tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3370030284573708552024-03-11T21:50:45.486-07:00Sleeping In The CarIdeas, recipes, stories and travelogues: thoughts in the middle of a life.Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-18785442233971584732014-12-04T18:54:00.001-08:002014-12-04T18:55:41.361-08:00Cindy and Karen's Apples<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">I</span></strong>n Cindy and Karen's yard there are two apple trees that bear many hundreds of seemingly unimpressive, fruit. Waxy, hard, slightly acerbic, and often imperfect, this burgundy red fruit can hardly be called a "table apple" when freshly picked. What is truly amazing about this heritage breed, however, is that, two months after the tree is cleared, the apples have ripened to an amazing sweetness. It is these apples that are my preferred choice for my yearly apple sauce.<br />
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Not only are the apples free (thanks to the generosity of my sister, Cindy and her partner, Karen) but are also easy to handle. The sweetness of the sauce needs no sugar, even by store-bought standards. The apples that survive this long are often still firm enough to be easily peeled and cut. Most have some pest damage, as would any home grown, organic apple, stored for two months, but many are clear enough to slice, peel and eat fresh without squeamishness. The natural wax they exude makes the skin feel almost greasy, (I am not excited about eating the skin) but this wax also serves to protect the apples while they complete their ripening. <br />
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So this is how I spent the greater part of my afternoon: peeling apples and boiling them down. I added nothing to the sauce, and am so impressed with the result that I would gladly peel and boil another bushel. But I will have to be satisfied with two gallons of sauce for there are, alas, no more.<br />
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This happened to us last year, too. Then in March, when we began to run short, we savored the final pint, wishing we had taken the time to pick a few more when we had the chance.<br />
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Thank you <a href="http://threadfollower.com/">Cindy</a> and Karen!<br />
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Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-2545679331788654862014-10-26T07:48:00.002-07:002014-11-07T07:21:56.415-08:00Autumn Olive Adventures<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Autumn olives begin to ripen, September in New England</span></td></tr>
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Autumn in New England, what to eat? Wild apples, Concord grapes, several varieties of mushrooms, not to mention the wide selection of fruits and vegetables available from our gardens and farm stands.</div>
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In the past, I have often focused on hunting for hen of the woods mushrooms in the early fall. Last year there were so many that we literally didn't know what to do with them all. I had a full freezer, pickled mushrooms in the pantry, dried maitake in the cupboard. In anticipation of another harvest, I only recently tossed my last frozen block of sautéed hen of the woods soup stock. Little did I know...<br />
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2014 has been a terrible hen of the woods year for me. Maybe I just got my timing wrong. Or perhaps it was the dry August, or maybe the warm September but, for whatever reason, these mushrooms were few and far between. One of my chef acquaintances verifies that he hasn't seen many maitake foragers this fall, one or two nice mushrooms, perhaps, but nothing like last year. The only mushroom I spotted here in Rhode Island was at the bottom of an old oak in Roger Williams Park. It was along an infamous dog walking trail and showed signs of, well, you know what I mean.<br />
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The hen of the woods will be back another year. <br />
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In the meantime, I have turned my attention to a bounty that I had previously ignored almost entirely. And what a bounty! The autumn olive (or "autumn berry", as some aficionados are now rebranding it) is a small, red berry with a bad reputation. This tree is taking over the fields, wastelands and forest edges of New England -- as well as much of the rest of the United States. It looks much like many other decorative "bird berries", and grows so plentifully that it is almost impossible to imagine how tasty it can be!<br />
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The autumn olive, Elaeagnus unbellata (thumb.), was first introduced to the United States from Japan in 1830. This bushy tree, growing up to 20 feet tall, is capable of producing thousands of small red berries, possibly hundreds of pounds on a full-grown tree. The fruit is the size of a wild blueberry, the shape of a tiny cherry, bright red in color and speckled with tiny silver dots. Berries are easy to pick, growing in generous clumps along branches. Berries start to ripen in early fall. Some trees ripen earlier than others. Some trees remain viable well into the winter. Sometimes one side of a bush will ripen earlier than the other side. When picking, you should taste berries from time to time for sweetness, especially when you move to a branch with greener leaves or smaller berries. <br />
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The berry flavor varies from tart cranberry to sweet raspberry, depending on the maturity of the berry and the quality of the bush. Beyond taste, there is also this funny feeling in the back of the throat that takes some getting used to. This lessens with maturity and disappears entirely with cooking, but can be almost alarming in fresh or frozen fruit, feeling a bit like the beginnings of an asthma attack. If you don't like this feeling, never fear, just make jelly.<br />
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In my experience, the sweetest berries are found on trees with yellow, falling leaves. Fatter berries tend to be tastier, and berries are fatter after significant rainfall. Beware occasional thorns on smaller bushes. As trees grow taller, thorns disappear.<br />
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Autumn olive seeds appear to be entirely edible with no noticeable ill effects -- at least not for me. As with all new foods, try them in small doses to test for allergies. I won't argue with the purists who hold that most, if not all, seeds contain toxins, but I have personally consumed thousands of these seeds. I find them only slightly annoying. Seed consistency seems to vary slightly from berry to berry, some chew up nicely, some form into small, fuzzy clumps, and some leave behind tiny, woody bits in my mouth. Being used to wild foods, this doesn't bother me in the least. My wife and son are a little less adventurous and would rather spend $6 a pound on frozen, organic raspberries. Yikes! But when I make autumn olive jelly, nobody is complaining.<br />
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Autumn olives make a great jelly, as well as tasty fruit leather and juice. The product is reminiscent of cranberry relish or grape jelly, depending on the maturity of the fruit. Just follow any standard jelly recipe and substitute autumn olive berries for the fruit -- making sure to strain out the seeds after boiling the berries. Don't freeze the berries first or you'll have a hard time extracting the juice! The autumn olive has some natural pectin, but I generally throw in a couple of apples to be sure that it will jell properly. If you want to save time and get a more reliable consistency, use store-bought pectin.<br />
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I throw half a cup of frozen autumn olive berries into every smoothie I make and, admittedly, end up with those little, woody bits in the resulting, delicious, drink. If you don't mind that extra fiber, you're in for a very healthy, delicious treat.<br />
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Autumn Olive Smoothie recipe (vegan)<br />
1/2 cup water<br />
1/4 cup cashews<br />
1 ripe banana<br />
1-2 orange(s), peeled and roughly cut<br />
3/4 cup frozen mango<br />
1/2 cup frozen autumn olives<br />
dash of vanilla<br />
Blend until frozen mango is entirely pulverized<br />
Add water or OJ to adjust thickness<br />
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As for health benefits, I consider the autumn olive to be a veritable super-food. Lycopene is reputedly present in significant amounts in this small, plentiful berry. Some claim that it makes tomatoes look like lycopene amateurs. The autumn olive also is reported to contain high levels of vitamin A, C and E, phytoene, a- and ß-cryptoxanthin, and ß-carotene.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OM2BaAHCLPaCAYLRKPcXIEn419DbSW9nlvV3PQJrhYpScdVmdDL1iC9bJL_e70jHnd9tVX5K3SJxyL2dwUzSFpGIT_3uzeusDvXBr7sQmAWGGmxATsSVqawPBNiJx36VCutboWEjm84/s1600/CAM00663.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Autumn olives, leaves turning, early October, Southern New England" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OM2BaAHCLPaCAYLRKPcXIEn419DbSW9nlvV3PQJrhYpScdVmdDL1iC9bJL_e70jHnd9tVX5K3SJxyL2dwUzSFpGIT_3uzeusDvXBr7sQmAWGGmxATsSVqawPBNiJx36VCutboWEjm84/s1600/CAM00663.jpg" height="240" title="Picture of autumn olives" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Autumn olives, leaves turning, early October, Southern New England</td></tr>
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Autumn olive has earned a bad rap as an invasive species. This is entirely fair, as we have created the perfect conditions for its growth. Autumn olive is one of few non-leguminous trees that fixes nitrogen. It requires almost nothing except occasional dampness in order to grow. The best way to fight invasive species is to provide our native species with their traditional, healthy habitats. So long as we strip the nutrient from our soils, so-called "invasive" nitrogen fixers like autumn olive and Japanese knot weed, will have the upper hand.<br />
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Also, please check out my new website: <a href="http://plant22.com/">plant22.com</a>. I am building a new web store, the profits of which will go toward reforesting the world. Look for our soft launch in the next couple of months.<br />
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References:<br />
<a href="http://www.psa-rising.com/eatingwell/wild-foods/autumnolive.htm">http://www.psa-rising.com/eatingwell/wild-foods/autumnolive.htm</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-70889167586587834012013-01-02T08:06:00.001-08:002013-01-02T08:06:20.371-08:00Resolution Number 44Happy New Year, all!<br />
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It's that time of year again. Resolution time! I'm no different from anyone else in that respect. In fact, this year I have two resolutions. One is pretty simple, the other is going to be a real challenge. In them, my friends will all recognize echoes of previous fixations. Nothing new here, just the same old me.<br />
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But, first, a little caffeinated musing on the old year, the new year and resolutions in general.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandad and grandson under a towering<br />lily at our cottage on Cape Cod</td></tr>
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For my family, 2012 was a pretty rough one. The year started out hard with my dad in the hospital. After two months of intensive rehab, he was able to enjoy one last trip to Florida in March. The spring was pretty good, and we were cautiously optimistic that things might be changing for the better. As usual, my parents spent the summer on Cape Cod but, by then, my dad's situation had worsened again. He spent half of the summer in the hospital or in rehab facilities. By the fall, we were coming to terms with the inevitable. After a brief return to New Hampshire, he said goodbye on October 1, surrounded by his beloved friends and family. He was as kind and courageous in passing as anyone could ever be. We think of him every day.<br />
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I don't know if it was my dad's health or something else, but whole of 2012 seemed to drag on like a top-heavy wagon full of cow shit. I over-promised and under-delivered at work, not a good formula for happiness. My son had a really tough adjustment to Kindergarten. My wife had her own complaints. All in all, it seemed like the stars in 2012 were pretty far out of whack.<br />
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We are determined that 2013 is going to be not just a good, but a great year. I am in the process or buying a new investment property which promises to challenge me but which should, if well-managed, ease up our finances considerably. My wife is more settled in her career. My son has adjusted to school and, although it is still a challenge to get him up on school days, he is as well-adjusted as any other kid in his class.<br />
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Now back to the resolutions. My wife doesn't believe in them. I profess not to believe in them but, then, I always have a couple -- even if I keep them to myself. The odd thing is, I can't remember a single one from years past. I can imagine what they might have been. But that is not the same thing as remembering them. This year I am writing them down and intend to not only achieve them but to live by them.<br />
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I have been reading lots of self-improvement books lately. It's stuff that most of my friends would scoff at, and rightly so. Last month I reread Robert Kiyosaki's Rich Dad Poor Dad, a book that I can't help enjoying. I am now reading Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill -- which reminds me a lot of How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. The formula for goal achievement in each of these books can be summed up in three basic principles:<br />
<ol>
<li>Commit yourself completely, without reservations, to achieving a goal</li>
<li>Learn everything you can about how to achieve that goal</li>
<li>Work tirelessly, intelligently, and creatively, until your goal is achieved</li>
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How obvious is that? The remainder of each book is just examples of each of these principles at work and case studies of successful people who have applied them. So why do I read this repetitive stuff? I guess I like the case studies. And repetition seems to help me to feel committed to my own goals. Does this formula work? Absolutely. But it's a bit like making a resolution to get in shape. Almost anyone can exercise -- but getting (and staying) in shape is really hard! What separates healthy, fit people from the rest of us is that, in fit people, the desire to stay fit outweighs the desire to sit around, watch television and eat donuts.<br />
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Each book offers suggestions for keeping on track: tell people about your goals; get friends to encourage you; associate with successful people; write out your goal out again and again, every day; put your back to the wall so that you have no choice but to succeed or go down in flames. In the end, it's the same as anything else: it all comes down to willpower. You must find, and maintain, the will to succeed. If you can't do this, you may just as well plunk yourself down in front of the TV with a dozen éclairs 'cause you ain't gonna make it, kid!<br />
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So what are my own goals for the year? One is pretty simple, the other is a game-changer:<br />
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<li>Buy and renovate two investment properties in 2013. End goal: own 21 rental units by the end of 2015 (including the rental units in the 4-unit building we already own)</li>
<li>Get my food budget back on track</li>
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So I'll have to work pretty hard to keep on top of that food budget thing...<br />
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Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-62578787423706146942012-09-07T20:20:00.000-07:002012-09-07T20:20:04.671-07:00Chicken Of The Woods / Sulphur Shelf -- Giving it a Second Chance<table border="0">
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So, no hen of the woods in my part of Rhode Island just yet. My friends and I speculate that the dry summer weather has held them back. Fortunately, recent rains have inspired many other mycelia to fruit, including some very tender chicken of the woods mushrooms (see pictures).<br />
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As with all fungus, it takes a mycologist to predict the perfect weather. For instance, this morning I found black trumpets that had barely sprouted before developing a white mold. Disappointing. Too much rain, perhaps? I have no idea.
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Chicken of the woods, also known as sulfur shelf, can be a reasonable standby when hen of the woods is unavailable.</span></div>
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Usually at this time of the year I would have more hen of the woods mushrooms than I could process. The smell would be hanging over our kitchen like a heavy blanket and my wife would be asking me just when she might get a break from "that stench". Last year was a banner year as far as hen of the woods were concerned. A hen in every pot. This year promises to be a comparative disappointment. Still, no need to let it get you down. Plenty of other mushrooms out there that still need eating.<br />
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This morning I rediscovered the chicken of the woods (aka sulphur shelf) mushroom. Usually I leave these mushrooms behind, considering them to be too tough to truly enjoy. Yes, they are perfectly edible but, with so many other spectacular mushrooms, I have rarely found a chicken of the woods that was tender enough to tempt me. Sometimes simply being edible just isn't enough. If it weren't for the lack of other mushrooms, I might have left this three pound beauty uninspected. I am glad that I didn't.<br />
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I found it under an old oak tree, right where I would have expected to find a hen of the woods. Aside from the distinctive, salmon color, it was a true hen look-alike. It was fresh, the outer inch (or more) of every leaf was very soft. The flesh was almost the texture of an oyster mushroom. It cooked up a lot like an oyster mushroom, too -- if I had added a drop of anisette, I might have fooled a blindfolded connoisseur.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErkYPO4RCyQOxxD8UPOogbbr7a6hCo98XGFCAxbzGL9r3_Th7CGRU98sfdvx0nyR7fK_NqyfAUwPIFwdEronCFzbAUkaYTdp3dFH-UAIvtEjSqbs55ENcXMnkkLaGpMHGtAfsLuNUkw8/s1600/Cooking_ChickenOf_The_Woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiErkYPO4RCyQOxxD8UPOogbbr7a6hCo98XGFCAxbzGL9r3_Th7CGRU98sfdvx0nyR7fK_NqyfAUwPIFwdEronCFzbAUkaYTdp3dFH-UAIvtEjSqbs55ENcXMnkkLaGpMHGtAfsLuNUkw8/s320/Cooking_ChickenOf_The_Woods.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
I cooked up some of the outer, salmon colored flesh first, carefully carving it away from the tougher, orange stems. Some of these outer rings I tore into pieces and sauteed with olive oil, garlic and salt. I was delighted to note that it kept its wonderful salmon color. Were I a true chef in a fancy restaurant, I could have asked for nothing more beautiful with which to top a pasta. It tasted like, well, olive oil, garlic and salt -- with only the faintest hint of mushroom -- less even than the store-bought, button variety. Truly, the flavor of the chicken of the woods can hardly be called flavor at all. Still, the texture was fabulous and who doesn't enjoy any excuse to eat something that tastes like olive oil, garlic and salt. <br />
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Next, I shredded and sauteed some of the firm, inner, orange-colored flesh. It was, as its name suggests, very much like chicken in texture. Dry chicken. The kind of chicken you might be served at a lousy convention dinner, smothered in dubious brown gravy with reconstituted mashed potatoes on the side. I tried adding more olive oil and some water. It soaked up the oil like a sponge while the water steamed off. This helped the texture but who needs all that extra fat? So I tossed the inner mushroom. Happily, I was left with more of the good stuff than I will probably be able to eat.<br />
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It is hard to envision a scenario where preserving a chicken of the woods mushroom would be worth the trouble. Black trumpets have such a distinctive flavor -- and fetch such a famous price tag -- that preserving your surplus is an absolute necessity. I either dry and bag them or saute them and store them in olive oil. Hen of the woods mushrooms I preserve by either sauteing, shrink-wrapping and freezing them or drying and bagging. I've tried pickling oyster mushrooms but they end up slimy. Next time I think I'll just dry them and see how it goes. Chanterelles I never find enough of to preserve. But preserving a chicken of the woods seems a bit like preserving a button mushroom. It's best served fresh, like so many other things.</div>
Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-85975488649633544312011-04-28T19:22:00.000-07:002011-04-28T19:22:03.473-07:00Planning My Hike on the Alta Via IIThe Alta Via II is an obvious choice for me because my last hike was the Alta Via I. Both hikes are in the Dolomites region of the Alps. They run parallel courses north to south through some of the most starkly beautiful and dramatic landscapes in Europe. While the Alta Via I offers World War I fortifications and labyrinthine mountain tunnels, the Alta Via II gives access to the largest remaining glacier in Europe on the tallest peak in the Dolomites the <a href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmolada'>Marmolada</a>. I will not be climbing its nearly 11,000' but will partially describe a circle around it and will probably take a cable car to the top. The height is not so daunting but the snow and ice make it a very technical climb -- more technical than my ultra-light, solo hiking will permit this year. Instead, I will take the sight-seer's option and ride the lift to the top. I am no longer too conceited to take a gondola.<br />
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It now appears that I will be making this trip alone. Charles probably cannot make it, despite my earlier posts. Regardless, I am committed to the hike. It has been too long -- almost two years -- since I've seen the Alps. I can't wait any longer.<br />
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Here is my itinerary as far as I can predict. Only the flights are set in stone. All page numbers refer to Collins, Martin & Price, Gillian (2002). <i>Treks in the Dolomites</i>, Cumbria, U.K.: Cicerone. "CAI" refers to the Italian Alpine Club, which runs many of the huts in the Italian Alps. They offer substantial discounts to members of certain other hiking clubs.<br />
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<b>ITINERARY</b><br />
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<b>Saturday, August 20</b>: depart Providence, 11:33AM.<br />
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<b>Sunday, August 21</b>: arrive Venice, 9:25 AM<br />
Train to Bressanone and an hour walk to San Andrea and Gasthof Gasserhof -- assuming I can get a reservation.<br />
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<b>Monday, August 22</b><br />
Gasthof Gasserhof to <a href='http://www.rifugiogenova.it/'>Rifugio Genova</a> CAI p.80<br />
Hiking Time: 5 hrs. + 2 hr. optional side trip to Sass de Putia, a nearby peak (8625 ft).<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Genova, then turn around to do the summit (see below).<br />
Half Board: € 35 (incl. dorm room + supper + breakfast) <br />
Full Board: € 40 (incl dorm room + lunch + supper + breakfast)<br />
Phone: +39 0171 978138<br />
