I Archives - Gabrielle Mathieu

2020 New Book in Fantasy and Adventure Podcast Picks

The New Books Network in Fantasy and Adventure is a monthly podcast, featuring the best and newest in fantasy,
with an occasional true adventure book thrown in to keep things real. You can access and subscribe here.

Here’s the 2020 Line-up

January: Ormeshadow Priya Sharma Tor
February A Queen in Hiding Sarah Kozloff Tor and Girl of Fire Gabrielle Mathieu Five Directions Press
March: The Immortal Conquistador Carrie Vaughn Tachycon Press
April: The Heart of the Circle Keren Landsman Penguin Random
May: The Evil Within S.M. Hardy Allison & Busby
June: Flyaway Kathleen Jennings Tor
July: Sunshield Emily Martin
August: Thirteen Doorways Wolves Behind Them All Laura Ruby Harper Collins
September: Hope has a Price Premee Mohamed Solaris
October: The Sisters Grimm Menna van Praag Harper Voyager
November The Fires of Vengeance Evan Winter
December The 19th Bladesman S.J. Hartland Indie

Routes to Publication: Co-op publishing

Hoping to get your book out there? There are three routes to publication: conventional publishing, publishing with a small press, and self-publishing. I’d like to share with you my own personal route to publishing, which involved finding a co-op press.

Five Directions Press founders, from left to right, Ariadne Apostolou, Courtney J. Hall, and C.P. Lesley

Co-op presses lie somewhere between self-publishing, and publishing with a small press. There are only a few co-op presses in existence, and the two I know best are our own, Five Directions Press, and Triskele Books—both of which are at full capacity. Others out there, please speak up and weigh in. My guess is that co-op publishing is rare, because it depends on an enormous amount of goodwill, idealism, and trust. It also requires finding a group of people that have the diverse skills needed for publishing.

When it works, it’s great.

The idea behind a co-op press is that self-publishing is difficult. Each author not only has to write but to edit, typeset, proofread, and design her own books and covers, negotiate various online publishing services, and then market the books to a world of readers inundated with choices. In traditional or even small presses, the publisher provides most of those functions, although marketing has increasingly become the responsibility of authors. Self-published authors either have to learn all those skills or buy them, in which case those “free” books end up costing thousands of dollars. The market in “author services” is huge.

In a co-op press, the authors place their talents at the disposal of the group. Our press was founded in the Philadelphia region by three women: our romance author Courtney J. Hall provides us with professionally designed covers and prepares press releases and newsletters; C.P. Lesley copyedits and typesets our books, as well as providing tech support and maintaining our website; and Ariadne Apostolou does developmental editing.

All three of our founders write under pen names, for various reasons. They met in a writing group in 2008 and have worked together ever since. By 2012, Ariadne and C. P. had complete novels and Courtney was finishing the first draft of her historical novel Some Rise by Sin, set during Mary Tudor’s reign. The only problem was, as they discovered from agents and editors, that the books weren’t set in times or places that would make them desirable acquisitions for commercial publishing houses. No Jane Austen remakes, no zombies, even Mary was not the “right” Tudor on whom to focus. So the three founders decided to make a virtue out of necessity and established a press that would focus on “literary journeys less traveled.” Because it so happened that C. P. Lesley had 20 years experience as an editor/typesetter, Courtney J. Hall owned a graphics design business, and Ariadne Apostolou not only holds a degree in art history but has an extraordinary gift for identifying story flaws, they decided to self-publish together, and Five Directions Press was born. The name, which comes from eastern cosmology, refers to the creation of harmony out of diversity, which is our goal for the co-op.

From 2012 until 2016, the three founders published mostly their own work, although they did include several memoirs by friends and family who were not full-time members. I became the fourth active member. After querying more than fifty agents for my dark fantasy novel, The Falcon Flies Alone, I decided to concentrate on small presses. When I came across Five Directions Press, which reflects on the same eastern theme as my acupuncture business name, Five Elements, I took that as a good sign. Still, I was pleasantly surprised when I received a personalized response, and even more surprised when all three read and commented on my novel within a matter of weeks. When I was asked to join, I was delighted.

