Max and Edna's Place

     Preface:  I've reposted this article from the same time last year.  Gretta and I went back to Ski Tip Lodge for another visit, and it was just as nice as before.  For some unexplained reason, all the photos had disappeared from this posting, so I re-inserted them, and hope they remain.

 

Max and Edna’s Place

non-fiction
by Greg Larson

     Gretta and I drove up Montezuma Road, about a half mile east of Keystone Ski Area in Colorado.  “There it is,” I said, pointing to the weathered pine board sign with hand painted letters: Ski Tip Lodge.

     I steered the car into the snowy drive and parking area and noticed the unassuming lodge, covered with snow and nestled among the pine, spruce and aspen trees.  Part log cabin and part stucco Swiss chalet, the layout was somewhat rambling, and it appeared that several additions had been constructed through the years.

     We had reservations at the lodge, mainly because it was a bed and breakfast inn.  I thought it would be a great way to get a hearty breakfast before hitting the ski slopes each morning.  I had no inkling of the amazing history of the site and the structure until we checked in and we received a tour.  We discovered that it is the oldest operating ski lodge in the U.S. That’s when we learned about Max and Edna.

     Before high-speed gondolas, ski-condos, and mega-resorts, there was a young couple, Max and Edna Dercum.  They came to Colorado in 1942, with a passion for skiing, a love of people and a zest for life.  Max was a forester and had a job with the U.S. Forest Service.  Edna, his wife, was raising their young boy, Rolf.  Their dream was to develop a ski slope and build a ski lodge.  It was the quintessential American dream worthy of a book.  At least that’s what Edna thought in 1981, when she wrote her memoirs titled “It’s Easy Edna, It’s Downhill All the Way,” a title that had been a quote from her husband before she started a local ski race in the 1950’s.  In the book, she gives us a glimpse of what rural mountain life was like in Colorado at that time, before plumbing and other minor necessities.

Mega-resorts at Keystone

     We were shown our room upstairs.  It had no phone or television.  On the tour given by a member of the lodge staff, we fell in love with the quaintness and charm of the place.  We touched the handmade, rough hewn columns and beams, as well as some of the wooden ski tips, used as handles on the doors.  A four-star restaurant was on the first floor near the small entry to the lodge.

Ski Tip Lodge

     Overstuffed furniture and antiques dominated the large, log-cabin living room with exposed wood trusses.  Huge plate-glass corner windows made us feel as if we could touch the trees and the mountains outside.  There was also the “Rathskeller,” a large parlor, where people gathered around the giant stone fireplace to visit in the evening during happy hour and to have after-dinner drinks and desserts.  Guests were encouraged to tend and stoke the fireplace.

Gretta reading in the living room at Ski Tip Lodge

     Max had purchased the small ranch with a cabin, which was previously a stagecoach relief station in the 1860’s for the wagons that came from Georgetown.  Passengers and horses took a break after the rocky trip over the Argentine Pass before making their way to the small mining town of Montezuma.

     When Max and Edna began work on the lodge, the original structure was in such bad condition, they rented a cabin on their neighbor’s property.  They set up their temporary residence in it and began in earnest to fulfill their dream.

Exterior of living room at Ski Tip Lodge

     In 1945 Max and Edna began construction on the Ski Tip Lodge, building it around the old cabin.  Max had also been looking at a snow basin located southwest of Loveland Pass for the possibility of creating a ski slope.  He checked the county records and determined that the three mining claims in the basin were tax delinquent, so he presented a bid to the county commissioners and it was accepted.  Shortly thereafter, Max and two of his friends created the Arapahoe Basin Ski Corporation.  Once they received their forestry permit, they began to prepare the slope and construct a tow rope to pull the skiers to the top.  Arapahoe Ski Basin opened in 1946.

     Max and Edna continued work on the lodge, and purchased bunk beds for two large rooms upstairs, planning separate men’s and women’s sleeping quarters.  Once the slope was operational, the requests came in from as far away as Chicago for a place to stay and ski.  Edna started as head cook and lodge manager.  She now had two children to raise: a son, Rolf, and a daughter, Sunni.  She charged the guests $3.50 per day for a bunk, breakfast and dinner.

     Gretta and I woke up on our first morning at Ski Tip Lodge with the outside temperature at fifteen below zero.  But the sun was out and the white peaks shone through the pines.  We took our time getting ready for breakfast and then went down to the dining room.  It was one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever experienced.  Gretta had eggs Benedict, and I had blueberry pancakes with macadamia nuts and maple syrup, with eggs and bacon on the side.  The place seemed so cozy that we lingered downstairs before we decided to hit the slopes.

     We made our way over to the ski slopes at River Run Village at Keystone, and boarded the high-speed gondola to ascend the mountain.  The gondola cab gave us protection from the wind. Our plan was to stay on the easy slopes for a while, since we hadn’t skied in several years.  Once we exited the gondola, we soaked in the bright sunlight at the top of the ski runs.  We stood in awe of the natural beauty before us.  The white peaks of the Ten Mile range and the Gore range looked like giant molars glistening in the sun, with the deep green forests draping the lower slopes.