e-mail: gestore@rifugiogenova.it<br />
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<b>Tuesday, August 23</b><br />
Rifugio Genova to Rifugio Puez CAI p.85. No website, see <a href='http://www.enrosadira.it/rifugi/puez.htm'>here</a><br />
Hiking Time: 7.5 hrs. including a variant from Forcella San Zenon (p. 82)<br />
Lunch: Trioer Alm (4 hrs. from start) or Rifugio Firenze (4.5 hrs)<br />
Half Board: unknown but probably similar to Genova<br />
Phone: +39 0471 795365<br />
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<b>Wednesday, August 24</b><br />
Rifugio Puez to <a href='http://www.rifugioboe.it/inglese/home.htm'>Rifugio Boè</a> CAI p.91<br />
Hiking Time: 7.5 hrs.<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Piscadu (4:30 hrs)<br />
Half Board: € 38<br />
Bunk only (dinner not included): € 11<br />
Phone: +39 0471 847303<br />
+39 0462 602141<br />
Remarks: Look for ammonites along the way<br />
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<b>Thursday, August 25</b><br />
Rifugio Boè to Malga Ciapela (a small town) p.100<br />
Hiking Time: 6 hrs.<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Viel del Pan (4:30 hrs.)<br />
Accommodations: Will need to research hotels and make reservations<br />
Phone: +39 0462 601323<br />
Remarks: This is a small town. From here there is a 3-tier cable car to the top of the Marmolada, Europe's largest remaining glacier. A visit to the top is highly recommended but, perhaps, not super-cheap. <a href='http://www.hotelroy.com/index.php?id_pagina=1&sez=&lang=uk'>Hotel Roy</a> sounds nice with its sauna, turkish bath, etc. Half board is somewhere under € 50.<br />
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<b>Friday, August 26</b><br />
Malga Ciapela to <a href='http://www.passovalles.com/interno.html'>Rifugio Passo (di) Valles</a> a privately owned hut p. 105 <br />
Hiking Time: 6:45 hrs.<br />
Lunch: Passo di San Pellegrino (4:30 hrs.)<br />
Half Board: unknown – probably between € 35 and € 50<br />
Phone: + 39 0437 599136<br />
+ 39 0437 599460<br />
email: info@passovalles.com<br />
Remarks: Not much easily found info on this hut but the guide book recommends it highly. Being privately run, one should make reservations far in advance.<br />
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<b>Saturday, August 27</b><br />
Rifugio Passo Valles to <a href='http://www.rifugiorosetta.it/eng/index.html'>Rifugio Rosetta</a> CAI – p.111 <br />
Hiking Time: 8 hrs.<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Mulaz (3:30 hrs.)<br />
Half Board: € 36<br />
Phone: +39 0439 68308 (only from 20 June to 20 Sept.) Alternate phone numbers below<br />
Residence - 043968249<br />
Mariano - 3470498929<br />
Roberta - 3495331742<br />
Remarks: no email. Consider ordering a bagged lunch for the next day.<br />
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<b>Sunday, August 28</b><br />
Rifugio Rosetta to <a href='http://www.passocereda.eu/rifugio/rifugio.asp'>Rifugio Cereda</a> p.118 privately owned <br />
Hiking Time: 10 hrs. mostly downhill.<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Treviso (6 hrs)<br />
Half Board: unknown<br />
Phone: +39 0439 65030<br />
email: info@passocereda.eu<br />
Remarks: This is the longest day. Much of it is downhill which may or may not be a relief depending on the state of my knees. It could be split in two by staying at Rifugio Treviso. There is no great place for lunch before Rifugio Treviso so I may want to request a bagged lunch at Rifugio Rosetta. Also remember to order a bagged lunch for the following day.<br />
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<b>Monday, August 29</b><br />
Rifugio Cereda to <a href='http://www.dolomitibrenta.it/dobre-it/Rifugio_Boz.htm'>Rif Bruno Boz</a> CAI p.123.<br />
Hiking Time: 7 hrs. <br />
Lunch: There is no good place for lunch. Bring packed lunch and plan to stop at Bivacco Feltre. There should be water nearby.<br />
Half Board: unknown<br />
Phone: +39 0439 64448<br />
email: mara.iagher@tin.it<br />
Remarks: This is a small hut with somewhat limited facilities. I should make reservations in advance.<br />
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<b>Tuesday, August 30</b><br />
Rifugio Bruno Boz to Feltre (a town) p. 127<br />
Hiking Time: 8 hrs<br />
Lunch: Rifugio Dal Piaz (6 hrs)<br />
Accommodations: hotel – make advance reservations either in Feltre or in Venice. Probably Feltre, given that I probably won't roll into town until mid-late afternoon.<br />
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<b>Wednesday, August 31</b>: bus from Feltre to Venice<br />
<b>Thursday, September 1</b>: Flight from Venice to Providence<br />
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It's a bit of a tight turnaround at the end, not much time for sight-seeing, but this is probably for the best. I have visited Venice three times before and, as much as I love it, I don't need more than a day there after a 9-day hike. I have planned many hikes with too much R&R at the end. Time just drags. I once spent nearly a week in Stockholm after a trek in arctic Sweden. Stockholm is beautiful, don't get me wrong, but I was done after two days. I could probably take another day or two in Venice but it will be nice to have a weekend at home before the new work week begins.Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-35951045428506655362011-04-09T13:09:00.000-07:002011-04-09T13:11:18.512-07:00I Got My Tickets to Italy - Alta Via 2, Dolomites Trip,So I got the tickets. For $236. And if that doesn't sound like an accomplishment, you haven't tried to buy tickets to Europe this spring.<br />
<br />
Here's the punchline: I've wasted two years paying for the privilege to carry a Virgin Atlantic Black credit card. Turns out Virgin "miles" are more like kilometers: they only get you about 60% as far (or was THAT the punchline, ha ha -- yeah, hm...) Anyhow, you start out all optimistic because it only takes 35,000 air-miles to get to Europe. Doesn't that sound like a good deal? Well what they don't tell you is that the seats are <i>severely</i> limited; the only viable European destination from the Northeastern United States is London; the Boston to London flights are booked 6 months in advance; and you have to pay over $500 in taxes in fees to fly from JFK to London. I finally gave up and booked with my United miles and paid just $116 in fees to get all the way from Providence to Venice. So guess which card I'm canceling...<br />
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I am going to stop complaining now. After the booking contortions I should feel fortunate that I can even GET to Venice for just $116 in fees! And it is even remotely possible that I will be joined by my friend Charles, schedule permitting. You might remember him from our mutual misadventures on <a href=http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html>the E5</a> and on our arctic trek along <a href=http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/hiking-kungsleden.html>the Kungsleden</a><br />
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I have decided to keep track of some of my planning on this blog. I haven't been using it very much and this gives me an excuse to post some plans for this summer and some reflections on my previous Dolomite trip.<br />
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The hike I will be doing is called the Alta Via II. I hiked the Alta Via I back in 2008 with three friends. I was leading the trip that year and, as much as I love to lead small groups of friends, I also really enjoy the solitude of hiking either alone or with Charles. <br />
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If that sounds weird -- I mean the "solitude of hiking with Charles" part -- you have to understand our hiking style. We both value solitude. During our first hike (the E5, mentioned above) we spent <i>far</i> too much time together. The close quarters nearly destroyed our friendship but the resulting detente gave us the foundation of honesty that has supported our friendship through many later hikes. Instead of hiking together, we hike in the same general proximity. This may mean that we won't see each other for several days at a time. Sometimes one of us will take an alternate route with no more than a "see you in two days." Occasionally we get together in a small town or a hut for a blowout dinner, the next day we may not even see each other. I once told Charles "Hiking with you is almost as good as hiking alone." I hope that he took it as the intended compliment but I actually misspoke. Hiking with Charles is much better than hiking alone because it gives me someone with whom to reminisce.<br />
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If anyone is curious how I got from Providence to Venice for $236 in the high season, it's all about the Chase United Mileage Plus credit card. There is a $60/yr. fee but, given the price of overseas flights, that fee easily pays for itself. I route all of my spending through this card and pay it off at the end of each month. As a result, I average over 25,000 miles per year just in spending. That's a "free" ticket every two years. Total cost, $236. Not bad when the same ticket would have cost me $1400 or more.Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-78110923517243558822011-02-03T10:35:00.000-08:002011-02-03T10:35:58.969-08:00TNAHPELE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwd8aXTlwjIQmzBuSmYR_EC84qNn3utJ4uXLLN2-qja3SJsdyUOWK9CCEZe2J19mB8KhyphenhyphenO-ChyphenhyphenNii9z7doLeS2pNjP27tPrx_RnEoeAUxb7B4C3A1HGmV1COP_I8ZuohLDgidTHkAZgK8/s1600/100_1913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwd8aXTlwjIQmzBuSmYR_EC84qNn3utJ4uXLLN2-qja3SJsdyUOWK9CCEZe2J19mB8KhyphenhyphenO-ChyphenhyphenNii9z7doLeS2pNjP27tPrx_RnEoeAUxb7B4C3A1HGmV1COP_I8ZuohLDgidTHkAZgK8/s320/100_1913.JPG" /></a></div>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-71685823565645250682010-08-11T16:05:00.001-07:002010-08-13T18:23:45.849-07:00Vic Chesnutt Rest In Peace<table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 width=100%><tr><td><a href="http://www.vicchesnutt.com"><img alt="Vic Chesnut RIP 12/25/2009" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVCaNdTz5D3Pp-Dm3kiHptTrrJBXC7IesQi_70xOBznQoWUU7xajR7WDyTyFvEJr8xv17omF5l17pMPCbyNKgcUuFOxIctHoUiyK5KFlFU7jS6RrtJIPcTmbtHQ_swSRXtoH1L8C-WRk/s320/Vic_Chesnutt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504311610960830674" /></a></td></tr><tr><td><font size=2>Photo borrowed from VicChesnutt.com</font></td></tr></table><br />Boy do I hate to be a downer after so many months of blogging silence but I had to post a belated tribute. I learned today that Vic Chesnutt, one of my favorite singer/songwriters, passed away last Christmas (2009). These days I am so far out of the loop on all things not directly pertaining to Ian (my son) that it took me this long to hear the bad news. Vic was a brilliant voice and a wonderful guy. I, for one, will miss him very much.<br /><br />Vic was a musician's musician. While he never seemed to attract more than a small crowd, he inspired many other musicians. His music has been covered by so many performers that it seems pointless to list them. Even so, his gritty, unpolished style seemed to keep the mainstream from ever truly embracing him.<br /><br />I had the pleasure of seeing Vic in concert perhaps three times over the past fifteen years. Needless to say, I am sorry to have been so inconsistent. You had to see him perform to truly appreciate his music. He was wheelchair-bound, due to an accident that left him partly paralyzed when he was 18 years old. I will always remember how, during what might be called an "intimate" show in New York City in the late 90's he seemed a little uncomfortable. His injuries clearly caused him significant ongoing pain. He asked the audience if anyone had a joint. To his surprise and delight, someone immediately offered him one. Without missing a beat, he not only accepted it but took several drags before continuing with the program.<br /><br />It was during the same show that I repeatedly yelled a request for a song that I thought was called "Danny from Carlisle". I had to yell it a few times and eventually he looked straight at me and said "what?" Someone else in the audience translated for me: "He means Danny Carlisle." It turns out that my "from" was actually an "um" in the original CD version. I don't think he realized it was even there. He played the song for me though and didn't even give me a hard time about it.<br /><br />A few years later, I met Vic in an alleyway outside Club Passim in Cambridge, MA. He was as friendly and relaxed in person as he seemed on the stage. There was no pretentious bone in his body. We made small talk -- nothing I can remember so many years later -- then he went in to do the show.<br /><br />Check out some of his music <a href="http://www.lecargo.org/spip/vic_chesnutt/session_acoustique_41/videos-4240.html">here</a>. Excuse the French text, his lyrics are all in English.<br /><br />So long Vic. You will be missed.Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-14182593307707466002009-10-06T20:02:00.000-07:002009-10-06T20:04:24.002-07:00Tomato Sauce Recipe - Romance on a BudgetA tomato sauce recipe that you can make for as little as $2 a jar -- or just a bit more if you include all the optional ingredients.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Y3PqY5QNvqsBqtTB9RV8KLs7iwyV8kqrc2LwjZgSIGn_MaMlhc6_BOBnON1yAdyPdFIlNEgS6f7C1T1FyWCS9tYxQiUPFwXcrCxzAx8UZAxYvU6cYER1ZVhj87xXeKtEOSKJe9tcoOI/s1600-h/Tomato_Sauce_Recipe_Basic_Ingredients.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Y3PqY5QNvqsBqtTB9RV8KLs7iwyV8kqrc2LwjZgSIGn_MaMlhc6_BOBnON1yAdyPdFIlNEgS6f7C1T1FyWCS9tYxQiUPFwXcrCxzAx8UZAxYvU6cYER1ZVhj87xXeKtEOSKJe9tcoOI/s320/Tomato_Sauce_Recipe_Basic_Ingredients.jpg" border="0" alt="Tomato Sauce Recipe Basic Ingredients" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388951914889431970" /></a><br />I made my first home-made pasta sauce at the age of 12. It was the first home-made meal that I ever prepared all by myself. I was trying to impress a girl, of course, and despite the fact that the recipe only made enough sauce for one quarter of my guests, this romantic ploy worked beyond my wildest dreams. It worked so well, in fact, that I had to figure out what to do with the girl! For the record, my luck soon deserted me. I didn't sort out the girl part for many, many years.<br /><br />Tomato pasta sauce isn't cheap -- not by my skinflint standards, anyhow. A simple jar of basil and tomato sauce can run you anywhere from $2.50 (for a lame pasta sauce) to $8 (for a deluxe, gourmet pasta sauce). Regardless, the basic ingredients are the same: tomatoes, onions, garlic, basil and other seasonings. Does it have to be so expensive? With some energy and creativity it really doesn't, and you may find that you like your own sauce better than many of the store-bought varieties.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5oNAD8ha3ZIyLvIeJPoxYMdvnd_Y3rvajvyukhMHgSy0KD2rAB-VpqwToZltsbXIao-ytuqjP-DaZpJHBoxcmxH6HbObAH5TQLFB9JV8CR7ec8Fs1CYGXCsafV8c9-aKzolqkYWnSYk/s1600-h/Tomato_Sauce_Recipe_Chopped_Ingredients.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5oNAD8ha3ZIyLvIeJPoxYMdvnd_Y3rvajvyukhMHgSy0KD2rAB-VpqwToZltsbXIao-ytuqjP-DaZpJHBoxcmxH6HbObAH5TQLFB9JV8CR7ec8Fs1CYGXCsafV8c9-aKzolqkYWnSYk/s320/Tomato_Sauce_Recipe_Chopped_Ingredients.JPG" border="0" alt="Tomato Sauce Recipe Chopped Ingredients" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389682542934461154" /></a>Here is a very simple pasta sauce recipe that can be modified and tweaked until you feel it is perfect. The key to making the project worth the effort is making at least four jars at a time and carefully canning them yourself. You can refrigerate or freeze the sauce instead of canning but I recommend canning for long-term storage and best flavor.<br /><br />The ground or crushed tomatoes should be purchased in bulk -- assuming you care about cost. Unless you grow them yourself, you will probably never find fresh tomatoes more cheaply than you can buy them canned in 6 1/2 lb cans. So save yourself the hassle (and a little money, too) and just use the canned variety. It's not a cardinal sin. Really.<br /><br />You can find great prices on ground or crushed tomatoes at restaurant supply stores, club stores like <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.bjs.com/', null, 'width=800, height=600')">BJ's</a>., and even your local supermarket. I paid $4.49 for my 6lbs 9oz can of Cento All-In-One Tomatoes at my local <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.priceritesupermarkets.com/', null, 'width=800, height=600')">Price Rite Supermarket</a>. Cento is a decent quality brand imported from Italy and it makes a really nice sauce. That one can, with the other ingredients listed below, will make four jars of premium tomato pasta sauce. <br /><br /><b>"Romance on a Budget" Tomato Sauce Recipe</b><br /><br />Ingredients:<br />1 6lbs 9oz can tomatoes (Cento All-In-One Tomatoes yielded excellent results)<br />3 T dried basil (or 1 cup chopped fresh)<br />1/2 T dried oregano (or 1 1/2 T chopped fresh)<br />3 medium sized onions<br />1 lb peppers -- one red, one green (optional)<br />1 head garlic -- about 10 cloves (use more if desired)<br />4 T olive oil (or more as necessary)<br />1/4 cup red wine (optional)<br />1 T salt (or to taste)<br />1 T sugar<br />(makes 4 jars)<br /><br />Instructions:<br /><ol><br /><li>Open the canned tomatoes and pour into large, stove top stockpot. Use red wine (or a little water) to rinse the remaining tomatoes out of the can and into the stockpot.</li><br /><li>Turn heat to low or medium low ("2" is a good setting on my gas stove) and cover while chopping remaining ingredients. The pot should be bubbling happily within 15 or 20 minutes. Stir every 15 minutes and make sure to check the bottom with your spoon to prevent burning. If the sauce shows the slightest signs of sticking, turn down the heat!</li><br /><li>Chop onions and (optional) peppers into small, diced bits.</li><br /><li>Heat 1 T olive oil on medium low heat until it starts to shimmer in the pan, then add the dried basil and oregano to the oil. Saute for 30 seconds and then remove the herbs from the saute pan and add them to tomatoes.</li><br /><li>Add more oil to saute pan (this should not take long). Crush the garlic, using a garlic press, into the oil and saute for for 30 seconds.</li><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKetUOkyXteJnPhhzNXxOWqsulbbVO0nJJHwVqDxxMojwsqYrDsGsDJJf5HKT0FMKag_i1ofuCf3kDQPNpxIdadpU2uaRtH4JiRMCRv1JZapRSyYmnhtUvUvPTjIWjLgaQzdvH1_B6gb8/s1600-h/Saute_For_Pasta_Sauce_Recipe.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKetUOkyXteJnPhhzNXxOWqsulbbVO0nJJHwVqDxxMojwsqYrDsGsDJJf5HKT0FMKag_i1ofuCf3kDQPNpxIdadpU2uaRtH4JiRMCRv1JZapRSyYmnhtUvUvPTjIWjLgaQzdvH1_B6gb8/s320/Saute_For_Pasta_Sauce_Recipe.JPG" border="0" alt="Saute for Pasta Sauce Recipe" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389683367035132850" /></a><li>Add onions and (optional) peppers to garlic/olive oil mixture (adding more oil if necessary) and continue to saute until onions are translucent and sweet. (Note: I sauteed the vegetables in two batches because my pan could not comfortably hold them all. Don't crowd your saute pan.) You can cover the pan to partially steam the vegetables for a few minutes but you should mostly be sauteing.</li><br /><li>Add vegetables, sugar and salt to the bubbling sauce.</li><br /><li>Simmer sauce, covered, on low heat for a minimum of 2 hours, stirring once every 15 minutes or so. Continue to feel the bottom of the pan with your stirring spoon to be sure nothing is sticking.</li><br /><li>Carefully can any tomato sauce that you do not intend to use in the next day or two. I do not feel qualified to give canning instructions but you can easily find them elsewhere on the Internet. Don't cut corners when canning tomatoes as there are some risks if you do it badly.</li><br /></ol><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dNhd7pDLngGLNE2ugJLudYhz42c_MgQE3MDlwv8fhLjCnzKdYae_kxrH4a65xRF0zyAki9MQaOHrDb8ynGjt6aGtEUwPtofyWELbgnybJF3_W_lFyCGfcLfE9DVA8SnptqUSKRen7Yw/s1600-h/Canned_Tomato_Sauce.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0dNhd7pDLngGLNE2ugJLudYhz42c_MgQE3MDlwv8fhLjCnzKdYae_kxrH4a65xRF0zyAki9MQaOHrDb8ynGjt6aGtEUwPtofyWELbgnybJF3_W_lFyCGfcLfE9DVA8SnptqUSKRen7Yw/s320/Canned_Tomato_Sauce.JPG" border="0" alt="Home Canned Tomato Sauce" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389684502588180578" /></a><br />You can add other ingredients, like meat, sauteed mushrooms, etc. to this pasta sauce just before serving it or half way through simmering it. I like to keep a more generic sauce on hand for the sake of flexibility but that is really up to you.<br /><br />One final word of caution: if you plan to make this tomato sauce recipe for your date, be sure to have the girl part (or the boy part) sorted out well in advance.<br /><br />Bon Appetit!Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-11653676854924217082009-10-02T13:20:00.000-07:002010-08-13T18:56:33.900-07:00Via Alpina Day 2: Meilerhütte to Knorrhütte<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbkLYbxtyH0eJTjPfW0kwYNeOE69lHoyN4-nc-lEkpnGwoOgoLm1m-1IzUUc3N7pmLyA97jZCXvu9s0qh6ifRK7fzfBdD-qDmib2Ybb4lJVnWd6UyJHp9XFgP_D-UQgOnwQga-5Wp9h0/s1600-h/Meilerh%C3%BCtte_Looking_Back_From_the_North.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbkLYbxtyH0eJTjPfW0kwYNeOE69lHoyN4-nc-lEkpnGwoOgoLm1m-1IzUUc3N7pmLyA97jZCXvu9s0qh6ifRK7fzfBdD-qDmib2Ybb4lJVnWd6UyJHp9XFgP_D-UQgOnwQga-5Wp9h0/s320/Meiler h%C3%BCtte_Looking_Back_From_the_North.jpg" border="0" alt="Meiler h%C3%BCtte, Looking Back From the North" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384846840356576898" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/via-alpina-munich-to-meilerhutte.html"><< Previous Week: Via Alpina, Munich to Meilerhütte</a><br /><br />Meiler hütte stands on the border of Germany and Austria. When I say that, I mean it quite literally; there is a border signpost at the corner of the porch. If it truly marks the border, I may have slept with my head in Germany and my feet in Austria.<br /><br />Mornings here are dry and quiet: dry because there is no water to wash in or drink, quiet because everybody else knows this and sleeps at the next hut. I don't mind, really. It's an endearing little place, just a touch more rustic than usual. Perhaps for that reason I don't mind putting up with the little inconveniences.<br /><br />I am awake by 6:00 and am the first hiker at breakfast. I am still on American time. Breakfast is unremarkable -- the standard thin slices of meat, cheese, bread and jam. I buy a liter of water to get me through my first hour of hiking and head out into the fog at 7:30.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZoI-nf_Z52q9LmTGdFHJcLokP-LaWnTwAJFhn7R_7XRksTBERX5h5K9KR5vgmWj5fnXLH74S_1QiAioTemFwU-Gn41b0MK3ATzd0QfeI6kjWCuW9M82qJjj3zbOK7lMSKcnuPpjCvas/s1600-h/Schachenhaus_From_Above.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZoI-nf_Z52q9LmTGdFHJcLokP-LaWnTwAJFhn7R_7XRksTBERX5h5K9KR5vgmWj5fnXLH74S_1QiAioTemFwU-Gn41b0MK3ATzd0QfeI6kjWCuW9M82qJjj3zbOK7lMSKcnuPpjCvas/s320/Schachenhaus_From_Above.jpg" border="0" alt="Schachenhaus_Bayern_Germany" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384845702930482850" /></a>After a picture or two, I am off down the hill at a good speedy clip. It's 50 degrees and foggy. Great hiking weather, so long as it doesn't start raining. My legs feel terrific, not a bit sore from yesterday. My thigh muscles hold up well and, very quickly, Schachenhaus comes into view on the next plateau. A tiny, wooden <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King's_House_on_Schachen', null, 'heigh600, width=800')">castle built by King Ludwig II of Bavaria</a> stands nearby, looking like a matchstick house from my cliff-top vantage. The castle was built in the late 1860's and was used for festivities of one sort or another. Fifteen minutes of knee-busting descent and I am at the door of the castle but it turns out that I have missed the open season. This is unfortunate, as I would have liked to have seen the elaborate "Turkish Room". I console myself with a vigorous cold-water rub down in the restroom of the humble Schachenhaus and fill my water bottle for the next leg of my hike. Outside, by the picnic tables, I can feel the sun's high-altitude rays stinging my shoulders as the water dries off in the chilly breeze. It is too early for a snack, only 8:30, so I pull on my shirt, strap on my pack and head down the hill toward Bock-Hütte, the next way station along the trail.