We now have seven active members. All of us place value on excellent writing, and none of us are looking to make a profit through the work we do for other members. We volunteer our services and pay our own publication costs, which remain minimal. We all have different motivations for our participation. Our press allows us to remain true to our interests and expertise, even when those don’t have mass-market appeal. C.P.s historical series is set in 16th-century Russia, while the geeky heroine of my fantasy series lives in 1950s Switzerland. (Don’t you want to rewrite it to be in the U.S., a prospective publisher asked? I didn’t.) Ariadne Apostolou writes rich character studies of contemporary women in transition. Courtney J. Hall loves the chance to polish her skills at cover design alongside her writing and enjoys being able to switch back and forth between historical fiction and her series of contemporary holiday romances.

Two of our newest members, lawyer Claudia Long and editor Joan Schweighardt, had fiction published with Booktrope. With the demise of Booktrope, Five Directions Press reissued their recent novels. Our other West Coast member, Denise Steele, is in a San Francisco book club with Claudia. She stays busy with her grandchildren and her non-profit but loves working with C.P. Lesley, because they both have a bond to Scotland.

Our press has almost no rules or requirements—just adherence to a high standard. Once a member is accepted and published, future work is still evaluated, just as it would be in any small press. We do all commit to improving our work, which generally means accepting and implementing recommendations. Further contact between members varies widely, depending on availability and common interest. Frankly, I think our process works as well as it does because our founding members have big hearts, and the rest of us try not to take advantage of their generosity. Each of us contributes what we can. For instance, I’m the PR person, mostly because we have enough editors.

The financial savings of the co-op press are definitely a plus, but the big hearts are what give me joy. My associates have enough belief in my work to donate their time and e-mail me when I’m down, and they trust me enough to honestly share their own challenges. I’ve made friends, friends whose work and dedication I respect.

We still have the challenge of getting our work to the public’s attention, like most writers do. Thousands of authors are self-publishing their work, and the commercial houses are scouring backlists for books to republish via print-on-demand, making the environment more competitive than ever before. But as a co-operative press, we maximize our marketing efforts by supporting each other, tweeting and posting about all the books we produce. Triskele Books hosts events as a collective; for example, literature festivals in the United Kingdom. With three Five Directions Press members on the East Coast, three in the West, and one in Europe, we’re not likely to show up all at one place.

Though you never know…

Perhaps now you’ll be inspired to start your co-op?

Would you like to keep up with Five Directions Press? You can sign up for our quarterly newsletter by scrolling to the bottom of our home page: https://www.fivedirectionspress.com/

Swiss Castles: A Visit to Tarasp

I’ve always been interested in buildings as whole, though I photograph mostly portals—windows and doors. Buildings are a visible externalized carapace for a person, a way of judging their social status, their hopes and aspirations, their peculiarities.

Castles, of course, are more than just personal expressions. They were built to proclaim the power of their owner, and to defend his accumulated wealth. These days, money hides in electronic strings of ciphers, in unseen places, available only to those who have the codes. But historically, castles put their owner’s wealth on display. Mad King Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria still has shelves of clunky golden objects, graceless and overly ornate, calling attention to their heft of precious metal. Ludwig was the last king of Bavaria; it too tired of regal extravagance, choosing to opt for more democratic model.

Older castles can have complicated histories. Castle Tarasp, which I visited recently, is one of those. It still stands in the Swiss canton called Grisons in English, and Graubünden in German. Built in the 11^th century by nobility from Milano, it stands guard over the area surrounding the resort village of Scoul. Its genesis is common—rich and powerful men, perhaps out of favor, looking for a new place to establish themselves. After the line of Tarasp died out, the castle became part of the holdings of the church, and then was passed back and forth to various members of nobility.

The first unusual owner was an Austrian prince and his descendants. That doesn’t sound so strange—except that Graubünden, where the castle is located, had already joined the Swiss Federation. Can you imagine the Alamo having remained under Mexican rule, while the rest of Texas joined the United States of America? To top it off, the Austrian rulers were Catholic, while that part of Switzerland was predominantly Protestant.

The old chapel, with a painting by artist Not Vital

Six-hundred men of arms were garrisoned in the castle, and an artificial lake protected it from attack on the south—on the north, the hill rose higher, giving the castle a protected flank. After the castle was reassigned to Graubünden, as part of Napoleon’s reorganization of Europe, it was abandoned and forlorn. The canton sold it to the only interested party for a paltry sum. For half-a century, the castle endured a succession of owners who had no interest in taking care of the decaying edifice. They took what they could of value, and sold it, leaving behind an empty husk.

