Ch1: Foreword

        My room mate had a strange hobby, he was a mountain climber. Every weekend he would pack some food, a sleeping bag, his climbing gear and go away. He would come back on Sunday night, dirty, smelling of campfire, his hands and feet scratched and bloody, but he was very happy. I tried to tell him how ridiculous his hobby was, climbing up and down on some rocks. I was twenty two years old, had just finished two years of military service and my idea of a good weekend was to go somewhere on my motorcycle.

      One day he asked me if I would like to join him. I had no plans for that weekend so I went with him. That weekend changed my life; I got hooked on climbing. It was much more than climbing up and down on some stupid rock. I found friends, comradeship, fun, challenge, excitement, outdoors and freedom.

      My leisure time now revolved around the climbing club and I spent almost every free weekend in the mountains. The region around the city of Usti where I lived is sometimes called the North Bohemian Paradise. It deserves this name. In the mountains are many sandstone formations, high towers and cliffs and it has been a tourist destination for many generations.

 Most of us had motorcycles so we were not confined to climbing in one area. For our weekend trips we traveled light, carrying only sleeping bags, food and climbing gear. We camped in bivouacs, sheltered from rain and bad weather. At that time we could go and camp anywhere; there were no fences, no signs saying “Private land” or “No Trespassing”. All land was public, because the Communist government had expropriated most of the private land. After a day of climbing we would go back to our bivouac, light a fire and get ready to make supper and relax. If a pub was nearby, we would go there for a few beers. Sometimes we had too many and getting back to the bivouac was difficult, even for a mountain climber.

      
                                                                                     But climbing sandstone towers was not just for fun. We were training for trips to the High Tatra Mountains in Slovakia, for serious rock climbing. One trip in the winter and another in the summer were the highlights of the climbing season. A few club members were excellent climbers, going on the most difficult routes, sometimes taking their lives into their own hands. Later, when the travelling restrictions were eased, a few managed to climb in the Alps, Caucasus Mountains and in South America. But the majority of us climbed for fun.  

Hacienda del Toro. Interior was more pleasant then exterior.
  

                                                                                               

Relaxing in bivouac after day of climbing

      One club member bought or somehow acquired an old decrepit house in the village of Tisa. We fixed the leaking roof and called it “Hacienda del Toro Mexico”. It became our base and place of many parties and celebrations. Because privacy was at premium in Czecho, the hacienda was a handy place to spend the night with a girlfriend or somewhere to go for casual sex. When the perpetrator or penetrator scored, he/she was supposed to make a notch on designated bed. It became our ritual that the first order of business after arrival was to count the notches and speculate who added an additional notch. 

                          

Wet end of the "Death March". Many preferred a warm pub and cold beer.

      The climbing season finished late in the fall with a “Death March”. It was a two day hike in difficult terrain to test our endurance. Usually only half of the participants completed the trip. Some dropped out due to fatigue; others stopped in a rare pub along the way for a beer and ended up with too many.

       

      But the season really ended with the celebration of the “Last Rappel”. We picked a sandstone tower that was simple to climb. The whole club would assemble under the tower. One volunteer climber (sober) went to the top carrying a bottle of rum and secured himself to the rappelling ring. Then we climbed one at a time to the top, where the volunteer passed a shot of rum and then helped us to rappel down (a few members already showed signs of intoxication.)   On the ground was lot of commotion, joking and horsing around. When the last member had rappelled we would march, shouting and singing mostly rude songs, to a cabin or house prepared for the celebration. The club chairman made a speech reviewing the season, the best climber of the year was acclaimed and then the real celebration began. The party was boisterous, lots of alcohol was consumed, with intoxicated participants slowly dropping off, until only the hardened souls were left to celebrate into the early morning. 

Preparing to rappel down from the sandstone tower after signing the climbing book secured on the top. This tower would not be suitable for the ”Last Rappel”. Too high (see the river in the background) and not enough room at the top to  serve rum.

      In the winter we used to go to a gym, on weekends went cross country skiing and a few times organized two-day cross country trips, camping in the snow. The Hacienda del Toro Mexico was well used in winter months, if walls could talk! Looking back, these were some of the most memorable and enjoyable years of my life.                            

Most enjoyable years? In a Communist country I was lucky to escape from?  

        There is a lot of misconception about living under the Communists. My generation grew up, was educated and indoctrinated in the rules of a Communist country. We lived in the box. The dissidents, protesters, shit disturbers or hooligans that stepped out of the box were dealt with, sometimes severely. Others, particularly the young people, knew that as long as they paid lip service to rules they would be left alone. The police were too busy catching CIA spies and saboteurs, real or imaginary. Certainly I did not live my life in fear, nor did my friends. There was a circle of people like my family, friends, friends of friends and some colleagues at work that I could trust and talk with freely. Outside this circle I would be more careful about how I talked and to whom.

