Making a Mountain of a Hill
A hiking adventure gone wrong (or so right?)
The three of us sat on the uneven ground, rocks and roughage digging into my thighs. Jean was on the phone, smiling and nodding like everything was going according to plan. When she hung up, she didn’t say anything — or maybe I was just in a rush to know in how much trouble we were in. “So?” the word escaped my lips, as though it had been digging a tunnel with a spoon for years and finally made it out.
She shrugged, though whether she was trying to act nonchalant or felt apologetic, I couldn’t tell. “They’re firing up the chopper.”
It was a summer weekend, a sunny Saturday in June. I remember, because the plan was to go for a hike to the top of the Saleve “mountain” and grab some brunch with Jean and Kumar, and still have time to go home to change before meeting a larger group of friends out for drinks for the Worldwide Music Day festivities.
The first part of the hike was steep, but you couldn’t go wrong. A single path weaved up the side of the mountain. The Saleve looked more like a hill, especially with the alps gracing the horizon. It was only from up close that it might pull off being more. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was close to Geneva — and that was good enough.
Once we reached the village, Jean and I had a plan. Last time we had attempted this hike, we had gotten lost and ended up on a goat trail. We finally reconnected with the road after pulling ourselves up a steep incline by grabbing at grass and muttering a mix of prayers and swear words.
This time, we were prepared. We would follow other hikers! Problem solved.
My left knee started acting up, a souvenir from a snowboarding accident. So, as we picked our unwitting guides, I told Jean to go on ahead and make sure not to lose them. I’d catch up. A few minutes later, I did — and found Kumar and Jean waiting for me. Although we were on a narrow trail with no alternative routes, we had somehow lost the two other hikers…
At least we were on a path. We kept going, eyes wide looking down to the right over the dizzying drop and open view. I tried to hug the mountain — this was definitely a mountain! — as much as possible, and hoped for the best. After a few minutes, I suggested we turn back. We were trying to get to the top, and this trail was clearly circling around.
My idea got vetoed. On we went, using a rope at one point to hold on for dear life as we stepped across the whisper of a path. The rope meant we weren’t lost though, because it was a sign of civilization.
Eventually, we hit a wall. Not metaphorically — we reached a sheer rock face where someone had painted a not very reassuring message in crude letters: “Do not go beyond this point. RISK OF DEATH for inexperienced climbers.”
That was our cue. Exit stage left!
We turned back. Until that moment, I had never realized how thoroughly not-ambidextrous I was. Walking with a drop on my right was scary but manageable. Retracing our steps meant walking with the drop on my left, and that simple switch threatened to push me over the literal edge with every step.
When another rope appeared, heading down, we didn’t hesitate. That would assuredly be or lead to a better path, even if we never did make it to the top! So down we went.
That’s when our friend Robert called Jean, just to say hi. When she joked about being lost on the Saleve, he — with all the weight of his medical training and local knowledge — got serious. He told her people died on this mountain (it was without a doubt a mountain) every week! Luckily, he knew a guy who worked in search and rescue, and offered to connect us.
That brings us back to those infamous words, “They’re firing up the chopper.”
Our location was dangerous, because we were above a quarry and in an area with a lot of loose stones, which meant that any attempt to get back to the trail could lead to a slip and free fall straight to the bottom of the quarry. We weren’t about to argue with the pros.
We moved from under the tree cover to a more open area. A minute (or was it an hour?) later, we heard the chopper. Search and rescue called Jean, using our indications to try and spot us from way up high. “Cold, cold, lukewarm, hot, cold — yes, do you see us?!”
You can’t make this stuff up.
Once they knew where we were, they got as close as possible. The power of the helicopter propellers meant the wind picked up as the chopper got closer. Within a few seconds, it felt like we were in what I imagine a hurricane feels like. The irony of us getting hurt by our rescue squad would be an unnecessary cherry on the cake of the day’s mortification. Jean curled into a ball, Kumar jumped to one side, and I took cover as best I could on the side of a boulder.
This next bit is hard to put back together, as my memory is fragments of senses. Two men with helmets and harnesses repelling down. The wind whipping everything around us into our faces. Reassuring hands on my shoulders. Me in a harness, feet off the ground. The chopper, glorious yet so fragile as its tail propeller wavered oh so close to the pine trees reaching for the sky. Jean, Kumar, and I, struck speechless, grinning at each other like kids getting a free rollercoaster — or in this case helicopter — ride.
What felt like a heartbeat later, we were in a field of green grass swaying in the wind, waving to our saviors as they flew off to go save other hikers from themselves.
Somehow, Kumar and I made it to Worldwide Music Day drinks. When Alex asked me how my day had been, the last thing he expected me to answer was “It was cool, I had to get choppered off the Saleve”. I think his immediate reaction was “Are you drunk? How many drinks have you had?” followed closely by a face I wish I had captured on film.
People say Geneva is boring. I can only disagree. Any place that serves as a setting for what sounds like the start to a joke — “A muslim, a jew, and a hindu are stuck on a mountain…” — but is a recounting of your morning… it has potential, at the very least. And the Saleve? It is without the shadow of a doubt a mountain.
This story is completely true, I just changed the names of the characters in case they feel as mortified as I do, a decade later, about what happened. Hiking is a wonderful activity, but should be taken seriously! And a free chopper ride along with one helluva story to tell is no reason to go making bad decisions (hindsight really is 20/20).
To read more about my adventures, you can visit the Casa Beatrix website and blog — but be warned: I now live in rural Portugal, where my husband and I are renovating an old farm into an ecotourism project. The stories are quite different, if also entertaining.
