May 9th

Yeah? Not yet, after all?

Well, I have tried: to draw Aldo with outstretched arms. But he didn't want to.
He struggled against my pencils, until the picture below emerged. He still isn't over it. How could he?

 

It happened on this very day, 37 years ago. Two days earlier, Mario Moretti, leading member of the Brigate Rosse, had telephoned Mrs. Moro, beseeching her to influence the government so that Aldo wouldn't have to die. He executed the death sentence in the early morning hours.

It was not without controversy. Some members of the BR were very much in favour of letting Aldo go away alive. Moretti, however, who had "asked Mrs. Moro for help" and claimed to have felt "deep sympathy" for Aldo, not only insisted on the assassination, but also on performing the act himself.

The reports about the actual event of the murder vary. More or less all Brigadisti insisted that they had been concerned about Aldo not having to suffer. Therefore they told him all sorts of things before leading him to his death: he would now be able to go home, he would just be brought to a different hiding place, and whatever.

I am certain that he was very aware that the end had come.

Later, some members of the BR cried at Aldo's grave, and Cossiga, the Minister of the Interior, who had dropped him, cried as well. Many tears, and all of them received much more public attention than those of Aldo Moro himself.

All of this still doesn't make any sense. It will never be transfigured into anything good.

The case of Aldo Moro severely contradicts all those cute encouraging proverbs about gentleness being stronger than hardness, about patience paying off in the end, and so on. There is no comfort, no edifying lesson in this story.

 

The blurb of the French publication of some of Moro's letters says:

"Aldo Moro was one of the most beautiful and amiable figures of the 20th century. His message was that the protection of life always takes priority, and that diplomacy takes precedence over violence. It still holds true."

 

Looking at the world of today I can only recognise that this message is valid less than ever. For the Brigate Rosse, it was at least a really tough decision to kill Aldo. Today's terrorists are not squeamish about slaughtering several hundreds of people per day.

Why am I writing this today? I am on a pilgrimage for Aldo, searching for the hidden tears.

And today is the anniversary of his death.

 

Pilgrim Art 03 - Trail of Horror

The third finished drawing.

The Drawings

Of course I am drawing. But it is a slow process. Pitching the tent, unloading the luggage, getting set up, etc. - everything requires strength and time. And therefore I only have a little time each day for drawing, if any at all. Thus, every finished picture shows a scene from at least a couple of days earlier.
Like this one: 19th century pilgrims, surrounded by 21th century monsters.

The Rocky Path

"Behind the Col de Rousset begins the Midi", I had been told. This is the climatic border. Thus, this pass is something like the Gotthard pass in Switzerland. After the Gotthard, you reach the Ticino, Switzerland's sub-mediterranian sun chamber. And after the Col de Rousset begins the deep south of France. With the lavender fields and the pine trees.

This expectation was indeed alluring. After a day and a night with endless rain, there was not a dry stitch on me or a dry hair on Gamin. We had stayed overnight in a ghostly abandoned ski resort on the top of the pass. And now we had to find a footpath across. The tunnel for cars was almost two kilometres long and out of the question for us.

 

Farewell from the ski resort, the mists are lifting.

The rain had stopped, the sun came through and gave Gamin an extremely good temper. He swiftly followed me through the enchanted forest and on the mountain trail. When the forest got thinner, a breathtaking view became visible on the mountaintop:

But immediately afterwards followed the horror: The trail now led steeply down, along the bottomless depth. It was narrow, sloping, full of rocks, as difficult as the horrible GR near Bouvante, only much higher, more risky and even more dangerous.

My stomach lurched. Vertigo again.

But now I had to take a decision. Shall we take this path, or shall we turn around? Which would mean: to Vassieux. There is no way through the road tunnel. Turn back to Vassieux? SUCH a long way back, everything in vain. And then? Which direction to take?

No, it had to be done.

Slowly, step by step. I felt for each of them, used a stick to hold on to, ordered myself to only look down on the ground, and never - NEVER - around me.

Soon there came a rock ledge that was so steep that Gamin did not want to continue. I therefore unloaded him, carefully placing the luggage on the tiny space on the ground, and lead the almost totally unburdened donkey down. I left him 100 metres below, climbed up again and brough the luggage down. This is how we fought our way ahead, 100 metres, and again 100 metres.

But then  - we were already far down - the damned trail degenerated into a sea of gravel, like a petrified avalanche. A hardly discernible "path" meandered through it. The stability of each rock was highly questionable; as soon as a stone was stepped on, the whole slope was set into motion. I doubted that Gamin would follow me, but he did. Millimetre by millimetre we advanced. Again and again, stones slipped and crashed down into the chasm.

How have I ended up here? In a situation I never wanted to experience. The image of all my fears had materialised, so real that it was unreal.

Finally we had managed the gravel path. But now I needed to go back once more to get the luggage. Up again, slipping, trying to find stability.