In my world the Communists could be divided into a few categories: There were the hard core party members, the true believers; in front of them I had to be careful with my tongue. Then there were the ambitious, unscrupulous members that joined the party for personal gain, mainly to get ahead. I would watch my tongue.  Others became members because they would have a better chance to get an apartment, job promotion, opportunity to travel, or education for their kids. They did not have much allegiance to the party. We had few in our club and they left the party membership outside on the door knob. In their presence (or with them) I could talk openly, criticize or ridicule the government or tell jokes. A few times when we got into trouble with the police for being rowdy, their party membership came in handy to smooth things out.  The police were visible and vigilant. Consequently there was little crime and I had no fear about going anywhere, day or night.

      The Socialistic system could not compete with the West in industrial production or standard of living but it beat the West when it came to digging gold -that is Olympic gold. All sport activities were encouraged, supported and subsidized by the government. Combining sport and pre-military training, I managed to get three parachute jumps before I was eighteen. Our climbing club was sponsored by a company making industrial valves. Being an official organization, our members could participate in various activities and training. The best climbers could take part in tours to the Russian Caucasus or even had a chance to be selected to represent Czechoslovakia on climbing expeditions to the Himalayas or Andes.

The Cold War was in full swing. We were bombarded by propaganda from all sides. The state radio and newspapers gave one sided views of news; Radio Free Europe and Voice of America gave the other side, more credible, but their broadcast was usually jammed. People become experts at reading between the lines, picking up clues and interpreting the news.                                                       

 Interestingly, I found another source of information. I was taking English lessons in night school and one day I went to the library to look for some English books. I could not find many but I came across an English newspaper. It was the “Daily Worker”, the newspaper of the British Communist Party and it made interesting reading. Many times the same news was told differently to what I read in Czech papers and I became a regular reader. On few occasions I got into arguments with an old Communist that worked in our office. I mostly had the last word by telling him that my information came from his comrades at the Daily Worker.

The Czech economy was running in spurts, there was always a shortage of something. Czechoslovakia had good industry. Cars, motorcycles and many other products were comparable to products made in the West. However most production was exported to other Brotherly Socialistic States and lines in stores were a daily occurrence. The few lucky people that managed to travel to Western Countries came back with glowing reports of stores filled of goods and fresh fruits, of streets full of new cars. It was an inaccurate, snap shot view by a dazed visitor, but it only increased our desire for a trip abroad.

Eda's hobby was mushroom picking. 

       My climbing buddy was Eda, a tall, bony, strapping, easy going, joking guy with a permanent grin on his face. He joined the club shortly after me. We found a few other guys the same age and interest and we would hang around together. Every Wednesday evening our club had a meeting where we planned weekend trips, showed slides and talked about past and future climbing trips into mountains. After the meeting we would go to a nearby pub, have some food, drink beer, gossip, joke, and speculate about trips abroad, to the Alps.  

      Eda had an older brother Hans. He was also a mountain climber but belonged to a different club. He was a laconic guy of few words who lived in a cabin in near the village Tisa. His pride was the Norton 500 motorcycle that his father salvaged after the war. Hans was a good photographer and had fully equipped dark room where he made beautiful pictures.  Eda was envious of him. “Hans is so cheap he squeaks. He comes home once a week and asks mother to make him big pot of soup. Then he buys some bread and potatoes and lives on that the whole week. No wonder he can afford things.”

       One day Hans came to our meeting, offering to sell some of his climbing equipment “I am going to the Julian Alps in Yugoslavia on a climbing tour. I need money to pay for the trip. I have a lot of stuff  for sale.” - He was one of the few climbers lucky enough to get on this trip. We did not suspect that there was another, a darker side to his effort to sell his belongings….




Next chapter 2: GETAWAY PLANS.

The morning after the "Last rappel". Only few people managed to get up.

Cold morning on a winter camping trip.

Cool dude in the Czech army.

Sandstone towers in a region called "North Bohemian paradise" are mountain climber's heaven.

Ch2: Escape plans

My journey to Canada happened in an unusual way. Every Wednesday evening our Climbing club had a meeting where we planned weekend trips. My climbing buddy Eda arrived to the meeting late and bewildered. “My brother Hans is gone, he escaped!” Eda was complaining.

“He went with a group of climbers on a tour of the Julian Alps in Yugoslavia.  On the way back they were changing trains in Vienna. There was an argument between Hans and the rest of group about the platform for the train to Prague. Hans insisted they were wrong and went to a different platform. The group was right and two of them went back to fetch Hans. They were going to give him a hard time but they could not find him. Finally they went outside the station to look for him and there was Hans getting into a taxi. They yelled at him but he just waved back and was gone.  He had played a trick on them about the wrong platform; he wanted to get away from them.”

Travelling abroad from Czechoslovakia was very limited under the Communists.  When the government eased travel restrictions to other East European countries, it was mainly on organized tours. For Czech climbers the Julian Alps in Yugoslavia were a popular destination. Tourists traveled by train from Prague to Vienna in Austria and from there they would change the train to Yugoslavia. For any would be escapist, the railway station in Vienna was a window of opportunity to get away.

Brothers- Hans in front & Eda behind

After the meeting we went to a pub to talk about the situation. Eda was very upset, saying that it was unfair what his brother did to him. “It will be very difficult for me to leave the country now. I will have a black mark in my police records. I can kiss good bye any climbing trip abroad.” After a few beers we decided that Eda should follow his brother and try to escape. Eda was my climbing and drinking buddy. “If you want to escape I will go with you “, I offered. We ordered another beer and toasted to our escape.  I did not realize how this offer, made in a slightly intoxicated state, would change my whole life.