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn8Z-X4fBf7_UiSALO_YUIjiCN6jY5SdfQCXkF5m7BdVAyQWiEMFxztt2qpJ33-_l-YjQsDSNkiOePU_1CYVp4dRzUy-kqAn395yfSn6OtJAOWdrOCtG1KsDGS9uhQnIAGMTIpcL5VGk/s1600-h/Bock-h%C3%BCtte_on_the_Via_Alpina.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIn8Z-X4fBf7_UiSALO_YUIjiCN6jY5SdfQCXkF5m7BdVAyQWiEMFxztt2qpJ33-_l-YjQsDSNkiOePU_1CYVp4dRzUy-kqAn395yfSn6OtJAOWdrOCtG1KsDGS9uhQnIAGMTIpcL5VGk/s320/Bock-h%C3%BCtte_on_the_Via_Alpina.jpg" border="0" alt="Bock-hutte on the Via Alpina" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384858238455380258" /></a>The fog has cleared by now but I am down in the pines. The air is warmer, still very humid, and the misty dampness has left its droplets on a thriving fauna of moss and clover. I pass a gang of six young mushroom hunters as they climb up the hill. At this early hour they are already goofing around like they've been drinking. Perhaps they're just glad to be out of the city, young men showing off for their girls. <br /><br />Around the bend, a carved wooden sign points the way to "Bock-Hutte". I am taking my time in these woods, taking pictures of moss and anything else that catches my eye. At quarter past ten I come to the hut, a small log cabin with two picnic tables on a little front porch. This might have been my lunch stop had I gotten a later start. Instead, I stop for a tall glass of buttermilk and eat the remaining plums from yesterday. I am making good time, despite the frequent stops, so I sit for twenty minutes and jot down a few notes before continuing.<br /><br />It is amazing how quickly one adjusts to life on the trail. It was only two days ago that I was clumsily negotiating my way from Munich. Now it feels like I've been here forever, like I picked up again where my last hike ended. But my last hike was in Sweden on <a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/hiking-kungsleden.html">the Kungsleden</a>, and that feels like ages ago. As nice as it was to have a change of scenery, I prefer the drama of the Alps to the tundra of the arctic.<br /><br />The going is flat for the next forty minutes or so. I continue to make good time but, once back in the woods, am dogged by frequent mountain bikers who consider this path their own. They are polite but require the right of way, so I find myself always stepping aside. I don't enjoy walking on mountain bike trails. Thankfully, it has been my experience that trails like this are few and far between.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxR4v2ps1IYfrmmsJbDGV4NV2661wYJDQ5vvqf279pqkMzatM6QA6-SJNe7NbmO_rcrv5GE3kc-WNAJWXDDbUS3F-Qs_mN00xf3ppkAZc52Oyk2aL8LPHEpHKlSz0ZKsATm_fsE9u-YE/s1600-h/Waterfall_and_Mountains_Possibly_Zugspitz.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxR4v2ps1IYfrmmsJbDGV4NV2661wYJDQ5vvqf279pqkMzatM6QA6-SJNe7NbmO_rcrv5GE3kc-WNAJWXDDbUS3F-Qs_mN00xf3ppkAZc52Oyk2aL8LPHEpHKlSz0ZKsATm_fsE9u-YE/s320/Waterfall_and_Mountains_Possibly_Zugspitz.jpg" border="0" alt="Waterfall and Mountains near Bock-Hutte, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria, Germany" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384864186755391698" /></a>An hour or so into the hike I notice a waterfall on the other side of a wide ravine to my left. It stays in sight and within thirty minutes I am level with it, across a wooded gorge. It appears to pour out of a cave and down a sheer cliff, hundreds of feet into the forest below. Above the streaming water, through a notch in the ridge, I see a snow covered mountain. It may be a corner of the massive Zugspitz, a mountain that towers over the local landscape but which I have not yet seen because of the cloudy weather. I don't really know if this is Zugspitz. I will have to ask.<br /><br />The path works its way around the ravine and joins the waterfall's tributary stream. I follow its gravel bed through the woods to Reintelangerhütte, or simply Angerhütte for short. Angerhütte is a three-storey building with a concrete patio and a blue tarp to shelter me from the sun. It is a beautiful hut with red cedar shingles and first floor stonework but the tarp, and the Tibetan prayer flags, give it a shotgun-shack appearance. Regardless, the staff is friendly and lunch is<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEJXqtxm-GXUhVFHJXiawWHrvaZB1PxQy7GER-QVNJ8tVhLee3Ix6hOxQ9bC_LW6ELGHKkbJGrao1KHhVKlqDYLbgAczj3LKhJjWu4JbPCspnWH84nV3961PomqC2Gjr-gUOxj0lGLRA/s1600-h/Angerhutte.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEJXqtxm-GXUhVFHJXiawWHrvaZB1PxQy7GER-QVNJ8tVhLee3Ix6hOxQ9bC_LW6ELGHKkbJGrao1KHhVKlqDYLbgAczj3LKhJjWu4JbPCspnWH84nV3961PomqC2Gjr-gUOxj0lGLRA/s320/Angerhutte.jpg" border="0" alt="Reintalangerhutte, Germany" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386918106452999490" /></a> exceptional: penne with a slice of tender pork au jus. I finish it off with a glass of carbonated apple juice and a apple strudel. It is just the thing to get me back on my feet for the final uphill push. I briefly consider staying for the night but most of the other visitors are bicyclists. I prefer to meet hikers and am hoping to find someone who is hiking my own trail. It would be nice to have some temporary companions.<br /><br />The waitress tells me that Knorr hutte is just an hour and a half away. It will be mostly uphill but I have plenty of time. It is not even 2:00 when I enter the forest again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpe06Kd6k7vDiimFCcr7A8qsgfEFwNereclcG5ZAdtRD8olUn5o5mrKQzBnxYtpO-vLoTyDaRz2aGCNDe2QwwTqXFg0mACshK-QI8lq14uN3_9Ay4iPFB2_LDlM041M7ZufQ3rwqDJ-U/s1600-h/flowing_stones_near_Knorrh%C3%BCtte.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpe06Kd6k7vDiimFCcr7A8qsgfEFwNereclcG5ZAdtRD8olUn5o5mrKQzBnxYtpO-vLoTyDaRz2aGCNDe2QwwTqXFg0mACshK-QI8lq14uN3_9Ay4iPFB2_LDlM041M7ZufQ3rwqDJ-U/s320/flowing_stones_near_Knorrh%C3%BCtte.jpg" border="0" alt="flowing stones near Knorr h%C3%BCtte" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386918267143799138" /></a>Leaving Angerhütte, the trail starts ascending almost immediately. Once again, I am completely alone on the trail. The mountain bikers disappeared after Angerhütte, preferring the flat or rolling terrain to the steady, endless climb. Before I know it, I am above the tree line. I take it very slowly, stopping frequently to photograph the massive cliffs and bizarre flowing stones, like grout between patches of deep, green moss. The climb is hard but short, and I reach Knorrhutte by 3:30.<br /><br />I take off my boots at the door and slip on my Crocs. The dining room is bustling with activity. Most hikers have come up a different way from myself, and many are heading to Zugspitz. I am already too late to reserve a bed, so I will have to sleep on the floor. "Notlager", they call it, or "emergency camp" as opposed to "matratzenlager" or "mattress camp". I have slept in notlager in many huts. Invariably, I always get more privacy and better rest, so I am never concerned about showing up late. 3:30, however, is not late at all. It will be a crowded night.<br /><br />I find a table that is mostly empty and write for a while in my notebook. I snack on apple strudel, and before long I find myself sharing the table with an American woman named Carol and her German companions -- all men. She is also a member of the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0FZUZCA2goJbGbzSSYSfxfO7jN_L8dfua9DHSpHy_oGd6gJKeJfKYlcTiO-yxgVlgS-vJ4Unk6EkpQ2vMooOeuNCcHgA7QdcYpKDAfBuxvdqWwXDuvuSwBJtmB5doF_9tvg0V0MGj1I/s1600-h/Cliffs_Along_Via_Alpina_Red_Trail.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy0FZUZCA2goJbGbzSSYSfxfO7jN_L8dfua9DHSpHy_oGd6gJKeJfKYlcTiO-yxgVlgS-vJ4Unk6EkpQ2vMooOeuNCcHgA7QdcYpKDAfBuxvdqWwXDuvuSwBJtmB5doF_9tvg0V0MGj1I/s320/Cliffs_Along_Via_Alpina_Red_Trail.jpg" border="0" alt="Cliffs Along Via Alpina Red Trail near Knorrhutte" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388077416967524274" /></a>Austrian Alpine Club, UK Branch. She thought she was the only American who even knew that this club existed. I tell her about my friend Charles who is also a member. Besides him, I know of no others. It is fun to talk with another American who shares my passion for the alps. Conversation flows easily for a good hour. She is a retired district attorney. She loves these mountains. She has been meeting her German companions in this region for over twenty years. Her husband stays at home in San Francisco. Like my wife, he doesn't enjoy hiking vacations. <br /><br />A German Lieutenant joins us and, after a drink or two, he waxes philosophical about his upcoming tour of duty in Kosovo. "Military men do not make good police," he says. He is well educated and worldly. He clearly has mixed feelings about his responsibilities and we spend a pleasant hour talking with, and learning from, him.<br /><br />By 7:00 the table is crowded with a dozen people all drinking, telling stories and joking. A young computer programmer named Volker tries to translate the German jokes for us -- they don't translate well. Wendy and John, a quiet couple from Munich, blush at Volker's humor. They smile pleasantly but do not say much. Much of the conversation is in English, for my benefit and Carol's. She speaks no more German than I do. It is an enjoyable evening, on par with some of my best times in <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UEWkShrRqm405YBdAMF2y1QHQz9hjEEEpBJUBPpOfrMdEze0aBgcwBMsrFCTCS4E5TBIceNzNIQhoyUbA8NyQBdqI6ubtWUpBPaAmbohkV_0YCJ959xZW5zDcnZAOn2dG9sg-sBF5v8/s1600-h/Knorrh%C3%BCtte.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UEWkShrRqm405YBdAMF2y1QHQz9hjEEEpBJUBPpOfrMdEze0aBgcwBMsrFCTCS4E5TBIceNzNIQhoyUbA8NyQBdqI6ubtWUpBPaAmbohkV_0YCJ959xZW5zDcnZAOn2dG9sg-sBF5v8/s320/Knorrh%C3%BCtte.jpg" border="0" alt="Knorrhütte, Via Alpina, Bayern Germany" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386918413388888850" /></a>alpine huts. I drink radlers (beer and lemonade) rather than full-strength beer so that I won't be too dehydrated tonight and tomorrow. I order a kaiserschmarrn and offer some to my new friends who all decline politely. It is an eggy pancake covered in jam and powdered sugar, one of my favorite local desserts but often too much for one person to eat.<br /><br />I am assigned a sleeping place around 8:00. This turns out to be a thin mattress in a nook in the hallway outside of one of the rooms. I return to the table and we raise the roof until ten PM. Then we all head off to our respective sleeping places, very likely to never cross paths again.<br /><br />Next time: Coburger hütteKarlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-70038948520958577632009-09-19T18:25:00.000-07:002009-09-25T18:44:38.116-07:00Black Trumpet Mushrooms: The Elusive Craterellus CornucopioidesRecently a friend and I stumbled upon some black trumpet mushrooms. I have started experimenting with preserving and preparing them. Here is the story of our discoveries and my cooking and storage experiments to date...<br /><font size=1>[see also <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/hen-of-woods-mushrooms-preserving-and.html', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Hen of the Woods Mushrooms</a>]</font><br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpu3tNp3BqD2hd5vSvmsOv1eEYQ7Zv-9rnyj8kjgnHAfYcruhSj9PzJz1u_xCQPd5rv12mKfkmn5yk8Kxz3yW5aLljwlM2mH50qZNofrwJRxWp5XUphxO2XYkP0qkwrWsTVNn0ZBYg0Tk/s1600-h/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_Sunlit.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpu3tNp3BqD2hd5vSvmsOv1eEYQ7Zv-9rnyj8kjgnHAfYcruhSj9PzJz1u_xCQPd5rv12mKfkmn5yk8Kxz3yW5aLljwlM2mH50qZNofrwJRxWp5XUphxO2XYkP0qkwrWsTVNn0ZBYg0Tk/s320/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_Sunlit.JPG" border="0" alt="Black Trumpet Mushrooms in Sunlight" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384104600026163730" /></a><br /><br />The black trumpets appeared as if out of nowhere. We were not looking for them but, rather, were in pursuit of the more common hen of the woods mushroom.<br /><br />I don't mind putting off the hen of the woods (aka: maitake) awhile for this new, delicious detour. It is still a bit early for the hen of the woods. Regardless, we went hunting for them this Saturday morning. I had already found the first specimen of the season -- two days prior -- and was overly optimistic about finding another. All of our regular oaks were still empty, unfortunately. Most hen of the woods are still just mycelia, waiting under the ground for just the right moment to show their leafy grey heads.<br /><br />When I tell people about the mushroom hunting, I usually get some very worried looks. Charles recently admitted to me that he was convinced I'd gone over the cliff the first time I mentioned the idea. That was last fall, in the middle of hen of the woods season. I sold him on it, of course (did I mention that his mother calls me Dr. Death?), and now he is a man possessed. Mushrooms are like that. Once you pass the initial threshold, there really is no going back.<br /><br />So the two of us were out in the woods, following paths lined with green mossy hummocks and heavy underbrush. The air was cool and smelled like the oak leaves that had fallen the previous year. Last week was rainy and the ground in some places was still damp with the remaining run-off. There were signs of deer, footprints and other spoor, and many colorful mushrooms were thriving in the dampness: their red, purple, white and grey caps popping through the forest floor.<br /><br />We were visiting one of last year's best maitake oaks. The ground around it was a bare and spongy mat with no trace of the mushrooms that would soon fill the angles between the surface roots. I had almost lost hope when Charles, who had wandered down the slope toward a damp ravine, cried out "Jackpot!"<br /><br />"Did you find a maitake?" I asked. He was standing in an empty space with no tree roots at all. It was unlikely that he would have found a maitake there.<br /><br />"No, something even better," he said.<br /><br />"What is it?" I asked, disappointed. It takes a lot of convincing to get me to try a new mushroom.<br /><br />"A whole bunch of black trumpets, I think."<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFpEwDA3ZgJWxUJE9q3ykovim8tmr2cC0n2xsai8gdLTT_ziEIQHrmaTnwO8N5BjitjWG9iks00hvFfpTf2yCA-6bvQKhFe0Cthp7alH4kA7t-87zsD4mxZKx9vYjpac4t-1uzGjbURA/s1600-h/Black_Trumpet_Mushroom_Bouquet.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFpEwDA3ZgJWxUJE9q3ykovim8tmr2cC0n2xsai8gdLTT_ziEIQHrmaTnwO8N5BjitjWG9iks00hvFfpTf2yCA-6bvQKhFe0Cthp7alH4kA7t-87zsD4mxZKx9vYjpac4t-1uzGjbURA/s320/Black_Trumpet_Mushroom_Bouquet.JPG" border="0" alt="Black Trumpet Mushroom Bouquet" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384105752068815170" /></a>I had heard of the black trumpet, I knew they were related to chanterelles and, as such, would be a great score. I was not, however, equipped to identify these mushrooms. <br /><br />Approaching carefully, not wanting to crush anything valuable, I scanned the ground for what might be the cone of a trumpet. It was a minute before they came into focus -- they are nearly invisible if you don't know what you are looking for. Then, all of a sudden, the forest floor grew a third dimension. Flower-like funnels, black bouquets, appeared everywhere around his feet.<br /><br />Charles had an iPhone in his hand and was already scanning through Google images. He handed me the iPhone. <br /><br />I am not at all careless about mushroom identification. These mushrooms, however, were said to be hard to mistake. Charles had been looking for them for the past three months and was convinced that these were the real thing. I decided to reserve judgment until I could do a bit more research. We would have been foolish, however, to leave the suspects behind so we set about picking them and gently placing them in a cloth shopping bag.<br /><br />We scanned the vicinity for more of the same and, finding none, took a walk down the path to a similarly marshy area. It was a half-mile walk and completely fruitless. On the path we found ourselves dodging mountain bikers -- painfully shy about our own geeky hobby in the presence of athletes on wheels. After thirty minutes of pointless wanderings, we decided to return to our original hunting ground.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMCBBA9G2wbnOymgXrTgh01F_Hc-4iYbeUXGPnBoFVcQuVn1cpXLvEBrB55y77BHgBfiTgeBkYuFy6NHW59-KFaQI67qw54IwLiozRZEohru1-mESIEUjXKveDzc2cdjCu4uHIcD2Vvk/s1600-h/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_with_Jackknife.JPG', null,'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMCBBA9G2wbnOymgXrTgh01F_Hc-4iYbeUXGPnBoFVcQuVn1cpXLvEBrB55y77BHgBfiTgeBkYuFy6NHW59-KFaQI67qw54IwLiozRZEohru1-mESIEUjXKveDzc2cdjCu4uHIcD2Vvk/s320/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_with_Jackknife.JPG" border="0" alt="Black Trumpet Mushrooms with Jackknife" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384108699924383330" /></a>The decision was well made. Following the marshy ground, we uncovered three more patches of black trumpets before finally calling it a day. The take was well over a pound of mushrooms and, once back at my home computer, I was able to identify them, with unquestionable certainty, as the real mccoy.<br /><br />The next thing to do was to cook some and see how they tasted. I sauteed a handful -- more than I would have eaten of most new mushrooms -- in butter with salt, basil, oregano and rosemary. The flavor was rich and delicious. The Italian herbs gave them a taste not unlike a pepperoni and mushroom pizza. The mushrooms, themselves, had a buttery, almost fruity smell to them. I have read it described as "apricot" but that does not describe these particular specimens very well. There is a delicate, rich sweetness to the smell, but I would not say apricot.<br /><br />While waiting to see if I would have any negative reaction to my first dose, I set about processing the majority of my remaining mushrooms. I split them and removed a number of slugs and bugs, the latter of which would invariably make a run for it before succumbing to the butt of my knife on the butcher block.<br /><br />Next I washed the mushrooms... I know, I know! Washing mushrooms is sacrilege but I just can't leave trails of slug slime on something I intend to eat. There was LOTS of slug slime, and I had seen too many bugs dash out of the trumpets not to think of the bug bits they might have left behind. Others should use their best judgment (and perhaps a nice clean paint brush). I don't advocate washing if your stomach is stronger than mine. I just can't do it, so apologies to the purists of the mushroom world.<br /><br />I had read that the trumpets dried well. Last fall I dried <a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/hen-of-woods-mushrooms-preserving-and.html">hen of the woods mushrooms</a> successfully in the oven. For the trumpets, I used a closed oven at 170 degrees, the lowest setting I have on my oven. It took about two hours and was not the perfect solution for the trumpets. There are several things I will do differently next time. First, I might not dry such a large percentage of the haul. Seeing nearly a pound of mushrooms shrink to 1/8 their original size is incredibly disheartening. The resulting cup and a half of dried mushroom dust will go very quickly and does not seem to have the same power of flavor as the original, fresh mushrooms. Second, I will try placing parchment paper under the rack on which I am drying my mushrooms. The mushrooms that fell through the bars became completely adhered to the cookie sheet underneath. This, too, was disheartening -- especially given my diminished stock. Third, I think I may try to dry the mushrooms in a cooler environment -- like a solar dehydrator, perhaps. They seem to have cooked while drying, and this may be the reason that they did not concentrate as much flavor as I had expected.<br /><br />My second experiment was a black trumpet pizza. I used a red sauce, instead of the white sauce I had seen recommended elsewhere. I also used fewer mushrooms, sprinkling them less liberally than in the pictures I had seen. The result was a fine pizza but there was much less black trumpet flavor than I was expecting. The strength of the red sauce probably masked the trumpets somewhat, and the fact that I did not pile them on was probably a mistake. I will, in the future, use more mushrooms but I have not decided whether or not to use a red sauce. I am not as fond of white pizza.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_n07uxrwpxm2iI7TvbZMnH4baxDULwBke74SYGXnP4AOqbkiV1ka_FTNT0QcGbGuH_nk4VQO6fPuISJ269WIFhI8NNbS-uTEa006KNIq_jDG3oy7AEDnu-ghTAI0ade-l4T2D2PBwuE/s1600-h/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_Vacuum_Sealed.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_n07uxrwpxm2iI7TvbZMnH4baxDULwBke74SYGXnP4AOqbkiV1ka_FTNT0QcGbGuH_nk4VQO6fPuISJ269WIFhI8NNbS-uTEa006KNIq_jDG3oy7AEDnu-ghTAI0ade-l4T2D2PBwuE/s320/Black_Trumpet_Mushrooms_Vacuum_Sealed.JPG" border="0" alt="Black Trumpet Mushrooms Vacuum Sealed" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384107618413945794" /></a>For my third experiment, I vacuum sealed a small number of mushrooms and frozen them. This is against the recommendations of many authorities. Most recommend that you sauté your black trumpets and freeze them in a broth. Having successfully frozen <a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/hen-of-woods-mushrooms-preserving-and.html">hen of the woods mushrooms</a> last year , I wanted to experiment with black trumpets in my new vacuum sealer -- and vacuum sealing broth is impossible of course, not to mention completely unnecessary since you can easily press any air out of the bag before sealing. So I took a handful of fresh trumpets and vacuum sealed them. In the bag they flattened out so much that they looked like a piece of beef jerkey. They then sat in the freezer for a week for the sake of the experiment.<br /><br />Just tonight, I tossed the same handful of frozen mushrooms into a pan with olive oil, garlic and butter. The sautéed mushrooms had a hint of bitterness that was not there in the original sauté, and were slightly less tender but not offensively so -- really no tougher than sauteed spinach. The taste was still very good to my palate and, for the flexibility I gained by preserving them this way, I will definitely do it again. It will be interesting to see if the bitterness is more or less pronounced in other recipes. Approach this particular method with caution but don't avoid it altogether if you have the luxury of experimentation and an ample supply of mushrooms.<br /><br />I hope to spend several more days in the woods before the remaining black trumpets succumb to frost. Now that I know where they thrive, I am optimistic that I may find another treasure trove before the season is over.Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-60406424174222231932009-09-17T20:22:00.000-07:002009-10-02T18:13:10.221-07:00Via Alpina Day 1: Munich to Meilerhütte<a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBEayVqebhoy58NSSDJ11CeH_xEj3R3O6dMqKNGaOOixIfo6vJ6T7MfBmCdoSpUO8qLNa0ISRcjLmtsayX2QmvEYKuBHsbQ4aq4-MZsBndJ7mgAysnDyWB64aaKKp-ADs42ku1Drko2k/s1600-h/Forest_Above_Leutasch_Austria.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBEayVqebhoy58NSSDJ11CeH_xEj3R3O6dMqKNGaOOixIfo6vJ6T7MfBmCdoSpUO8qLNa0ISRcjLmtsayX2QmvEYKuBHsbQ4aq4-MZsBndJ7mgAysnDyWB64aaKKp-ADs42ku1Drko2k/s320/Forest_Above_Leutasch_Austria.jpg" border="0" alt="Forest View from Above Leutasch Austria" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381880897988013618" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/via-alpina-10-days-solo-prologue.html"><< Previous Week: Via Alpina, prologue</a><br /><br />8/26/2006<br />I arrived yesterday afternoon at the four star NH Munich Airport Hotel, my first stop on the way to the Via Alpina's Red Trail. The fluffy white comforter reminded me that I was back in Bavaria as did the spotless, dustless modern furniture. For under $60, it was a real bargain. Still, on the shuttle back to the airport, I can't help but reflect that I am still hours away from the trailhead. <br /><br />The subway station is at the airport so I have to return. This shuttle was free from the airport so I am surprised to find that the return trip costs €5. To an American, German customer service is often a touch too pragmatic: they have a vested interest in getting me to the hotel but no interest at all in getting me anywhere else. I guess it makes sense in a weird way but it wouldn't fly in the States.