Gretta at the top at Keystone

     In the early years of the lodge, Edna cooked breakfast for the guests, and then hurried up to the slopes to teach ski lessons, with the smell of bacon grease still on her clothes.  As the ski slope and the lodge became profitable, Max and Edna hired a cook and assistants to take care of the lodge operation.

     They never advertised their lodge. It’s popularity spread by word of mouth.  Their clientele, mainly wealthy skiers from Chicago, St. Louis, the East Coast and Texas, returned year after year.  Max and Edna became long-time friends with many of them, and they participated in the Rathskeller entertainment in the evening.  It usually consisted of swapping ski stories, having a few drinks and singing a few songs.  Many times the partying continued through the night, with only a couple of hours remaining for sleep before dawn.

     Today, you can see pitons anchored near the rafters of the living room stone fireplace, where two inebriated mountain-climbing guests proceeded to demonstrate climbing techniques to the other guests, decades ago during one of the evening parties.

Rathskeller

     Over the years, the Ski Tip Lodge accommodated a variety of well-heeled and famous guests.  some Chicago mafia stayed at the lodge, but registered under fictitious names and addresses.  Several movie stars frequented the place, including Henry Fonda, who came one summer to relax.  Many of the male guests insisted on helping in the kitchen, especially if the hired assistants were young, blonde women.

     Gretta and I enjoyed our routine of eating a grand breakfast each day before the ski slopes beckoned. We skied to our heart’s content until late afternoon before returning to the lodge. After a good soak in the deep tub, we’d go to the living room and have a beer and some pistachio nuts. In the evenings, we played gin by the fireplace, and threw a log on the fire every so often. We sat back and watched it crackle and pop, with sparks sticking to the flue momentarily, like fireflies ready to launch into the sky.

Apres ski beverage

     We visited with folks from various places like Texas, Illinois and Arizona.  Some were guests at the lodge.  Others had come just for dinner.  Some lived in condos nearby.  We enjoyed the two male guests from Holland, who I dubbed ‘Hans and Dieter.’

     What Max and Edna accomplished was nothing short of amazing.  Their passions were skiing and people, not wealth or fame.  They were talented ski racers and ski instructors.  Max and a handful of other ski instructors established the Professional Ski Instructors of America, Inc. in 1961.  Edna’s mom and Max’s parents moved nearby, and gave them a boost while they raised the kids, built a ski lodge, and developed the slopes.

     In the ‘60’s, Max had another dream of developing the mountain at Keystone into a ski area.  In the summer he drove his jeep up into the forests and walked every part of the mountain, seeking the best places for different ski runs.  Max and his friends partnered with Ralston Purina Company to develop what is now the Keystone Ski Area, which opened in 1970.  When the high-speed gondola was installed, Edna christened it.

Greg warming in the sun at Keystone

     On our last evening, we made reservations for a special dinner at the highest operating restaurant in the U.S., the Alpenglow Stube.  It is located at an elevation of 11,660 feet on North Peak at Keystone, and it is accessible only by gondola.  We were given the royal treatment by the Keystone workers and the restaurant staff.  When we boarded the gondola, the man in charge gave us a couple of blankets and wished us a great evening, then closed the gondola doors to prevent any night skiers from boarding with us.  It was a romantic dinner and evening, with a ride back down the mountain in the moonlight.

     At our last breakfast, I thought of Max and Edna, and all the history at the Ski Tip Lodge.  Even though it is now operated by the Vail Resorts, it still retains the spirit and charm of a small independent ski lodge at Keystone.  It is hard to express the feelings we had while staying there.  It was so comfortable I wanted to call it ‘home.’

     Edna died in 2008 at the age of 94, and Max passed away in October, 2011.  But their original dream, Ski Tip Lodge, is the best kept secret in Colorado.  It remains tucked in the solitude of the winter forest, just off Montezuma Road.  As we left, I quietly spoke to Gretta, “I think we need to book another trip here…same time next year.”

     “Shhhh,” she said. “Let’s don’t tell anyone.”

Outdoor solitude at Ski Tip Lodge

Universal Language

Non-fiction
by Greg Larson

     I am convinced that men and women are wired differently when it comes to conversation.  Men often use few words, sometimes mumble and use an occasional grunt in their vocabulary.  They communicate mainly when it is necessary to help them complete their work or to find something they need…like a car part or a tool.  Women, on the other hand, network and connect on a more emotional level.  Gretta’s recent experience, which she shared with me, solidified the “women” side of my theory.

     She had gone to Panera’s, a bakery and deli in Prairie Village, with expectations of meeting an informal Italian conversation group.  According to a friend, the group met there every Wednesday at 3:30.  Gretta thought it would be a nice opportunity to hear and speak the Italian language.  Since it was her first time to meet with the group, she arrived at 3:35, thinking that it would be easier to spot them in the large dining area.

Gretta walked into the deli and inhaled the familiar smell of coffee, soup and the warm, fresh bread.  She scanned the interior, but didn’t see any obvious groups conversing in Italian.  She saw mostly groups of two or three people at the occupied tables.  Not sure of what to do next, she bought a cup of coffee and began to wander through the dining room.  Maybe I have the wrong date or time for the meeting.  She strained to hear snatches of Italian conversation.