Eda was glumly drinking beer and then suddenly his face lit up. “I am rich now, look what I inherited from Hans,” he started to catalogue, “Norton motorcycle, television, climbing gear, one of his sleeping bags, dark room equipment, maybe one camera…” He went on. We had to act fast. The government did not take kindly to escapees. Hans would be sentenced to jail in absentia and his property confiscated.

Hans lived in a cabin in the Tisa Mountains so on the weekend we drove there to check it out. Eda was shocked when we opened the door; the cabin was empty, cleaned out. Then we recalled that before his trip Hans was endlessly complaining that he has no money, offering to sell everything he had. It was another trick he played on his friends and he succeeded quite well.

The plotters climbing in Tatra  Mountains: Franta left, Eda in the middle and  me  right.

There were a few trusted friends in our club that we told about our plan and asked if they wanted to join us. They were all eager to go but after a few weeks heads cooled down until only Franta Buk was left. He was a good climber, bold and strong-minded, a good partner for our trip.

Every year The Czech Mountain Climbing Association organized a few trips to the Julian Alps. It was not easy to get on such a trip; applicants usually exceeded available spots. The applicant had to be sponsored by his club. There was a form to be filled, stamped and signed by the chairman. The stamp was important; it made the application an official document.

We completed our applications and gave them to the club chairman to sign. He signed mine and Franks. Then he looked at Eda:  “I will not sign your application. I don’t trust you. You will try to escape like your brother, and I would be in deep shit. You can still apply, who knows, maybe they will let you go.”

                 The chance that Eda would be accepted were almost zero. But we had a back up plan. The stamp was kept in a filing cabinet in the meeting room. We picked the cabinet lock, stamped Eda’s application and forged the chairman’s signature. Then all three applications were mailed away. To our (and the chairman’s) enormous surprise we were all accepted for the climbing tour of the Julian Alps. We were jubilant; suddenly a new world had opened to us.

One day Eda received a post card from his brother. Hans was on his way to New Zealand. Now any doubts or hesitations were gone from our minds. We started to talk about trekking in the Himalayas, visiting exotic countries like Canada and Australia.

Then we received disappointing news. The trains to Yugoslavia were being rerouted and would be going through Hungary, another communist country, instead of Austria. Too many people were jumping the train in Vienna. It made our plans more difficult but not impossible. Our base camp would be in the Julian Alps in Slovenia near the village of Gozd Martuljek. This is a favourite area for mountain climbing and it is close to the Italian and Austrian borders. The borders follow mountain ridges and peaks, forming a natural, seemingly impenetrable, barrier between the countries.  A few mountains like Mangart and Jalovec, listed in the climbing guide were located in the proximity of the Italian border.We knew that the borders on the Yugoslavian side were patrolled by the border guards. However climbers from Austria and Italy were allowed to climb in that area and we could mingle with them.  For us it was a “soft border” compared to the one between Czechoslovakia and West Germany. 

Mount Mangart 2845 m viewed from Jalovec 

The border between Czechoslovakia and West Germany was truly impenetrable. It was protected by two sets of barbed wire fences, one of which was electrified. Between were minefields, flares fired by trip wires and manned watch towers. Any intruders penetrating into this no man’s land would be shot. A wide strip along the border was designated as a restricted area and only people with a special permit were allowed to enter it. The Cold War was in full swing. Why an electrified fence?  “To keep Western spies, saboteurs and CIA agents out” was the Communist Government’s line. And to prevent some “misguided persons” from trying to escape the worker’s paradise that we lived in. A few “misguided persons” would become a flood if the borders were suddenly opened. 
We had a tourist map of Slovenia. It showed a path going from Mount Mangart, along the mountain ridge that formed the border and terminating in Italy. It was probably a trail used by Italian climbers returning from climbing in that area. Our plan was to climb Jalovec and then follow the mountain ridge in the direction of Mangart until we crossed the path heading to Italy.  Following the trail on the map, it looked easy, maybe too easy. 

So far our plans were more or less just plain talk mixed with bravado and a small measure of reality. The departure time was just too far away to worry about details. We were fairly good climbers so getting into Italy would not be a problem. What to do once there-we had only hazy plans. Franta had an aunt living in Munich. He had only seen her as a small boy but was certain we would be welcomed in her home. Therefore our destination was Munich, Germany. How we would manage to cross three borders did not cross our minds yet. Eda was fluent in German, so he would be our spokesman in that part of our journey.

I took night courses in English and could read newspapers but didn’t have any opportunity to speak it. Would my school English be good enough in a foreign country? I decided to brush up. I made about 600 small flashcards with English words and sorted them out into three boxes marked “know well, exercise, don’t know”. I had an easy job as a mechanical draftsman and many times hiding behind the drafting board I would shuffle the flash cards. My co-workers noticed my strange behavior at coffee time and gave me a nickname “The Shuffler”. A few times they pulled my leg and mixed up the flashcards or hid a box. But I did not get upset; I knew who was going to have the last laugh.