<br /><br />My hiking attire is bizarrely unique in this mini-van of starched and cologned business-folk. Nobody tries to sit next to me, leaving me plenty of elbow room. I get the impression that my style, or lack thereof, is probably misunderstood. To the untrained eye, my dusty backpack and threadbare fedora give me the air of a hobo who maybe just won a pile on the horses.<br /><br />The public transportation system around Munich is called the U-Bahn. The "U" presumably stands for "Untertage" (underground), so it is, nominally anyway, a subway. Not surprisingly, it runs mostly above ground out here in the countryside. Yellow stucco houses with red tiled roofs sit close to the tracks bordered by sculpted hedges and trellised vines. The yards are all planted with fruit trees and gardens. In my yard I grow more piles than plants. I am amazed to see that everyone here has such a green thumb.<br /><br />It is difficult to make travel plans three thousand miles from your destination. Even so, the half-day of travel to Scharnitz, Austria was an amateur miscalculation. If I were to plan it again, I would never have slept so far from my destination. It will take 8 hours to hike to Meiler Hütte. That is a serious challenge for my first day, and I won't even start before noon.<br /><br />While riding the U-Bahn it dawns on me that I haven't yet withdrawn any Euros. I have a few in my pocket from a previous trip but they won't get me far in the middle of nowhere. Hut to hut hiking in Europe requires lots of ready cash, so the first thing I want to do before heading south is to find an ATM. I hop off the subway and use my spare twenty minutes in fruitless wandering. I chase my tail through pedestrian tunnels and sleepy streets but don't find an ATM. Bahnhof München-Pasing is supposed to be a major commuter hub but it looks more like a quiet suburb. I return to the train station with some anxiety. If there are no ATMs here, will there be any in Scharnitz? How far will I have to walk just to find one, and will it take my card or decline it?<br /><br />I sit nervously and wait for my train among smartly dressed locals. The minutes pass. The train must be late -- but if it were, there would at least be some raised eyebrows. I show my printout of the train schedule to the middle-aged woman next to me and she shakes her head skeptically. This really <em>is</em> a sleepy suburb. I got off the subway one station too early.<br /><br />A half-hour later, at the <em>real</em> Bahnhof München-Pasing, I rush to the ticketing area. I am generally not a panicky traveler but this is starting to feel like one of those bad dreams where you make one small mistake and things spiral completely out of control. To lose a day at this point could really throw off my itinerary. My pulse is racing as I scan the departure board for an alternate train to the region.<br /><br />I am saved by the one inefficiency of the German rail system. In the interest of comprehensive public transportation, they don't think twice about repeatedly sending half-empty trains on dead-end routes. Consequently, there is a train leaving in an hour for Mittenwold, just across the border from Scharnitz, not far from Innsbruck. So that's plan B, I guess.<br /><br />I find an ATM and take out my daily maximum, the equivalent of about $400. Two close calls have been averted but I will have to start paying more attention to details. Mistakes in civilization are one thing but mistakes in the middle of nowhere can be deadly.<br /><br />I settle myself in the slick, modern coach for the two-hour journey and consider my options. It would be a shame to miss the hike from Scharnitz to Leutasch but there is really no other way at this point. To start from Mittenwold now would be inviting disaster: one can't start an 8-hour hike into the middle of nowhere at 2:00 in the afternoon. I will have to get to Leutasch and start from there -- cutting off the first three hours of the hike. Perhaps I can catch a taxi from the train station.<br /><br />On the train I see a group of hikers. The area where I am going has many popular hiking trails. If they are heading for my trail, they will be starting tomorrow. Chances are, they will be climbing other mountains. Even so, just seeing them makes me feel a little more at ease.<br /><br />For those unfamiliar with European trail systems, I should give a bit of background. The <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.via-alpina.org/en/page/15/the-trails', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Via Alpina</a> is a newly arranged collection of trails that criss-cross Europe. I say "newly arranged" because many of the routes are reconfigurations of paths that have been used for centuries. The Via Alpina is really just another way to categorize, and connect, these same old trails. Some new paths have been (and will be) added for the purpose of continuity but, for the most part, it's just a way to encourage hikers to visit some less frequented trails.<br /><br />It is in the best interest of the local hiking clubs to publicize new routes like those of the Via Alpina. These routes get people to some of the under-utilized huts that desperately need more visitors. Also, some of the more popular routes are so well traveled that they suffer from erosion and pollution. Spreading out the visitors is in everyone's best interest.<br /><br />I belong to the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.aacuk.org.uk/', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Austrian Alpine Club's, UK Branch</a>. As far as I know, there is no US branch of the Austrian Alpine Club. I might have joined the Appalachian Mountain Club, but I feel that the AACUK gives me the most bang for my buck in the Alps. Besides, I love Austria's mountains. They are affordable, remote and just as beautiful as the Swiss or Italian Alps; I like that my money goes to support that. I could probably get reciprocal benefits from the Appalachian Mountain Club but you just never know.<br /><br />So I will see what this new, remote Via Alpina trail has to offer. I am not "thru hiking" but am, instead, chopping off a section hike that I think will be interesting. I chose it for the height of the mountains and the fact that there are plenty of cheap huts along the way. I have brought only the barest hiking essentials. My pack, some snacks, some warm clothes, some emergency items and water bottles. Not knowing the trail, I hope that I packed well enough.<br /><br />As I disembark from the train, the sky is overcast but not threatening. Puffy clouds hang over the surrounding mountains like piles of white mushrooms. The weather could go either way. In all likelihood, I will be hiking into the clouds. I hope they look this friendly up close.<br /><br />In front of the station several taxis stand waiting. I grab the second one. The driver has never heard of the Via Alpina. So I tell him: "I want to go to Leutasch... to a trail that will take me to Meilerhütte."<br /><br />"I do not hike so much. I have bad knee," he says, as if I might hold it against him. But he thinks he knows a trail that will get me to Meilerhütte. He will take me to the trailhead for the small fortune of 20 Euros. He speeds out of town and into farm country. The countryside has few houses. The road is bordered by rough-hewn cow fences. <a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6Q4DDeNWfJz4zMgqd37kpMQJv9swY_eDyyGECGVr5GEk4zk3bwszPDYCVoj1OxpTrWgTXH_2-d51-hI9WCCCTHas625SGAA1nZD8DL49grBnidez6Q-5xN2NXZKjN0J9yd1ztLdfLM8/s1600-h/Leutasch_Austria_Via_Alpina.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6Q4DDeNWfJz4zMgqd37kpMQJv9swY_eDyyGECGVr5GEk4zk3bwszPDYCVoj1OxpTrWgTXH_2-d51-hI9WCCCTHas625SGAA1nZD8DL49grBnidez6Q-5xN2NXZKjN0J9yd1ztLdfLM8/s320/Leutasch_Austria_Via_Alpina.jpg" border="0" alt="Leutasch, Austria near the Via Alpina hiking trail to Meiler Hut" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381756952828205154" /></a>He lets me out in a small pull-off at break in the fence. A yellow sign post says Meiler Hütte 22. I don't know what "22" means but I am hoping it does not mean kilometers. The driver takes my money, spins his tires in the dirt, and leaves me in the middle of nowhere. As the car disappears, the only sounds are the crickets, the birds and the ringing in my ears.<br /><br />There is a bench near the fence. I put down my pack and click a few pictures. The trail crosses a field and disappears into the forest on the other side. I heave my pack onto my shoulders and head toward the trees, not knowing what to expect.<br /><br />Two days of travel have taken their toll on my legs. Deep down they are strong but they complain almost immediately so I slow down my pace. It is a fairly mild hike at the start, more of a walk in the woods than a serious trek. I just need to get my thighs burned in a bit.<br /><br />I pass a sandy, dry riverbed on my right. No doubt it overflows with the rains of April but right now it is dry enough to play host to two noisy dirt-bike enthusiasts. I don't think I'll see much more of that sort of thing for the next several days. Close by I connect with the Via Alpina which often shares the path with the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Europ%C3%A4ischer_Fernwanderweg_E4', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Europäischer Fernwanderweg E4</a> ("European long hiking trail" E4). The E4 is an older route, developed and maintained by the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.era-ewv-ferp.com/index.php?page_id=6', null, 'height=600, width=800')">European Rambler's Association</a>. As I walk, I see signs for both the E4 and the Via Alpina, sometimes one above the other. I am familiar with some sections of the E4, as well as the <a href="#" onclick="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html">Europäischer Fernwanderweg E5</a>, but this stretch is entirely new to me. I am "wandern" the Via Alpina's version because it was well documented and slightly less well beaten. Since the Via Alpina is so new, I may just be the first American to walk this trail with these intentions.<br /><br />The trail continues on a gradual incline until I reach a small spring. The water flows clear from under a little wooden platform in front of a mossy rock. The water appears clean and fresh but I have already filled my bottles. It is my tradition to drink any clean water I find on the trail, so I drink just a bit and then continue.<br /><br />Shortly after the spring, the trail starts to climb more seriously. My legs have, by now, warmed up and the burn is a pleasant one. I slow down the pace to keep my breathing as regular as possible and enjoy the cool, leafy smell of the late summer woods.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aVQ-bbNWmwjyhPJSAi1kuhyg96aCD_geodAmjWzCFOcp527kvuyEK1OTjMeiemJ91sq6r_pCDBnx9PuBND-XelfNMEv9oJxGKTAkQHlyqS1Xrta48_vAcmAFhaC-fx5bZzD96aVB88I/s1600-h/Waterfall_Cups_Above_Leutasch_Austria.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aVQ-bbNWmwjyhPJSAi1kuhyg96aCD_geodAmjWzCFOcp527kvuyEK1OTjMeiemJ91sq6r_pCDBnx9PuBND-XelfNMEv9oJxGKTAkQHlyqS1Xrta48_vAcmAFhaC-fx5bZzD96aVB88I/s320/Waterfall_Cups_Above_Leutasch_Austria.jpg" border="0" alt="Waterfall Cups Above Leutasch Austria" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381885939542030850" /></a>I hike another hour or so before emerging from the trees. The horizon widens, but only as far as the ridges around me. I pass a series of waterfalls, like cups carved into the mountainside, fed by snow and underground springs. Sheep graze, untended, nearby, and snow melts from banks along the edge. This is not glacial snow. It is too low for that. The spot is probably shaded much of the day, and the snow must have fallen quite recently.<br /><br />Two hours into the hike, at around 4:00, I pause below the open mouth of a dark cave. I pull out some snacks that I bought for my lunch -- plums, cheese, salami, bread and a yogurt drink. I am tempted to investigate the cave but, not knowing how much further I have to walk, my better judgment keeps me out. Since I passed the off-road bikers in the sandy river bed, I have seen nobody else on this trail. I am surprised at how deserted it is. The trail is well-maintained but not at all well-used. Or perhaps it's the lateness in the day. In any case, I cannot afford the risks of caving along such a lonely route.<br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk0tXllV3kzogQ5CK2E-i5E5VnTAJi6lKWso-D4wn5GBkvWjEICOvA9YOLyzWlVcNbow1W5n1bcJaANBzPTiNhZus9mVUhHfVwH0OJVtInpoozBLDbE8dstApfmj1pTUccy1B5XpEBLo/s1600-h/Sheep_on_the_way_to_Meiler_Hutte.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk0tXllV3kzogQ5CK2E-i5E5VnTAJi6lKWso-D4wn5GBkvWjEICOvA9YOLyzWlVcNbow1W5n1bcJaANBzPTiNhZus9mVUhHfVwH0OJVtInpoozBLDbE8dstApfmj1pTUccy1B5XpEBLo/s320/Sheep_on_the_way_to_Meiler_Hutte.jpg" border="0" alt="Sheep on the way to Meiler Hut" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381892438467913154" /></a>Climbing again, I cross over a ridge and soon find myself approaching the height of the darkening clouds. The only signs of life are lonely sheep that eat the patchy grass that clings between densely packed rocks. I should be more than half way there but there's no way of knowing for sure. So the clouds have my rapt attention. I have hiked through many rain storms in the wilderness, so I am well prepared for the worst. Still, I will be climbing to almost 8,000 feet today and would rather do the whole thing dry.<br /><br />Climbing higher, the grass and the sheep disappear. I am left with the most desolate landscape I have ever encountered. The slope to my left drops off precipitously and my trail clings to a very slight lip of gravel cut into the grey mountainside. Tiny bits of rock give way under my feet as I walk, rattling down the mountainside, disappearing from sight. I imagine the danger of losing my footing. I could slide, or roll, a thousand feet before catching a large enough stone to arrest my descent. If the clouds turned to rain, the danger would increase, perhaps, two-fold. There are no second chances on a slope like this.<a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UJWp0U-3Qg3MZ2QH6udRFF2Wk-DUMQWnH64ZLE5XvtUZihvzKEOvRL2eEsG62_quIVa1xHhfr6pGDSfBwLmxRcy0GXRZFPTKYWXTcZyEEj6guwsYpY1ZaTvHaRJMZC-xv7NcOgklLzQ/s1600-h/Scree_Slope_Near_Meiler_hutte.jpg', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2UJWp0U-3Qg3MZ2QH6udRFF2Wk-DUMQWnH64ZLE5XvtUZihvzKEOvRL2eEsG62_quIVa1xHhfr6pGDSfBwLmxRcy0GXRZFPTKYWXTcZyEEj6guwsYpY1ZaTvHaRJMZC-xv7NcOgklLzQ/s320/Scree_Slope_Near_Meiler_hutte.jpg" border="0" alt="Scree_Slope_Near_Meiler_hutte" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381896447971820274" /></a><br /><br />The terrain continues like this as the clouds surround me. The water condenses on my jacket and face and the vagueness of the trail has me wondering whether I might have taken a wrong turn. There can be no trail markings on a slope like this. How could there be? They would be covered in a month with new gravel. So I follow the thin line, less than one foot wide, toward the farthest edge of the mountain. There is a false trail off to the left which I almost take. My instinct tells me, however, that I should be going up.<br /><br />I turn a corner and the trail becomes firm again. But now I am hiking up an exhausting series of switchbacks. The switchbacks seem endless but, just as I wonder whether I will ever find the hut in this fog, a building creeps over the next ridge. A wave of relief washes over me as I approach an incongruous barbed wire fence at the top and see lights in a grotto behind the small building. Meilerhütte comes into view, with its two-storey glass doorway and its red cedar shingles. The grotto appears to be a shrine of some sort but I don't have the energy to investigate. <br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbi42kLVJBJpGHh4-r4tfVl5b1JpdUJxTAoVMtO3vKTyk0Aj446E24rvQM1s1b3V1sbEBMqfF9i39iy1MmLm-nwiX62JYn_5_sdXWYruecaLW2sD5adR7Ry2xCGn7B_4DGKuAPwBakD4/s1600-h/MeilerHutte.JPG', null, 'height=600, width=800')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLbi42kLVJBJpGHh4-r4tfVl5b1JpdUJxTAoVMtO3vKTyk0Aj446E24rvQM1s1b3V1sbEBMqfF9i39iy1MmLm-nwiX62JYn_5_sdXWYruecaLW2sD5adR7Ry2xCGn7B_4DGKuAPwBakD4/s320/MeilerHutte.JPG" border="0" alt="Meilerhütte" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382639244450768706" /></a>I enter the building and take off my shoes. The entry way is a new addition to an old building. The rafters are new wood and one wall of the clothes-drying room is the side of the old building. <br /><br />In the dining room I order an apfelsaft gespritzt (carbonated apple juice.) Two guitars hang, unused, from the brown wooden walls, and there are several black and white photographs. Otherwise, the room is unremarkable. On the far side of the room, a group of Englishmen pack around a small table. On the left, three Frenchmen are playing a game with little plastic pigs. They throw the pigs and collect points depending on the way that they land. I join the Frenchmen, to practice my French, but they end up practicing their English instead. I do not protest. They warn me not to drink the water here. It is collected from the roof and, as such, contains all sorts of unwanted bacteria as well as bird droppings. We chat for a bit about hiking. They are heading the other way on the E4 so it is unlikely that I will see them again.<br /><br />For dinner, I order Eggs, potatoes, hash and a "radler" (half beer, half lemonade). It is filling and enjoyable -- just the right amount of salt and protein after my first day of hiking. I excuse myself to eat at a table with more free space. By the time I am through, the Frenchmen have gone off to bed. I write down some notes in my journal and then head upstairs to read myself to sleep by the light of my headlamp. I can't believe that I have come so far in just 24 hours.<br /><br />Next Week: <a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/10/via-alpina-day-2-meilerhutte-to.html">Knorrhütte</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-50316913330266198272009-09-09T19:51:00.000-07:002009-09-17T20:45:29.821-07:00Via Alpina - 10 Days Solo, Prologue<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdZW2k5mmPbBhSRDxLh4sq7BOkV_clF7yFx8kJUHmxzHyS2lCws7ayVWMY4-fju2nlZsxnXli015_pRGwA80e3LGFChhMbWY2oy-Rq44-S_IFaFjL8C5PhSgsNkBPkmiL-lljwa6QjQw/s1600-h/Trail+Signs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 96px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdZW2k5mmPbBhSRDxLh4sq7BOkV_clF7yFx8kJUHmxzHyS2lCws7ayVWMY4-fju2nlZsxnXli015_pRGwA80e3LGFChhMbWY2oy-Rq44-S_IFaFjL8C5PhSgsNkBPkmiL-lljwa6QjQw/s400/Trail+Signs.jpg" border="0" alt="Via Alpina Trail Signs" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375836404955015506" /></a><br />Wednesday, August 23, 2006 <br /><br />I am packed and waiting, writing in my notebook some deepish-type thought about air travelers as insignificant dust particles. I pause to glance around the space-age Chicago O'Hare terminal and realize that 90% of my writing is doomed to be best appreciated by black spores in damp basement boxes.<br /><br />I am killing time at a layover in Chicago, waiting for Lufthansa to take me to Munich. I'll be hiking alone in the Alps for ten days before heading to Venice where I'll meet my wife. My wife doesn't hike. She has more sense than I do. She prefers "normal" vacations. You know, the kind where you relax, stay in a hotel and eat delicious food. I, on the other hand, wear my vacations like hair shirts. There will be time for cappuccinos and artwork after I've done a good, thorough penance.<br /><br />It would be lying to say that I wanted her to hike. Many people find this revelation shocking. Honestly, though, I love her even more for our mutual frankness on that subject. There are some things we do very well together and some things we just don't. At this point "roughing it" falls into the latter category. Three years ago she announced, quite firmly, that she'd had quite enough of "roughing it". We had just finished renovating the condemned Victorian apartment building. It had been a year of pure torture: January in Providence with no heat; three months of thick, brown hot water; nine months of a shower lined with plastic garbage bags and bats flying out of the fire-scorched bathroom ceiling to do laps around the kitchen, etc, etc... I'm probably stupid enough to do it all again but, for her, the whole thing was just a little bit much.<br /><br />This morning that all seemed like ancient history as she dropped me at the Providence, T.F. Green Airport. We were sad but resigned when we said our goodbyes over a shared nacho platter and two Bass ales. Then we played peek-a-boo through the bullet-proof barriers as I negotiated the maze of blue belts to the X-ray machines. When I looked back over the crowd of baggage inspectors, she had disappeared. When we meet again again in Venice, I'll be relaxed enough to kick back with some seafood risotto by a dark, moonlit canal. Right now, I'm ready for exercise.<br /><br />The seats in Chicago O'Hare are just comfortable enough to keep me off the floor. Barely. I can't quite say why I like airports so much. The food is the flavor of cardboard packaging, the staff is dismissive at best, and there's nothing to do here but wait. On the other hand, there are no responsibilities. And flying... there is something so unbelievable about flying. I get into an aluminum tube with wings and, incredibly, it flies me wherever I want to go.<br /><br />After an hour lay-over, I am sitting in my window seat inside a trans-Atlantic jet. This seat even comes with my own magic television and headset -- free with my ticket! Could I possibly be happier here?<br /><br />The captain's accent is Midwestern and reassuringly confident. He'll stay awake while the rest of us sleep. It's kind of like having my dad at the wheel of the station wagon when I was a kid. Riding at night, with the back seats folded down under my pillow, I never felt safer.<br /><br />It's twenty minutes of taxiing, turning and waiting before the pilot gives his orders to the crew. The attendants strap into handy little shelves that pop down from the walls. The engines fire again -- this time with feeling -- and the plane crawls, then sprints, then rockets forward. Gravity pulls us back in our seats as the nose lifts off of the runway. Every seam in the airplane wrenches to adjust to the pull of the two massive jet engines.<br /><br />By the time the rattling settles down we are soaring over the countryside, breathing strange, metallic air from screw-down vents that chill balding heads like my own. The television sputters to life and the attendants unbuckle from their shelves. I watch a few brainless sitcoms then read for a spell. After a sticky airline meal, I grab two airline pillows and fold up the arm of the vacant seat beside me. I wrap my legs and shoulders in a blanket and, with the benefit of many months of research and five previous trips to the Alps, try to visualize the next two weeks.<br /><br />I'll be starting my hike in Scharnitz, Austria, a stone's throw from the German border. I'll hike on the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.via-alpina.org/en/page/237/the-red-trail', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Via Alpina "Red Trail"</a> for about seven days, staying in the alpine huts and tiny villages that I find along the way. By day seven or eight I should be in the bustling town of Oberstdorf, Germany, where eight years ago I had a <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-go-solo-days-5-and-6.html', null, 'height=600, width=800')">memorable dinner</a> in an outdoor beer garden with my old friend Charles. Then I'll turn south to hike three more days along the Via Alpina's "Yellow Trail". This northern section of the Yellow Trail is identical to my old, familiar E5 route. I will follow these paths to the quaint little town of Zams. Up the road from Zams is a small city called Landek. From there I hope to catch a train to Venice. <br /><br />At least that's the plan. I have no real idea what this trek will be like. Even in August, the weather in the Alps can be fickle and dangerous. I am hiking alone and must be cautious. The trails I am hiking may not be well-traveled. All things considered, I may need to take some liberties with my itinerary.