1884 o. m. o.

Lets get a few things out of the way shall we? Yes, the hostel we were staying at was called 'The Ginger Monkey'. No, the choice to stay here had nothing to do with my own unique physical characteristics. I'm glad we got this all cleared up. The reason we stayed at this particular hostel was that it came highly recommended from an upstanding member of Prague's backpacking elite. I cant remember his name, and I'm not entirely certain he remained upstanding as the night wore on, but something in that brief conversation fired our imaginations.

The Ginger Monkey was in a town called Zdiar, population 1400 (only double what it was in 1774 wouldn't you know) in the High Tatras region of northern Slovakia. The Tatras were in fact the mountains that we could see from the front deck, and an impressive set of mountains they were. There is something immensely satisfying about looking out from your seat on the deck, across a road and seeing snow capped peaks rearing from the surrounding hills like rocky islands amongst the grassy surf. Seeing the look of wonder in our eyes, Jimbo the Ginger Monkey's proprietor casually informed us that there is a trail up to the saddle between the two nearest peaks. So after getting settled in on our first day and having a casual wander around the nearby forest we ready ourselves for a more serious day of mountaineering to come.

I wont give you a step by step account of our journey, instead I shall start with our reaching the snow line. I was in the lead at this point and upon spying the first dirty patch of snow, I scamper like a champion for it. In one fluid motion I stoop to collect a double hand full of icy ammunition. While turning I craft an amateur snowball, pausing briefly to take aim (and giving Dave time to wail his betrayal) I unleash. Alas, the shot was wide by mere inches and sailed past his left elbow. This set the tone for the rest of our ascent as it was punctuated by periodic skirmishes and cease fires as we waded though knee deep snow striving for the summit. Forty minutes of slowly forging our way up the bowl formed between the mountains but we finally made it to the base of a serious drift the signified the summit. Once again in the lead and excited as a puppy at the prospect of getting there first, I dashed up a semi-stable section of snow and gazed reverently across the vista. Dave, somewhat less caring about footing went right up the middle of the drift, filling is shoes with snow in the process.

The events at the top were pretty uninteresting really. We saw some rare goats, listened to some good music and I may or may not have nearly fallen to my death. In a moment of what can only be called 'flawed inspiration' we decided the best way down was by the seat of our pants. Shortly after the first attempt we decided a more practical approach might be required. All in all we had a fantastic and entirely unexpected day in the snow of our northern Slovakian summer.