Here comes my favorite part of the story. At the beginning of the 20^th century, a certain Dr. Ligner drove one of the first automobiles to Graubünden, anxious to take to visit the thermal baths. Dr. Ligner was from Dresden, in the east of Germany, and he’d made a fortune on his mouthwash recipe. Finding his trip impeded by Graubünden’s automobile ban, he was forced to hire a farmer and his ox-cart to pull the car along. During his journey, he asked about the once majestic, crumbling castle, and learning of its plight, made an offer for it. Dr. Ligner threw himself into the project, acquiring tapestries and medieval furniture, and restoring the inside via https://cmpstone.com.au/. He died before he was able to move in, and the estate went to a close personal friend, and stayed within that family.

Until last year, that is. Now, in a bizarre twist, a world-renowned sculptor Not Vital (please note; his name is an authentic Swiss one, and no reflection on his energy level), purchased the castle. Mixed with the old wooden stools and leaded glass are bright, metal abstract sculptures, and Andy Warhol lithographs of cows. Unclear what purpose the castle serves for the eccentric Not, whom the New York Times profiled in 2013. There, it was written that “in recent times, Vital has begun to emerge as a major artistic philosopher of habitat and material life.”

Artist and bon-vivant Julian Schnabel wore a bathrobe to parties. Heaven knows what Not wears in the castle, at private soirees. After getting an intriguing glimpse of a tall and commanding man in a hat during our tour, I received confirmation that Not was indeed visiting the premises. He’s a man interested in many things, with different residences on various continents.

May the castle continue to be reborn under the auspices of various owners. I hope that history survives, side by side, with the startling innovations of its present owner.

If you enjoyed Nina’s photos, you can follow her on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ninafroriep/

Complex Heroines

I thought my character, Peppa, might be unlikable sometimes, until I saw Jessica Chastain portray an ambitious lobbyist in Miss Sloan. In comparison, she makes my analytical, occasionally arrogant heroine look like a cuddle-bunny.

Jessica Chastain gives a galvanizing performance, all pale face and wide staring eyes, angles and porcelain. She could be the supercilious Dr. Strange’s twin. Yes, she is shrill. She’s supposed to be. The New York Post states in their one-star slam: “Heavy-handed message movies don’t come more harrumphing than “Miss Sloane,” a clunky dramatization of the gun-control argument liberals still don’t understand is being conducted solely among themselves.”

The reviewer is missing the point completely. What the film is asking us, the audience, is whether we will accept lobbyist Miss Sloane as a heroine, whether we can pardon her manipulativeness and desire to win at all costs, given that the outcome is exposure of corruption. Just watching her, as she shames members of her team that don’t measure up and uses a vulnerable woman to whip up public sentiment against the gun lobby, is an experience that is acutely uncomfortable. We understand that she avoids all intimacy, and that every encounter is reduced to a transactional experience. I actually admire director John Madden for resisting the temptation to reveal a back-story that will make us empathize. We only know she had to lie all through her childhood, and that she has insomnia. He keeps us, as well as the fictional characters who come into contact with Miss Sloane, in the dark about the anguish that makes her so focussed on winning, so brilliant but unbearable.

Without divulging all the twists and turns, as she says, she holds the trump card. Her triumph is also her undoing. Like the scorpion, she stings so hard, that it seems she poisons herself.

Or is she looking for release?

Enigmatic and compelling, admirable and distasteful, Miss Sloane is at once broken and magnificent.

The Kindness of Strangers

Solitude is a writer’s prerogative, and as my feet wander the earth, my brain wanders the terrain of my creations. It mostly works out. This last week was a challenge, with a painful falling-out with someone dear to me, and the supportive editor-spouse traveling to the land of his birth, to ponder on his origins and connect with his tribe. As usual, I packed my hiking pack, made some snacks, and got underway, ready to challenge myself with a difficult route. A funny thing happened though.