I now moved the four heavy duffel bags, also millimetre after millimetre. At first I found a foothold, then I pulled the bags after me. The stones slipped and fell. Suddenly the whole slope seemed to become unstable, everything under my hands and feet was set in motion. A quick prayer to Aldo. The slope stabilised again.

Below me, I heard shouts. Against my intent I dared to look down.

A couple of people stood on a viewing platform that could be reached by car. They pointed up towards me and were highly amused about the spectacle high above them in the rocks.

I became angry - old-school gentlemen would now have climbed up to HELP.

But then I suddenly realised: They don't come up because they *can not*.

They have dragged their lazy arses onto the platform by car, and now, from a secure vantage point, they take photographs of the magnificent mountain scenery. I was simply an additional attraction.

It is said that pilgrimages lead to self-awareness. This was such a moment.

I realised that it is a perfect reflection of my life: to climb a path that nobody else walks. At best I am greeted with amused smiles by others. But not because I am inferior - as I always thought - but because I am different.

Now I was not afraid any more, because this was my path. I had not just "ended up" there. I was there because I was able to walk this path, unlike the onlookers below.

Finally I arrived there. I loaded Gamin again. The onlookers from the platform came closer, eyeing me. I was just able to hear one of them saying to another: "I don't like donkeys, they look daft."

 

Now I had to walk down the mountain road, which was 15 staggering, meandering kilometres long.  Down from the Vercor. After every hairpin bend, the trees became greener, the first pine trees appeared, a promising hint of the Mediterranean was in the air. Yes, it was true, we were now approaching the Midi.

The village of Chamaloc is typical for the south of France. With cypress trees and cicadas and a large lavender field.

I asked around and finally found a family who let me camp in their garden.

Gamin in the garden

I look back onto the Vercor that is now behind me. After all, I had my "Gotthard", the mystical transition from the north to the south.

 

I look back with gratitude. Vercor, you wild, dangerous fortress of stone and rock. The days with you were hard, very hard, but you opened my inner boundaries wide and exposed a potential I would never have believed to be there. You have given me strength and self-confidence. Never allow yourself to be tamed by humankind!

I was unable to take photos on the steep trail, but later, further down, I  could document the place. The upper arrow points to the gravel path, the lower one to the viewing platform.

Pass Road

On April 29th, the wonderful sunshine defied all meteorolgists who had predicted rain and dreary weather.

An easy route via pass roads led us out of Bouvante, to Lente.

At the Col du Chaud Clapier

When you are able to walk without being scared of falling into an abyss after every step, your thoughts are free to roam as well.

Of course I think a lot about Aldo Moro. Most people I meet are astonished that this pilgrimage is dedicated to him. More astonished than about the fact that I walk with a pack donkey, or that the destination is so far away, or that it will take such a long time to get there.

In Léoncel it was especially nice: I had slept behind the village church. In the morning, a church employee turned up. She apologised for not having noticed me the evening before.

The church offers free rooms to pilgrims. But now, at least, I was to come and have breakfast.

I was happy to accept, but I explained to her that I was neither a Catholic nor on an "official" pilgrimage, but that it was for Aldo Moro.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Going on a pilgrimage is a very personal thing; each pilgrim has his or her own way. And it will do Aldo good, it will give him joy."

She said this very much as a matter of fact, which moved me a lot.

A living example of openness and interreligious tolerance.

This is certainly also due to the influence of the Vercor, which has many unknown, sleepy places of pilgrimage, far away from the popular Way of St. James. They open their very intimate ways of salvation to quiet pilgrims.

Most people are not spontaneously able to know who Aldo was. I briefly explain it to them, and each time I feel the strength that comes from pulling him out of oblivion.

Yes, it does him good. And me, too. The cold, cynical evil that became manifest in the merciless stubbornness of all protagonists whose actions finally led to Aldo's death, will not have the last word.

Almost fourty years later, the outcry of the heart is still there, still awake, and it will not fall silent.

The night in the tent near Lente was brutally cold: sub-zero temperatures! As you can see, Gamin had a frozen bum in the morning.

Stairway to Hell

So, today was the first really shitty day.

The ascent to the path that was to bring me from Bouvante to Lente and thus in the correct direction, soon led onto a murderous trail. Terribly steep, full of rocks and gravel, and slippery. And with trees laying across the path.

At the beginning it still looked nice.

But soon it was like this. And even worse. (Why do photos never show how steep such a trail really is?)

Of course, Gamin refused to walk on when he saw the tree trunks. I tried to motivate him and finally unloaded the luggage until he jumped or climbed across. When one tree was behind us, lo and behold, there came the next. A torture. Of course I aske myself whether it would be wiser to turn around, but we had already managed a couple of trees and I still hoped that the next one would be the last.

Was this the last one?

No, really ...

Finally, we *almost* reached the top. But then ... the whole hillside was covered in tree trunks and rocks. And on the ground there was a broken wooden signpost, stating: "We are currently renewing the GR; sorry for the troubles"

Yes, thank you very much, arsehole! A GR in such a state simply has to be closed!

Final destination: tree hell

After all, we had to turn back.

