Kids & Parenting
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My mistake is obvious. I keep looking backwards when I should be looking forwards. I keep wishing things were different when I should accept my new reality. How can I avoid that when it’s your face I turn to look at? Mikey, you appear everywhere I look.
Last weekend Etchewska and I decided to escape from the city to the mountains (moan-taynes, in my best Ponglish) in Karkonoski Park Narodowy. Off the bat of only a little sleep on Friday, we caught an early train on Saturday morning, from Wrocław Główny to Dworzec PKP Szklarska Poręba Górna, where we began our walk. Admittedly, we cheated on the first leg and took the ski lift from part way up the first climb to the station at Szrenicka Skała, at nearly 1362 metres, at the top. The views over my left shoulder, as we ascended, were spectacular. Views to the right were barely visible through a thick forest of mostly spruce with a peppering of beech. Where the forest did give glimpses of the slope behind, I saw a handful of mountain bikers weaving their way down the last stretch of an enduro course at break-neck speed. I envied them.
I thought about you on that lift. A woman going down in the opposite direction carried a small baby of, I guess, around 18 months. I wondered, had you been with me, whether I would have been so brave. You were quite the wriggler. And you often fought with all you had when I rocked and sang you to sleep. The view down from lift the may have put you off the fight. I should hope so too, it had me spooked a few times. It would have been quite an experience, Mikey. No doubt you would have been holding me tight, and you, my beautiful blue-eyed baby boy would have felt perfectly safe wrapped tightly in my arms. On your part, there would have been lots of pointing and lots of “What’s that Papa?” questions followed by lots of “Why?” questions. On my part, there would have been lots of smiles, lots of pauses and lots of head scratching in my search for half intelligent answers. In your absence, I didn’t hesitate to let out long “arrr” sounds that ‘wobbled’ as our chair crossed the lift tower-rollers. You might have done the same spontaneously. If not, I would have taught you to do it, just as I taught you to let out a satisfying gasp after drinking juice. That "arr" sound lacked entertainment without you and Etchewska didn’t find it funny at all. A product of her largely post-communist upbringing, so avoid judging her. In fact, that sound only served to drive home the point that you weren’t there. A realisation that had two observable effects. I let out a large sigh, now common, which was noticed. And a tear rolled down my cheek, which went unnoticed, successfully hidden with a “look, what’s that?” gambit.
When we jumped off the lift our walk across the Śląski Grzbiet, the main ridge between Szklarska and Śnieżka, began in earnest. We were welcomed up there by a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. Scorching hot temperatures coupled with heavy backpacks made the ups and the downs, in particular, the twists and turns of our trek arduous from the outset. That did nothing to spoil our enjoyment of expansive views across the Polish and Czech sides, as we ambled along the spine that separates those two countries. We’ve been to that area before, much farther up the trail toward Karpacz, yet each time I go I never fail to marvel at pine bushes. Why? Novelty, I suppose. As far as I know they don’t grow back home, or if they do I don’t know where and I haven’t seen any. They carpet the mid to high region of the slopes, until, that is, the tree-line disappears altogether. They vanish in the winter too. It’s almost as if a giant gardener puts them out in the summer for three months of growing then carefully pulls them out to stow safely in a gargantuan greenhouse during cold snaps. Me and my imagination. Must stop that in the absence of children to entertain. The truth is, those pine bushes, some as tall as two metres, are covered up completely by a deep layer of snow for six months of the year. And that Mikey, is quite a sight. Pure brilliant white snow-capped mountains, scarcely a pine bush in sight. One day, who knows? I hope to take you there, that is, if Mamma ever lets you see me again. So enamoured with pine bushes, Etchewska bought me one. She has her own too, of a different variety. We’re trying to grow them on her oven-hot balcony. They’re titchy at the moment and I keep over watering them which isn’t helping. Despite my best attempts to finish them off, they’re growing, slowly but surely. You must be growing too. And much faster than our pine bushes. I can only imagine what you look like now. I can only imagine what interests you.