One day Franta came to the club meeting all excited. “I am going to Yugoslavia on a bus tour.”  Franta worked as a bus driver in the public transit. One of his co-workers was supposed to go to Yugoslavia on a tour organized by their Union. Shortly after he paid for the trip his girlfriend told him that she was pregnant. So instead of going to Yugoslavia he needed the money for wedding and offered that trip to Franta. “It is a two week trip to a Resort on the Adriatic Sea. The last four days is free time. I will take a bus to Jesenice and check the hiking trails to the borders”.

Jesenice is a town at the foothills of the Karavanke Mountains. The border with Austria runs along the mountain ridge above the town. At elevation of 1600 m Karavanke are a thousand meters lower than the Julian Alps and not as steep. The previous year we were climbing in the Tatra Mountains in Slovakia and we met three climbers from Yugoslavia. We took them on a tour and became good friends.  One of them, Drago, lived in Jesenice. He gave us his address and the tourist map of Slovenia. “You should come to Jesenice; it is a very nice area for hiking.”  The map now came in very handy, it showed hiking trails in that area. 

Our train to Gozd Martuljek, went through Jesenice. We had considered going across the border there; it would be a shorter and easier trip. However there were a few problems. We travelled in a group and it would be difficult to get off the train without attracting the rest of the group’s attention. There would likely be a few “minders” in our group to keep eyes on us. This region was more accessible to the public and would be patrolled more frequently by border guards. We didn’t know this area so there was a chance we could get lost or run into an army patrol. It looked too risky. Perhaps Franta would have some answers to these problems when he returned….

Franta looked dejected when he came back. “You would not believe what happened” he started. “I arrived to Jesenice without any problems. With a knapsack and sleeping bag I looked like another hiker. At the bus station I met a hiker from Austria and he gave me some tips where to go.  I found a dirt road that took me to an old cabin near the summit. It looked so picturesque, like a painting: Alpine meadows, grazing sheep watched by a dog and the shepherd dozing near the cabin.” ..

Karavanke Mountains. The strip of land running along the ridge is
the border  between Yugoslavia and Italy.

.                         
“I went to the shepherd, and told him that I was lost and asked where the border was. He waved his hand and said just little over there, at the top. We chatted a bit and I asked for water. He went into the cabin and when he came out, I was shocked…..”

“He was wearing a uniform and carried rifle. He was a border guard! There were two more guards with him. This is how they guard the border, disguised as shepherds! They searched me and then escorted me to a police station in Jesenice. The police gave me a hard time. I was interrogated, accused of trying to escape and locked up in a cell.  They were going to hand me over to the Czech police. Out of the blue I remembered that Drago was from Jesenice. I had his address with me and gave it to the police.” Drago came and greeted me as an old friend. I told him about our trip to the Julian Alps and the bus tour and that I followed his suggestions about hiking in Jesenice.”

“Drago was some big shot in Jesenice, he spoke to the police chief and after he left, they let me out of the jail.  I had to sign a statement about being caught at the border. The report would be sent to the Czech police in Prague. And then they let me go.”

Being charged with illegally crossing borders was a very serious offence in Czechoslovakia. Franta could end up in jail. But he was more worried that with a police record his dream of driving a bus for a travel agency would be over. Suddenly the fun was gone from our plans, it was now a serious business and there would be no turning back.  

Happy reunion with my mother 20 years later.

My girlfriend Vlasta. I broke her heart.

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There were still couple of problems I had to deal with. One was my parents. Should I tell them anything? My stepfather would say “You are big boy, good luck”. It would be different with my mother, we were close. She would not try to stop me but it would be very hard for her to say good bye. We might not see each other again. And there was still a chance that we would call off our plans. So I told them nothing.

Also I had a girlfriend, Vlasta. We had been going out for almost two years and got along well. I told her many times not to take me too seriously, that I was not marriage material. She agreed with me but our relationship was slowly getting more serious. Suddenly she was in my way. I didn't know how to break our relation without hurting her. So again I did nothing.


Our trip to the Julian Alps was only few weeks away and Franta was walking on pins and needles. What would come first, the police report or our departure? The day came and Franta arrived at the railway station carrying huge backpack. “Why is your backpack so big?” I asked him. He showed me his custom declaration that listed everything he carried. “What? You take a suit, shirt, tie and shoes with you? Are you crazy?”  Franta looked at me-astonished “How are you going to apply for a job in Germany? In your jeans?” A thought like that had never crossed my mind. I spent hours sorting my stuff, trying to eliminate all but the essentials from my knapsack. Franta went the other way. Well, he was a strong guy he could carry the heavy load.

At the railway station in Prague there were about forty climbers gathered round a big pile of backpacks, climbing ropes, tents and other climbing gear. We started to board the train, with the usual chaos, trying to fit everything into the train compartments. The train departed and Franta relaxed. Near the Hungarian border the police and customs officials boarded the train. The police were checking our ID cards, customs were collecting custom declarations. The train stopped at the border station and we could see people getting off. Then a police officer came to our compartment and asked for Franta Buk.  “Take your backpack and come with me” he ordered a puzzled Franta.  Eda and I were stunned; the police nailed Franta at the last moment, right on the border! Were they waiting for him? How long did they know? What were we going to do? Go ahead with our plans or scrub everything? The train started to move again.