     Gretta plucked up the courage to find out if others were also waiting.  She approached two women who were in the middle of a conversation, one a younger, dark-haired woman, and the other an older grey-haired lady.

     “Excuse me,” said Gretta, “Are you here for the Italian conversation group?”

     The women smiled at each other and sheepishly chuckled, apparently sharing a private joke.

     “No we’re not here for Italian conversation,” said the older woman, as she smiled and pointed to the younger woman.  “But I do have to tell you why we’re laughing.  My daughter here lives in Rome!”

     “Oh!” exclaimed Gretta, “My husband and I just came back from a trip to Italy, and we spent two nights in Rome.”

     “Where else did you go in Italy?” asked the daughter.

     “We were on a bike tour in the Abruzzo and Molise regions, and then we spent four days in Florence,” answered Gretta.

     “Very nice,” replied the daughter.  “It sounds like fun.  I hope you find your conversation group.”

     “Thanks.  I guess I’ll keep looking for them,” said Gretta as she began to wander farther into the dining room.  There were no new signs of a group gathering for discussion, so she approached two well-dressed women who were having coffee together.

     “Excuse me,” said Gretta, “I’m looking for an Italian conversation group that meets here, and I wondered if you were here for that, too.”

     One of the women laughed and then spoke a bit sarcastically, “Oh sure, we speak Italian!”  Then she politely continued, “No, we don’t speak Italian, but I wish we could.  I hope you find the group.  Speaking Italian sounds like fun.”

     “I’m learning Italian and when I heard about this conversation group, I thought it would be good for me,” said Gretta.  “I’ll keep looking for them.”

     She continued to wander through the dining room, feeling somewhat like the storybook chick that was lost and kept asking each animal, “Are you my mother?”

     No, I’m not asking the two girls by the window.  She watched one of them texting, while the other talked on her cell phone.  Then she noticed a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, sitting by herself.  I’ll ask one more person before I give up.

     “Hi! I’ve been looking for someone who’s part of an Italian conversation group,” said Gretta.

     “Well I’m not part of it, but won’t you sit down?  I noticed you’ve been looking for someone.  I’ve had a hard day,” said the woman.  “My name is Carol.”

     The woman looked tired but seemed eager to chat.  “This is the first chance I’ve had all day to get some lunch,” she said as she dipped her spoon into the bowl of chicken noodle soup.  “I grew up here in the neighborhood, but I live in Louisiana, now.  My mom just moved to a nursing home, and I’ve come to visit her and work on getting the house ready for sale,” she sighed.  “There’s so much to do!”

     “You must be exhausted.  I know how it feels.  We just sold my mom’s house and had an estate sale.  It took months for us to go through all the stuff,” Gretta empathized.

     “I went to Shawnee Mission East,” Carol reminisced.  “Now when I drive around here, so much has changed.  My mom and I used to go to the Tippins restaurant across the street, and now it’s closed.  We used to have a big piece of French Silk pie…oh, that was my favorite chocolate pie.”

     “You can still buy Tippins pies at the Hen House grocery store,” replied Gretta. “They have whole pies, and I think they sell them by the slice in the deli department.”

     “Oh, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Carol as she grabbed a pen from her purse. “I’m making a grocery list, and I’ll add the pie to the list.  My mom isn’t eating well, and I think the pie would be just the thing to perk her up a little.”

They visited for about ten minutes.  Carol finished her soup, and Gretta was done with her coffee, so it was time to go.  They said “good-bye” to each other and left Panera’s.  Their random paths had crossed and now separated.

     If I had been the one to seek out the conversation group, but not found it immediately, I would have bought a cup of coffee and left.  But not Gretta.  She and Carol had connected, and their day was brighter because of the conversation…even if it wasn’t in Italian.

The Downhill Run

     Preface:  We travel to destinations, but it is the journey that we remember.  Such was the case when my friend Steve, and I embarked on a ski trip almost 40 years ago.  We were college students looking for some excitement and adventure.  What transpired gave us the memory of a lifetime.

Monarch Pass, Colorado

Wikipedia photo

The Downhill Run

memoir

by Greg Larson

     “We’ll have a blast!” said my friend Steve. “This is the perfect time to go skiing in Colorado.  I hear they had a lot of snow before Christmas.  Think of all the college chicks on the slopes…good looking ones, too!”

     Home from college during the 1971 Christmas break, we were sitting in the local watering hole, The Keg, in Garden City, Kansas.  I took another sip of beer, trying to figure out how I could afford the luxury of a ski trip.  Disposable income was non-existent, except for a few dollars of Christmas money from my parents.

     “I don’t think I can afford it, Steve.  What little money I’ve got will have to last me ‘til next summer when I can get a job.”

     “No problem,” said Steve, “I’ve got us a hotel on wheels.  The only money we need is for an occasional meal, rental skis, and lift tickets.”

     “What? I don’t get it,” I replied.

