A Winter day on Rysy

Michael Smith

Speaking only a few words of Polish had been a hindrance to clear communication through the small window in the crowded and noisy Zakopane bus station the day before. I wanted a return ticket but could only have a single. It did though secure for me a place on the early, pre-dawn bus to the Morskie Oko. The bus filled rapidly until not only all the seats were filled but the fold down arm flaps which bridged the aisle between each pairs of seats and all the open space at the front by the driver.

Arriving I found lake was deep-frozen and while some locals ventured onto the ice I floundered round through soft snow. A 200m rise took me to a tarn, Czamy Staw, at about 1600m and on to a frozen cascade crossed by bands of snow. This gave a better footing than the deep snow of the hillsides but spindrift and strong winds lifting me off the ice made me return to the roadhead and its hut for a glass of tea.

A coach, parked on the frozen lake, was the centre of a milling crowd. Promptly at dusk the bus returned and I went over to find an angry crowd berating the anxious driver. The coach party marooned in this remote spot had him besieged. Chaos reigned until the driver, hanging from the door, waved his pistol and, presumably, demanded silence. He called out and small groups pushed through to present tickets and board until nearly full. We pressed closer. With no return ticket I was expecting to spend a night in the hut. Ruefully I pulled out my ticket and was showing it to the person beside me with a shrug of resignation. Suddenly I was the centre of a shouting and pushing group and was propelled through reluctantly yielding backs to a driver who through volume, anger and gesticulation communicated that I should have boarded earlier and had to pay for the return journey. I would gladly have paid him twice. It made a good tale when safely back at the hostel.