A WALK IN THE MARITIME ALPS

For about ten years, Charlie has regaled me with stories about his father’s “epic hikes” through the mountains near his home in Monaco and, for about ten years, I’ve dreamed of one day participating in such a hike. 

Now, I wouldn’t say that I’m a big hiker, per se, but I hiked a fair amount back when I was in the Boy Scouts during my teens and have enjoyed hikes in such varied places as Maui, Hong Kong, and Los Angeles during my adulthood.  Basically, if the scenery promises to be good, I’m there.  And thus far, I’ve found that Monaco, as well as the South of France in general, has nothing, if not good scenery. 

So, when I learned that Charlie’s father – let’s call him “El Jefe” – was returning to Monaco for a week, coinciding with our stay here, I was determined to tag along with him, even if it meant embarrassing myself.  Therefore, you can imagine how great my disappointment was when I learned that I missed out on yesterday morning’s hike because El Jefe prefers to leave early in the morning and, like a total freakin’ wimp, I overslept.  This morning, I would not make the same mistake.  In fact, I even considered sleeping in El Jefe’s car last night just to make sure he didn’t leave without me. 

I awoke – not quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but awake – around 7 am this morning, ate a pear, drank some Perrier, left the door to my quarters open, and returned some e-mails while listening for the sound of El Jefe’s signature gait coming down the hall.  Eventually, I heard footfalls.  El Jefe’s footfalls.  And I knew the time had come. 

Alas, Charlie and his stepmom – let’s call her “Wife of El Jefe” – had decided not to come this morning.  So, it was just El Jefe and me.  Bolstered by the sound of my inner drumroll, I pulled on my tennis shoes, grabbed my camera, and joined El Jefe, who was now clad in his official hiking attire, at the front door.  We rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage, at which point El Jefe suggested that we take the Bentley.  I told him I’d never ridden in a Bentley before and this seemed to amuse him.  (In all honesty, I’d never ridden in a Range Rover, their other car, prior to this trip either.) 

Suffice it to say, I now want a Bentley.  El Jefe’s is a gorgeous shade of blue, has a plush crème interior, and probably costs more than my parents’ house.  It started with just the push of a button and, unbeknownst to me, turned out to be turbo-charged.  As we emerged into daylight, El Jefe said, “I thought we’d put the top down.” 

Oh, yeah, did I mention it was a convertible? 

Moments later, as we were tearing ass down Avenue Princess Grace in El Jefe’s handmade muscle car, with our shades on and the wind in our hair, I couldn’t help but smile.  I was having a great time.  Hike?  What hike?  Who said anything about hiking?  I wanted to ride around until the wheels fell off. 

The roads that led up to the mountains were narrow and winding, starting at sea level and eventually climbing all the way up to 800 meters.  Due to the switchbacks, we must have crossed the Monaco-France border half a dozen times as we zig-zagged our way upward. 

The scenery wasn’t beautiful; it was majestic.  Chanel couldn’t have described Monaco any better when she told me that it was like something out of a fairy tale.  It is.  It really, really is. 

As the Bentley continued to earn my respect, shrugging off the laws of gravity and hurtling around the curves like they were nothing, El Jefe provided me with a fascinating, running commentary on the various sights we passed, including, but certainly not limited to, hotels, base jumper launch sites, ancient Roman ruins, and hamlets where Cary Grant filmed “To Catch A Thief” and Robert De Niro filmed “Ronin.” 

I would have taken pictures for you all, but, much to my mounting concern (scratch that, fear), the precipices were as stomach-churning as the scenery was majestic.  My sphincter got sore, to be perfectly frank, and I think I chipped a molar.  (All right, all right…Let the wisecracks begin, you dirty bastards.  Get it out of your system.  This probably the only line you’ll remember from the entire blog anyway.)  There was, after all, no real guardrail to speak of.  OK, there was a concrete lip that measured maybe – maybe – six inches in height, but it was not a guardrail.  It looked more like concrete parking curb.  If I’m not mistaken, those things are meant to stop you from crashing into the front of a 7-11, not from pulling a “Thelma & Louise.” 

In any event, with the demise of Princess Grace at the forefront of my mind, I decided the pictures would have to wait.  This was survival and, I’m sorry to say, white-knuckling my armrest took precedence over your viewing pleasure.  Thankfully, El Jefe was quite patient with me and didn’t seem to mind answering even my more pedestrian questions – for example, “If, hypothetically, one was to go over the edge, is there anything to stop you from going… haha… you know… all the way down?” 