     “We have a camper on the pick-up truck my brother uses at the farm.  He uses the camper sometimes for pheasant hunting.  We can sleep in it.  It has a kitchenette and bunks.  We’ll take most of the food with us…and some beer.  It’ll be cool!  We can drive from one ski area to the next, just park and sleep.”

     “Now you’re talkin’!  We can pull this trip off.”

     I couldn’t pass up the free lodging.  I was ready to go.  Anything would be more fun than sitting at home in western Kansas.

     The next day, we drove to the farm to get the pick-up camper.  We talked excitedly as our plans came together.  Dust billowed behind us on the dirt roads for several miles before Steve pulled his car onto the ruts at the edge of a field.  We headed toward a lone, metal barn set in the vast emptiness of a western Kansas wheat field.  He parked the car and we walked through the dusty wind to the barn.  Steve slid back the large corrugated door, making just enough space for us to squeeze inside.  In the dim stillness of the barn, the smell of the hay was overwhelming, and the sparrows chirped and flitted about.  The barn door rattled in the unceasing prairie wind.

     The old Ford pick-up rested near the stacks of hay bales.  It was covered with dust and the tires appeared under-inflated.  The mice scattered as we walked closer to the truck.  The camper shell sat on a frame just behind the truck.  I wondered if mice were inside, occupying the kitchenette and the bunks.

     “It’s got a V-8 in it,” Steve said. “We’ll have plenty of power in the mountains, if we need it.”

     A smattering of dried bird poop adorned the hood.  “Looks like it needs a wash,” I said.

     “Oh, we can just hose it off when we get it to town,” replied Steve.  “I need to back this up so we can drop the camper shell into the bed.”

     The truck door creaked as he opened it and climbed in.  He turned the ignition.  Nothing happened.  The battery was dead.

     “This truck probably hasn’t been used since the wheat harvest.  The battery is fine.  It just needs to be charged up,” he said.

     Steve drove his car into the barn, and we connected jumper cables to the truck battery.  The pick-up quickly came to life with a turn of the key.  We found an air compressor, and inflated the tires.

     I followed Steve back to town, where we spruced up the interior of the camper, using Spic-and-Span, Windex and a lot of elbow grease.  Finally, we loaded up the camper with food, bedding and clothing.

     A new pair of gloves and a ski cap were the only costly items I had to purchase.  My “ski pants” consisted of Scotchgard spray on blue jeans.

     The next morning, we pulled out onto the highway, ready for adventure.  Steve dodged the tumble weeds as we drove west, mile after mind-numbing mile.  Holly, La Junta, Rocky Ford…the towns passed by as we crossed the Great American Desert of eastern Colorado.  Finally, after four hours in the cab, the front range of the Rockies appeared.  I had visions of schussing down the slopes.  Ski country, here we come!

     The air was crisp and the sun was beginning to disappear behind the mountains in the late afternoon when we arrived in Breckenridge.  Steve found a roadside lodge with some parking spots for camper trucks.  The proprietor said that hook-ups weren’t available in winter, so he’d only charge us five dollars a night for the parking slot.

     By evening, we were already shivering inside the camper.  We noticed there was a cozy bar and lounge in the old lodge, so we decided to go inside and buy a bowl of chili.

     The bartender actually served us drinks.  We were only twenty years old, and looked all of sixteen.  He must have felt sorry for us, since we had to sleep out in the cold.  The seasoned guests in the bar and lounge glanced at us from time to time, keeping their distance from the two of us in our ragged college jeans and sweatshirts.  We didn’t see the crowds of coeds that we had envisioned.

     An older woman, who looked all of thirty, walked over and asked us where we were from.  We explained our situation, and she gave us an odd look.

     “You guys are either crazy or brave…I don’t know which.  I hope you don’t freeze to death out there.”

     Steve and I bought some popcorn and another drink, trying to eke out some more time in the warm lodge before going outdoors, into the inevitable cold.  Finally, we forced ourselves to walk back to the camper.  I was shivering before we made it inside.  I shivered getting into the sleeping bag, and I shivered all night.  The high country was brutally cold on the clear, starry night.

     In the morning, we quickly ate grocery-store cinnamon rolls, pulled from the foil pan.  We washed them down with bottled juice, then jumped into the cab of the truck and fired up the engine.  The warm air began to fill the cab and I put my hands and gloves up to the air vents.

     “Let’s go skiing!” I shouted and clapped, just to get the blood pumping.

     We skied for two days at Breckenridge.  The cold wind at the summit pierced our clothes.  The fact that we were already cold just made it seem even colder.

     At the end of the second day, I made a suggestion to Steve, “Let’s go to Monarch Pass tomorrow and see if the snow is any good there. It’s farther south. Maybe it’s a little warmer.”

     “Sounds like a plan,” said Steve, “I’m ready for a change.”

     The drive through the mountain valleys was scenic and it was nice to spend the morning hours in the warm cab.  We turned onto U.S. 50 highway and climbed to Monarch Pass.  The roads were dry all the way to the top.  We pulled into the ski-area parking lot and went inside for hot chocolate.  As we sipped our chocolate, we watched the skiers on the slope and noticed the conditions were not good.  The surface looked rocky and slushy – not something we wanted to ski on.

     “Let’s drive down to Salida and regroup,” said Steve.

