Tahoe cyclist looks back on Europe

Editor's note: This is one in a series of journal entries from Rick Gunn, a South Lake Tahoe photographer, detailing his two-year bicycle journey around the world. Along the way, he is soliciting donations for The Make-A-Wish Foundation. To donate, go to wish.org. To read his complete "Wish Tour" journal, go to rickgunnphotography.com.



At 42, I still cannot say for certain if there is such a thing as heaven.But if there is, I couldn't imagine it would look much different than the scene that day, as I stood on my skis near the top of the St. Gervais ski resort. Three days of heavy snow had pummeled the area and muddied the visibility into a dull persistent grey.

Then, the morning of the last day, in a moment of meteorological righteousness, the sun broke like a starburst against an impossibly blue sky. Before long, the hulking glaciers surrounding us muscled their way out of the clouds, when, as if on cue, the cloud lifted like a curtain to reveal the soaring peak of Mt. Blanc.

The mountain used the entire panorama to make its visual presence known. That brought with it a visual burst of life-affirmation, imparting a sense of belonging to all that gazed upon, like some great-white deity.

I turned to fellow skier and new-found Swiss friend Alex "The Hammer" Grobet and his coworker Paulina Pioger, who also basked in awe. Without a word, the three of us tipped our skis off the edge of the mountain, and slipped gently over the slopes gracefully in unison, like synchronized swimmers painting arches upon the sparkling white slopes.

We glided off-piste, and I dropped into deep-kneed Telemark turns, floating freely over 3 feet of fresh powder. We repeated this over and over again, as if skating on a cloud, or drifting effortlessly over a sea of feathers.

To some this may as well have been another day of skiing. To me it was quite simply magic.

I had returned to the area to make good on a promise: Experience a little warmth and take a needed break from a 4,000-mile bicycle loop through Europe in the dead of winter.

The warmth I would experience was not the kind that came from the sky, or central heating - it was the warmth that came from connecting with human beings.

After six months I was returning to a group of people I now referred to as my "Swiss family." They included Alex, his brother Francois, his parents Hedi and Michel, Alex's girlfriend Lori Werner, and roommate Edit Kohut.

After a two-day train ride from Bordeaux to Geneva, greetings, and a round of hugs, Alex and I packed a few things, including his ferret Cannick, and we set out to his family's tiny chalet nestled in the alps just south of Chamonix.

When we reached St. Gervais, we picked up our complimentary tickets, slapped on our skis and set fire to the slopes between St. Gervais, Megev and Compbloux. Before the weekend was over we ate, drank, laughed and farted (mostly Alex). Better yet, we had skied the better part of the interconnected ski areas, 125 lifts, and over 500 kilometers of trails.

On the second day, atop a run in Megev, we happened upon a gaping cornice.

As I peered from the top into a sea of bottomless powder, I was overcome by Kodachrome courage. "Hey, Alex," I said, looking nervously over the edge. "If I launch this thing, will you get a photo?" He leaned out and peered over the edge. "Do you think it's safe?" he said in his thick French accent.

"If it's not," I said, "tell a good story."

Next thing I knew, Alex had skied down to an area below me.

As he struggled to hike up toward me in the thick, deep snow, he broke out the camera and fastened on a wide-angle lens. Knowing that the lens would shrink me in the frame, I yelled down, "Alex! ... Can you come up a little closer?" He struggled up a bit more, then laid on his belly near my intended landing. "Ready?" I shouted down over the edge. "Wait!" he shouted from below. Just then, the entire slope I was standing on broke beneath me, and sent a slab of ice the size of a Buick toward Alex.

As I watched in horror, the slab picked up speed, then took him out like a bowling pin.

"Oh, god ..." I thought, to myself, "I just killed my friend."

I bolted down the slope to find a pile of snow where Alex had just laid.

Just then, he poked his head from out the pile of snow. "MERDE!" he cussed in French. "S*%t!" I chimed in English, "Are you all right?" "Yes," he said visibly shaken, "But no more photos for now, all right?"

After three days, we had seemingly skied-out every last track, and at the end of the last day, my legs turned to putty. "Stick a fork in me, I'm done!" I said to Alex.

He gave me the look of a child being pulled off a playground, and shot back, "Just one more run!"

As the three of us climbed onto the lift, Alex turned to me and flashed his trademark smile, and spoke oddly, as if I just arrived. "You made it!" he said and raised his hand to give me a high-five. "Uh, yeah Alex ... I'm here," I said, confused, then placed my hand in his. "No," he replied, "I mean you did it! ... you cycled through Europe in middle of winter!"

"Thank you," I returned. Alex spoke again.

"I would like to offer this weekend as a congratulations for surviving Europe in winter." And with that, came another high-five.

Two days later I hugged Alex, and the rest good-bye, and boarded a train back Bordeaux to pick up where I had left off. A day after that I was back on my bike and wrapped in multiple layers, hat and gloves. I tried unsuccessfully to readjust to my newfound solitude, and the frigid air that hovered just outside of Toulouse.

For the next week, I pedaled along Canal Du Midi through Carcassone, to Beziers, then along the shores of the Mediterranean into Provence, and between the ethereal walls of the Canyon Du Verdon.

There, in the midst of a set of steep mountain passes, it began to snow. My cycle-computer rolled to the 8,000 mile mark, and my gears began to fail.

Just as I thought I would have to give up pedaling and push, I reached a high-point and began a descent that dropped nearly 4,000 feet over 40 miles.

Reaching the bottom I came to the shores of the Mediterranean, where I pedaled east, through Cannes, Nice, Antibes and Monaco until I spotted something odd: a small splash of color on an otherwise colorless landscape. It was a cherry tree that had ignored the winter's icy winds and had moved into full bloom. As I stared at the tree, just west of the Italian border, something blossomed within me. Instinctively I knew that winter would soon be over. Just then, Alex's voice arose from within the back of my mind, and said again, "Dude, you did it."

-- January 26-February 2006

-- St. Gervais, Toulouse, Carcassone, Valras, Les Baux, Apt, Canyon Du Verdon, Cannes, Monaco, Monte Carlo.

-- Mileage log: 7,502-8,023

-- Elevation: Sea level-4,200 feet.

"Little Darlin', It's been a long cold lonely winter.

Little darlin', It feels like years since it's been here,

Here comes the sun! Here comes the sun! And I say,

Its all right...."

- The Beatles, "Here Comes The Sun"