Then we saw Frank coming back, dragging his backpack and grinning. “When they looked at my custom declaration, they became suspicious that I am smuggling things. I had to unpack my backpack. They wanted to know why a mountain climber needs suit and tie. I told them that we will be spending a few days at a sea resort and I wanted to visit a few night clubs”. 

The rest of our trip was uneventful. From Gozd Martuljek we hiked for a few hours into the Julian Alps to a log cabin belonging to a local climbing club.  There we set up our camp.  

Next chapter 3:  Long way to Italy

Julian Alps as seen from our campground.

      

Ch3: Long way to Italy.

Our group pitched its tents in a meadow overlooking the mountains and started to prepare for climbing tours. On a clipboard each party marked the name of the tour and approximate date of return. A few parties marked the trip to Jalovec.  We didn’t want to be mixed up with them and decided to go on a tour of Špik Mountain to get acclimatized. It was an easy climb and on the way back we started to make plans about the trip to Jalovec that would take us to the Italian border.

A“Špik Mountain” in the centre.
 The name means” Sharp Peak” and it deserves its name.

In fact it was only Franta and me making plans. Eda was very quiet. His behaviour had changed since we boarded the train for Yugoslavia. Usually easy going, talkative and joking all the time, he became quiet and withdrawn. At the outset it did not seem to be very unusual. I also felt tension building inside and was not sure how to cope with it. Franta and I were getting anxious and debating various options we had. Eda did not join us and his usual response was “It’s up to you” or “I don’t care”.

Was he getting scared? Finally I asked him. “What is the matter Eda? Are you getting chicken legs?” He hesitated and then replied “I changed my mind. I am not going with you. I am going back.”

“WHAT? YOU ARE NOT GOING? What happened to you? Are you crazy?You wanted to escape, we are here because of you, you idiot…” I was yelling at him. Then I realized it didn’t make sense to yell. Maybe he would change his mind later. We returned to the camp in subdued mood. I tried to talk to him later but his answers did not make much sense. ” No, he was not afraid. But his mother was sick; his parents would be left alone, without help. He had a girlfriend…”

What are we going to do now? I talked about it with Franta. “To hell with Eda, if you go, I will go with you,” he told me. I spent restless night thinking about what I should do. If I returned, I could picture the next thirty years of my life.  A few more years of climbing and fun in the club and then I would probably get married. My life would revolve around family, getting an apartment, saving money for a holiday at the Black Sea and dreaming of getting a car. I would probably be stuck in a dead end job. And each time something went wrong, I would blame myself for screwing up my life, because when the chips were down, I chickened out, I didn't have the guts.

“I am going” I told Franta the next morning.  So, we started to make preparations. I was not angry with Eda any more, I felt sorry for him. Eda was now more relaxed; a great burden had fallen from his shoulders. We decided to split. His excuse would be that he sprained his ankle and couldn't climb. To avoid a search party looking for us because we did not return back from climbing, we gave Eda a note saying “Do not to look for us, we went to Italy”. Eda would “discover” this note in a knapsack we left behind in the tent.
There were still other parties going to Jalovec so we went on another tour. Our window of opportunity came just three days before our group would be leaving to spend a week at the Adriatic sea.

Hotel Tamara with Jalovec and the gully we had to climb. The building at the rear is all that remains of the Border Guards barracks.

Getting to Jalovec was not that easy. First was a long hike from our camp to Gozd Martuljek, then by train to Rateče. From there a 10 km hike on dirt road to Jalovec.   

Franta was sweating under his big backpack. The road ended at a set of barracks manned by the Border Guards.  Nearby was a tourist hotel, Tamara. Behind it we could see a tent and VW car. The car had Austrian licence plates and inside was climbing gear. They were also climbers, so we pitched our tent beside them. Jalovec, our destination, was clearly visible with a long, steep, gully.
“You can’t climb that gully with your bag” I told Franta “You would have to make three or four trips. Why don’t you leave some of your stuff here? Go light like me.” “Either everything goes with me or I don’t go.”   Franta snapped at me. The strain was starting to show.

The Austrian climbers returned so I went over to say hi. They spoke English so I tried to carry on conversation with them. It went surprisingly well and eventually I told them that we wanted to escape. That really perked up their ears; they had never seen a refugee before. Looking at Franta sorting his enormous load I asked them if they would help us and take some of our belongings with them. No problem. One gave us the address of his mother in Feldkirch and we put Franta’s stuff in their Volkswagen. They wished us good luck and left. 

It was getting late when we saw a police car with flashing lights. Then the siren was turned on and the car was heading directly to us. We both froze. Eda squealed! There was nothing we could do. At the last moment the brakes screeched and the car turned away. The soldier behind the steering wheel looked at us grinning , happy that he scared the shit out of us.