     “We can decide in the morning whether to drive back north or head back to Garden City,” I added.

     We left Monarch Pass (elevation 11,312 feet) and drove east towards Salida.  Steve guided the truck through the curves and rock cuts, hugging the guardrail while braking to slow our speed.

     All of a sudden his eyes got big and he gasped for air.  He pumped the brake pedal, then glanced at me with a look of sheer terror.

     “HOLY SHIT!” yelled Steve, “There’s nothin’ there!  No brakes!  WHAT SHOULD I DO?”

     The truck continued to gain speed down the mountain, and a curve loomed about a quarter of a mile ahead.  The needle climbed on the speedometer…forty-five…fifty.  My mind raced, and then my instincts took over.

     “DOWNSHIFT!” I yelled. “Downshift again, if you can! If we pick up too much speed, just turn the truck toward the mountainside!”  I decided I’d rather survive a crash than launch through a guard rail and over a cliff.

     The engine screamed as Steve shifted to a lower gear.  We sped around the curve with the truck leaning precariously.  To our amazement, we didn’t tip over.  We continued down the highway, curve after curve, at about thirty miles an hour, with the engine whining in second gear.  The next ten minutes seemed like an eternity.  Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic, and the highway leveled out as we entered the valley near Salida.

     We’d survived the descent, but now we had another problem.  How would we stop the truck at the intersections in town?  Steve downshifted to first gear and guided the pick-up onto the shoulder when we approached a stop sign.  With the truck barely rolling at the intersection, he gently gave it some gas and we crossed to the other side.

    We crawled along the highway and crept onto the main street in Salida, looking for a gas station.

     “There’s a Standard station up ahead on the left,” I exclaimed! “I think we’re gonna make it.”

     We slowly rolled into the gas station and over the cable in the pump lane.  The familiar “ding-ding” announced our arrival as the truck came to a complete stop.  A short, stocky man, with “Bob” stitched on his shirt, wiped his hands with a rag as he appeared from the garage.  A chaw of tobacco bulged from his cheek as he spoke.

     “Regular or Ethyl?” he asked.

     “We have a bigger problem,” said Steve. “We have no brakes.  They went out on our way down from Monarch Pass.”

     Bob looked down at the wheels.  He gave out a low whistle and then said, “Hell, you’re lucky to be all in one piece!”

It was Saturday afternoon.  They were busy at the gas station, but they put the truck on the lift and raised it high enough to remove the wheels and look at the brakes.  After the inspection, Bob met us in front of the garage to give us his report.  First, he spat out some juice from the side of his mouth.

     “Well, I got good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that we can fix the brakes.  The master cylinder has gone bad and needs replacing.  The bad news is we don’t have a master brake cylinder for this truck.  If they have them at the Ford dealer in Pueblo, it’ll be late Monday or early Tuesday before they get here.”

     Steve and I looked at each other.  We had no choice but to wait for the repair.

     “You can park your truck on the street during the day, and at night, you can pull it onto the driveway in the station after we close,” said Bob.

     I looked around at the small town.  This was going to get old real fast.  I was glad we had a stack of newspapers and magazines in the camper.  Our trip of terror down the mountain had now turned into a boring wait for the repairs.  There wasn’t much else to do but read or walk around town.

     Steve discovered an electrical outlet in the phone booth next to the station, and we borrowed an extension cord from Bob so we could plug in the electric heater in the camper.  Even though the nights were still cold, we didn’t shiver quite as much with the heater.  By Monday, we’d had our fill of macaroni and cheese, beanie-weenies, and peanut butter sandwiches.

     “Steve, if we stay here much longer, we’ll need to put up an address and a mailbox,” I said.

     On Tuesday morning, Bob gave us the good news that the parts had arrived.  By mid-afternoon, Steve paid for the repairs, and Bob filled up the gas tank.  We were on the road again – this time back to Garden City, driving straight through, only stopping once for gas.

     When I returned to college, I bought a “ski kansas” poster to put in my dorm room.  Every time I looked at it, I remembered the frightful downhill run that Steve and I survived on the Colorado highway.  I was glad to be alive.

Brunelleschi's Timeless Masterpiece

     Preface: Bricks and mortar have always fascinated me. During my freshman year in college, I worked a part-time job as a brick tender and laborer at a gymnasium project. I erected scaffolding, hauled bricks, mixed mortar, and quickly learned that the masons were kings of the construction site. Their craft, which has been around for thousands of years, is highly respected.

      When we planned our trip to Italy this year, we included Florence, a vibrant city, rich in history, art, and architecture. The essay below tells of our experience of coming face-to-face with Brunelleschi’s architectural engineering feat, the world’s largest masonry dome, built more than five centuries ago.

Cityscape of Florence

Brunelleschi’s Timeless Masterpiece

Non-fiction essay and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA
 

          I looked out the train window at the Italian landscape as the high-speed Eurostar approached Florence, Italy. A few minutes earlier, Gretta and I rocketed along the countryside and through the tunnels at 160 miles per hour, but now we were slowing down. While the train made its slow curve into the terminal, I strained my neck, looking in every direction. Ah, there it is . . . the Duomo (One of the Italian terms for cathedral). The large, red-tiled dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was a beacon with its white cap and golden sphere and cross for all to see. It would be our compass, our point of reference for the next four days. 

