by John Higham
The Rhone River was our constant companion over the next few days, sometimes on our left, and sometimes on our right. We were riding upstream but it was impossible to discern a change in elevation. We had the wind to our backs; I noted that the trees were bent over with resolve against the prevailing wind. The valley we were going through was at times broad and other times so narrow that I thought someone with a good arm could throw a baseball from one side to the other.
Perhaps it was because the conditions were so favorable, or perhaps because we were finally starting to click together as a team, but for the first time, Istanbul wasn’t looking so far away.
• • •
“Why don’t we cycle to Zermatt?” Katrina asked.
We had arrived in Visp and were preparing to hop on a train. “Big hill,” I replied. “We’ll ride down, though. It’s supposed to be one of the best downhills there is.” I had been waiting a long time to ride the road from Zermatt to Visp. It is one of the bicycling world’s “must-do” routes and Zermatt itself is world renowned for scenery and outdoor activities. Yet, if we had known what was waiting for us there we would have skipped the side trip and just kept on going.
Precisely at 24 minutes past the hour the train to Zermatt comes to the end of the line. Its cog-wheel design enables it to get up the steep incline from Visp. Once at the final station the two groups who frequent Zermatt pour out of the train—the privileged and the tight-pursed thrill seekers.
The privileged come for the afternoon or maybe a day or two to browse the trendy shops, but never really stray too far beyond the town’s main square. Walking through Zermatt, you would be forgiven for wondering who goes on holiday to shop for expensive timepieces, as there is a Rolex dealer every other door along the main street. Towering above that main street at the end of this high alpine valley is the full-sized Matterhorn, looking as though Walt had the whole place purpose-built. I was ready to queue up and get my E-ticket for the Bobsled.
We pulled our tandems off the train and went straight to the local Co-Op. Katrina and I watched the bikes as September and Jordan procured lunch. Moments later they emerged from the store with our standard lunch fare of ham, cheese, and a baguette. “Shoot me now,” was all I could say.
“If you can think of something else that we can afford, packs easily, doesn’t require cooking, and the kids will eat, I’m all ears,” September countered. She was as weary as I was of the standard lunch fare, but I did enough complaining for the both of us. The lack of variety didn’t seem to affect Katrina, and blandness suited Jordan.
After eating lunch in a park, we rode our bikes a few blocks to the local campground and settled in for a couple of days with the rest of the tight-pursed thrill seekers.
Our campground in Zermatt was different from the ones we had gotten used to in previous weeks, where more often than not we were the only people in tents. Other campers throughout Europe were in RVs or campervans and had settled in for a week, a month, or even the entire summer.
In Zermatt’s campground, all were in tents. Since it’s not possible to drive to Zermatt, we saw exactly zero RVs or campervans. All private traffic is stopped in Täsch, about three miles short of Zermatt. Only Zermatt residents can continue on, and then only as far as the garage where they are compelled to park their cars. In the Zermatt campground I found an unsecure wireless network, courtesy of the adjacent hotel. Bliss.
As we set up our tent we talked to a climber who had scaled the Matterhorn the previous day. I thought he was nuts. Of course he thought the same of me for attempting to pedal from London to Istanbul with two kids under the age of twelve.
We soon got to the business of seeing what Zermatt had to offer in the way of excursions. We learned to stay alert so we could keep our toes out of the trajectory of the predatory golf carts the locals use to get around town. Passing through town, we were drawn to the back of the valley, toward the Matterhorn, where we found a dirt path; the trail offered a perfect opportunity for our lack of an agenda. We followed the path, which paralleled a river that raged with fury as it carried glacier melt down to the Rhone, eventually flowing to Lake Geneva. The trail then worked its way up steeply toward the Matterhorn.
We hiked along for the better part of an hour, with no particular destination. It was, really, the perfect Higham outing—beautiful surroundings, warm sunshine, and no particular place to go.
Above Zermatt there are several tiny mountain villages with no more than two or three dwellings and a restaurant for the wandering hiker. One village was Blatten, and we arrived purely by chance. Nestled in with the two or three dwellings and the restaurant was a playground. We had gotten used to the weird juxtaposition of playground equipment at or near the tree line on our previous trip through Switzerland.
We stopped at the playground to let the kids run free. September and I treasured moments like these because it meant we could have a quiet conversation. The playground had tall grass filled with grasshoppers practically begging to be caught by a kid with no agenda. The centerpiece of the playground was a massive boulder about the height of a two-story house. Permanently affixed to the top of the boulder were ropes to assist anyone who wanted to climb to the top. One side of the boulder had a modest slope that you could climb, even without one of the ropes. The other side of the boulder was a vertical face.
We let the kids play, climb, and catch grasshoppers. Before long, the shadow of the Matterhorn fell across the playground and it was time to head back to our campground.
For the next few days we enjoyed taking trams up the mountainsides, then hiking down while sunshine splashed across the mountains and valleys. You never know what you’ll find while hiking in Switzerland. We found curious items along the trail, such as long slides, zip lines, swings, and outdoor chess sets that were so big that a person could choose to be one of the pieces.