Next day we packed food, climbing gear and other heavy stuff and carried it to the top of the gully where we made a cache. The plan was to get up very early  and make a fast trip to the cache.  We would need a whole day to climb the ridge to Mangart and then follow the path into Italian side.

I was dozing on the sleeping bag in the tent when I heard “Hi, what are you doing here?” It was a party from our camp returning from Jalovec.
“We are going to climb Jalovec tomorrow morning.” I replied. 
“You can’t do it. Today was the last climbing day. Tomorrow we are packing and cleaning up the camp. Next day we are all heading to the Adriatic Sea. You better go with us.” The leader of the party was the minder and he was quite pushy. But he was right and we could not argue with him. We packed the tent and sleeping bags, luckily nobody noticed that we didn’t have any climbing gear with us, and went with the party back to the camp. When Eda saw us, he broke into a happy grin. But we were absolutely crushed. It would now be almost impossible to get away from the group. 

Then we heard some commotion in the camp. Three climbers just return from a trip to Lake Bled.  “It is so beautiful there. Clear blue water, an island with a monastery in the middle, many tourists, even Americans. You should go there” they urged anybody who would listen “You can catch the afternoon train to Jesenice. The bus for Bled leaves every hour. You could return tomorrow morning.”

Lake Bled is photographer's dream.

This was our chance! " I will go with Franta, we are just killing time here anyway” I said, hoping that nobody would join us. We signed the clipboard, grabbed the knapsacks, somebody gave us money to buy him postcards and we hurried to Gozd Martuljek to catch the train. Lake Bled was truly beautiful. But we had only two hours to look around, take some pictures and catch the bus to Jesenice. From there would take the night train to Gozd Martuljek and instead getting off continue to Rateče. From there it would be a familiar hike to Jalovec.

In Jesenice was a big steel mill. Some of our Slovenian climbing friends from Gozd Martuljek worked there. In their free time they would come to our camp, give us tips and advice about different climbing routes or just to gossip. How did we communicate with each other? We both spoke Slavic languages that are similar. And everybody learned Russian in school. So speaking Czech-Slovene-Russian mix we managed quite well.

 One of the climbers that became our mentor was Branko. He knew the area very well and was also a militia Border Guard. He worked the afternoon shift in the Mill and would be on the same train. That made us a little cautious and we had to make sure that he would not see us.

When the train arrived we snuck into the last coach and took empty seats. It was a smoker and the air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Franta absolutely hated smoking. After few minutes he started to stir. “I am not staying here, it’s too smoky. I am going to the non smoker.”

“Don’t be stupid, you could run into Branko” I told him. But Franta was stubborn and left the coach. When the train was near Gozd Martuljek I got up and walked through the train, looking for Franta. The next two coaches were smokers. In the following one I found Franta, sitting across from Branko, having restrained conversation with him. Branko started to get up, “Gozd Martuljek coming up” he announced.

“Now you find some excuse why we are not getting off here.” I was snarled  at Franta who was suddenly speechless. Train stopped, Franta gave Branko postcards of Bled, mumbled something we have to go back to Jalovec and almost pushed puzzled Branko out of the train. The train arrived to Rateče and we started to hike. I was mad at Franta and was wondering what Branko would think about our strange behaviour. He knew our group was leaving next day.

Suddenly there was a shout “HALT!!” and lights shone into our eyes. The Border Patrol!  That's it! Our luck had run out.  “Dokumenty!” We passed our passports and the visa slips. The three soldiers were talking among themselves. “Where are you going?” “We are mountain climbers. We are going to climb Jalovec. We want to start early in the morning” we replied.

More talking, then one gave us back our passports and said “You can go now. Good luck and happy climbing.” 

Next chapter #4: IN ITALY.

Road to Jalovec goes by a ski jump built for the 1984 Winter Olympic Games in Sarajevo. 

Ch4: Climb to Italy.

Still a little shaken from our encounter with the border police, we arrived at Hotel Tamara where the trail to the gully started. It went through the bush near the barracks and in the pitch dark we soon lost the path. Two or three dogs behind the fence of the barracks were barking furiously at us, and a couple of guards were yelling at them and at each other.  Eventually the bush thinned out and we found the way to the gully. Going was tough on the loose rocks so we sat down to rest and wait for the crack of dawn.

It was daylight by the time we reached our cache. Jalovec was shrouded in clouds and we hiked on loose rocks to the ridge we believed would lead to Mangart. The going was more difficult now and we had to rope up and start climbing. The weather suddenly changed and we were enveloped in thick fog. Sometimes the visibility was only a hundred feet and the fog muffled all sound. Progress was very slow and we were just guessing our direction.

Going to the ridge was difficult on the loose rocks…..

Franta was leading and I was belaying him. Suddenly the rope jerked and went taut. Franta had fallen! There was nothing I could do, just hang on to the rope and hope for the best. After a while the rope went slack and I felt two tugs. It meant “come to me, I am belaying you. “

Franta told me,“I stepped on a rock and it suddenly let go. I was lucky that I fell only fifteen feet before the rope stopped me and I was able to climb back. I banged my knee but it does not hurt much.” We continued climbing for another hour or two and then the ridge became less steep. The weather cleared up and we could see the ridge ahead of us was flatter and easier to hike on.