My goal for our weekend mini-expedition was to see Samotnia Refuge and the post-glacial Cirque of Kocioł Małego Stawu from the ridge above. Etchewska’s goal was to spend the night in a wiata that she had eyed and set her heart on during a previous trip with a friend. Both goals were a long way off. Along the way, we paused for coffee at a horseshoe shaped ridge overlooking the Mały Śnieżny Kocioł and Wielki Śnieżny Kocioł, two small post-glacial lakes. Percolated coffee straight off the burner, poured fresh from the pot, an extravagance on such a trip, tasted delicious and the caffeine boost plus magnificent scenery gave us what we needed to take a detour Etchewska suggested. We made slow, knee-wobbling steps down a steep graded blue path, cut back along a green path, where that ridge dwarfed us. An awesome sight. Earlier, from the top, Etchewska had pointed out two thick white sheets of what she claimed was ice. I didn’t believe her. Up there those sheets looked more like huge marble or limestone slabs. “You’ll see,” she said, “I’m right. It’s Ice.” And close, from the cirque looking up, I couldn’t quite believe it. She was right. It was ice. It felt like 30 degrees on that mountain. Unbelievable. Ice should melt in that kind of heat. “But, Andy” she began to explain “That ridge, is north facing and that ice sits in shadow all year round. It’s always cold there. The ice grows and recedes, but never disappears.” Of course, she was right, and I admitted it, hopefully like a gentleman, mostly.
After spending a little time admiring the clarity of lake water, which looked blue-green from certain angles, we slogged it up then back down the trail and took a well-earned rest at the green-roofed Pod Łabskim Szczytem mountain lodge where we shared Bigos (sauerkraut with polish sausage), kapuśniak (a sour soup) – both tastier than they sound – and a local beer, Namysłów, which dealt a death blow to my enthusiasm for walking. It was getting late and we still had much walking to do if we were to reach the wiata that Etchewska had counted on staying. We plodded on. The climb from green-roofed lodge was steep. I struggled to get myself going again. My beer legs felt heavy. Etchewska’s laboured steps and frequent pauses told me that she was struggling too, so I offered to carry her rucksack up the climb. After much persuasion she handed it over, albeit reluctantly. She wanted to do it herself. I admired her strength. A short but arduous climb led us to the ridge where Etchewska insisted on hauling her own rucksack again. To our backs, the sun had begun to set. We shouldn’t have stopped to take in that sunset. But we did. It was stunning. Personally, I didn’t want to take my eyes off it. Deep reds, yellows and towards the other end of the spectrum purples, blues of every hue imaginable. Truly, beautiful.
Detour complete, we headed toward then past the television station near Wielki Szyszak, that a man on the train, who had worked there in his twenties, told us about. Not far off, was the promise of that wiata and that meant we could bed-down for the night. On our way down to it Etchewska spotted a man peering up at a way-marker located close by. I immediately got the impression he was staying there overnight, and if true, that meant we couldn’t, and that meant a long walk, in the half-light of dusk, to a mountain shelter some distance away. Hearing voices mid-way down confirmed the man was not alone. As we approached, we had a discussion about how to handle the situation.
Mikey, speaking other languages is not a skill I possess. Not by any stretch of mine, or yours or anyone else’s imaginations. Sure, I used what little French I knew to “talk” with you. I’d sometimes greet you with a super-enthusiastic “Bonjour. Je suis ton père et papa. Je t’adore Mikey! Mikey c’est magnifique!” I’d then smoother you with kisses, blow raspberries on your belly or enter into a game of “kissy bombs”. I also counted with you, just to five –since you were so little –first in English, then Welsh, then French, Italian and finally Spanish, every day, without fail, unless you were poorly. In part, I did that because I had wanted to acquaint you with languages early on. The sooner the better. I also did it for our mutual entertainment. And it worked. We smiled, we laughed, together. My giggles made you giggle and your giggles made me giggle and so on…and your smile Mikey Mouse –that bright, beautiful, beaming smile – well that, was and still is, I should think, priceless. I’m deeply saddened that I’ve not seen it for such a long time.