          The Duomo is a structure that defines the Italian Renaissance period.  It speaks of a time when the conditions were ripe for advancement in technology and art, and when Florence became one of the cultural launching pads for Western civilization.  The Duomo is the largest masonry dome ever built, a massive structure that overshadowed the city of Florence when it was completed.

 Florence Duomo

 

          We walked from the train terminal, rolling our luggage along the crowded stone streets and sidewalks to the piazza in front of the cathedral, and stood in awe of the church and dome. How was it possible for the Florentines to design and build such an enduring structure? How were they able to get all the material into the air and set it into the proper place, to withstand wind, earthquakes, wars, and gravity itself? Thousands of tons of carved stone, marble and brick have withstood the test of time and nature.

Santa Maria del Fiore (Duomo)

     The current cathedral replaced an older church structure that had been built in the sixth and seventh centuries.  Construction began in 1292, and continued for over 150 years.  There were many architects involved in the different parts and stages of the project.  The design and construction was overseen by the Woolen Guild, a group of city leaders.

           Numerous design competitions had occurred, but a final master plan was eventually approved by the Guild and by city referendum. The plan included a large cupola or dome that spanned 140 feet. It would be larger than any dome in existence. The leaders and the city proceeded on faith that a solution would emerge, even if by divine guidance.

          Fillipo Brunelleschi (1377-1446) was an artisan and a goldsmith; not the person one might expect to oversee the design and construction of the Duomo.  But, he was a true Renaissance man.  As a goldsmith, he learned intricate procedures for making jewelry and clocks.  He became fascinated with the gears and mechanisms that were required to make them function.  Born prior to Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) and Michelangelo (1475-1564), Brunelleschi helped establish the tradition of sketches and coded notes when creating new inventions and machinery.

 

          In 1401, Brunelleschi lost the Florence competition to design and build the baptistery bronze doors to Lorenzo Ghiberti. Shortly thereafter, he went to Rome to further study art and architecture. After several years, he returned to Florence to win the competition to design and build the Duomo.

          In the autumn chill, we bought tickets to climb to the top of the Duomo, and began the long process of climbing the equivalent of a 25-story building, one step at a time. The stairs at the beginning of the climb were wrapped around the columns, or internal piers of the dome. While we climbed the stairs, I thought of the arguments that raged in the early design process, when the leaders debated whether or not to have exterior flying buttresses, which evoked the gothic architecture of the north, or a more Romanesque design which would internally support the weight of the tall structure, and would be more representative of the designs in the regions around Florence. The internally-supported structure was the more popular choice.

          Eventually, we arrived at the base of the dome, and our path opened to a balcony walkway that was inside the cathedral.  The frescoes of biblical characters, frozen in their baroque poses, hovered on the dome above us.  In the hushed atmosphere and the mellow light, we looked down at the church tourists who appeared like ants moving across the inlaid stone floor 171 feet below.

Frescoes on the dome interior

View to the cathedral floor...171 feet below

 

          I tried to imagine what the masons thought centuries ago as they climbed the stairs each day, with their trowels and tools, along with their lunch and wine in their bags. It must have been a surreal environment for the workers, perched high above the church floor, with the sun above, and the pigeons landing nearby on the newly-set bricks and mortar.

          For such a large dome, Brunelleschi had many challenges to overcome in the design and construction.  Most domes built in that period had a temporary understructure to hold the stone and mortar in place until it was completed.  The Duomo’s size prevented any temporary framework.  No trees existed that were large enough, nor was there any way to lift and hoist the trees above the cathedral piers and walls.  The dome was too high above ground to build any wooden scaffolding from the ground below.  The masonry would have to support itself as the dome construction progressed upward, and the workers would have to trust that Brunelleschi’s design would support them as they built the inward-curving masonry walls.  The scaffolding was anchored to the masonry construction, and was moved upward as construction progressed.  Brunelleschi specifically designed a platform below the masons’ perch to prevent them from looking down while they worked.

          Gretta and I continued upward on the narrow stone stairway.  We climbed in the sandwich space between the inner and outer shell of the dome.  I was able to touch the individual bricks and see the masonry ribs between the two dome shells.  Every so often, I peeked out through one of the nine vents that are located in each exterior dome section.

           For Brunelleschi and the workers, the construction logistics were staggering.  Over four million bricks, along with the mortar materials, had to be lifted hundreds of feet into the air and precisely placed at the proper curve and elevation.  Brunelleschi’s watchmaker skills were put to use as he secretly developed sketches and plans for lifting and positioning devices.  He is credited with inventing an ox-driven hoist with a reverse mechanism that allowed the crane operator to raise, lower, or stop the suspended load without requiring the oxen to change directions on their circular path.  His hoist designs were a major breakthrough for large construction projects and are considered the first inventions of modern-era construction cranes.