Then we came to a concrete post with signs pointing to Yugoslavia on one side and to Italy on the other. We were elated, we had made it!  All we had to do now was to follow the trail into Italy.  We didn’t need hard hats or ice picks any more so we threw them back into Yugoslavia.  But where was the trail?  It took us a while before we found small piles of rocks that suggested the markings of a trail. The ridge was now flat, sloping slightly towards Italy. Our joy was short lived however, when the fog came back and we became disoriented. We kept our direction by making sure the wind blew on the same side of our face.  Sometimes we threw a rock in front of us to make sure we did not walk over the edge.

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 The fog cleared up a few times and we could verify that we were following the right path. Once we even saw our final destination, Lake Fusino in the distance below.

The trail vanished and the flat ground ended suddenly at steep rock wall. Then we saw a chain, with one end bolted to the rocks and the other end disappearing off the edge of a ledge. It must be the trail! Franta threw a rock over the ledge and after what seemed to be an eternity we could faintly hear its impact. This was not the type of trail we were expecting! The trail or rather a path followed narrow ledges and outcroppings in almost a vertical wall. In many places the ledges were very narrow and a long chain was bolted to the wall for the hiker to hang on to.  In other places descent was made on a set of steel rungs cemented into the wall face and going straight down. We were shrouded again in fog and could see only a few hundred feet. Any sense of direction or height was lost; it was just an endless, eternal descent. Sometimes a loose rock came clattering down close to us; our hard hats would have been handy now.

Finally we stood on a large ledge and debated what to do next. We had been on our feet for more than thirty hours and were dead tired. The evening was only few hours away. Should we stop here and bivouac overnight? The weather was uncertain, it could rain. We decided to keep going.

It was almost dark when we reached the ground. The hiking was easier but not much. We had to push our way through waist high, thick mountain shrubs. Finally the shrub thinned out and we were walking in a meadow. Walking is not the right description because we were feeling our way in the pitch dark, hands in front of us.  A short time later we heard a bell sounding from ahead of us.  Suddenly Franta who was walking in front of me yelled and then started to swear. He had walked straight into a cow head! There were many bells around us; we were surrounded by a herd of cattle.

In a distance we could see light. In a little while we came to a lake and almost collapsed from exhaustion. It was a marshy area but we could not be bothered to look for a better place and quickly pitched the tent. The lake water stank with decay and was not drinkable.

A few hundred yards away from us was the light and bonfire. I grabbed a water bottle and went there. They were Italian campers, four adults and some kids. Judging from their faces I was not a pretty sight when I appeared in the light. I told them in English that we were mountain climbers; we just came down from Mangart. One man spoke English and I asked for water. He passed me a water jug and after I had quenched my thirst I told him that we had climbed over the mountains from Yugoslavia. They got quite excited when I explained to them we had escaped all the way from Czechoslovakia. I refilled my water jug, said good night and headed back to our camp. My mouth was still dry so I opened the jug and took one sip, then another one and when I was close the camp, the jug was half empty. So I filled it with stinking lake water and gave it to Franta. He guzzled the whole jug, didn’t offer me even a gulp, nor did he thank me for the effort -that bugger!

                                                        Lake Fusino. We camped on the other side of the lake.

  It was late when we woke urp next day to a steady rain. The tent’s waterproof floor felt a bit strange. I opened the tent to look outside. Shit, there was water all around! We had pitched the tent near a little creek that was now in flood.  There was no sense in trying to move the tent in the rain, the water was not very deep. We dug a ditch, built a dam and diverted the flood around us. Then we went back inside and slept again. The morning was cold and bright. We could see Mangart and the ridge shining with fresh snow. We were lucky, if we had stayed on that ledge we might not have made it down alive.

Our food supply was down to one can of sardines. We ate it and were mulling over what to do. There was some commotion outside. We opened the tent and standing there were the campers I had met two nights previously. Each carried something. They gave us bread, cheese, sausage, rolls a bottle of wine, fruit and more. “Welcome to freedom” said one and shook our hands.

                 This may be the side of the mountain where we came down. Going down in fog was quite unnerving.

                      I drew this sketch from memory some fifteen years after our escape.     

Ch 5: To Austria

Escape 5: To Austria

Lake Fusine was really beautiful. We moved the tent to higher ground and decided to stay for a few days. After the Italian campers left we were there alone. Franta’s knee was still sore so I went to explore and look for place to change Yugoslavian dinars for Italian liras. A small village with a country store was less than an hour from our camp. I waited till there were no customers inside and then, holding a wad of dinars, I went in and asked the woman behind the counter for “wechsel geld”.  That meant “to exchange money” in German. She fired a barrage of Italian at me which I understood to mean she didn’t want dinars. Well, we still had food for two more days.

The next day, Franta, who spoke passable German, was going to try his luck. He returned carrying a bag of groceries and showed me a bundle of Italian liras. “I went to the same store,” he said. “The woman spoke German and she sent me to a house in the village where they changed the money”.  So that was the barrage of Italian she fired at the day before!