I was on the train which runs along the Walensee, the place I wrote about in my previous post. As I sat there, waiting for my stop, I heard voices—English speaking voices, some with American accents. It looked like a group was going on a hike. I curiously asked, and was invited along to the Zurich Outdoor Meetup excursion. Solitude is a prerogative, which also becomes a habit. I declined. I listened to everyone laugh and chatter. The leader asked me again to join them.

He made it easy to say yes to a route I’d already taken. (I don’t like to repeat routes or plots.) Well, this time, I wasn’t complaining about the crowd; I was part of the crowd. Two young American accountants from Zurich chatted easily with me; then I had an interesting talk with a doctor about how important it is for patients to assume some responsibility for their own well-being. It made me think again about differences in culture.

Like my heroine, Peppa Mueller, I’m Swiss in character and expectations, yet attracted to the ease and friendliness of Americans and other expats. The loose jokes, the voices ending on an uplift, the gangly ease of it all, creates a breezy feeling, sparkling like the lake of the water itself.

You have to write alone. But once in a while, it’s good to come out of your shell and gather impressions.

Then and Now: Walensee

I wrote this at Easter; the companion trip will be posted above. It’s interesting that in this post I complain about all the people around, and in the next post, I join a group and completely enjoy myself.

Just because the weather is warm, and no snow lies on the ground at 800 meters, where I live, doesn’t mean the places I want to hike at are snow free. I used to try hikes in March or April, only to be turned back by snowfields. I hate hiking in snow. It’s not the discomfort so much. The stuff is slippery. A misstep on a moderate slope turns into a quick slide into the valley below. Also, the snow covers paths, vastly increasing the chances of getting lost.

That’s why I have my go-to places early in the season. One of them is the path on the sunny side of the Walensee. That side of the lake has steep towering cliffs that rise to form the Churfirsten, a mountain chain that divides this part of Canton St. Gallen from the Appenzell.

The Churfirsten side of the lake also has no roads, since it’s too steep to build on. The biggest village, Quinten, which is about the half-way point, is accessible by foot, mountain bike, or ferry.
It’s Good Friday and the weather is more than good when I reach Walenstadt, the village at the mouth of the lake that’s the starting point for this hike, which is described as 7 hours. (Those who wish to do less can hike until Quinten, and the take the boat across the lake to the railway in Murg.) I take the main road towards town, passing the pretty painted house to my left, and continuing on until I come to the square with the town hall building. There, I turn left and follow the road along the lake, passing this old grocery store, now closed. After the harbor, there’s a big recreation area. A well-marked trailhead to the right has signs to Garadur and Quinten. The wide path is gravel, and easy to navigate. Now the ascent begins, up, up, and up to 800 meters, at Garadur. The farmhouse has a tap where I refill water. Garadur itself no longer has the beehives and big organic flower garden, but it’s still a place of peace. Meadows alongside the farm lead to the edge of the cliff, where far below, the lake shimmers in the sunlight.
The first glimpse of the pebbly beach occurs 45 minutes after leaving Garadur, but it will be another thirty minutes along the shore line to reach Quinten and the small harbour. There’s an almost Mediterranean feel to the air today, with the fresh blue of the sky and the brilliant turquoise water, and the wind making tiny wavelets. The air is dry and crisp.
Quinten’s two restaurants are open and packed. Apparently many people

had the same idea I did; the trial is crowded too, by my standards. I haven’t had my visit in the woods to relieve myself. The little artisan stores tucked into houses are opened too, offering local wines, made in quantities too small to be exported, and jams. Little figs the size of fairy fists are popping out in the trees; they can only thrive in this protected microclimate. Gardens are bright with hellebores and lilac scents that air. I pass through Quinten, hoping to leave the crowds behind, but get only intermittent respite. After about an hour, I wind down the trail towards some more open meadows. . Now I’m close to the beautiful falls, and cross the bridge to continue on.
The first clue that I’ve reached civilisation is the Restaurant Burg Strahlegg. Fat fluffy chickens wander around, pestering diners. After this, the road is paved and open to traffic, although normally there isn’t much. As I pass beaches and the Burg itself, which is a ruined fort, there are more cars than usual, which turn into a plague of black SUV’s. Still, there are periods which are traffic free, and quiet. I pass through the long winding tunnels, and soon can see the town of Weesen ahead My destination, the Flyhof, is right outside of town, seven minutes from the outermost bus stop. In the 12th century, when the venerable building was built, it was part of the women’s cloister. It’s undergone many changes since then, but the walls, thicker than my outstretched arm, and the timber cross-beamed ceiling speak to its historic antecedents. My single room has leaded glass panels and a wide wooden sill that serves as a table.