<br /><br />This will be my first completely solo hike. I have always hiked with friends in the past but, as I get older, everyone else becomes busier. Money and time becomes a major obstacle. So, if I want to keep hiking, I will need to hike solo more often. Happily, I've never had a hard time making friends on the trail.<br /><br />On this thought, sleep finally overcomes my upright position and carries me off, mouth hanging open, snoring like a bear in a cave, no doubt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXspc3ywXKVpCHxo8XufiD2TP4mX-LGVUwJQ6nfGKf4divfIfFfvEMU4qdTsVLsNvShyphenhyphenpHi_nssaigdHIm2cgpBBpA1SoknjK0vVk28pxx3l8GXfYoAJ3HHj_twCLhsNgxU5PJiivdyw/s1600-h/Leki_Hiking_Stick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXspc3ywXKVpCHxo8XufiD2TP4mX-LGVUwJQ6nfGKf4divfIfFfvEMU4qdTsVLsNvShyphenhyphenpHi_nssaigdHIm2cgpBBpA1SoknjK0vVk28pxx3l8GXfYoAJ3HHj_twCLhsNgxU5PJiivdyw/s400/Leki_Hiking_Stick.jpg" border="0" alt="Leki Hiking Stick in the Alps" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378344431101369090" /></a><br /><br />Next Week: <a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/via-alpina-munich-to-meilerhutte.html">Meilerhütte</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-38691606908207223452009-09-03T09:54:00.000-07:002009-09-26T14:29:51.712-07:00Hen of the Woods Mushrooms: Preserving and Storing the American MaitakeLast fall, a friend and I experimented with freezing, drying and canning hen of the woods (maitake) mushrooms. These were our discoveries:<br /><font size=1>[see also <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/09/black-trumpet-mushrooms-elusive.html', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Black Trumpet Mushrooms</a>]</font><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6qKdgfQGs4LqismElPdugKqWCpBVW6MD8SWZE8_Vw397aCtZ0H9GtparUnxFogOC9ZVuHyR94gHXNMlDLuy7X0VfHxA1ONI-OSrko4qw6mRuVtUmalFmTEHfRuw20UqlcSspp6Xjlx8/s1600-h/Hen_of_the_Woods_Mushroom.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6qKdgfQGs4LqismElPdugKqWCpBVW6MD8SWZE8_Vw397aCtZ0H9GtparUnxFogOC9ZVuHyR94gHXNMlDLuy7X0VfHxA1ONI-OSrko4qw6mRuVtUmalFmTEHfRuw20UqlcSspp6Xjlx8/s320/Hen_of_the_Woods_Mushroom.JPG" border="0" alt="Maitake / Hen of the Woods Mushroom" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383292137142116770" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Disclaimer</strong><br /><br />This blog post is not to be used for mushroom identification purposes. If you are interested in wild mushrooms you should seek professional (and possibly psychiatric) help. I take no responsibility for the consequences of your bad judgment. I have enough trouble dealing with the consequences of my own. <br /><br /><strong>Introduction</strong><br /><br />Last fall, my friend Charles and I collected a number of <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grifola_frondosa', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Grifola frondosa</a> mushrooms. Commonly known as "hen of the woods" or "maitake" mushrooms, they are easy to spot and identify . Being novice mushroom collectors, we decided that it would be best to start with a type that was simple to identify and fairly easy to locate. We ended up collecting about twenty or thirty pounds of maitake between the two of us. It was so much that it would have been impossible for us to eat it all before it went limp in the refrigerator.<br /><br />My wife has less interest in this sort of thing than I do. She is a bit more down to earth and prefers her food to come from somewhere other than the base of a tree at the side of a country road. Even if she had been more enthusiastic about the earthy flavor of these hen of the woods mushrooms, we never would have eaten our entire share in the short time that they were available.<br /><br />Charles had the same dilemma. His wife, though more interested, was pregnant at the time. Their other child was only three and it seemed a bit dangerous to start feeding him wild mushrooms at such a young age. The obvious solution was to experiment with various means of storing our bounty. Between the two of us, we tried three methods of preservation: canning, drying and loose freezing. I thought it might be interesting to report on the results of these experiments and to pass along what we learned in the process.<br /><br />Hen of the woods mushrooms are found in the northeast between late August (in Maine) and November (southern New York). In Rhode Island and southern Massachusetts, we had good luck from late September through the end of October, 2008. We got started a little late, however. Charles reports that his wife spotted the first Grifola already, during the last week of August. So the hunt is on.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfchRng6-WSyoboXDK8BcGuO67_qddXheEeaKff82SDWBCxg73CLjwLJOTgOAYQXk9fu2cKwaGC1hLw6hUL444PpHs0j5BY_QTBi8tPH6CUkRVR9ePBDdauKRwNKoAexaZYPDe69t_vrI/s1600-h/Maitake_Mushroom.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfchRng6-WSyoboXDK8BcGuO67_qddXheEeaKff82SDWBCxg73CLjwLJOTgOAYQXk9fu2cKwaGC1hLw6hUL444PpHs0j5BY_QTBi8tPH6CUkRVR9ePBDdauKRwNKoAexaZYPDe69t_vrI/s320/Maitake_Mushroom.JPG" border="0" alt="Maitake Mushroom Ready for Cleaning" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383266370718566882" /></a>The Grifola frondosa mushrooms that we collected last year were up to a foot in diameter and ranged from one to five pounds in weight. They look a bit like the grey-brown children of a cauliflower and a coral. They do not taste very good raw but, freshly picked and sauteed, they are richly flavorful mushrooms that cook up nicely in butter and garlic. Frondosa make a brilliant side dish and a delicious mushroom soup. They go well with poultry and would be a great addition to chicken or turkey stuffing. I like them with my eggs instead of home fries. One might substitute these mushrooms anywhere that a cooked portabello would be appropriate but where twice as much flavor is acceptable. It is always bad form, of course, to serve wild mushrooms to anyone who is not very excited and completely aware of the potential consequences of mis-identification, so I did not experiment too widely with larger-scale preparations and was hesitant to involve my extended family in the process. In the end, my sister was the only one brave enough to try one. She was thrilled with the result and will be excited to hear that the season is once more upon us.<br /><br /><strong>Storage Methods</strong><br /><br />The methods that I, personally, used for storage were loose freezing (as opposed to vacuum freezing) and drying. I bought a vacuum bag sealer too late in the process but intend to try this method soon as an alternative to loose freezing.<br /><br />To freeze the mushrooms, I used the following process:<br /><ol><br /><li>I washed each head in a large pot. To do so, I filled the pot with water, turned the head upside down and dunked it forcefully into and out of the water until the water was dirtier than the mushroom itself. This process was repeated with fresh water until there was no more dirt to come free.</li><br /><li>Next, I separate the heads into smaller, cauliflower-like, stalks, picked out the twigs, cut off the embedded dirty bits and rewashed the remaining stalks thoroughly again.</li><br /><li>I then dried the stalks and froze them overnight on a cookie sheet. This helped keep the stalks from freezing together so that I would be able to thaw only what I needed for any given recipe.</li><br /><li>Once frozen, I placed the stalks into Ziplock® freezer bags and pressed out all the air I could. This was a real challenge, as the frozen stalks had a lot of air between them and were sharp enough to penetrate a freezer bag.</li><br /><li></li><br /></ol><br /><br />To dry the mushrooms I used a similar process, the only difference being that I placed the cookie sheet in a warm oven on the lowest setting (170 degrees) with the oven door open. I let them sit like this for perhaps 24 hours, warming up the oven every few hours and then shutting it off. In the end, I closed the oven door for an hour with the heat on. I think I would probably experiment with closed door drying next time, as this seemed to dry them much more quickly. I don't want to cook them, though, so this will require some experimentation. My result, however, was quite satisfactory. The pieces were extremely lightweight, shriveled and could be easily snapped without bending, even at their thickest points. An entire three pound maitake, dessicated, can fit into a 16 ounce hummus container, and I have successfully stored such a mushroom for an entire year.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Oiq-xN7utm7y-wIJzAnDskvcrsp0F32qljP4Rovu725CcvIjtxL87rKMElUXe3gI53Xk-NxkDiZMyAhMMarybZCXM3WUnHnBa0foPJVutgza0RRFvaH-AvgVHuYXKD78wBo_oaNI_Hg/s1600-h/Maitake_Mushroom_Cleaned_and+Cut.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Oiq-xN7utm7y-wIJzAnDskvcrsp0F32qljP4Rovu725CcvIjtxL87rKMElUXe3gI53Xk-NxkDiZMyAhMMarybZCXM3WUnHnBa0foPJVutgza0RRFvaH-AvgVHuYXKD78wBo_oaNI_Hg/s320/Maitake_Mushroom_Cleaned_and+Cut.JPG" border="0" alt="Maitake Mushroom Cleaned and Cut" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383287441557561858" /></a>To can mushroom soup base, you are pretty much on your own. I did not prepare the mushrooms this way, so I cannot give any advice except the basics and to suggest that canning is a potentially dangerous process so you should proceed with caution. Charles found the recipe <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4524365', null, 'height=600, width=800')">here</a> and, against the advice of the author, substituted chicken stock for water. He also held out the cream, to be added after the can was opened. It was a delicious, peppery soup that went well with poultry and winter vegetables.<br /><br /><strong>Preparation of Stored Mushrooms</strong><br /><br />The frozen mushrooms were easily thawed and prepared just as if they were fresh. As time went on, however, they began to exchange odors in the freezer with my other frozen goods. They also became tougher as the water from the mushrooms turned to frosty crystals on the stalks and florets. After three months, I lost interest in the frozen version and, after six months, I tossed the remaining pieces.<br /><br />I had kept the dried mushrooms in a small container in the back of our kitchen storage cabinet. I had not bothered to reconstitute any of them until this weekend for no reason except laziness and the fact that nobody else in my household was likely to eat them with me. The coming mushroom season made me curious, however, so last night I decided to soak enough for breakfast.<br /><br />This morning I tried the reconstituted Grifola frondosa, and they are definitely worth the trouble. They were a bit less tender than fresh but, considering their year in storage, plumped up more than I expected. I compensated by cutting them smaller than I would have with fresh, and they were a tasty side to my morning eggs. I would consider them as a fun, healthy alternative to bacon or home fries.<br /><br />To prepare dried hen of the woods mushrooms:<br /><ol><br /><li>Place the dessicated bits in a bowl and cover them with plenty of warm water. Place a plate on top to keep out any insects or stray debris.</li><br /><li>Let them sit for 30 minutes or more, until they are elastic and easily cut with a sharp kitchen knife. They will not grow back to their original size, and the stalks will remain somewhat shriveled. I estimate that they are perhaps half their former size.</li><br /><li>I chose to slice the pieces more thinly than I would have with fresh or frozen mushrooms. I diced them into 3mm to 5mm bits and pan fried them with salt and butter. The results were exceptional. If I'd had garlic on hand, I imagine that the flavor would have been indistinguishable from fresh. They could easily be substituted for fresh mushrooms anywhere that diced bits would be acceptable.</li><br /></ol><br /><br />Reconstituted mushroom observations:<br /><ul><br /><li>The reconstituted pieces were a little bit tougher than fresh or freshly frozen mushrooms. The stalks were the toughness of, perhaps, al dente green beans (without any unpleasant stringiness), the fronds were almost as tender as fresh -- the texture reminded me of a seaweed salad.</li> <br /><li>The reconstituted mushrooms were not quite as fragrant while cooking. This is not a bad thing, really, as the fresh mushrooms have the tendency to fill a room and linger -- a bit like lobster -- well after the meal is over. Twenty minutes after cooking the dried version, the smell was almost gone. If they were fresh, I would have been smelling them for 24 hours. This may have something to do with the lack of garlic, however, so I will need to test this with garlic later.</li><br /></ul><br /><br /><strong>Conclusions</strong><br /><br />Compared to freezing in loose bags, except for the very short-term, drying is definitely preferable. The resulting product they will keep indefinitely and can be stored without electricity in a very small space. I think I would prefer this method for long-term storage even to freezing in vacuum-sealed bags. However, vacuum freezing gives easier access without reconstituting and, if done correctly, will probably give a better result for at least the first three to six months. <br /><br />Canning is a great way to provide quick access to a liquid version but is obviously less flexible than drying or freezing. Soup could easily be made from the dried stalks, and I imagine there would be no discernible difference in flavor. The difference would be in the prep time. It is always nice to have a nice can of soup on hand on a cold winter day.<br /><br />Bon Appetit!Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-80499820692720608052009-08-27T21:38:00.000-07:002009-08-27T21:40:06.526-07:00E5 Epilogue<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvQuUtlfNSzK20Y79_XFNvJEMTLjBxYiFUEwVClUYe-0IS7JZSQH_T0Bjl97-LogL-S1Yrtl6yS_WzWCjOy1rPsp2QPftF_J95s71Yfm3sGRNAWCB2Xg4LKIE4DRplJtUavP1Ctee68E/s320/MeHiking.jpg" border="0" alt="Hiking In The Alps" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373240801130664578" /><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/over-timmelsjoch-and-into-italian-alps.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br /><a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolzano', null, 'width=800, height=600')">Bolzano, Italy</a>, known as Bozen to the German speakers in the region, once belonged to the Austro-Hungarian empire. Just like the rest of South Tyrol, it came under intense pressure to become more Italian during the earlier part of the last century. The city has, more or less, capitulated, though the region as a whole is still quite ethnically divided. Consequently, as we were soon to discover, the German language is of little or no use in Bolzano.<br /><br />By the time we stepped on the bus in Moos in Paseier, we had both decided we were done with our hiking trip. We had some regrets about not completing the entire section of the E5 from Konstance to Bolzano. Nonetheless, we had done the lion's share of it. The remainder was child's play compared to the hundred miles we had already covered.<br /><br />Looking at myself in my hotel room's full-length mirror the previous evening I had seen a skeleton. My ribs were visible above a sunken stomach, my cheek bones protruded. Maybe it was just the fluorescent overhead bathroom lighting but, at least in that light, I was beginning to resemble a starved prisoner of war.<br /><br />Charles had other concerns. He couldn't stop thinking about his office and the problems to which he should be attending. Being so far out of touch at a time of crisis was hard to endure. We still needed to make it back to Paris somehow and then, if luck was with us, catch an Air-Hitch flight out of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Thinking about the time this would take was practically giving him hives.<br /><br />The bus dropped us off at the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://travel.webshots.com/photo/1098733668051015616WKxroc', null, 'width=800, height=600')">train station in Bolzano</a>. The station was striking to look at but, much like the region itself, it had a peculiar split personality. The right half was all grey Doric columns and Greek styling. The left half was more Mediterranean in design with a tall, square clock tower and reddish brown shingles. Clearly one half had preceded the other but it was hard to tell which might have come first.<br /><br />We said goodbye to the Übers and they went off in search of a cable car to take them to the beginning of the next trail. We were sorry to see them go, not knowing if we would ever see them again, but after 11 days in the mountains we were tired of bunk rooms and ready for some city food.<br /><br />We entered the ticketing hall and Charles went to the window to buy tickets on the night train while I waited with the bags by the entry way. When he returned he was beside himself with anxiety.<br /><br />"We're stuck in Bozen," he said. "We may as well find a hotel and settle in."<br /><br />"What to you mean?" I asked, incredulous. On the board were at least two trains leaving for Paris that very day. "Look at the departures."<br /><br />"Oh there's trains, " he replied. "We just can't get reservations on any of them... not for the next four days."<br /><br />I was stunned. Bolzano was a nice little city but we couldn't possibly stay for four days. I shook my head. "That doesn't sound right," I said. "That just can't be possible."<br /><br />Charles tilted his head and looked at me with a hard, fed-up stare. He was as tired of me as I was of him. It wasn't the first time I had let him do the dirty work and then questioned his results. "Well, if you want to go and argue with the lady, be my guest."<br /><br />Now nobody likes a know-it-all -- or so I've been told more times than I can possibly remember. My main problem is that I believe myself to have remarkable insight into things that I don't really understand at all. This belief, coupled with a fairly good track record for guessing, has driven many former friends and acquaintances to absolute distraction.<br /><br />The fact that I came back with tickets won me few points with Charles. He could tell, from the thinly veiled smirk on my face, that I was gloating.<br /><br />"What the hell?" he said when I gave him his ticket.<br /><br />"I think you were asking for a reserved ticket," I said -- making a weak attempt at tact. "These seats aren't 'reserved'. We just sit wherever there's an empty seat."<br /><br />It was probably better that we split up for the rest of the afternoon. Charles went in search of a <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%B6ner_kebab', null, 'width=800, height=600')">Döner kebab</a> and I went off to read in the shade. We agreed to meet back at the station thirty minutes before departure.<br /><br />Bolzano felt tropical after our time in the nearby mountains. Vines tumbled over high, stuccoed garden walls, and everything was lush, fed by no fewer than three glacial rivers. Kiwi fruit dangled from backyard trellises, shaded by their elephant-eared vines. Vineyards anchored the nearby slopes, and the mountains, still capped with snow, were the backdrop of every vista. The homes on the nicer streets were vast and square. They were invariably stuccoed and either yellow, peach or beige in color. Where this wealth came from and how these grand properties continued to be maintained was a mystery to me.<br /><br />We met back at the station in the early evening and claimed an unreserved cabin on the train. The train was an over-nighter, arriving in Paris the following morning, and we were determined to keep the cabin to ourselves. To do so, we came up with a devious, and blatantly inconsiderate, plan. <br /><br />Initially, we spread out our bags to make it appear that every seat was taken. This ruse worked well, and soon the train was rolling out of the valley and into the darkness of the countryside. But now we needed to lie down and, somehow, keep others from trying to claim the seats we were using as our beds. I don't know which of us came up with part two of the plan in which we put on our headlamps, shut off the cabin lights and laid down -- heads at the outside wall of the train. Every time the train came to a stop, we would turn on our headlamps and aim them at the door. Anyone who paused to look was greeted by two bright beams staring silently out of the darkness. Needless to say, nobody had the courage to turn on the lights and ask if they could take an empty seat.<br /><br />We arrived in Paris fairly well rested and took rooms in a youth hostel. We didn't see much of each other from then on. I wandered the city for a couple of days. Charles went right to work with Airhitch and got himself a flight out early the next morning. <br /><br />Three days later I was back in Boston, at home with my girlfriend and working at my dead-end job. But that trip had changed me. It planted in me a travel-bug and, dare I say it, a sense of confidence that has, so far, been responsible for nearly a dozen European adventures as well as a dramatic career change.<br /><br />Two weeks later we met to debrief in a bar in Somerville. Instead of reminiscing, we nearly came to blows. We had bottled up so much mutual resentment that we could hardly stand to be in the same room, let alone sit at the same table. I don't think either of us realized just how tired we were of each other. After that evening we wrote off our friendship entirely.<br /><br />Soon after, I began making landmark changes to my life. I ended my 4-year relationship and moved in with an Italian con-artist, a French exchange student and a nymphomaniac dental hygienist -- but that's a story for another time. I helped launch a Web design company and buried myself in my work. My main goal was to make enough money to travel whenever I wanted. Nothing mattered except my next hiking vacation to the beautiful mountains of Europe.<br /><br />I was, however, troubled by the thought that I had lost such a good friend. I couldn't even remember the reason. All I could recall were the good times. The embarrassing "Heiße Liebe" sundae; the Übers; the magnificent glacier over Braunschweiger Hütte; the giant breakfast in Zwieselstein.<br /><br />So I stoked up my nerve and called him. A machine on the end of the line told me that the number had been changed. There was a forwarding number, however, so I wrote it down and tried it. A woman answered.<br /><br />"Is Charles there?" I asked hesitantly -- not sure if I might have misdialed.<br /><br />"No he's not. Can I ask who is calling?" she replied.<br /><br />I told her.<br /><br />"Oh, it's you," she said, smiling on the other end of the line. "I've been trying to get him to call you."<br /><br />"You have?" I asked, puzzled. Who was this woman and how did she know me?<br /><br />"Yes, he is always talking about you and the great times you had together. I told him it was stupid that he was so stubborn and that he should just call."<br /><br />I left a message and Charles called me back that very evening. It was as if we had never once argued in our lives.<br /><br />It may sound strange but I feel that our friendship did not really start until after that reconnection. Since then we have hiked many times together (see my <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/hiking-kungsleden.html', null, 'height=600, width=800')">Kungsleden</a> travelogue) and many times apart but we have always taken this lesson with us: it is great to travel with a friend but one must have the courage to hike alone and to be one's own guide.<br /><br />I am pleased to say that we have maintained a rewarding long-distance friendship with the Übers. Robert has come to visit us here, and Charles and I hiked with the whole family again several years later. Robert is now in his mid twenties, with a graduate degree and a fianceé. His English is better than ever, and his parents, ten years on, continue to hike over alpine glaciers.<br /><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4ngK9bdTI5_q-g5TJu6E5ZrlVbs0E76Q9AJ8jMWjEzMgzW3yd6OwJs7eZhXJddT-2_4tQw_OexRfj74YeGxSuQdqjT8oZHLdRcWLxm6uS3_vyyHOZpm8q-fudK3YBpkLwK5E-gSNpUE/s320/HikingInTheAlps.JPG" border="0" alt="Hiking a Knife Edge In The Alps" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373245365739430386" /><br /><br />Happy trekking!