind of action you expect as your own death. We were sitting with Ivka´s mum, playing cards probably, when the phone disturbed us:
me: "Kooooorky....you´re back from Amerika?"
Maťo: "Heya Mirči, how r u doing?... listen, let´s go to Tatras."
me: "OK."
Maťo: "We have a room booked by the Tarn of Popradské."
me: "...ha-ha-ha."
Maťo: "For eight men."
me: "hmm,... ha-ha-ha."
So, in two days, we were getting in Miňo´s huge Opel which I was to drive. A bit uncommon, at 1 pm, but one has to be psychically prepared for
the weather which should have awaited us the next day. No time after our arrival, Paťo introduced us to Peťo from Morava, by the way, a producer
of distinguished saddles for paraglading. All our journey we spoke we would do Ostrva at least. Well, hmm... we really did something, I think it was several beers. But we passed a pleasurable hut evening with table tennis and TV news.
Right at sunrise we took the first pic of that day. All the previous day, Paťo had been distributing his paraglade-stuff in between us: "Maťo you´ll take just the wing", "Miro, you´re in shape, you´ll carry the saddle, aaand..." "Of course we will." We enjoyed ourselves over it.
The next day, he packed us. "Ha-ha-ha, he´d been serious". Two of us did it eventually. Maťo almost died of it. We´d ascended via Zlomisková valley and the sun began shining in the saddle. Here, the snow lost its powderness and glaze began to cover it, nice anyway.
Paťo hid his wing, and last but the most precipitous elevation of 300m waited for us via the central gully - like up a ladder. After about half an hour we were standing between two heads of Vysoká. And we were about to proceed a
classic way to the left - the western one. Only Paťo didn´t feel sufficed and began to incite me to climb the eastern, too. To be honest, I didn´t feel doing it at all, so only he has a picture from that head.
I don´t know what´s the summit in the summer but in the winter, the summit is flipping constricted and the photo from it seems adequately - like chickens on the perch.
When we´d descended below the gully again, about 2300m of elevation, Paťo´s temperature was rising apace. No wonder. He stand about to start running for his lifetime jump 50m off a 50m high bank. After the first failure, even Peťo, an adept in paraglading community, spoke to him something about pricks (fuckers) as well as catabasis, and that the wind is blowing from the back, but... Paťo is a psycho enough for the second attempt at least. "Hold it higher!" - he cried. "Peťo, fuck, get agreed on words!" - he cried on. "Let´s go!... Miňóóó, draw near the middle!!!" "Whaaaat." "Hold it, damn, in the middle!" "How in the middle?!" "Fuck the edges of the wing, they will balloon themselves." - even Peťo mixed in. "Peťo, how is the wind.... here it´s none" "But here it is, fuck it." - Peťo already resignedly. "Miroooo, d´u shoot?!?!?!" "Maťo...we go, pay attention!" "How is the wind, Peťo, damn!" "I´m goiiiiiiiiiing..." Good! he ran like a bat out of hell - said Peťo afterwards. Right above the bank he bounced and was, by a miracle, held up in the air. He, allegedly, flew for 22 minutes. Pretty good for that idstance.
Best regards from Ivka The Lightlyclosedthistime, Miňo The Cramponoid, Maťo The NearlyYankee, Paťo The Psycho, Peťo Not-a-step-without-skis and me, Miro The Writing.