I eat early, since I’m alone, and dressed in the next day’s hiking clothes, and a pair of old felt slippers that I carried. My meal, with generous wine, costs more than my room, but it’s worth it. A thick fresh chunk of Atlantic cod grilled and accompanied by German asparagus is heaven. Many restaurants make the mistake of not draining the asparagus completely, and then covering them with Hollandaise sauce, which gets diluted from the water, but not this one. They may have grilled the asparagus, and the sauce is swirled on the side, along with some raspberry vinaigrette. Because I covered a seven-hour trial in much less time today, I splurge and get a strawberry-rhubarb crumble. If you don’t like rhubarb, you should pass, but to me, the sour, moist rhubarb blends perfectly with the sweetened sour cream topping, and there’s a glass of an Austrian Chardonnay, Unplugged, to finish.
A wonderful hike and dinner, which for some reason I finish with reading a memoir about a man’s military service in Rhodesia and South Africa. He seems to have had fun, but I wonder why it is that violence and oppression can masquerade as a rewarding profession. I keep reading though, in the quiet old former cloister by the peaceful lake. I never claimed it made sense, did I?

Of Caves and Graves

Writing about travel, because it broadens the mind and deepens the story, I love to talk and write about our trip ideas.

Our first day in Prague, we’re able to leave our BnB on the sixth floor safely, though this might be the world’s oldest elevator. The building we’re staying in is swank, but somehow disjointed, with a giant stair case entrance, and huge stairwells with stained glass windows. We wander along the river. Building after building displays intricate beautiful stone work, reflecting the fashion of the early twentieth century. The Art Nouveau facades are peach, sage-green, ivory, and occasionally, Pepto-Bismol pink. Curlicues writhe around windows, tall doors are ornamented with knockers. The shops have signs in Czech; not until we reach the tourist part is there information in English. Unlike cities like Munich, there are no bikes or mopeds, but traffic doesn’t seem especially heavy. The Charles Bridge is predictably crowded; we save walking it for another day and continue on to the Old Town, Staré Město, where the city hall, currently undergoing renovation, glowers behind the scaffolding. Its tower is rusty-colored and has a Game of Thrones feel. Nearby, the ornate doors show lion’s heads. Looking carefully, I notice one of the lions has something in its mouth.

Right. Don’t get on the bad side of the ruling class.

Our culinary adventure starts when we pass a place called Terroir. I love the concept of terroir. Soil and weather conditions combine to give grapes from each locale a unique flavor. Later that concept by was broadened by locovores to apply to vegetables and fruits. Terroir repudiates the idea of industrialized factory farming. We have to take a look inside this place.

We choose to sit in the wine cellar, surrounded by many bottles of fine French vintage. This early in the evening, we’re the only ones there. It’s magical and private; the thick walls of this twelfth century walls enveloping us in silence and shadows. The atmosphere lets us concentrate on my tasty sea bass and exquisite wine. I get a Chardonnay from Burgundy that’s so creamy on my tongue, it seems to spread. The carrots are thin slivers of taste explosion, and pureed parsnips add a nutty sweetness. Even better, the editor spouse and I can hear each other without having to lean over and raise our voices. We spend a relaxed couple of hours chatting intermittently with the sommelier about French elections.

Europe’s largest ghetto was in Prague, and before World War 2, 55,000 Jews lived there. Exploring the ghetto is a fascinating experience. Instead of the twisty small streets and miserable dwellings, we see broad streets lines with shops, the houses the usual gorgeous Art Nouveau style. We visit four of the synagogues on the tour, all four of them very different. What unites them is that none seem to be used regularly for worship. I reread my Rick Steves travel guide, and now a few facts jump out at me. The ghetto was razed in 1897, and the original 220 buildings replaced by 83 buildings. This was a good time for Jews, who had thrived economically with the more tolerant conditions. In the Spanish Synagogue, there are vitrines displaying the industrialist tycoons, glassmakers, writers, and artists of the Belle Époque. The very first man whose photograph I study died in Terezin, the concentration camp. It makes me unbearably sad. He probably enjoyed his prosperous respectability, never dreaming what was in store.

