Walking

Walking for pleasure not for exercise is something Esther and I have been discussing in our daily Instant Messenger chats. The topic came up when we mentioned that we both were walking more than usual in our daily routines. I have been spending a lot of time on my beading projects sitting by the big window in the front room, aka The Bird Room where my pet cockatiel, Misty Bird, lives. His cage is in a corner next to the window where I have my beading work table and he can see all the activity in the room as well as a portion of the goings-on outside the window.

I have been working on new designs for the jewelry I make and have spent less time at the computer. I still play chess, read blogs, and surf the net, but find myself walking back and forth from the computer room to the bird room more than usual as I take ‘breaks’ from one or the other.

Esther told me how her husband, Vern, mowed mile long pathways thru the waist high grass on their lake property at Toledo Bend so that she could enjoy walks with their grandchildren. She and Vern often took long walks together too.

Hiking has always been a pleasure for me. In high school, a group of 4 or 5 girl friends and I would go on a hike every Saturday. We would meet in the morning with sandwiches in our pockets and hike thru the country side, following creeks thru woods and pastures.

When I was in France I had two Walking experiences that far surpassed the little hikes I had known as a Girl Scout and high school student. My husband and I walked thru much of France, part of Switzerland and the length of Italy and back to Paris staying in youth hostels when they were available.

The second walking trip I took was from Paris to the heart of the Cevennes Mountains with Monett, a French girl and Ali, a Romanian boy, students at the Sorbonne. The trip was actually a combination hitch-hiking and walking trip. Monett and her twin sister, Nicette, had inherited a large forest of chestnut trees in the Cevennes from their deceased parents, but only one of them would make the trip to sign legal papers selling the crop to whichever company offered the best price. To save money, it was decided Monett would hitch hike, taking a student friend, Ali, along for protection. Ali was a tall, good looking fellow with muscles that indicated he could and would win any scuffle that might come along.

When I heard about their plans I asked to go along and share the adventure. My husband and I had known these students for the better part of a year and knew them to be honest, but always in need of money. The trip to find pickers and buyers for the chestnut crop was not a lark but a serious responsibility and after some discussion about the hazards and difficulty, they agreed to take me with them.

Hitch-hiking in the states was an accepted mode of travel during the great depression and during the war. I had experienced hitch-hiking alone and with family members in the states and had no qualms about doing so in France, especially since Ali would be with us.

I knew that neither Monett nor Ali had much money. I agreed to match their amount and that what little we had would be spent only on necessities the three of us agreed on. I secretly carried enough money to get us back to Paris if the need arose, but vowed not to use it except in an extreme emergency.

The morning we left Paris the streets were wet from the rain during the night and sprinkles continued sporadically as we made our way to intersections near the Bastille. Getting rides for three wasn’t an obstacle and everything went well until we got to Marseilles late in the afternoon.

I began having severe menstrual cramps and it was obvious to both Monett and Ali that I was not feeling well. I tried to explain that I wasn’t sick, but my knowledge of the French language consisted mostly of hand gestures and head nods along with Moi, Toi and Merci until the other person finally guessed the meaning of what I was saying. I couldn’t tell if I was understood or not.

Monett left Ali and me sitting on a park bench near the marina saying she would soon come back for us. When she returned, she led us to a small sea side inn and up a flight of stairs to a large, lovely room, cozy with bright colored drapes and chair cushions and a huge old fashioned bed. She explained that she had rented the room so I could rest. I was shocked that she had discussed it with Ali, but not me, but since it was fait accompli, I crawled into bed and slept until noon the next day.

When I woke I felt fine. We spent the next several hours sunning ourselves as we sat on a brick wall overlooking the boats in the marina and being amused by tiny lizards. We bought shelled oysters from the boat men and ate them on the spot. After spending another night in the Inn we stocked up on a few items like matches and candles before heading in the direction of the Cevennes.

The trip so far had been a walk in the park and I was convinced I was ready to tackle the strenuous hike to come. When we finally reached the home of the family that supervised the girl’s property, we were at the bottom of a gorge and from that point on it would be a 5 or 6 hour VERY STEEP climb to the top.

At a small general store we filled our rucksacks with foods to last the few days we would be on the top of the mountain. Ali carried the heaviest load and off we went. It wasn’t long before we began shedding jackets and sweaters as we climbed. There wasn’t a path although Monett seemed to follow an invisible one as we circled around trees and huge boulders, always climbing higher.

I could not climb as fast as the other two and fell behind. I also had to stop frequently to catch my breath, but the other two kept up a steady climbing pace. I could see them far ahead as I climbed in their direction, but I could no longer take the exact turns and twists they had taken. At times they were out of sight but we kept in touch by yelling to each other.

We had to reach the top before dark, so with brute strength and awkwardness I made a determined effort. As I climbed, I thought of the many stories of guides leading refugees over the Pyrenees during the war, and I understood their demands that only fit persons make such a trip. Eventually I caught up with Monett and Ali who had stopped to wait for me and together we set up our little camp before night fall.

That trip is a treasured memory. I have a greater appreciation of the difficulties real mountain climbers overcome since I experienced my much less heroic climb in the Cevennes. Monett was successful in her business dealings and the return trip to Paris was uneventful.