Two days later we were ready to continue our trip to Austria. Tarvisio is a picturesque town that left great impressions on us, it was our first encounter with the Western world. Streets full of cars and tourists, street vendors selling everything that a tourist might want, from fruits and souvenirs to trinkets. We bought postcards and found a small street restaurant, it was time to let everyone know where we were and why the group returned without us.

We ordered a bottle of wine.  I pulled out my postcards: one to my mother, one to my girlfriend Vlasta and one to my co-workers. Now came the hardest part, what should I write? Should I spill the beans and tell them that I escaped, that I am not coming back? Or just hint something? Or just send greetings from Italy and let them figure it out? Franta was furiously writing, he had fifteen postcards, and I could not find the words to write three! The wine was good and cheap so we ordered another bottle. It was almost empty when I found my inspiration.

To my co-workers I wrote “Greetings from a side trip to Italy” and signed “The Shuffler”. That would get their imagination working overtime when I didn’t show up for work. Also it was my revenge on them for messing up my flash cards.

When I was leaving on our trip I told my mother as a hint “If I am late coming back, don’t worry, we probably got lost and we are somewhere in Italy. “ She took it as one of my jokes. “Just don’t do anything stupid, I will have enough worries that you don’t get killed in those mountains.”                                                                                              

The postcard I sent home.

So I wrote “Greetings from a trip to Italy. All is well. Details to follow in a letter”. I probably wrote the same to Vlasta.

 The town of Tarvisio is located in a valley near a point where the Italian, Yugoslavian and Austrian borders meet. On one side of the valley is a mountain ridge where the Austrian border runs and there we could see a hotel that must have been right on the border. Where there is a hotel, there must be a road leading to it.  Fortified with two liters of strong wine we started off, looking for the road and soon we came to a sign pointing to the hotel. The road climbed in sharp curves and then came a fork, one heading left, another right. I had a gut feeling we should take the left road but Franta who was slightly ahead of me took the one to the right. “Why are you going that way?” I asked him. “Because” he answered curtly and I had no choice but to follow him. After a while the road changed to a dirt, climbing steeply, and finally it ended in a big, logged out area. We had followed a logging road.

The day was late, we had to hurry. Nearby was a creek with just a little water trickling down, so we decided to follow it. It was a mistake. Suddenly we were in a gully climbing over small waterfalls. It was getting dark, we had to get out. In one place the gully wall was broken and Franta started to climb up the side. He got over the top and I followed him. Loose rocks were falling down and a few times I started to slide down. The gully was not very high, maybe 4 meters but I was scared. What would happen if I fell and broke my leg? When I got to the top I was shaky and my nerves were shot. The stress of the last few weeks was starting to show.

Austrian border

There was no sense to go further at night. We found some flat ground and tried to sleep. The night was cold and the mosquitoes had a feast.   We got up at the first sign of light and continued to scramble to the border. Early in the morning we got above the tree line, to find that we were quite near to the hotel we saw from Tarvisio.  If we had stayed on the road leading to it, it would have been a nice hike to the border. I had to bite my tongue. I was getting fed up with stubborn Franta, but this was not the time to have a fight. The dawn was absolutely beautiful, clouds filling the valleys, mountains rising above the clouds, all illuminated by a red sun.

 My first impression of Austria was slightly disappointing. We descended into a farmland valley crisscrossed with small fields and a few villages. On the other side of the valley was a river where we wanted to camp. Getting to the river turned out to be difficult- every field was enclosed with wire fence, some barbed. Nobody was seen working in the fields so we decided to go directly over the fences to the river. We climbed many fences and gates to get to a road only to find later that it was taking us in the wrong direction. Climbing barbed wire fences with a heavy knapsack was no fun and we were cursing the Austrians, remembering with some nostalgia that the country we escaped from had no fences around fields and we could camp pretty well anywhere. The river was in flood and it took us a while before we found a sheltered spot.

The difficult part was behind us, or so we thought. Our clothing was in rough shape and it took some washing and mending to get it ready for next stage of our trip. We were going to take a train to Feldkirch where one of our Austrian climbing friends had left our baggage with his mother. The tooting of a train whistle told us that the nearby village of Arnoldstein had a railway station so we went to investigate. The railway schedules were posted on big boards and they were identical to the schedules we had in Czechoslovakia. We should not have been surprised by that, our country used to be part of the Austrian Empire.

Inspecting my possessions. My weight fully dressed was 138 lbs.  

Franta doing his laundry.

                                                                                       

The local train took us to Villach where we caught another train to Feldkirch. Mrs. Reiter was surprised when we knocked on her door. She made us feel at home and we enjoyed her cooking. Her son Tony,  came later and we spoke in a German- English mix into late night. Tony told us that the best place to cross the border to Germany would be near the town of Bregenz on Lake Constance, known in German as Bodensee. Tony asked, “Why do you want to go to Germany? There is a refugee camp in Austria, in Vienna.” It was a good question and we didn’t have any real answer. Our excuse was to see Franta’s “auntie” in Munich that he last saw when he was twelve. The main reason to keep going was the freedom, the sense of adventure we felt and we didn’t want it to end too early.

NEXT CHAPTER #6: Destination  Germany 

Picturesque Austria scenery near Villach