Of those 55,000 Jews in Prague, 10,000 survived the Holocaust. Pinkas Synagogue is a reminder of that. The names engraved on the wall by hand, of each person who perished, is poignant. The tracery of letters, black and reddish, form a startlingly beautiful weave over the plain beige sturdy walls. A sacred atmosphere is created out of this web of memory, the monumental loss of life somehow elevated, not trivialized, in this list. There are only 1700 registered Jews in Prague now, according to Rick Steves. Do they live in the gorgeous buildings surrounding the synagogues? Perhaps not, because the houses of worship are no longer a place where the living congregate. They have turned into memorials.

The graveyard itself is massive, but more in bulk that in actual area. For more than 300 years, Jews were only allowed to bury their dead in this area, so bodies were buried on top of other bodies. Gravestones are crowded, or lean to the side, or have the only their tips poke out of the ground that’s covered them with successive interments. The stones, blackened with moss and lichen, reflect back the patterns on the mottled bark of the tall trees growing here and there. The stones seem to replicate the haphazard nature of personality; forced into community, there are some that lean together, huddled, supported by each other, while others seem to draw back into whatever space they can find in the crowded monuments of the dead. The area is bleached of life, except for the green of the leaves, and yet the emptiness and absence feels full. The passage of time, the idea of many lives, these abstruse concepts seem to vibrate in the air and make it heavy.

The Belle Époque was a period of gaiety, the Can Can in Paris, the beautiful women and flowers in Mucha’s paintings evoking the idea that style can obscure the dread that underlies so much of life. The grand gold and saffron colored houses still line the streets, offering high-end fashion, coffee, apartments for the well-off. Life goes on.

But we will not forget the graves.

Freedom and Blue Skies

Last week I hiked up to the Segnés Pass, 2627 meters. It wasn’t a pretty sight, me scrabbling up those last few meters, grappling with my sticks in one hand, scrabbling for a handhold with the other. At the pass itself, there’s an old military barracks that’s been repurposed as a simple guesthouse. From it, a young man watched me with concern, and offered help. “I’m alright,” I said, faintly embarrassed.

And I was. Because I saw this:

Altogether, my hike was more than six hours, an elevation of 1200 meters on foot, and the same down again. Why do I do this?

To answer the question, I need to tell you a bit about how I grew up. Like most households, mine was run by my mother. As a venerable old person, she lives a tightly circumscribed, almost cloistered existence. Shifts in temperature distress her; she makes minute adjustments in her curtains and windows to control her environment. Last time she was to travel, she cancelled because the heat was turned off in her apartment, and she didn’t want to return to a cold home.

In other words, she’s like a beautiful hot house flower. Precious orchids thrive in glass houses, which could be a prison of sorts. It was for me. As a child, I had insomnia, and my dreams were marked with images of flight. I like nothing better than to see endless sky and distant vistas spread out before me.

Freedom. Freedom to go where I want, when I want. The freedom that comes from knowing I can take some discomfort. Maybe I’ll be sweaty, maybe it will be windy, I might even have a blister. I can handle it.

Village of Elm. Taken from my hotel room

My hike begins in the village of Elm. In October of 1799, villagers bore witness to the hunger and desperation of General Suvorov’s Russian army, fleeing the French under the command of General Molitor. Starving and barefoot, the 17,000 Russians, Tartars, Kalmucks, and Cossacks resorted to boiling goatskins taken from the villagers, and bolting them down, with the hair still on. Despite Suvorov’s efforts to maintain discipline and order, some soldiers killed livestock and ate it raw. The villagers, forced to accompany them as guides for the mountain crossing, fled under the cover of dark, leaving the soldiers to make their own way. Over 2000 of the emaciated, weakened men perished in the same range I’m about to hike.

I intend to climb well-fed, and I know where the pass is.

I’m staying at the Hotel Segnés so I can get an early start the next day. Dinner is whatever’s on offer, which happens to be a tasty lasagna, with a big fresh salad, and dessert. For a Swiss meal it’s a bargain, which is a good thing, as Elm doesn’t offer a variety of restaurants.

