Before I entered kindergarten, I had my tonsils out. My sister had to have hers removed and my parents decided to have mine pulled too. Back in those long ago days of the 1950’s, lots of parents did that to their kids.
My sister and I were admitted to the Warne Hospital and Clinic, which once stood at Second and Mahantongo Streets in Pottsville. Soon after our surgery, the clinic was closed. We were among the last to be operated on there.
Nearly sixty years later, I still remember the experience vividly. I can still feel and smell the ether-soaked piece of cheese cloth dropped onto my face. I see the white room, the sharp instruments glistening in the overhead light, and the doctor, who is big and old. I’m strapped to a table that begins to spin, a horrid jack-in-the-box keeps popping up and laughing at me, and then I black out.
When I woke up, I was in pain and my sister was crying. My mother and two aunts took turns caring for us. We were vomiting, we lay in our vomit and no one came to change the sheets. A nurse poked her head in the room to scold us for making noise. Without our mother and aunts, we might have choked to death.
Thinking about my recent summer vacation, a week of trekking in the Southern Alps in a setting reminiscent of “The Sound of Music,” I find myself reliving a childhood experience that gave me my first tastes of pain, fitful sleep and neglect...
It started out in the pouring rain. The South of France, generally associated with dry air and bright sun, does not look its best beneath a leaden sky. As we travelled higher into the mountains to the starting point of our trek (Saint Véran, Europe’s highest village), we were immersed in thick gray clouds that, much like a tunnel, cut us off from the rest of the world.
The rain was discouraging, yet I did not feel discouraged. I was game, itching for a new experience, ready to cry “Excelsior!” and climb to the top of the world.
That was before it all began.
The first night we stayed in a lodge at 5700 feet above sea level (I include this information because it is very important for what follows). Across the French Alps, in almost every village, there are hotel-lodges that welcome hikers, offering simple accommodations: large rooms with 8 or ten beds, hot showers, and hearty meals.
By the next morning, the clouds had scattered and we had a pure blue sky. I huffed and puffed a bit during the morning climb but overall enjoyed it. We were walking through a forest of mélèze, larch trees, zigzagging, climbing gradually to the point where, at lunchtime, we were to meet others members of our group.
During that lunchtime pause—a frugal picnic because we were carrying all our food for the week on our backs and had to ration, I had my first chance to discover my trekking companions, longtime friends of the friend who had invited me.
They were experienced trekkers and performance was important. The conversation turned to questions of differences in altitude and the scale of gradations in the slopes we would “attack” the next day. It was “shop talk,” too technical for me and I tuned it out.
That was my second mistake (my first was having accepted, as I would later understand, to join the trek). I should have listened. I might have learned something about what was in store.
That afternoon, we crossed the timberline and entered a zone of rocky soil, scarce vegetation and soaring granite peaks. We moved constantly upwards, gradually enough that I could keep pace with the group.
Then we arrived, at the refuge, translated as “hut” in my French-English dictionary. Ours was a glorified hut, with many rooms, many bunk beds, few showers or toilets, and a big central dining room.
Life was regimented there: no showers after 6:30pm. Dinner at seven. Then lights out and to bed.
My group of eight was sharing one long, narrow room with three sets of bunk beds, one cot and a mezzanine with two mattresses so close to the ceiling you literally had to roll out of bed and then slither down a ladder to avoid hitting your head.
The previous night, I had grabbed a lower berth. I was not so lucky this time. I climbed up a rickety ladder and then slipped into my sac à viande, my “meat sack,” the pretty name the French give to a travel sheet. Five minutes later, I had to pee. I climbed back down to the moans and groans of my roommates, a group who never go to the bathroom at night.
This same group must sleep with shutters and windows absolutely closed and no one except me suffered from the lack of oxygen.
The next morning the real trek began: from 6250 ft. we were climbing straight up to 10,500 ft., a peak along the crest that divides France from Italy.
Straight up, in the cool air and the burning sun. At first, I was overcome with nausea. Later, vertigo set in. It was torture. Unable to take in the view, I looked at my feet. That’s how I know we walked through snow.
From that point onward, for nearly a week, despite hikes lasting seven or eight hours each day, I stopped eating. It was the only way to control the nausea. I was sick and weak, but no one seemed to notice. That’s how trekking is: you're always with the group, but at a certain point, it’s every man for himself.
I made it to the end of the week. That is what I can say about my “trek.” I did it and there’s little chance I’ll ever do it again.
I also learned some things. For example, I know what it means to have “strange bedfellows.” In mountain shelters, beneath the communal duvet, you never know who’ll be sleeping on the mattress next to yours.
I learned too that I’m like the bear that went over the mountain. In one week, I went over a lot of them and, well, each time, I saw another mountain. It was all too majestic for me and though I took photos, afterwards I deleted most of them.
Finally, I learned that despite the pain, neglect and fitful sleep, I was capable of having a good time. So this is how I spent my summer vacation and strangely, it did me a world of good.