          We gasped for breath and our calf muscles burned as we climbed the last rise of steps along the curve of the dome to the top.  The bright sunlight pierced the opening as we stepped out onto the observation deck at the base of the lantern, or the dome’s cap.  At a height of 295 ft., we were at the top of the crowning achievement of Florentine history.  The only portion of the structure above us was the spire with the eight-foot diameter sphere and crown at the very top of the dome.

Observation area at the dome's lantern

          The dense city of Florence lay before us, with patches of sunlight and cloud patterns washing the streets and buildings in the cool, steady breeze.

          Sprinkles of rain began to fall, and my thoughts turned again to the workers who constructed the dome in all types of weather.  The tramontana, or the severest storms from the mountains, caused them to cease work. The project was also halted when leaders were concerned that city-state skirmishes were imminent. The masons were asked to travel to strategic outlying castles to fortify the stone walls.

          The dome construction continued from 1421 to 1436.  There was a lantern design competition, won by Brunelleschi.  The ball and cross at the very top were designed by Verrocchio.  Construction of the lantern, built with white Carrara marble, was completed in 1446, barely a month before Brunelleschi died.  His remains now rest in a crypt below the cathedral.

 

          For the remainder of our four days in Florence, I continually peered towards the Duomo, my anchor.  It was the dominant feature on the cityscape from places such as the Boboli Gardens, the Piazza Michelangelo, and the Ponte Vecchio.

          I looked out from the windows in our room on the piazza in front of the cathedral and watched the townspeople and tourists scurry about. I imagined the pride of the fifteenth-century Florentine citizens had in their city and church, as they went about their daily work in the shadow of the massive dome. It is a pride that still exists in the hearts of the townspeople today.
 

Brunelleschi's Timeless Masterpiece

   

Sources:

King, Ross. Brunelleschi’s Dome. New York: Penguin Books, 2000.

Prager, Frank D., and Scaglia, Gustina. Brunelleschi – Studies of His Technology and Inventions. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1970.

A Funny Thing Happened After a Day at the Forum

Via dei Fori Imperiali

      Preface:  The Gretta Factor (when good things happen unexpectedly) was in full force on our first day of our 2010 trip to Italy.  When we arrived in Rome, little did we know that by the end of the day, we would witness “East meets West,” and see some international diplomacy in action.

A Funny Thing Happened After a Day at the Forum

Travel Memoir and photos

by Greg Larson

     The big europlane landed softly at the Rome airport early in the morning.  After a shuttle into the city, Gretta and I checked into our boutique hotel near the Termini (main train station in Rome).  The hotel was located across the street from the Opera House, within walking distance of many sites and attractions in the old city.  The quaint elevator with the stairway that wrapped around it seemed like something out of an Audrey Hepburn movie.  For us, the elevator was a novelty, an amusement ride when we entered and exited the hotel.

Hotel elevator and stairway

     Gretta and I decided to shake off our jetlag and walk in the warm autumn sunshine to the Colosseum and the Forum.  We strolled along the Via dei Fori Imperiali, and noticed big red decorative Chinese lanterns hanging from the street lamps.  They seemed a bit odd, but festive, and we didn’t give them much thought until later in the day.  Our goal was to tour the most famous of the seven hilltops in Rome…the Palentino or Palentine Hill, which overlooks the Forum ruins.

Carved cornice on Palentine Hill

     Our tour guide told us about the hedonistic emperors of Rome who took opulence and extravagance to new heights on the hill, while the citizens below dealt with the muck and mire along the banks of the Fiume Tevere (Tiber River).  Statues, floors, and walls of every type of granite and marble available were designed into the palaces and gardens to create peaceful settings among the pines and the olive trees.  The emperors installed polished granite walls in the courtyards, not so much as vanity mirrors, but as a security measure to allow them to look out for possible assassins behind them.  Today, bits and pieces of the carved stone remain strewn about for the archaeologists to study.

     I looked out over the city and saw St. Peter’s Basilica shimmering in the sunlight.  The Palentino hilltop was our respite from the polizia sirens and the hubbub of the city below where the Ducati motorcycles and the Vespas swarmed like hornets along the Via di San Gregorio.  After our tour was over, we lingered along the paths, and looked out over a city layered with centuries of temples, churches, meeting places and commercial centers.  It is a city that tells the story of Western Civilization without speaking a word.

Roman Forum below Palentine Hill

     We quickly walked past the Colosseum, to get out of the path of the hucksters, beggars and pick-pockets.  Then we found a sidewalk café across from the Forum. It was time to relax and have some birra and pizza, and enjoy the warm day in the shade of overhanging vines.

     After lunch, we wandered past ruins and churches and found our way up to the Via Nationale.  I thought we might find a bancomat at the Bank of Italy, and then realized it would be like looking for an ATM on the front of a U.S. Federal Reserve Building.  Our best luck in finding the bancomat was to look for gypsies gathered on the sidewalk.

     Later in the day, after a short nap at the hotel, we decided to go out for an espresso.  As soon as we exited the elevator, I saw a crowd outside the hotel.  On closer inspection, the polizia and Caribinieri (state police) cars and vans were askew in the street, and police tape was strung all along the curbside.  Has there been an accident?  Was a crime committed?