I’m up by six and fed before eight. Since I don’t want to hike more than 7 hours, I’m taking the cable car part of the way up, through the Tschingel ravine, named after the Tschingelhörner, the hornlike peaks where I’ll be crossing over into the canton of Grisons. (Graubünden). The majesty of the dark and gloomy ravine is marred by an ongoing silly recording broadcast loudly in the cable-car.

I escape the cable car and head up. The “horned gods” are awaiting. I draw closer and closer to the Martin’s hole, a circular break in the peaks. The church in Elm is lit by sun pouring down through the opening twice a year. Legend has it that Martin was watching his sheep, when a giant climbed over from the neighboring canton, with an eye for some mutton. The brave shepherd fought for his flock, and flung his shepherd’s crook at the intruder. Instead of hitting the giant, the crook flew into the stone wall and shattered it, creating a hole. Much thunder ensued. Presumably the sheep were saved, hopefully not for General Suvorov’s starving army.

As mentioned before, the old army barracks is right at the top. There, I spend close to an hour chatting with Patrick, the young Austrian who serves me soup and warm tea. The simple stone hut isn’t much of a tourist draw, and not busy. Patrick has arrived for his three month stay fortified with books. He’s just finished a book by the Dalia Lama. I suspect he likes the freedom up here, and the quiet.

Then I’m off to the other side, Canton Grisons. After a tricky descent, which is secured with some wobbly chains, but is still very steep, I arrive at a flat high plateau. Streams spread out like a web over the short grass and isolated clusters of brilliant blue gentians. As I descend off the plateau towards the Swiss Alpine Club hut Segnés, the flowers become numerous. There are thousands of yellow buttercups interspersed with white yarrow and more gentians. Some wild pinks and the orange of hawkweed dot the grass. I follow the famous Flims waterway down to Foppa, where I catch a ski-lift down to Flims itself.

How I lost my way (in the #Swiss #Alps)

Writing about travel, because it broadens the mind and deepens the story.

If David Sedaris can do confessional, so can I. This all starts with a visit to my doctor, a stand-up kinda guy. I haul out the six different remedies for my sluggish digestion for show and tell, and he sets me straight. Exercise induces peristalsis. That, and fibre. Additionally, he suggests artichoke -based drops for my gallbladder.

I already eat a fairly healthy diet, thanks to the editor-spouse, who works from home and relaxes by making huge dinners. However, I do indulge in fatty foods, and I’ve slacked off on the exercise since I came back from Annapurna Base Camp last year. So the artichoke drops don’t have to work even harder, I resolve to eat less fatty food. I plan a five-hour hike across the Rossberg’s three different peaks in Canton Schwyz. (see last week’s post for more on Schwyz).

The night before, I arrive a little before ten at night in my hotel, in the pretty little town of Rapperswil, on Lake Zurich. I’m tempted by the sumptous array of cheeses I see, and order a small plate. Turns out I’m supposed to choose my own. After intensive descriptions of five, my head is spinning. “Just chose one of each type. One kind of blue cheese, one soft cheese, and one hard cheese,” I say.

I’m sitting down, reading Tana French and sipping a nice Yvorne, a Swiss white wine from the Valais, when a shadow falls across the table. The cheese plate.

I’ve borrowed a photo from Pixabay, because I didn’t have the presence of mind to take one. Multiply what’s on the photo times six. Yes, the thirty or so morsels are only thumb size, but that’s a hell of a lot of cheese. I point that out. “You said you wanted one of each,” the implacable young man says. “

“No, I wanted one of each type,” I wail. He doesn’t answer. His gaze is on me, intent, still fairly friendly. A lot of the cheese is soft and runny. I imagine the effort it must have taken to cut it; to arrange it on the wooden board.

I’m going to need another glass of wine to get that down. But tomorrow, I’ll hike five hours.

The next day the market is in full swing outside the hotel. There’s lots of greenery, but I can’t very well travel with a backpack full of salad. I chose a nut croissant,

I’ll be hiking five hours after all.

Except that I don’t follow routes that well. I make it to the top of the first ridge, enjoy the view, eat only half my croissant (oh I’m so good) and proceed to the next peak. Or maybe not. Somehow, I’m going back down. By the time I realize this, I don’t see another path up, and I hate retracing my steps.