The rain got stronger and stronger, transforming the steep slope into a slippery hell. When I had to unload the luggage again, the roll with the sleeping bag and the insulation mattress fell out of my and, on the ground - and rolled into the bottomless abyss of the ravine.

Gone was the wonderful sleeping bag! The rain increased, I was totally drenched, it got windy and even more slippery. 

I can't remember how often I slipped and fell into the dirt. Gamin also fell a couple of times and for a while I thought, ok, this is the end. This will become our grave.

At some stage, Gamin refused to move in front of a tree trunk I would also have refused to tackle, because on the other end there was nothing but a steep, wet, slippery wall of rock. I have no idea how we managed it, but we fought our way back to Bouvante, and now I am back in the hotel.

The owner is willing to drive me to an outdoor shop tomorrow so that I can buy a new sleeping bag and an insulation mattress.

The laptop also got wet, it has a bad stain on the display, but it still works. Everything is wet and covered in scratches.

A day in hell, indeed.

Vertigo

"Do you want to go up there with the donkey?" asked a man who had come running out of his house.
Oh yes! I had just left Peyrus and headed towards the beginning of the GR 95. The path that leads up to the Vercor.

The man explained to me that there is a three metre high rock in the upper third of the climb. He said that it was hard to climb for human beings, because there were only very few notches to tread on. He claimed that a donkey would not be able to manage it.

I thanked him for the warning but walked on. When it came to the worst I thought I could always unload the luggage, carry it up myself and let Gamin find his own way up.

The ascent became more and more narrow and steep. Roots and rocks offer some sort of step for human feet, but for the hooves of a donkey they are a torture.

Difficult ascent

 When the path became too steep, Gamin stopped walking. After half an hour I was able to coax him into climbing on. Then he stopped again. And I had to pull and sweet-talk again.

I secretly hoped that we had already left the aforementioned rock behind, because we had already tackled a couple of rocks. No chance! Here it was, the rock wall.

It was immediately clear that no donkey could ever manage it, with our without luggage.
I left the GR and tried to find a way right through the thicket in order to circumvent the obstacle, go up along a different route, and find the GR again later. We were successful after all. The reward was the wonderful plateau of the  Pas du Touet, which we reached soon afterwards.

Then the path was level for a while. Finally, we reached  Léoncel.

On the door of the town hall was a piece of paper with a telephone number to call when in need of a place to camp or a place to stay. We were pointed to a meadow behind the cemetery.

After a very windy night we continued, on a steep path again. After a short while, Gamin stopped walking again. Oh well. Once more a breakneck situation up in the rocks. This time I decided to listen to the donkey and we turned around. We circumvented the place by simply following the Départementale (express road).

After a while we returned to the GR, where the Vercour plateau unfolded in all its glory.

We reached the Col de la Bataille, with its view in all directions, far across the valley and the mountains.

Without doubt it is an impressive sight.
But my knees started to shake and I got dizzy.
Vertigo!
Now it really got me. The Col is 1313 metres high, not very high really, but the pictures show you how it looks. I have always suffered from vertigo, but never before in the mountains.
But here - I could not continue.

I took photos without looking at the landscape. My only desire was to get down again, as quickly as I could, and on the main road, if possible crawling flat on the ground.

Somehow we managed to reach the Gradiol bothy (Gradiol ... sounds like Gradoli), a spartan, unmanned hut without water, telephone connectivity or electricity, but with a wood stove and a wooden bench to sleep on.

I decided to spend the night there. There was wood in the hut, but no paper. A battered guest book laid on the table. The entries soon explained the bad shape of the tome: “Sorry, we had to rip out pages in order to make a fire, it somehow was a matter of life and death" ... and so on ...

I imitated the actions of the people before me and hoped to use as few pages as possible. After ten pages, the stove blazed pleasantly.

Apart from this, the night in the scary building was everything but comfortable. I would have felt better in my tent. In such a bothy, people can come in at any time and lay down beside you. (!)

It is permitted to pitch a tent next to a bothy. But I was far too tired. And this is why I spent the night sleeping on the floor next to the stove. I found the dormitory too spooky.

The GR would now continue across the Plateau d'Ambel, along the ridge of a bottomless, high rock wall, in height up to 2100 metres.
Too high for me.
And the weather: rain, strong gusts of wind.

I had to face some pressing thoughts. This Vercors Grat is only the beginning. In the alps there will be GR paths leading up to 2900 metres high. It will be autumn until I will have managed to get the donkey up there.

The only solution is to change to a more southern route and to make sure not having to cross any mountains higher than 1000 - 1200 metres.

There is no other way. This is why today we followed the boring Départementale again. For 38 kilometres! Gamin was totally shattered when we finally reached the little village of Bouvante. There is a restaurant with a hotel, where I checked in without furthher ado. Gamin came on a meadow with apple trees, and I looked forward to having a shower. Alas, the massive shower head crashed down on my head, but no bliss is ever perfect.

However, I was allowed to use the local WiFi, which is why I can now work out the new route.