All that aside, languages are Etchewska’s department and that’s why I asked her to talk with the man. He didn’t need much encouragement. He came to greet us, clutching a Czech beer. I’d never seen this style of wiata before, so I took a good look at it, first from the outside. Wiata are wooden shelters usually made from logs and provide refuge in emergencies. Their design varies considerably. From what I’ve seen, some have just two walls and a steep sided roof that covers a picnic table and two benches. We ate lunch in one like that once. Others have three walls but no table or benches. This one had four walls, an opening where a door had been previously located, and a loft for sleeping in. From the outside it looked like an idyllic log cabin, if on the small side. And, I think, that’s why Etchewska had wanted to stay there. She dreams about living in a log cabin one day, hopefully slightly larger than this particular wiata and hopefully with me. Out front there was a picnic table with benches. Whilst Etchewska was chatting with the man, using a language somewhere between Polish and Czech, presumably, I peered inside. The “downstairs” room was bare, but at least the floor was dry. I then spotted one young girl at the back of that room and two young faces peering down from the loft. A fourth child, a boy, had bolted to relieve himself at back of the wiata when we arrived. As it turned out, Etchewska learned that the man was staying at the wiata for the night, with all four kids. He followed an unwritten mountain law and invited us to stay. We looked at each other briefly, and politely declined.
My thoughts turned to you again at that wiata. They turned to my Dad too. Seeing that man surrounded by his family brought to mind all the “Grand Adventures” that Dad took me on when I was boy. I had wanted to take you on Grand Adventures too. For a moment, I wanted to be there in that wiata, with you. I wanted this to be our Grand Adventure. I wanted to hear your tiny little footsteps padding around in the loft. I wanted to tell you about the stars before sleepies. I wanted all that and much more besides. Still do.
Somehow, sharing a tiny log cabin with a family of five wasn’t quite the romantic night we planned. The map told us that there was a PTTK lodge, Odrodzenie, just beyond Przełęcz Karkonoska, some distance away. It might as well have been a million miles away. We were both dog tired and it was becoming ever darker. Being stuck on a mountain, on an exposed ridge, at night, without a tent and little water, gave us all the motivation we needed to press on. And press on we did. I carried an additional rucksack whenever I could and we both walked as quickly as we could. Every step hurt. It was pitch black by the time we arrived at the lodge. Our condition: exhausted, hungry and in much need of a good night’s sleep. Problem was, there was no room at the inn! A large group who were having a boisterous party around a bonfire outside had already taken all the rooms. Following the same unwritten law as the man from the wiata, the manager of the place offered us the floor for a cheap price. Great we thought. We’d be dry and warm. Brilliant.
Then another problem. The only floor space available was in the dining room, where other guests were drinking heavily, playing games and generally making a racket. That made it impossible to sleep. Sometime during the night –I didn’t dare guess the time- the drinking crowd dispersed. Finally, at long last, some sleep, I thought. No such luck. Voluminous snoring erupted like a volcano from a man who had bunked down on the other side of room, also on the floor. All my attempts to ignore him failed…then a final insult…Linkin Park…played at a thunderous volume by the cleaner, who crashed about the place – making yet more noise –completing her early morning chores…Neither Etchewska nor I slept much that night. Her eyes were puffed up like balloons in the morning. Mine too. Talk about feeling rough. My bones ached, my muscles sore and I had an almighty crick in my neck. Etchewska suffered similar aches and pains, I’m sure. Still, we were safe and dry and there was a hot shower, fresh coffee and hot breakfast to be had. Things were looking up!
And that’s more or less what happened on the first day of our most recent trip to the Karkonoski Park Narodowy. I’ll tell you about the second day another time Mikey Mouse. Why am I bothering to share this with you at all? Well, that’s both easy and difficult to answer. I hope that one day, you’ll read these entries. At present they’re the only way I can share any part of my life with you. And although I do not have money to fight a legal battle, these entries will illustrate, to some degree, that I have not abandoned you, I have not stopped thinking about you, I have not stopped loving you and I will certainly not give up fighting for you. None of that provides comfort, now. Not for you, not for me. Unless Mamma chooses to change the prevailing conditions we cannot be together. So for now, I write.
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