<br />K-Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-65280816517236377272009-08-19T20:28:00.000-07:002009-08-27T21:44:23.671-07:00Over Timmelsjoch and Into the Italian Alps - Day 11<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371137517570132386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="Fernwanderweg E5" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnF2XbKziE7lEFddKr3sX1NJ3AnOEB2MyCaS2vOgbbJi2As2S5K7mhlZwZ7XrO7zTVmghWLr73BznLdgaSfY6BcBdIFIqf2evpzrWatKNW_3Be611WLWRdT1MGvd6WVGyRObiqOb9tibk/s320/FernwanderwegE5.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/to-zwieselstein-day-10.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />The trip to Zwieselstein brought two minor miracles. The first was, of course, Charles' survival on the treacherous snow field. The second was an 8 oz bottle of Canadian maple syrup that we found in Zwieselstein's tiny supermarket. I must caution my more adventurous readers that this supermarket has since been replaced by an ill-stocked convenience store with little more than carbonated drinks and junk-food snacks. At the time, however, we were able to piece together all the ingredients of an elaborate Lumberjack Breakfast for the entire hiking party.<br /><br />We treated the Übers to what we imagined would be a breakfast epiphany. Once they had tried our breakfast, we speculated, word would spread through Germany and the entire continent about the pleasures and benefits of the Lumberjack Breakfast. I called home for my favorite pancake recipe, Charles fried up eggs, fatty ham (a decent bacon substitute) and diced potatoes. We offered orange juice and coffee, the whole works.<br /><br />To our great surprise, the Übers didn't quite get it. Perhaps they were taken off guard by the heaps of carbohydrates, sugar and cholesterol. They didn't seem to know what to make of the maple syrup that I was pretty nearly drinking off the plate. For people who were used to eating their oats raw and their meats in paper-thin slices, it was probably a bit of a shocker. Regardless, we were very pleased with ourselves. My meager morning rations had been making me very homesick.<br /><br />By the time we had cleaned up, the Übers had a good head start on us. We had arranged to meet for lunch at Timmelsjoch, the mountain pass into Italy.<br /><br />Our morning hike started uphill from Zwieselstein. There was some confusion here due, I believe, to an overzealous (or sick humored) trail blazing team. The guidebook suggested that we hike up a dirt road but the first blazes we spotted were in the middle of a field. So we climbed the fence and proceeded to wade through damp, thigh-high stinging nettles and field grass up a thirty degree slope. <br /><br />We soon found ourselves running back and forth, like desperate squirrels, searching for rocks with painted red and white stripes. Eventually the blazes disappeared entirely and we were left standing like idiots in the middle of the field. So we trudged blindly upward. The real trail, discovered on later hikes, is the dirt road that runs up the left of the field. Our farce concluded when this road crossed the field about a quarter of a mile up. Wet with dew, and exhausted from bushwhacking, we clamored over the stone wall and onto the real trail.<br /><br />We soon passed through a pine forest and then out into fields again, this time with a proper trail and miles of open grassland. The sky seemed vast and beautifully blue after yesterday's fog. We were now crossing the high plains of the Ötz valley. A road ran through the center, taking traffic up to Timmelsjoch, our lunch meeting place and half-way point and the psychological (if not the actual) half-way point between Zieweselsteain, Austria and Moos in Passeier, Italy -- our destination that evening. As the trail opened up, Charles walked on ahead. My energy was lower than usual, and my pack felt heavy.<br /><br />Sheep grazed lazily on the alpine grass, bored and unattended. I found water in a stream under a footbridge and refilled my bottles. The trail crossed the road several times as I climbed the grassy slopes of the canyon. It was a pleasant walk, despite my lethargy.<br /><br />Timmelsjoch stands at the border between Italy and Austria. My first sight of it was an old, dilapidated building on a distant ridge as I climbed up the left side of the Ötz. On the road below, motorcyclists and trailer trucks sped by. The terrain was becoming dryer and more desolate, a marmot screeched in the distance and a hawk circled overhead. The sun and the dry wind evaporated my sweat as soon as it started. I could see Charles, perhaps a half mile ahead, climbing steadily. I was in no hurry. My pant legs were hard and caked with dry dust, and my appetite had not yet returned.<br /><br />When we got to the top, we met the Übers at the small Rasthaus Timmelsjoch, 8231 feet above sea level. The Übers had taken a long table with a large picture window at one end. The view was impressive, and we happily joined them for lunch. I ordered a weisswurst and, on a whim, decided to try an <a onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Almdudler', null, 'width=800, height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=2227532777431512278#">Almdudler</a>, a soft drink that I had seen all over Austria. It tasted a little like a ginger ale but indescribably better, and I immediately regretted not having drunk more of it over the past week.<br /><br />The sausage came quickly and was perfectly acceptable but I was starting to feel just a little bit off. The Almdudler helped, and I ordered another. Charles practiced his German and I faded back from the conversation. I was glad that the climbing part of the day was behind us but we still had several hours of weary descent before Moos.<br /><br />Leaving the restaurant we stepped into the dramatic <a onclick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passeier_Valley', null, 'width=800, height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=2227532777431512278#">Passeier Valley</a> at the frontier of Italy and Austria. Down the slope were the remnants of battered buildings and redoubts that appeared to be World War I defenses. Before the war, both sides of this pass belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The slope seemed to have been fortified and defended against the Italians -- perhaps falling to the invaders as the Austrians retreated.<br /><br />Since the treaty of Versailles, the region of South Tyrol has belonged to the Italians. The German speakers of the South Tyrol are still said to resent their Italian government. These days their solidarity takes the form of a blue apron worn by most German-speaking men in rural towns. This traditional apron is part of their working class heritage but also shows a passive resistance to Italian influence.<br /><br />As we descended the slope we could study the shattered fortifications (or what we <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://rexlintproductions.com/', null, 'width=800, height=600')"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371130267113955266" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="Unterhalb der Grenze near Timmelsjoch, Italy" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37f2wa4X_tmvYopbdXZ2Bqpr96is5hdhNyLqzgKONDM7Gd5XxHPfRKDQ5su5gAcCeSQeR0AQXx7VUVgGfjrdoY2c4ijFvIhR-XOUHQfufD47n6mTLeXwk-1-xufN4D153FPo8oWSWX-4/s320/PasseierValley1.jpg" border=0></a>took to be fortifications) first hand. Goats and cows grazed in the empty foundations. Stone walls crumbled, pock-marked with age or, perhaps, bullet holes. I stepped into the most intact building, its wooden shutters rotting, doors falling off hinges, windows barred. The floor was littered with broken furniture and rusty wire. I tried to imagine what it might have felt like to man such a place in a time of war. The winters would have been merciless, the summers bloody. Now it looked, and smelled, like the birds had taken over.<br /><br />Dietrich told us that there had been a massacre somewhere on these slopes in the early 20<sup>th</sup> century. My research has revealed no mention of the incident, however, so I can neither confirm nor deny this story. Regardless, we were impressed both by his knowledge of history and by the fact that we were standing on the brink of such a terrible, beautiful, place.<br /><br />As we worked our way down during the following hour, the valley became greener. The sound of cow bells echoed off the canyon walls and rocky slope gave way to fenced pasture land. Soon the trail rejoined the road that had come down from Timmelsjoch. <br /><br />The next stretch was treacherous, along the side of a busy highway where motorcyclists and sports car drivers, high on exhilarating switchbacks, took little notice of the weary hiker. The road was hot and the heat penetrated my boots. The sun burned the back of my neck and I sought shade at every opportunity.<br /><br />I was still feeling queasy and, when the trail finally diverged from the road, I started to fall behind. The farms in this valley were both quaint and intriguing, clinging to the walls of the canyon like oysters. Near one farm, a generator buzzed away in an outbuilding, powered by a small stream. Goats grazed and farmers toiled, seemingly unaware of the nearby highway linking them to the outside world.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371135732048793218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="Rabenstein/Corvara In Passeier" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Cly0tqWtfzS_hG9mmcznBu3I7QBiGFtOJJFjY0VLjD1Qg27S8yMflhzgCNcnZpzGkuD5tEoFpVikADyXywN1PXcYhyphenhyphenUBM4uqY2spW1Pg9xmdjLvsviOADMc57FZFQ31I1tkjaWW3n70/s320/Rabenstein_Corvara_In_Passeier.jpg" border=0>Charles and the Übers were waiting for me at the edge of the road in the beautiful mountain village of Rabenstein. We hiked through town and a bit further before the trail diverged to follow a concrete-lined river bed. The river was divided into a series of ugly, artificial waterfalls. Even so, angular marble boulders were everywhere, standing by the path and obstructing the concrete bed. Fallen from the cliffs above, they seemed determined to take back the river.<br /><br />The path, itself, was littered with bits of marble, and there was evidence of quarrying everywhere we looked. I picked up a bright white lump while Robert was walking beside me. "For your girlfriend?" he asked, and I had to admit he had read my mind. I wondered what other talents this insightful young man was suppressing.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371133543554041938" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 186px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="Near Moos in Passeier, Italien -- Moso in Passiria, L'Italia" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5Hx1gAphCqzGoDLbAFNvZANuPvtf4mZT4Zj66-Ho1t7mVSI2PfBFaV2nQ3ohiZcaej9cKpWtwpLBtgBemH_RFiHhuDKGd_rW1ZeWroJpALEceW3y1HRU7AvAWX6MwHZx-bUQFGWxxyM/s320/Near_Moos_in_Passeier.jpg" border=0>Before we reached Moos, Dietrich told us that his family would skip the next several legs of the hike. "The next few sections are not so dramatic," he said. "We will take the bus to Bolzano and continue from there." <br /><br />This was a surprise to both Charles and me. We had come to consider the Übers part of our hiking party and would regret being left behind. Still, we had not planned to continue further than Bolzano and had no maps of that region. Charles had fond memories of the next several legs of the trail from the previous year but he had to admit that there was far less altitude and much more pasture.<br /><br />Our path passed a rock wall covered in chalk smears and bolted for climbing. Shortly thereafter we entered the tiny town of Moos in Passeier/Moso in Passiria, a town that appears to be built around three or four small, central hotels. We arranged with the Übers to meet at one of several outdoor cafes in the middle of town, and Charles and I retreated to separate rooms to wash the dust from our bodies and clothes.<br /><br />My queasiness had been replaced by mental exhaustion and a mild depression. Heavy drinking lowers the serotonin levels in the brain. I have, since, realized that this tends to make me depressed several days after a bender. I attribute my poor performance on this day to my drunken night at Braunschweiger coupled with the physical exertion of the hike. Had it not been for that binge, things might have turned out somewhat differently.<br /><br />An hour later, when I met Charles in the foyer, he was visibly concerned. He had called his secretary, just to check in, but it turned out that something serious had cropped up while he was out. "I should be doing damage control," he said. He did not go into details but I knew from past conversations that his work-place was a hub of intrigue. From what little he told me, I assumed that someone was taking advantage of his absence for their own political gain.<br /><br />I probably dismissed his worries without showing much empathy. In this travelogue I have shied away from dwelling on our tension but it had continued to grow by the day. I was still treating Charles as a tour guide more than a friend and failing to appreciate the efforts he was making. I took for granted his help with translations and resented him for not being able and willing to communicate all of my wishes to every hotelier and shopkeeper. The details are not central to this travelogue but the repercussions would alter our friendship in significant ways.<br /><br />Despite these tensions, we still felt like celebrating with the Übers. We had hiked with this amazing family for what seemed like a very long time. If we were never to see them again, we wanted to make the best of this final dinner. The cafe we chose turned out to be a good one. Robert helped me to order a meal that we both thought might be gnocchi but which turned out to be cheese balls again. Now you might think that, after all of the cheese balls I had endured, I would have dumped the plate into the nearest plant and ordered another dinner. Instead, I gave them another try and, amazingly, they were actually quite tasty. A good Italian cook can make just about any meal great. I drank a large beer and enjoyed a cheese strudel for dessert. The entire thing came to less than $12. Of course, the exchange rate was much better in those days.<br /><br />With the future of our hike uncertain, we agreed to take the morning bus to Bolzano with the Übers. Then we each retreated to our separate rooms and I, for one, fell directly into blissful sleep.<br /><br />Next week,<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/e5-epilogue.html">E5 Epilogue</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-3298841692557526612009-08-18T09:54:00.000-07:002009-08-18T11:38:45.136-07:00Off Topic - The Guns of New HampshireWhen I was 22, I worked in a pottery factory in Dover, New Hampshire for about nine months. It was a dirty job but it did not require me to think too much. As I was in the midst of finishing the final four credits of my Bachelor's degree, this suited me just fine.<br /><br />One day Joe, one of the other employees, showed up and made a point of exercising his legal right to bear arms. More specifically, he brought a handgun to work. He showed it to us at the picnic table outside the building and proceeded to clean and oil it while the rest of us ate our lunches.<br /><br />Nobody was really afraid. He was harmless, just a little peculiar. We had all seen guns before, most of us had owned one at one time or another, but we all recognized that bringing one to work was a very bad idea. It was, indeed, this man's right to bear arms -- an undisputed right where I grew up in New Hampshire. But it was also his employer's right to have him escorted away by the police and to terminate his employment immediately. Which is exactly what happened.<br /><br />A majority of Americans support the right to bear arms, as do I. A majority of Americans are also moderates and, generally, they don't want people showing up at political rallies, or other public functions, with guns strapped to their thighs. If you are going hunting, you carry a gun. If you are going to the firing range, you might carry a handgun -- hopefully in a locked case. But, much in the same way that you don't show up at a wedding in your Speedo, you don't show up at a political rally with a handgun on your hip. It is bad form, bad sportsmanship, and very likely to lead to more restrictions on our Second Amendment right to bear arms.<br /><br />As most people still remember, in the 1970's the Democratic party, rightly or wrongly, became associated with leftist extremism. This reputation weakened the party considerably in the decades to follow.<br /><br />If the Republican party wants to remain viable, it must distance itself as quickly as possible from the bizarre fringe that is alienating the majority of moderate Americans with lies, angry rhetoric and, in the case of these recent gun incidents, pure nuttiness. To avoid obsolescence, it must encourage and engage in constructive dialogue and discourage party-spoiling and rumor-mongering. It is important to both Democrats and Republicans that this happen sooner rather than later.<br /><br />The responsible Left needs the discipline of the responsible Right as much as the Right needs the creativity of the Left. Neither the Right nor the Left functions well in isolation. Politicians and pundits need to lead the way. If they cannot do so, we will soon be a one-party system. As desirable as this might seem to some Democrats, history teaches us that an unbalanced system is always more prone to collapse. Collapse is followed by chaos, and after chaos the other extreme quite often takes charge.<br /><br />So can we all please start acting normal again?Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-67946446460752375052009-08-13T18:37:00.000-07:002009-08-19T20:35:02.311-07:00To Zwieselstein, Day 10<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" alt="Pitztaler Jochl" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvM2WEGXwClhOpW6kLviqG-Zs1zp1x4u_Yiy-FeJ31odwFDsVfrwt21saH0Gd12ZPtzZF3v31b_BNyCHk5H2CoKalFB_LQDWZVt8HQ1jFdKaJUG3TRTHsimGxjFDWQvY7eq12q4md18BM/s320/PitztalerJochl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369637922976190322" /><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/braunschweiger-hutte-and-otztal.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />I was wide awake by four, weighing whether it would be rude to go to the restroom for the third time. Would the Übers start thinking there was something wrong with me? Were they already awake and wondering? Was my water bottle really empty again? Why was my mouth so dry? Would I be hung over on the most dangerous stretch of the hike? Would they mind if I used my headlamp to read?<br /><br />Worries grow like weeds in the middle of the night. After they've taken root it is pointless to even try sleeping. So I slid out of the top bunk, grabbed my boots and my bag and slipped out the door. The dining room door was closed so I sat on the floor in the hall, between other people's boots, and read about Kerouac hiking down from Mount Desolation in tattered sneakers. Thank goodness for boots!<br /><br />I was not feeling sick, which was lucky considering the circumstances. I felt very alert, even excited. The thought occurred to me that I might still be drunk but I didn't feel that way. That day I escaped the worst of it. A few days later I would not be so lucky.<br /><br />The Übers opened the door around 6:30, wondering where I had gone. They had soon packed their bags and we proceeded to the dining room together. At breakfast I began to realize how thrifty they really were. They had brought their own bread and butter, as well as cheese, jam (in a heavy glass jar no less), a large slab of ham, freeze-dried coffee, a dried up sausage and milk in an aseptic drink box. And while I was paying $6 for my morning rye bread, they ate a better breakfast for next to nothing. Of course, this meant that they carried it up and down every mountain but they didn't seem to mind. As a rule, Germans don't complain much.<br /><br />It was after breakfast that I discovered what a bad idea it had been to fill my water bottle from the plastic hoses in the washroom. The washrooms in huts are frequently equipped with faucets with plastic hoses that hang, like elephant trunks, from the faucet spouts. These hoses are just the right size for the mouth of a water bottle and had made filling mine much easier than cramming it into a tiny European sink. I had filled my water bottle this way in every hut we visited.<br /><br />Regrettably, it was not until that morning at Braunschweiger Hütte that I first observed the bathing habits of the other men. It may seem strange that it took this long but I am a modest man and usually prefer to use the facilities during the quieter hours of the late evening. This morning, however, I was going through water more quickly. So I slipped into the bathroom at a very busy time. There, to my horror, I realized that the aforementioned plastic tubes were intended for an entirely different purpose than filling water bottles. In short, German men are <i>very</i> thorough with their washing. And, since there were generally few if any showers in the huts, the hoses were actually intended for up-close cleaning of regions that would, otherwise, be awkward to rinse. Cruelly disillusioned, I retreated to search for a tiny European sink.<br /><br />We met on the terrace, the Übers and I, to finish our packing and to pull on our boots. There was little to see through the fog. Dietrich looked serious as he brushed up on the guidebook. Regarding the day's hike, the Cicerone Guide states firmly: "Under no circumstances should it be attempted in anything but perfect weather conditions." At the time, however, there was no English translation, so I was getting all my information second hand -- not that reading it myself would have made any difference at all.<br /><br />"This will be a very tricky climb," he said. "I am not sure what it will look like on the other side of Pitztaler Jöchl but if it is too dangerous, we may have to come back to the hut and descend the way we came."<br /><br />I did not argue but was determined to go over the top. Dietrich had his family to think about but I was feeling stronger than ever. I think Dietrich sensed that my over-confidence might be as much of a liability as an asset. He took firm control of the party and, by the tone of his voice, made me understand that it would be best to follow his lead.<br /><br />Walking in the fog was like being in a bubble. We could see for perhaps twenty feet in all directions but finding the trail markings was a treacherous business. At first the trail was easy to follow, leading us through a series of switchbacks up the side of the mountain, but somewhere near the top, we ran into a dead-end at a jagged rock wall. The Übers paused while I scouted around to find another red and white trail marker. I started to climb the wall, to get a better view, but Dietrich stopped me: "I think that is not a good idea," he said, and I realized that this was an order, albeit a polite one, rather than an observation. I imagine he was particularly concerned that his 14-year-old son might try the same stunt.<br /><br />We finally located the markings and struggled up to the pass. On the far side was a steep descent down a slope of sheer ice. Above the slope was a jagged, looming cliff of boulders, some larger than houses. Until recently packed tight with snow, the entire loose wall was creaking and groaning as the rocks shifted and settled. Scattered down the mountain, across our path, were the rocks that had recently fallen. It was only a matter of time before another large rock shook itself loose and came tumbling down.<br /><br />After a brief scramble over giant, tilting slabs, we reached the top of the icy slope. After a bit of a search, we found a metal cable that trailed off over the ice as far as we could see. We could only assume that there was a path below but the quality of the path was impossible to know. Dietrich decided to risk it. He announced that he would lead the descent and man the bottom of the cable. I would remain at the top, assisting Haike and Robert to take hold of the cable and start downward.