The morning came for us to leave Zermatt, cycle down the mountain to Visp, and continue our journey toward Istanbul. The sun shone brilliantly. “We’re not in a hurry,” I said. “Is there anything we want to do before we take off?”
“Yes!” exclaimed the kids with one voice. “We want to go back to that boulder to climb it again.”
I hadn’t planned on anything quite that involved, as the excursion would be at least three hours round trip. I glanced at September. She gave me the one-eyebrow-raised-other-eyebrow-furrowed look, which I interpreted as approval. “Okay, let’s go climb that boulder!”
An hour later we were once again in the high mountain village of Blatten. September and I let the kids use the ropes to climb the boulder as we sat in the shade of one of the three dwellings that comprised the village.
We sat there for a long time. Eventually Jordan came and sat by us and I decided it was time to get going. Katrina was nowhere in sight. “Little Dude. Where’s your sister?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She was climbing the boulder, but I was chasing grasshoppers.”
I looked over at the boulder she was climbing. At the age of eleven, Katrina had had a fair amount of climbing practice, with a climbing wall in the basement of our house six thousand miles away. I couldn’t see her from where I was. “Jordan, go tell Katrina we need to be going.”
But Jordan was busy trying to gross out September with the grasshopper he had caught, and pretended he didn’t hear me. “Want to hold this one, Mom?”
One of the three dwellings that made up Blatten also housed a restaurant. People were sitting on the porch, enjoying the alpine air.
September, Jordan, and I sat in the shade for several more minutes. I was starting to get annoyed. Katrina knew we had to get going soon. I started to look around for her a little harder, letting my eyes do the work; I was still committed to sitting in the shade.
It was then that I noticed a little boy. He was in front of the porch full of people devoted to their lunchtime conversations. He kept looking at me in earnest, and then pointing to the sheer face of the boulder that was blocked from my view.
I walked over to where the boy had been pointing and found Katrina standing on one leg and leaning against the boulder. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, we have to get going if we’re going to cycle off this mountain before the sun sets.” I turned and started to walk away.
“I can’t,” she said.
I turned to face her. “Why not?”
“I can’t walk.”
“Why?”
“I was rappelling down this side of the boulder and the rope broke,” she answered matter-of-factly. “My leg hurts when I try to put any weight on it.”
I looked up. Sure enough, about fifteen feet up hung a frayed rope end flapping in the breeze; at her feet lay the other half of the rope. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my mind started cranking out questions faster than my mouth could form them.
“How far did you fall? How long have you been standing here? Have you tried to put any weight on your leg?”
Katrina replied conversationally, “I fell about ten minutes ago, and I’m not sure how far I fell. I’ve tried to put weight on my leg, but it hurts too much.”
Only someone who knows Katrina would understand. She has ignored away every injury she has ever sustained. At the age of three if she bumped into something or fell down, we could see the pain in her face, but her words and actions would pretend any injury away. By the age of five she had learned to conceal any look of pain and flatly refused to acknowledge anything that might have hurt her.
I picked Katrina up in my arms and carried her back to where Jordan and September sat. I also took the coil of rope that had fallen to the ground. I put Katrina down gently beside September where we retold the story.
“Well, there isn’t any swelling or bruising,” September said, carefully examining Katrina’s leg. “It’s probably just a bad sprain. Let’s see if we can get some ice to put on it.”
I wasn’t so sure. The ice sounded like a good idea, but the location where Katrina was indicating pain wasn’t a joint. You can’t exactly get a sprain in the middle of your shin. “Little One, where does it hurt exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sort of all over.”
September walked over to the restaurant and came back with a bag of ice. “The people over at the restaurant want to know how she is. Apparently a few of them saw it happen.”
“Nice of them to let us in on it,” I said through clenched teeth.
After a few minutes, it was clear the ice wasn’t going to make Katrina magically walk again. “With all the backpackers and hikers who go along these mountain trails, you know this sort of thing has happened before,” September said. “There has to be a way to get her off the mountain.”
“I agree. Did you notice on the way up here there were a few tractors and trucks harvesting hay? If they can get up here, some sort of rescue vehicle can. Worst case, maybe a farmer will take us down on his tractor.”
I scooped Katrina up in my arms and we all walked over to the restaurant, where I was able to get the attention of the owner.
“My daughter hurt her leg climbing down the boulder face when the rope snapped.” I handed the frayed coil of rope over for dramatic effect. “She can’t walk, and I’m afraid her leg might be broken. Is there someone you can call to take us down the mountain?”
“There is a helicopter, but it is quite expensive,” he answered. “It also usually takes an hour or two to get one to respond. You could carry her down before one arrives.”
“How about a four-wheel-drive vehicle from town?”
“They are not allowed to come up here.”
“I saw tractors and trucks on the way up here. What about them? How come they’re allowed to drive up here?”
“They have a special permit for harvesting, and that is all. They are not licensed to take passengers.”
The Swiss and their freaking rules. “What about a horse then? If I can’t get a car or truck up here, what about a horse?”
“Sorry. No horses. You carry her yourself or I can call a helicopter for you. It is $5,000 U.S. and it will be here in an hour or two.”