Then I come to the metaphorical crossroad, so to speak. I see a path going back up. Way back up. I also see a sign informing me that the farmhouse five-minutes away has homemade ice cream.

I’ll give you three guesses on what wins out.

At least I’m supporting local farmers. Mrs. Gehren invites me into her kitchen, as it’s getting cooler. As I eat my ice cream, made with milk from the neighbor’s cows, an elderly biker comes in. He orders a coffee and asks Mrs. Gehren for a nut croissant (Nussgipfel). Since she doesn’t have one, I give him mine. That saves me the guilt from throwing away the uneaten portion, since I’m now consuming ice cream. Typical Swiss fairness—he offers to pay me for it, which I decline. In meantime, she comes back with a big portion of strawberry cake, which she discovered. He eats that too. He’s all skin and muscle. When I ask him about his Swiss Alpine Club pin, he says he used to do a lot of hiking, but now his knees are not up to it, so he took up biking. He’s seventy-nine. Yeah, when you’re like that, you can eat two desserts, and he probably doesn’t need artichoke drops either.

When the world ends, the hardy Swiss will still be puttering away in their all-weather gear, taking refuge in the alps, and building gadgets from scratch. In the apocalypse, my money is on them.

In meantime, I head back to the railway station, grazing on cherries from the orchards. I make a quick stop to buy some honey from a roadside box. But I’m saving that caloric expenditure for another day.

Honest.

Of Origins and Onerous Ascents

Writing about travel, because it broadens the mind and deepens the story.

Oh, it really wasn’t that onerous. But it was hot, and the 500-meter ascent (a third of a mile) of the mountain of Mythen took place in little over an hour.

It’s summer, and time to explore Switzerland, the home of my fictional heroine, chemistry prodigy Peppa Mueller. Though Peppa is apolitical, she’s proud of her homeland, especially after further misadventures land her in the political chaos of Ireland and Northern Ireland during the height of the 1950s IRA campaign.

Switzerland officially began with a written agreement, a pact, between representatives of rural communities in 1291. Their names are recorded: Werner Stauffacher, Walter Fürst, and Arnold Von Melchtal. The country of Switzerland is called Schweiz in the native Swiss-German dialect, and the state that Werner Stauffacher came from was called Schwyz, so plainly, the country is named after that first kernel. Schwyz and the states from which the other men came were collectively known as “forest communities.” Each of the leaders brought ten men. We’re not talking a huge, well-equipped army here. I imagine a mostly illiterate group of clannish men, with pitchforks and scythes as weapons. Then, as now, the Swiss just wanted to be left alone to tend to their cows and fortunes.

Schwyz and the other two states, Uri, and Nidwalden, are tiny, even for Switzerland, which is itself the size of New Hampshire. They’re known as the inner part of Switzerland. Though the landscape is mountainous, the mountains pale in comparison to the western and southern parts of the country. “Big” Mythen, which I climbed, is 1811 meters, (almost 6000 feet), but in the western state of Graubünden many peaks are over 3000 meters. Mythen is composed of a big peak and a smaller one; the big one rises starkly out of the still wooded landscape, a tower of reddish rock. The ascent, built by a local man in 1864 for the sum of 3000 francs, consists of steps hewn into the rock. Since a few accidents took place, the ascent has been additionally secured with chain railings. It’s steep, but safe, though I wouldn’t recommend it in rain. The Swiss Alpine Club designates it as T3.

Once at the top, there is, as always, food and libation to be had. The hospitality is not as warm as in a family-run establishment, but it’s cozy enough, and has the usual wine, local cheeses, and homemade fruit pie (Kuchen). The lowlands lie spread beneath, dotted over with the crystalline sapphire blue of various lakes.

A brief rain squall drives us all inside, where I notice the heraldic emblems on each chair. Apparently, all the donors of the association that manages the restaurant have their own family crests. The surly little man running the place tells me that everyone has a family crest. His own family has been in the area since the sixteenth century.

I get ready to descend, noting that the bathrooms cost exactly one franc. Since I don’t have a coin of that denomination, I’m looking forward to reaching the thick old forest that surrounds the peak. After a lovely wander through pines and thickly mossed rocks, I head down to the town of Schwyz (in the state of Schwyz). A few examples of lovely architecture grace the old town.