<br /><br />When Dietrich reached the bottom he yelled back up. "There is a path! Not very good but good enough." <br /><br />Haike went next. She was nervous, as were we all, and moved slowly, hand over hand, down the cable. The ice gave no foothold except for small, frozen stones so she strained every muscle in her body to stay rigid. I realized that we were fortunate to have no weak links in our party. Everyone, including Haike and Robert, was capable and strong. Haike reached the bottom and Dietrich yelled up for Robert to begin.<br /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:10px 10px 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgin53Y6t8O_O8-Q_leIumvei8F6CVPJkIDiOKbsXrIbojKQfyDbsbDjuvGf7sk-ALobRmkkVpWwtYX-Q7u-NbYvdZLnaj35vGplScHXX9IyqhNwEkCdD2jYoEt7636jj1VJs-S__LcPZ8/s320/Robert_Below_Pitztaler_J%C3%B6chl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368412097534281650" />Robert lowered himself slowly without incident, and I followed. The ice was so slippery that it was a challenge to stay upright. I worked my feet from one tiny stone to the next, using these minuscule footholds to keep myself upright. I gritted my teeth and my knuckles went white but I soon made it, like the others, to the relative safety below.<br /><br />At the bottom of the cable was a thin path carved into the icy slope. We had to walk carefully to keep from slipping, and the rocky cliff still loomed up above. As we slid our way forward, like children learning to ski, we could hear the grumbling of the rocks. We wanted to run but all we could manage was a careful, plodding pace.<br /><br />Dietrich turned to me and said "I hope Charles does not attempt this alone. That cable was hard to find, and it could be very dangerous for him."<br /><br />I had not given much thought to Charles until this moment but was not particularly concerned. Being Dr. Death is really more about blithe negligence than intent. "I am sure he will be alright," I said. "He did this hike last year so he knows what to expect." It turned out, however, that Dietrich was, indeed, justified in his concern.<br /><br />The trail wrapped around the north wall of the valley and down to a parking lot. There we found a restaurant and bathrooms. We took advantage of the latter, and put on our rain gear, as the fog outside had turned to drizzle. We briefly considered the optional bus to Zwieselstein but, realizing that the way was less difficult from here, we decided to walk.<br /><br />The next stretch was a decidedly dull, gravel service road running parallel to a highway. For an hour or so we tramped through sparse scenery until the trail branched southeast through pine trees and fields.<br /><br />Just as we were beginning to feel hungry, and just as the drizzle turned into a shower, we found a small restaurant near a village called Gaislach. I asked the waitress to bring me the best meal that $10 could buy. I was feeling adventurous and figured I'd end up with some strange sausage. Meanwhile, the Übers had noticed a special <img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwfpfXSSxka_JrZfm-Gm-XrhXzAFMAukQm-K7bHoairK1bUHLIFsi2BKvZ_zeuNoZQCByugtRPUfzn1w8S0VDKPW58g6Am_cWoZPeb16CBoHioQ8B26qDV0C-0OiD5q8dtYMbFoUBis4/s320/Flowers_Above_Gaislach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368412104229053490" />wild mushroom on the menu called Pfifferlingen. It was expensive, they said, but well worth the splurge. I knew nothing about mushrooms at the time. Knowing what I do now, I would definitely have opted for the rare Pfifferlingen (chanterelles). What I got, instead, was more Käse-Knödel. While the Übers rejoiced in their gourmet meal, I resigned myself to eating yet another serving of cheese balls. I explained my bad luck with this local specialty and they offered me tastes of their wild mushroom dinners. The Pfifferlingen were, indeed, delicious.<br /><br />Outside the rain had let up, and we descended through warm pine forests to the small town of Zwieselstein -- an hour and a half walk down the trail. There we claimed rooms in the <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.hikr.org/dir/Zwieselstein_11326/', null, 'width=800, height=600')">Talherberge Zwieselstein</a>, an unstaffed Austrian Alpine Club hut with a full kitchen and, if I remember correctly, showers. I took an empty bunk room with four beds and a view of the river burbling noisily by. The sun had finally burned a hole through the clouds so I hung out my clothes on the line in the yard. Then I moved a chair to a shady spot and waited for Charles to appear.<br /><br />It was two and a half hours before Charles finally wandered into the yard. He looked a bit shell shocked and I noticed large slashes in the seat of his rain pants. When he had taken off his pack and unlaced his boots he sat down on a bench and told us his story:<br /><br />"I made it to Braunschweiger Hütte in record time. It was brilliant to stay in Mittelberg. The way up was amazing with the river and the glacier, and it was not until after the hut that I started to have problems. The fog moved in just beyond Braunschweiger and I got a little bit lost near Pitztaler Jochl. On the other side it was sheer ice for as far as I could see in the fog -- there was no path at all. I tried to walk from stone to stone but I fell right away and started sliding out of control. I was sliding faster and faster, barely steering myself with the carbide tips of my poles. Thank God for those tips."<br /><br />"It was then that I noticed the edge of the cliff. I noticed it just in time and, by jamming the carbide tips deep into the ice, managed to drive myself into a large boulder. I must have been going at least twenty miles per hour because it hurt like hell when my boots slammed into it. After I caught my breath, I crawled, hand over hand, using the tips of my poles like ice axes. I have no idea how I finally made it down. It was pure adrenaline."<br /><br />Dietrich had been right. Charles could have easily been a splotch on the pavement below Pitztaler Jochl. And Dr. Death would have had some serious explaining to do. But the carbide tips from Charles' new poles had saved his life. After he finished his story, I crossed the street to the store and bought several bottles of beer which we shared with the Herr Über. We raised our glasses to Charles' health and to our tremendous good fortune to be safely together again. Then Charles and I went across the street to find dinner at <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.zwieselstein.at/', null, 'width=800, height=600')">Hotel Gasthof Zwieselstein</a> while the Übers cooked their dinner in the hut.<br /><br />Next Week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/over-timmelsjoch-and-into-italian-alps.html">Over Timmelsjoch and Into the Italian Alps</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-9870324514386556732009-08-05T12:17:00.000-07:002009-08-13T19:27:09.464-07:00Braunschweiger Hütte and the Ötztal Glaciers, Day 9<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365064336566021826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGuJISsuqljC1GRmB7a38JIZlnX7EONJFdqA0xnoZ8wcAuuy9o_RcgSS0lWn6EXvJQIbuWzYeJEiWTUhXSet4uu0Uq1vFTswmZkhjNqBLYfs6OvEPl0xn5jVNjttxp6lMAUcro5lzLZbs/s320/Zams_From_Post_+Gasthof_Gemse.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/zams-and-uber-familie.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />The next morning those beautiful white sheets still felt clean and cool. The bells of a nearby church rang out seven o' clock. Through the window came the smell of geraniums, and I could hear the muffled shufflings of Charles on the other side of the wall.<br /><br />The day's hike would be demanding, bringing us within spitting distance of the Ötztal glacier field and the highest hut of the Fernwanderweg E5, Braunschweiger Hütte. It would also require careful coordination with various modes of transport. The "Venetbahn" cable car would bring us to the start of our hike. We would need to leave early to make the first lift. Later in the day, we would need to catch a bus from Wenns to Mittelberg, the small village at the bottom of our main ascent. It was vital that we keep to a tight schedule or we might have to spring for a very expensive taxi.<br /><br />So I reluctantly slid out of bed and began packing my things. The previous evening I had washed a pile of clothes in the shower with me. As I had done on earlier stops, I made myself into a human washing machine. The clothes went on the shower floor while I danced liquid soap into their filthy folds and the grey puddle at my feet slowly turned clear. In the morning, my belongings were still hanging from every protrusion in my room, excepting Mother Mary of course, and were mostly dry. I decided to wear the dampest. They would either dry more quickly or would soon be sweaty again. <br /><br />I left my old boots in my room. It was the footwear equivalent of a burial at sea -- not exactly courteous to the staff but there was no obvious places to dispose of such large garbage. I wore socks down to breakfast, leaving damp footprints on the hardwood stairs, with my new boots slung over my shoulder, tied by their fresh green laces. They took their place by the front door, next to my pack, while I found a seat in the small breakfast room. There was fresh fruit for breakfast and bowls of yogurt, muesli and corn flakes. There was even a bowl of hard boiled eggs, still hot. So I made the most of this royal feast, eating something from every plate on the buffet.<br /><br />As I ate, the matron shuffled in and out of the breakfast room. When it was clear that I was done eating, she started talking to me as if I understood German, which of course I did not. The only German words that came to my mind were "my friend" and "Deutsch" (German), so that's what I said, pointing to my mouth to indicate the verb "to speak" and to the stairwell to indicate where Charles most probably was.<br /><br />I am not quite sure what she made of this charade, "My friend is eating Germans upstairs," perhaps, because she looked perplexed and a little concerned. Finally I dug into my pocket and pulled out some Austrian Schilling notes. She nodded several times and then left the room, returning shortly with a pad of paper and a pencil. On the pad she tallied my expenses. I handed her a large enough wad to cover it and she gave me back a respectable pile of coins. I passed back ten percent, which seemed to evoke appreciative noises, and our awkward transaction was complete.<br /><br />I went outside to wait in the sunshine on the stone staircase.<br /><br />When Charles came outside he looked tense. He walked quickly down the steps and I had to throw on my pack to follow. "What's up?" I asked, as I struggled along behind him.<br /><br />"I'll tell you in a second," he said.<br /><br />When we were well down the sidewalk he finally relaxed his pace. "God that was hell." he sighed.<br /><br />"Really?" I said. "My room was great. What happened."<br /><br />"Oh, the room was just fine," he said, "It wasn't that."<br /><br />"Then what?" I asked.<br /><br />"Well, last night I decided to finally eat that tin of herring."<br /><br />"So at least you won't be carrying it any further," I suggested, filling dead air with a plausible up-side.<br /><br />"Yeah, but there wasn't much flat space to eat it, so I opened it on top of the television."<br /><br />"Oh no," I said, already guessing the next part.<br /><br />"Well, anyhow, it kind of exploded. So then I had fish oil all over the television and the lace doily, and then the hand towel that I used to wipe it all up. I got them as clean as I could but the room really smells like fish. I don't know how they're going to get that smell out."<br /><br />"Shit... First Staufner Haus, now Gasthof Gemse. Guess you won't be going back there, either."<br /><br />"Definitely not. Too bad, though, it's a nice hotel... Damn, these E5 hikes are really starting to feel like a one-man version of <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.answers.com/topic/sherman-s-march-to-the-sea-3', null, 'width=800, height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=4501629584777032691#">Sherman's march to the sea</a>."<br /><br />At the Venetbahn we found Kirsten and Werner who were also waiting for the first lift. A teddy bear poked its nose out of Kirsten's pack, and Werner was chain smoking hand-rolled Drum cigarettes. The top of the mountain was obscured by clouds and none of us had heard the weather forecast. Charles and Werner chatted in German. Charles enjoyed practicing his German and Werner was happy not to struggle with English. <br /><br />The door finally opened and we climbed the steps to the platform. The cable car was a steel box, large enough for maybe two dozen cramped hikers but this morning it was just the four of us. As it clunked and bumped out of the lift station and cranked its way up to the sky, we watched Zams disappear in the mist. Droplets built up and skidded along the windows. I was sorry that the view was obscured. All we could see were the tops of thinning trees and the support towers passing like speed bumps. <br /><br />Half way up, Charles told the not-so-reassuring story of a hot shot American Marine surveillance pilot who, in February, had flown through the cables of a similar car on Italy's Mt. Cermis, hurling all 20 passengers to their deaths. I am not really afraid of heights but, given the setting, the story definitely made an impression. Charles has a remarkable memory for details, morbid and otherwise.<br /><br />We disembarked into a misty landscape and surveyed our maps. Werner paused to roll another Drum cigarette and then we were off. The way pointed east along a wide, green, treeless ridge, to a nearby peak known as Glanderspitz. A forty foot cross marked the top of the mountain. There we paused only briefly, to reconnoiter, then continued to a second cross. By the time we reached this next minor peak we were walking in spitting rain. We decided to throw on our raingear. Werner, Charles and Kirsten all realized that they had matching red ponchos which seemed rather funny at the time, so I took this picture with Charles looking a bit like Marilyn Monroe just before an upward breeze.<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tVePcGluX9-2SIPwCbzLEV62bavkcVBAqhYi4coNrrbd0HPO2adDJX41HwX0y9djJgf1a8sdBE9WLuEkQ-TwyRcx5bb9ae0pjFtAAqVxdCJn1CyiG66MmmfIq6kKHFPYh0-L3NFbDhY/s320/CharlesKirstenWerner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365848024983657042" /><br /><br />We now began a long descent on comfortable, spongy turf. I jogged for a bit before coming to my senses. A twisted ankle or a blown out knee would mean the end of my hike. So I slowed to a more reasonable pace and followed the path down into the valley below. I had lost my companions but intended to wait for them in Wenns. In the fog, the scenery was fuzzy and close but it cleared as the sun climbed toward noon. I entered a pine forest which eventually gave way to green fields and old farms. The trail went directly through farmyards, around the corners of barns and through and over fence stiles. The smell of cows was, at times, overpowering but the pastoral scenery of well-built barns made for fair compensation.<br /><br />When not alongside a barn, I was on a dirt road that wound down through the hillside grazing slopes. I could see other parties hiking on the switch-backed road above and below me, and I passed several families by cutting through the tall grass that divided us.<br /><br />Though surrounded by cows, it is hard to resist calling Wenns a one horse town. Its main claim to fame is the bus that connects it to Mittelberg. There was very little commerce, and I was disappointed not to find a convenience store close by the bus stop. I was dying for a Coke. Several other families had already queued up for the bus and I was nervous that Charles might miss it. Busses being infrequent, this could set him back by several hours -- or perhaps an entire day.<br /><br />I was, however, pleased to find the Übers all queued up to go. Dietrich told me that several parties had formed an ad hoc group to qualify for discounted tickets. It was with some reservation that I pitched into the discount, realizing that this might mean leaving Charles wondering about me. But Charles and I now had a firm agreement to hike more independently. So I threw in my hand with the newly formed party and sat down on my pack on the sidewalk.<br /><br />While we waited, I chatted with young Robert about his family. He had been born in East Germany several years before the wall fell. Career opportunities were better now for his father, and his home town had recently undergone a period of intense reconstruction. Still, there were prejudices against "Osties" ie: people from East Germany. West Germans resented the subsidies given to the reclaimed regions, and this sometimes made him feel like a second-class citizen. And although Dietrich had more opportunities, it was still harder for East Germans to find work than it was for their West German cousins.<br /><br />Just before the bus rolled up, Charles turned the corner and joined our group. He had left Kirsten and Werner a mile or two back and had run down the fields to the town. Charles was beat and had decided to stay at the hotel in Mittelberg. He would hike over the mountain the following day and catch up with me in Zwieselstein.<br /><br />This seemed like a turning point in our hike. We had already hiked separately but had always been able to check in at the end of the day. Splitting up would mean being out of touch for a day and a half at the very least. And if Charles did not appear in Zwieselstein, I would have some tough choices to make. I was determined to hike up to Braunschweiger Hütte, and did not want to lose the Übers, so I nodded and said "no worries" but that easy expression covered a deep sense of concern.<br /><br />The bus ride was uneventful. I sat with Robert and we chatted sporadically, the way you do when there is plenty of time to spare. At the end of the ride I decided to have lunch with Charles before we went our separate ways. Dietrich offered to reserve a bed for me at the hut, a kind offer that I readily accepted. We made plans to meet for dinner before they started up the hill along the trickling glacial stream.<br /><br />At lunch Charles seemed very pleased with his decision. He assured me that I would see him in Zwieselstein, as if reading my thoughts. "Really," he said "I just need a little more rest." <br /><br />I was in the mood for macaroni and cheese -- comfort food -- so I ordered Käse Knödel, having entirely forgotten the previous Käse Knödel debacle. Again, I was stuck eating three enormous cheese dumplings, heavy as lead and not the least bit enticing. And, again, I ate most of them -- not wanting to starve on the way up the mountain. I drank a large Coke, anyhow, which gave me some solace and courage in the face of my growing uncertainty.<br /><br />Leaving Charles basking in the shade of an umbrella, I started my solo ascent. There was nobody on the trail, the other bus passengers having already disappeared up the mountain. To my right was the bed of a glacial river, but the gully was mostly <img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xqXPQcNJYN-piKMdURxZi87bxuY_EgcyCayxtLwFrO58MBynwpmw9KX194zIu9hReftPZGINxhOLp96lzH1E26Ox6dYvhx_bX5dHgHdKXtmDnR_6w41Q9W-9QUUx8u41jPz5HePQD_0/s320/Mittelberg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365848114374035234" />dry. A thin stream trickled through the rocks of what I knew must sometimes be a formidable river. My path was a dirt road which led to the lower pulley of a small cable car. The car was designed to carry supplies, and hikers' backpacks, but was already half way up the mountain. Soon the road became a gravel trail which climbed toward the source of the river -- the Ötztal glacier field.<br /><br />Hiking alone I could make my own pace, and I was in no hurry to reach the top. Through a series of alternating ridges, I could see the tongue of the glacier: grey, white and blue, hanging over a ridge up above.<br /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqmdciXU1KwRjxNE-YwgmOmv2Q4d5gBjoWoSP8S8vICT39Mtzo9DRjHscwsL6bYLB8QbXNk586-HQZ0I37szAd3VEpXNunTOe9Q20yMTL5miZvXcMrnTzVtV-Mw71Ioq9DANI_Tqc9t8/s320/Wasserfall_%C3%BCber_mittelberg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365850969014500674" />The stream increased in power as I crossed back and forth below, then above, the layers of overhanging rock. I passed a spectacular series of waterfalls whose full force I could only imagine by the measure of this wide river bed.<br /><br />The glacier's tongue was deceptively small when I passed it, giving no hint of the massive snowfields hidden behind the next ridge. Climbing, I spotted a family of gemse, or what we would call mountain goats. They peered over a cliff at me and then dashed out of view as I crept up the lonely trail.<img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikF5VocdKbsq5X2IDNE29jfDTePmf-UkMa8s4w-CcOxlUSs81qtr6JpCNwY4jxIxY-ubjQ9Lqm2ZtixYf9dl2Vn0aXM5LoGdf0Yfbxl2zyEVxn_ENugC-2Gcj8BYkP6oRW7DZe2Rl18cI/s320/Gemse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365852750534203858" /><br /><br />My legs were tired but not so tired as I had imagined they would be. Hiking alone, at my own pace, was the best thing for sore legs. I had taken Dietrich's advice and begun at a sustainable clip. Now I was enjoying the dividends of this careful restraint, and the ascent was tiring but not yet devastating.<br /><br />The trail diverged from the stream and a fog settled in, eclipsing my view of the emerging, compacted snow mass. I focused on my stride, pacing myself so that I could walk as far as necessary, uncertain of how long I had left to hike. I thought about Charles and the tensions we still felt. Things were better when we hiked separately but the last thing I wanted was to leave him behind. It was because of his willpower that I had made it here, and he was the only American I knew who understood the challenge and the scope of this adventure. It would be a shame if we didn't complete it together.<br /><br />When the mist cleared, I found myself level with the first snowfield plateau. The scale was phenomenal. Vast blue crevasses, like stretch marks, cut deep into the tongue in horizontal layers. Grey brush strokes ran down lengthwise, and I realized that I had been hiking under a hanging colossus, oblivious to the danger above. Having left the sounds of the stream bed behind, I could now hear the ice, stressing and cracking, like massive earth-moving machinery. I stood stunned by the beauty and the power of the Ötztal Glaciers.<img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy5wRjn6ytaW61AUKm-pUSzzcLUmQG63RvXsL9eJKOHvtxzLJN3HKByhRG2GV7Fd3ZFWkUU0d1Ts8m8DAE-r_w6iwSTbA7Y-8Sz02SMGbJe93cCVk1uWOpHwbuZcDUSVGDJiBXY65wfAU/s320/%C3%96tztal_Glacier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365858891956118514" /><br /><br />The final ascent to Braunschweiger Hütte seemed almost vertical. It had begun to rain again and I was too tired to take off my pack, imagining the hut to be above every ridge. It was stupid to tempt hypothermia at 9,000 feet. But despite my poor judgment, my luck held. After one final push I stepped over the lip of the small knob where Braunschweiger sits, like an island in a white sea of snowfields.<img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYSCOxMs6MzDgZoUtb09Bd3t89M_TbKeVdWNI1ZQJ0n4RFZNOzZeQ1-OPRZr_ZC9eVxpXvLyihpM5N4kcBtilIb9juK-FBeBNsgAtcj6MIW2QLq53xn59-xPQSktFfascRyszLo7EoTk/s320/Braunschweiger_H%C3%BCtte.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365862094649760738" /><br /><br />I pushed through the door and a warm rush of air nearly pushed me right back. The door led through a hallway to the dining room. I had dropped my pack just inside of the door and glanced around for the faces of my new friends. Dietrich hailed me. "Grüß Gott, Karl!" he yelled to me. "We thought maybe you decided to stay at the bottom with Charles!"<br /><br />After stowing my belongings in a small room with four beds, I was soon deep in conversation with the Übers. They were joined by several other Germans who did not speak much English, but Robert enjoyed translating for me so I did not miss much. They ordered me a weissbier, which I was learning to love, but it was a special, local variety with more sediment than usual. Robert demonstrated the proper pouring technique, pouring most of the liquid slowly down the inside of the glass and then swishing the remainder so as not to miss the foggy murk at the bottom.