Hiking over the years I have been the recipient of numerous acts of generosity and kindness.
During recent treks around Mont Blanc and over the Camino, my friend David and I returned some of this goodwill with some good Samaritan acts of our own.
Here are three.
This story is part of our Walking, Hiking and Meaningful Routes series. For more of Muz’s tales from the trail, read his stories from Everest Base Camp and the Great Northern Walk. For more accounts of Mont Blanc, check out Will’s adventures here and here.
The mystery of the missing boots
The morning sun was painting the serrated peaks as we digested a hearty Swiss breakfast of cold cuts and eggs from the Hotel La Grande Ourse in Trient, Switzerland. We were contemplating another challenging day ahead of us on Mont Blanc. Only 15km into Chamonix (France) but an ascent of 1000m meant we were in for some breathless stretches.
Walking out the door, we saw a fellow guest – a Canadian. He looked entirely defeated. He walked up to the innkeeper’s desk, his voice strained.
‘They’re gone,’ he said, staring down at his croc sandals. ‘Someone took my boots from the drying rack.’
The innkeeper sighed, shaking her head. ‘This is unusual. Maybe someone grabbed the wrong pair, or worse. It has only happened once before.’
The guy slumped onto a wooden bench and put his head in his hands. With a population of 163, the chances of buying a new pair of boots was zilch. The village was in the middle of nowhere and had no boot shops.
We had larger bags for this walk as a company transported them daily to our next hotel or refuge. Dave to the rescue. He rummaged about his big bag and like a rabbit from a hat he produced a pair of sturdy, broken-in high cut Meridens bought new for the trip. Dependable, waterproof, and tough.
Dave walked over to the bench.
‘Hey,’ he said, setting the boots down on the floorboards. ‘What size are you?’
He looked up, blinking. ‘Size 10’, he muttered.
‘Try these on,’ Dave said.
He hesitated, looking from Dave to me to the boots, before sliding his foot into the right one. He pulled the laces taut. A look of disbelief washed over his face. ‘They fit perfectly.’
‘I can’t just take your boots – they are brand new’, he protested, though his hands remained gripped tightly around the them. ‘How are you going to hike?’
‘They’re spare and now yours for the hike,’ Dave said. ‘They’ve got a couple of thousand kilometres left in them.’
He stared at the boots for a long moment, then looked up, his eyes bright with an overwhelming sense of relief. ‘I don’t even know how to thank you. I’m Marcus.’
‘Just take care of them, Marcus.’
We saw Marcus on the trail a few more times. He loved his new boots which ironically ‘fit like a glove.’
As for me, I felt a sense of warmth that the mountain chill couldn’t touch.
Holy Cannoli – Italian on the rocks
Tour du Mont Blanc is a series of climbs, traversing the ridges then descending for the evening. Departing Trient was no different. When emerging from the pine forest into the open alpine landscape, the silence was broken by a faint, unusual sound. It wasn’t the call of a bird, the common warning whistles of the alpine marmots, the bells on the mountain cattle or the snap of dry branches under an unseen deer’s hoof. It was a groan, low and heavy with pain.
A man was propped against a moss-covered boulder. His face was pale, glistening with sweat despite the slight alpine chill. He had had a tumble. He had a series of grazes.
Out came our micro first aid kit and the patient was soon patched up. He was an Italian and tried to thank us with strawberries, cash and candy. We accepted a candy and an Italian hug. It was a good spot for a break, so we watched him set off and descend – very carefully.
Holy Water: Mercy on the Camino
A couple of hours west of Pamplona on the Camino de Santiago I stopped to photograph a ruined abbey. My companions had continued ahead, so I picked up the pace.
It was a dry, hot and barren section. Heading upwards I closed in on a middle-aged woman. She appeared to stagger. Perhaps I imagined it. I overtook and offered the usual ‘Buen Camino’ greeting. No response. I continued but stopped – everybody responds to that greeting.
Taking stock of her I saw her face was pained and she staggered again and started weeping. This can not be good. The issue became immediately clear. ‘Agua, Agua’. Even with my less than rudimentary Spanish I know the words for beer and water in that order. I introduced myself, and Sofia agreed to let me assist her.
There was no shade, but I sat her down and gave her a litre bottle of water. She got down half of it rapidly, and I stopped her from doing the lot. Next she got baptised by St Muz of Bondi with a liberal splash on her head and shoulders.
We chatted for about 10 minutes about Australia and Argentina, and I allowed her to finish the last of my water. There were more ‘Muchas gracias!’ than a grassy paddock full of appreciative hungry cows.
The next village was two km away. Refreshed, Sofia crossed herself and blessed me. She set off this time without the staggers. I left at a slow pace and kept her in sight till the village was reached.
My team was waiting at the village, surprised I was so far behind. They were happy for the outcome but astonished anyone would walk without enough water. They hoped she had learned a lesson. I am sure she had but just case I murmured a prayer to St James to grant Sofia additional wisdom on the road.
Muz lives in Sydney. When not conducting investigations he divides his time between travel adventures, backgammon, family and luring dumb fish to their demise.