As if it would suddenly change the situation, he offered his advice. “Your daughter just took a little fall on my playground. Her leg is not broken. It may hurt, but it is not broken.”
“So you are a doctor, then?” All pretense of civility evaporated. “You can diagnose a broken leg without looking at an X-ray?”
“I have been a guide in these mountains all my life and have had a lot of experience with broken legs. There is bruising and swelling. It causes a grown man to cry out in pain. She has neither bruising nor swelling and makes no cry of pain.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if his lack of conviction for the seriousness had any influence on whether a horse or four-wheel drive could come to the rescue. Fuming, I turned on the spot and while walking out the door said, “A mountain guide inspects his ropes daily. You should, too.”
I started to carry Katrina down the steep trail, trying my best not to slip on the gravel. It wasn’t long before my knees ached, and the helicopter option wasn’t looking too bad. “Maybe our insurance will cover the helicopter.”
“Maybe,” September said. “There’s only one way to find out. I can go back to the restaurant and call the insurance company.”
A long time passed before she returned from the restaurant shaking her head. “They don’t have a proper phone, just a radio.”
I knew any amateur radio operator worth his salt could patch into the telephone network. I interpreted the situation as an unwillingness to help. Without a word, I picked up Katrina and proceeded down the mountain.
It was a long way down, but we took it one step at a time. About two hours later we arrived at the edge of town. “Now what do we do?” I was asking this question of myself more than of anyone else.
“No idea. I guess we go to Tourist Information,” September replied.
Just then a woman walked up to us. It was easy to tell we were in a bind, since I was carrying an eleven-year-old girl around, talking frantically, and looking bewildered. She asked in English, “Can I help you?”
The Swiss speak four languages in their country, and English isn’t one of them. Many in the tourist industry speak English, but it is unusual for someone from the general population. We were grateful once again for the help of a stranger.
After a brief review of the facts, our new friend explained, “There is always a local doctor on call for emergencies.” She hailed us one of the infernal golf-cart cabs that we had grown to loathe and asked the driver to take us to Dr. Julen.
Dr. Julen immediately recognized us. “You are the tandem family,” he said in perfect English. “I saw you a few days ago in the park. You were eating lunch, I think.”
I remembered him from the park as well. He was eating what looked like a burrito. Being burrito deprived can be a dangerous thing for a California boy, especially when fed a steady stream of plain ham sandwiches. I had wanted to mug him and steal the burrito, but now I was grateful that I had suppressed the urge.
By this time Katrina had grudgingly given up some other information. Her wrist hurt as well, and she couldn’t move it.
“Her leg does not appear to be broken,” Dr. Julen said, “as there is no swelling, but to be sure, we should x-ray both her wrist and her leg.”
Doctor Julen disappeared with Katrina, and after what seemed like an eternity, he came back into the waiting area and announced, “It is broken.”
September and I looked at each other for several seconds, the silence thundering in our ears. After a decade of anticipation, our once-in-a-lifetime journey was doing a serious Ctrl-Alt-Delete maneuver.
Jordan walked into the x-ray room and hopped up onto the examining table next to his sister. Katrina’s face was unreadable. Dr. Julen held up the X-ray for us to see. Katrina turned her head from the X-ray as if denial would make it all go away. Katrina’s leg was broken below the knee, and not just bro
ken, but to my eyes, her tibia looked shattered. There was, however, no sign of a break in her wrist; it was only sprained.
“With this kind of break, it is very important to immobilize the leg at the knee,” explained Dr. Julen.
“But doctor,” I said, “the break is below the knee.”
He merely repeated what he had just said, and then as if he was reading my mind, “No cycling until her cast is removed. No swimming or getting the cast wet, either.”
I stood there with my mouth moving, but no sound coming out, like a fish out of water gasping for breath. September came to my rescue. “And how long will that be?” she asked.
“At least six weeks. For a break this bad, possibly eight.” The good doctor was kind as he spoke these words, but he didn’t sugarcoat his diagnosis.
Later, after Katrina’s cast was in place, a nurse brought a set of crutches. Katrina tried them, but it was impossible for her to use them with her wrist in its current condition.
Dr. Julen asked, “When do you go home? I would like to see Katrina in 24 hours, and she needs to have a follow-up visit in seven days.” Of course we had planned on leaving Zermatt that very day. After some explanation about our situation, we got Dr. Julen to consent to a visit in twenty-four hours and again in four days.
Walking out of the office, I looked down the street and noted the only car I ever saw in Zermatt—a rugged red four-wheel drive with a red cross on it and EMERGENCY RESCUE written in German, French, and Italian on the door.
• • •
It was late afternoon when we returned to our campground; our tandems were where we had left them, all packed and ready to go. The spot of grass where our tent had been that morning was still flattened. I looked around feeling helpless. Jordan broke the silence. “I’m hungry.”
It had been a long time since breakfast and reality was just now starting to come crashing down. September and I wanted to sit down and feel sorry for ourselves, but there was nowhere to sit. Katrina could not stand for long and as she couldn’t sit cross-legged with her cast, she just lay down in the grass for want of a proper chair.