El Jefe said I’d get used to it and, maybe I’m being paranoid, but it seemed like he actually got a fiendish gleam in his eye after he said this, hit the gas, and started taking the turns even faster. 

As we continued our ascent, I could still hear the Formula One engines buzzing from below, like giant angry wasps, while the Monaco Grand Prix’s time trials carried on in the distance and I could actually feel it getting colder.  According to El Jefe, for every 100 meters you climb, the temperature drops one degree centigrade.  By the time we reached 800 meters, I was wishing I’d brought a coat. 

We arrived at the Monte Carlo Golf Club, which, interestingly enough, is actually in France, and parked alongside a one-lane road on its outskirts.  Several hundred meters above us, the top of the mountain was shrouded in rolling banks of fog and, intermittently, one could catch glimpses of an old French military fortification clinging to the precipice on one of its flanks. 

El Jefe opened the boot, put on his hiking boots, donned a hat, and grabbed his hiking poles while I tried to get a 360-degree view of the area for you.  Sadly, this was one of those places to which a camera can’t do justice…

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlaZpZRv3i4

El Jefe lent me one of his jumpers and an extra pair of hiking poles.  “The hike I’m taking you on today is an easy one,” he said.  “But most people wind up on their ass at some point.” 

He shut the boot, set the alarm, and we left the Bentley there on the side of a mountain road while we proceeded down a salt trail that’s probably thousands of years old.  It was my first time on a salt trail.  For those of you who may not be familiar with the term, a salt trail is a trade route by way of which the ancients used to transport salt from the sea back to their mountain villages – usually for livestock purposes.  The trail was dusty, comprised of loose rock, and, as we made our way along it, my mind couldn’t help but conjure up fond memories of Umberto Eco’s “The Name of the Rose.”  Soon, the salt trail dead-ended at a tree that seemed symbolic of something.  (How was that for alliteration?)  What, I don’t know.  But have a look, in any case…

We proceeded downhill shortly thereafter and entered the woods, which reminded me of nothing so much as the Sherwood Forest of “Robin Hood.” 

Again, El Jefe provided me with an intermittent commentary along the way, pointing out the various sights, informing me about the indigenous wildlife, etc.  The Maritime Alps are home to wild donkeys, horses, sheep, boars, and even a few endangered wolves. 

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7lQKgFE86w

Interestingly, on more than one occasion, El Jefe has actually been joined on his hikes by the same wild donkey, who, apparently, likes to keep people company on their hikes.  This gave me an idea for a short story, actually.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever write it. 

We came upon ancient stone walls, now covered with lichens and overgrown with foliage… the ruins stone farmhouses, now crumbling and barely distinguishable from the forest around them… cascading waterfalls… rocks stained red by air-dropped fire retardant… buttercups and lavender... and patches of overturned earth where wild boars had dug up roots and such. 

I never fell on my ass, thankfully, though there was a few occasions where I was worried I might and take El Jefe down the mountain with me.  Like he said, it wasn’t a difficult hike, but the rocks underfoot were loose in some places and slippage was inevitable. 

As I followed El Jefe and listened to his commentary and reflections, an idea for a TV show dawned on me as well.  I won’t go into it here, because, as we all know, these walls have ears.  However, I think it has legs.  Furthermore, the fact that I had ideas for two, entirely new, creative endeavors within the span of a half hour only served to underscore my long-held opinion that, although exercise means leaving the desk behind, which is very difficult for me to do sometimes, it often yields some of my best work. 

We must have hiked for an hour or so before suddenly finding ourselves confronted by the same, seemingly symbolic tree.  (Sorry.  More alliteration.  I couldn't resist.)  I’m still not sure if this tree meant anything or if it was merely my endorphins kicking in. 

We made our way back down the salt trail and returned to the car. 

I tried to get another 360-degree view of the area for you, even though the first one left a lot to be desired, because, I guess, I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.  Also, there was a classic shot in “Taxi Driver,” in which Scorsese’s camera left Travis Bickle, established the cab company where Travis worked with a 360-degree pan, and returned to Travis afterwards.  Part of me, if you want to know the real truth, was trying to replicate that effect with my Lumix...

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a03jq44Ssj4

On the way back down the mountain, bolstered by my endorphins and feeling rather invincible, I managed to worry less about crashing and take a few pictures for you.  Let’s see how these turned out, shall we?  

Finally, we returned to El Jefe’s hacienda.  Ironically, it wasn't until we were on our way up to the apartment on the elevator that I noticed my ears pop for the first time -- twice. 

-Dax