     The crowd was focused on the Opera House.  It was then that I noticed the large red banners and the Chinese lanterns.  The banners proclaimed the beginning of Italy’s celebration of a year of Chinese culture.  Word was going around that Italy’s Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, and the Chinese Premier, Wen Jiabao, were attending a performance that marked the beginning of the cultural exchange, and that they would be leaving the Opera House very soon.

Rome Opera House

     While we waited, I looked at the architecture of the Teatro dell’ Opera.  It wasn’t what I expected in the historical city of Rome.  Although it was built in 1879, the exterior has been revised numerous times, with the most recent changes made in 1958.  With the red decorations on the columns, the recipe for the façade appeared to be cheesy Italian moderne with tomato sauce, a touch of Lincoln Center, and a dash of Sunset Boulevard.  It wasn’t exactly dripping with the old European details of centuries gone by.

Paparazzi and onlookers

     Vans and limos were lined up in the Opera House entry drive, and there was a crowd of photographers and TV cameras waiting for the leaders to exit.  The motorcycles were lined up ready to start the procession.  The police chatted on their radios and headsets, and it seemed as if the exit of the leaders was imminent.  We walked around the perimeter of the police tape and stopped on the sidewalk on the other side of the street from the Opera House.  It appeared the motorcade would exit down the street where we were standing.  We would be only a few feet from the passing vehicles.  I couldn’t believe it…no barricades or police to block our view.

     Suddenly, there were shouts and cheers.  The strobes of the paparrazi cameras began flashing, and the leaders, with their delegation and entourage, made a wave to the crowd as they quickly walked to the vehicles.  The polizia roared past us on their motorcycles, followed by the Caribinieri motorcycles and squad cars.  They were followed by the Chinese delegation in several vans.  The Chinese had a huge delegation.  I counted ten large vans, some the size of small busses, full of smiling Chinese.

     As each vehicle passed, the speed increased.  By the time the Italian cars made the turn onto our street, their tires squealed, and the cars tilted towards the curb as they roared past us.  In the van leading the Italian group of cars, a Caribinieri officer held a machine gun in one hand, while his other hand held onto the unlatched door of the vehicle.  We weren’t able to see Berlusconi in his vehicle, as most of cars had tinted windows.

     In a flash, the motorcade was gone.  The remaining Chinese and Italians that had attended the event began filtering onto the street and into the bars and cafes.

     I was skeptical that all the hoopla and festivities were just for sharing arts and culture.  I thought there must be something more to the Chinese visit and the “Chinese cultural year of celebration.”  Don’t get me wrong…I’m glad that people from different countries can come together and find common interests.  The Italians and the Chinese both like the color red.  Gretta likes red, too.  But I kept wondering what was behind the motivation to celebrate.

     I found some answers on the evening television news.  I didn’t need to understand the Italian news anchor to discern that the main focus for the Chinese delegation’s visit to Italy was to sign several trade accords between the two countries.  The Chinese cultural year was just a side attraction.  There was no video or mention of the kick-off celebration at the Opera House.

     Everything looked normal outside the hotel the next morning.  The red banners had been removed from the front of the Opera House, and business was as usual.  According to Gretta, the newspaper article briefly mentioned “a concert” that was attended by the leaders, but there was no mention of what was on the program.  It must have been a “yawner,” or a good time for the diplomats to snooze between the day’s events and the evening parties.

     The goal of the accords was to quadruple the trade between the two countries in the next five years.  There were few specifics in the news articles, just canned phrases from the leaders.  The Italians planned to build a Chinese cultural center.  The leaders exchanged handshakes and signed the agreements.  Marco Polo never had it so easy.

     On the television, the Italian and Chinese delegations looked happy, at least on the surface.  But I detected one thing:  the Chinese seemed to have the bigger smiles.



Katy Trail Adventure

Even though we enjoy traveling far away, some of the most delightful trips have been close to home.  I wrote the following poem in May of 2009, on a trip to Rocheport, Missouri.  We stayed at a bed and breakfast, and the weather cooperated for two wonderful days of riding on the bike trail.

Gretta at Rocheport trailhead

KATY TRAIL ADVENTURE

by Greg Larson

Purple tandem on the trail
Indigo Bunting flashes its tail

Big Muddy Mo’ by our side

A roiling companion, a flowing tide

Eagles above on warm winds soar

Majestic shadows touch woodland floor

Trickling spring waters find their way

And many a wildflower brightens our day

‘Katy’ critters scurry ‘cross our path

Quick to hide from wheel’s wrath

Back to Rocheport before day’s end

Big old tunnel ‘round the bend

Wine on the bluff top, a great feast, too

The river and sunset in our view

Jeunette Rouge – a refreshing dry red

Mellows our thoughts before going to bed

Spinning spokes in sweet dreams

Cycling paradise – a heavenly scene

A shaft of sunlight pierces the room

I guess it’s time to be going soon

Breakfast awaits – the best I’ve seen

One that’s fit for Kings and Queens

Around Rocheport we did walk

Enjoying time for idle talk

Cat rubs pen as I write this word

‘Writer’s block’ has now occurred!

Katy Trail near Pilot Grove, MO