<br /><br />I ordered the spaghetti Bolognese, the safest choice, and was happy to recharge my carbohydrate-starved body. But dessert was the highlight of the meal. This Austrian Alpine specialty was called Kaiserschmarrn and consisted of strips of an eggy pancake covered in powdered sugar and doppled with a preserve made of small, purple berries. It was absolutely delicious.<br /><br />After dinner, the Übers' friends wanted me to try a dubious substance called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jagertee">jägertee</a>. It was a spiced tea with a serious kick, translating literally to "hunter's tea". It was strong and warm, and I drank it without considering the consequences.<br /><br />At "lights out" I stumbled back to the room and climbed to my private top bunk. I had the good sense to bring with me a large bottle of water, but still awoke dehydrated in the middle of the night -- and had to relieve myself several times. The next day I was scheduled to cross the most dangerous stretch of the hike, over Pitztaler Jöchl at nearly 10,000 feet and then across the icy snowfields of an avalanche zone. A hangover would not be the best preparation for such a demanding hike.<br /><br />Next Week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/to-zwieselstein-day-10.html">Zwieselstein</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-26871847881542855892009-07-31T12:50:00.000-07:002010-08-11T18:50:17.059-07:00Zams and the über Familie, Day 8<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiQ-1oTICX9p6PJDziwsAIu3ApEccduyik7xsIlXCe1lzFGZrysPex4h2K5MwlnDfbPqPv8E6f82B-fN4MJR_aItJiujOmzlCCAECQLTYF5g-49fDm35RbQuWuYZ7Zy07XPTeg1Gf7n3g/s320/Seescharte.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363323581892665282" /><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/memminger-hutte.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />Mornings in the "mattress camp" come early -- with lots of zippers. Granted, there is plenty of zipping in the night, as folks slip in and out of their sleeping bags and stumble to the bathroom, headlamp beams thrashing wildly in the musty air. As they pass, others stir and, inevitably, someone else realizes they need to unzip.<br /><br />But the morning zippers are far more aggressive. They begin usually around 5AM, when I am still hoping that I might snatch at least one hour of undisturbed sleep. It is then that the worst of the zipper-heads strike. "ziiiip..rustle-rustle... ziiip.. jingle, thwap, ziip..shick-shick-shick... bundle-bundle-bundle......ziiiiiiiiip... (repeat ad infinitum)" I have come to suspect that the main difference between a European "rucksack" and a North American "backpack" is that the rucksack has five times as many zippers.<br /><br />Eventually someone turns on the lights -- usually around six -- undoubtedly to see his zippers more clearly. It is only my legendary self-restraint that prevents me from pelting this chief zipper-head with bits of leftover cheese and a toothbrush.<br /><br />The only way to sleep soundly in a matratzenlager is to wear ear plugs and an eye mask. If, however, one's left ear plug has somehow fallen out during the night and slipped between two mattresses, there is no option but to rub one's burning eyes and join the early risers. Such was my situation at Memminger Hütte.<br /><br />I was soon zipping up and down with all the other zipperheads, packing my bed linens and digging around for my missing ear plug. I then proceeded down the creaky wooden steps to the breakfast room where most of the tables were occupied by large parties. Again I picked up my breakfast which included no pleasant surprises, just the same old bread, jam, etc. that I had come to expect.<br /><br />Charles had already eaten (or perhaps chosen not to) and was deep in conversation when I came outside to meet him. The man's name was Dietrich. He was a physically fit 40-something with substantial calves and a white baseball cap on his head. They were speaking in German but as I joined them they shifted easily to English. When I complimented his language skills he replied "No, my English is not so good. You should hear my son, his English is excellent and his French is even better."<br /><br />"Then I look forward to meeting your son," I said. <br /><br />I did not have long to wait. Robert, Dietrich's son, was a fourteen year old wunderkind. His English was, indeed, excellent -- even his accent was convincing. He was well-versed in history, science and pop culture and had an incredible thirst for all things "American".<br /><br />Robert's mother, Haike, was young, attractive and energetic, with dark hair and a bright smile. She was not as talkative as Robert and Dietrich and often deferred to Dietrich when it came to hiking decisions. As a family unit, they were an impressive group. Dietrich was an admirable father-figure, handling maps with manly skill, carrying the lion's share of the load and, most impressively, still commanding the respect of his teenage son. Charles and I secretly began referring to them as the Übers. This was short for "Über Familie", our clandestine nick-name for this impressive little team.<br /><br />We hiked across the bottom of the crater with the Übers and up the scree slope at the far edge of the bowl. Robert stuck close to Charles and me, peppering us with questions about the States. Although we could not tell him anything about his favorite band, <a href="#" OnClick="window.open('http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korn', 'korn', 'width=800, height=600')">KoRn</a>, we did manage to fill him in on what it was like to live in Boston and Manhattan. We took turns entertaining him with stories of misspent youth and were both thankful for someone new with whom to pass the time.<br /><br />The climb from the bottom of the canyon to the top of Seescharte, the needle's eye through which we would need to pass, was an arduous hour's hike. Charles and I both started out briskly to show that we could keep pace with a teenager -- of course, we could not. Dietrich and Haike started the climb more slowly, hanging back at first but eventually catching up with us as we huffed and puffed our way up the steep slope.<br /><br />"You started too fast." Dietrich admonished us. "That is how you get so tired. If you start more slowly you do not have so much trouble next time."<br /><br />He was right, of course. We soon came to realize that Dietrich was generally right about many things.<br /><br />Just before Seescharte (the top of the pass) was a vertical scramble to a small rock-framed vista. Through the notch were another hundred miles of rough mountain silhouettes layered as far as the eye could see. The view was staggering.<br /><br />We had realized that we would be hiking on the same schedule as the Übers all the way through to Bolzano. We were all quite happy to have more companions but, with so much time at our disposal, we split up as we hiked down the other side of the mountain.<br /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxivkDXTnGWFXANtByt4YsqJFw83N96vOM1dJSFNVbZQmkxMt36_kqikTlndPJvaQ0mE8uFJaSEh9noEgU8-5fGiK0PqQBxVghetiSFbvlWBRQwmYEU85UrvchIhZk-u2xhCG6AY7HEs/s320/Bridge_Over_Stream.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364708641298377010" /><br />It was not long before the ground leveled off in a large, lush plateau. We entered a muddy forest with towering conifers, like giant Christmas trees. The rich, muddy earth was pockmarked with the tracks of cows and horses. There were rivers to cross on bridges made from logs and scrap wood. The forest had an ancient, lived-in, feel to it, as if it had been carefully managed for centuries. The trees were well spaced, occasionally there was a stump where a tree had once stood. Then, after another river crossing, we discovered a green, mossy field, studded with small log cabins. It was like an enchanted village from a fairy tale -- no roads, no people, just well-built cabins in an idyllic setting. If we could have stopped, we might never have left.<br /><br />Soon the trees gave way to pasture land. In the field was a herd of blonde horses and cows and another small cabin encircled with a rough hewn log fence. In the <img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRp7AtHTN31AR49GUonbTrRt8FyNuLhbMIYYKt8QKmThGqEXCvn7huYA_KXc9MwJlkhniAI1p6cwPPYCUZDLLkslpvIJL7iLhxfNaaOayUCZMHlgfQq6QK9mvG9IQr4U2btTwuia6noRI/s320/Horses_After_Memminger_Hutte.jpg" border="0" alt="Memminger Hutte" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364701849509670946" />small enclosure was a picnic table and a trough with a faucet for drinking water. Charles remembered this cabin serving a decent snack, so I ordered us a cheese plate and two radlers.<br /><br />The Übers stopped by but only briefly. We asked them if they would be staying in Zams and Dietrich answered that they were going to a hut just a few miles further. The Übers were exceptionally thrifty, as most Germans seem to be. They would hike through a swamp to save fifty dollars. Charles and I were quite the opposite. We found creature comforts too tempting to resist.<br /><br />Our cheese plate was loaded with thick slabs of a white local cheese. It was smooth and came in round thick slabs, very much like a provolone. There was more cheese than bread and, looking around, the reason was obvious. There were cows all around and, ostensibly, plenty of milk. Bread, on the other hand would have to be brought up by ATV from the village several miles below.<br /><br />After eating our fill, we packed up the leftover cheese and continued on our way. We soon found ourselves walking down a trail hewn into the side of a mountain on the left of a great, green gorge. The way was shaded and, through the cleft in the mountains, we caught glimpses of the town in the valley below. We were still at the height of an airplane, however, and the town was still miles away. What we thought was Zams turned out to be Landeck, and we realized our mistake as we rounded the mountain to the east.<br /><br />The woods grew thickly on the south side of the mountain and our trial became a seemingly endless series of switchbacks over trails of sand and pine needles, each <img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCOGxEJ4ZFlW5jPZqDhPa3J73ANgFoR_T91rSN0g9QgTzvmr_ZcyOOchVPUeHNJ-gOPaTjhfriP2aHgs0jfs9mBCfMoMkyrZCTQgMUzD-4qEZuMyYoAU2XohdUpjtthqOChkl5PUotEI/s320/Alois+Bogner.JPG" border="0" alt="Alois Bogner Memorial" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364428726219728242" />turn bringing the streets of Zams just a hair closer. Half way down this leg we found a boulder with a plaque telling the story of Alois Bogner who met his end in these mountains, perhaps under this very rock, back in 1862. The boulder told his story in poetic detail, or so Charles informed me. If you read German, you can enjoy it for yourself.<br /><br />For some reason, this short walk was tiring us out. Our knees protested the relentless downward slope, as did our thighs. Seeing the town for so long in the distance was much harder than coming upon it by surprise. The first thing I would have was a Coke, I decided, and if we could find it, I wanted to eat pizza. I had lived far too long on German fare. We were close enough to Italy that I should be able to find something more rich in carbohydrates. I wanted the things that one takes for granted in any small town.<br /><br />The trail finally spilled out on a dusty service road. We studied the map for a moment, then took a right on the road and a left, over a covered highway, protected from winter weather, to a quiet street at the edge of town. Someone had been kindly enough to actually erect a fountain for hikers. I filled my bottle but did not drink too deeply, saving my thirst for the Coke I had promised myself. From the mountain, the way to the center of town had seemed obvious but, once on the ground, it was more difficult to navigate. We looked at our map again and headed southeast, through quiet streets, then briefly due east, along a rushing turquoise river by the name of "The River Inn". The water, opaque and churning, was startling in color. This was probably the result of dissolved limestone but it looked distinctly minty to me. <br /><br />We turned right (southeast again) onto a main thoroughfare, past a supermarket and several restaurants -- two with pizza! By 1:00 we were standing in the center of town, facing the ancient <a href="#" OnClick="window.open('http://www.postgasthof-gemse.at/start.php', 'Post Gasthof Gemse', 'width=800, height=600')">Postgasthof Gemse</a>, operated by the Haueis family since 1726.<br /><br />Inside we were met by a friendly old woman in a blue and white house dress. We requested two single rooms and she led us slowly up a broad, leaning, cantilevered staircase -- full of charm and beauty but nerve-wracking in its creaking and sagging. I would have moved more quickly if our hostess had not been leading the way. As it was, I hugged the wall. <br /><br /><a href="#" OnClick="window.open('http://www.postgasthof-gemse.at/start.php', 'Post Gasthof Gemse', 'width=800, height=600')"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_QFlD6KNrhnHIdEFaY-ShsXQZ7wPch1xUsRSrX3Se1Cn7czooBpf_n1T0ezyxT2_vRXQvAxfNbgq5_2-KK4xiYfHImZu5y9ThtJNPsEAXRQOt_YB8AcvF6Z975-x3vrjSgx7-nn-BB0/s320/Post_Gasthof_Gemse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364450417673624930" /></a>The floors were covered with aging Oriental carpets, and the walls were decorated with a dozen or more heads of various horned beasts. Stuffed foul stood on mounted wooden perches, and pictures of mountain goats were interspersed with those of generations of Haueis mountaineers. All were photographed against dramatic backdrops which gave the impression of a vigorous and daring lineage.<br /><br />Our rooms were immaculate, mine with the Virgin Mary (no pun intended) in devoted prayer above the bed. I tossed my dirty pack in a corner and admired the clean, flat, sheets and show-white down comforter piled high in the center -- much too clean to enjoy until I had taken a good hot shower.<br /><br />"I wish I had the Virgin Mary over MY bed," said Charles, after our hostess had departed.<br /><br />"You can have my room if you want," I told him. He declined, and I was secretly happy that he did.<br /><br />We found lunch in a grotto-style restaurant and I had my pizza and Coke. It was as delicious as I had hoped, and I stuffed myself without shame. I was convinced that I was losing weight and, not being a hefty guy to begin with, was a little concerned. After lunch we found a shoe store a half mile beyond the guesthouse. There I bought the most expensive shoes I had ever purchased, for a whopping $216. These hard-core trekking boots were made by <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.lowaboots.com/catalog/ShowBoot.cfm?StockNum=2204974649&Category=2&Type=w', 'Lowa Boots', 'height=600, width=800')">Lowa</a> and pretty much walked themselves. Once I tried them on, I knew I would blow the bank. My feet had never been so happy in my life.<br /><br />We walked back to the guesthouse and parted ways. Charles went back to his room to read and relax, I walked to the nearby Esso station and asked the clerk if they sold pens. "Here," he said, handing me a nice new ballpoint. "You can keep it." It was a small gesture but endeared me still more to Zams. I returned to the ancient bar on the first floor of the guesthouse and ordered myself a weissbier.<br /><br />I had intended to write postcards but was quickly side-tracked by a group of six hikers who were drinking at a corner table. They recognized me from the trail and asked if I wanted to join them for a drink. I agreed, and they all shifted to English for my benefit. Several spoke English quite well and, when I asked if this was common, they replied that it was quite common indeed. In fact, they told me, most every educated German under the age of forty has taken some English classes. If they are not fluent in English, they would be fluent in French. This was news to me -- very good news. <br /><br />I had another beer and quizzed them about their jobs and where they were from. After an agreeable hour, I retreated to my room to finally take my shower. I promised to meet two of them, Kirsten and Werner, for dinner an hour later.<br /><br />I checked in briefly on Charles but he was in a foul mood for reasons I would learn the next day. He declined dinner and retired again to his room.<br /><br />The entire day was a blur of new friends, socializing and gluttony. We met at the agreed upon time at a tavern we had each seen on our way into town. It had the feel of a family-style restaurant and a menu that was easy to understand. I had pizza again and we continued our conversations about Germany, America and our experiences with each. Kirsten was the more fluent English speaker but Werner understood most of what was said. I found Werner engaging, regardless. He had a constant smile etched into his cheeks, and I had the impression that, if he could have expressed everything on his mind, he would have been a very entertaining companion.<br /><br />It was nearly ten o'clock when I finally fell into bed. The sheets were cool and, with the breeze through the window and one leg uncovered, the airy down comforter was just the thing. I slept there like an innocent child with Mother Mary watching over me.<br /><br />Next Week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/08/braunschweiger-hutte-and-otztal.html">Braunschweiger Hütte</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-24077723514393103802009-07-23T20:32:00.000-07:002009-08-05T12:22:25.435-07:00Memminger Hütte, Day 7<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9DQGi4bAAlFoZspB1OMS2sVUxiJhWqhGEHgIS1qouO4Vj8sJt4pZLpf-34OSroJrakHv_8W2SrhyRHwP9QKz0Wjzv61SOWdx1QNIhPo11ACDEYVgNzcsc3TwEQ6SFmUg38nvIB0BQKY/s1600-h/MountainsPostKemptnerhutte.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361498283599103842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 117px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9DQGi4bAAlFoZspB1OMS2sVUxiJhWqhGEHgIS1qouO4Vj8sJt4pZLpf-34OSroJrakHv_8W2SrhyRHwP9QKz0Wjzv61SOWdx1QNIhPo11ACDEYVgNzcsc3TwEQ6SFmUg38nvIB0BQKY/s320/MountainsPostKemptnerhutte.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-go-solo-days-5-and-6.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />Charles and I were each hiking solo again. The day before had been a welcome break for both of us. Charles had arrived at Kemptner Hütte shortly after I checked in. After getting his own mattress spot he headed off to find a quiet place to read. I stayed on the deck to read Kerouac and write in my journal, only retiring inside when the sun went behind the western cliffs and the chill of the evening settled in.<br /><br />In the morning the dining room was a hive of activity. At a busy window I traded a ticket for my "großes Frühstück" ("large breakfast"), then borrowed the unused corner of a table from a friendly family and ate with very little gusto. The "large" breakfast looked familiar but small: three slices of rye bread, tea or coffee (I took tea), some jam, butter and several thin shavings of meat and cheese. If I had not been so tired of German breakfasts, I might have finished it. I would have traded my new hiking stick for pancakes, bacon and eggs. Instead, I ate the perishables and one slice of the bread, wrapping the remainder in a napkin as usual.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfQLtBFv471bPlzj59f6V2IuGbxhyphenhyphenyzQLrStS6Fg177GW26dQxNMnFNXWSzht-fWH1ZgAaJ3tKLTaWWNAwOHeRaVX6S_WRAH2nHtDl4lluGKaBuCVl58-cmY9Bl25hQn5XDgrAs1Ob34/s1600-h/100_0378.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361498581401137138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfQLtBFv471bPlzj59f6V2IuGbxhyphenhyphenyzQLrStS6Fg177GW26dQxNMnFNXWSzht-fWH1ZgAaJ3tKLTaWWNAwOHeRaVX6S_WRAH2nHtDl4lluGKaBuCVl58-cmY9Bl25hQn5XDgrAs1Ob34/s320/100_0378.JPG" border="0" /></a>The trail from Kemptner Hütte took me south east through a grassy field of boulders and up a well-maintained trail to a notch in the far side of the bowl. At the top were two signs, one a round yellow shield with the menacing shadow of the German Eagle, the other was striped red and white with an Austrian eagle in the middle (what is it with countries and eagles?) This was the only indication that I was crossing from Germany back into Austria. So I passed through the imaginary line of the border and said a final farewell to Germany.<br /><br />In those pre-Euro days, all this border crossing made it a challenge to keep track of my currency. By this point I had French and Swiss Francs, German Deutsche Marks, and Austrian Schillings all thrown together in the outer pocket of my backpack. Soon enough I would be adding Italian Lira to the mix. I was beginning to feel a bit like a morris dancer jingling up and down the hills. It was rumored that Austrian huts would take German currency. This would be a relief if it proved to be true. I still had at least twenty dollars of unused German notes and coins. It would be a shame to bring them home with me.<br /><br />The view from the notch was a grand expanse of jagged peaks and valleys. As if in torn patches, white snow glimmered through gray gravel rock slides, adding dramatic depth to the vast panorama. The towering mountains rose, layered for miles, turning pale blue as they approached the horizon. My trail led downward to the valley floor, curving and ducking through scrub pines, around large stones, and across mossy, flower-strewn fields.<br /><br />By 10:00 the trail had widened to a road, taking me alongside a twisting gorge cut deep by a rushing series of watery cascades. Ice bridges arched over some sections. In others, water tumbled around towers of rock to appear, white and aerated at another bend in the trail. I tried to photograph a waterfall through a tunnel of rock but without the third dimension it proved impossible to capture.<br /><br />This amazing performance continued for perhaps a quarter mile before the falls flattened into a river. I soon arrived at Holzgau, a quaint little village <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSEJcWKpBGyefnsbECOdZUFoBHcmMRJ21lNrW46Ry1sxlW32OdMS8yoKH06yeEkTWqke9HwmyKmLCqVgl693JiZjbBJBfVZf0coSp4_u9ZlzhO4AuQFahLmig_rY6K1GG3dkMpHDlxhM/s1600-h/R1-7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361508613039757282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSEJcWKpBGyefnsbECOdZUFoBHcmMRJ21lNrW46Ry1sxlW32OdMS8yoKH06yeEkTWqke9HwmyKmLCqVgl693JiZjbBJBfVZf0coSp4_u9ZlzhO4AuQFahLmig_rY6K1GG3dkMpHDlxhM/s320/R1-7.jpg" border="0" /></a>featuring a small hotel with an outdoor cafe. There I ordered an apple streudel and a "Radler", a local concoction of weissbeer and lemon soda. On an adjacent hillock stood a picturesque church with pointed red roof and a small cemetery. I pondered the church while I devoured the freshly baked pastry. Once fully refreshed, I felt ready to skip the shuttle ride and to tackle the road to Madau -- the base for my next ascent. This was despite the suggestive fact that all the other hikers were waiting for the shuttle bus.<br /><br />The ensuing three-hour slog turned out to be another prime example of my dubious judgment. I was quickly learning that it never pays to second-guess Germans. The pine woods may have been beautiful but the "trail" was mostly a paved road with little respite for the feet. On the way my boots, already tattered, began to fall apart, splitting at the seams and separating from the soles. I changed to my Tevas for a short stretch but soon realized that this was a worse idea. With a 35 pound pack, I need proper ankle support and cushioning.<br /><br />To rub salt in my wounds, every half hour the shuttle (a minibus) would speed by in a cloud of grit and diesel fumes, and I would be forced off the road, dodging into the brambles or flattening myself against a wall of blasted rock. I began to think that the driver was out to get me. When I finally emerged from the trees and into the sunlight near the trailhead, I was thoroughly exhausted. Swearing that I would never pass up another bus ride, I gratefully stepped back onto the real trail and began my ascent to Memminger Hütte.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyzOi6_Ojdb3it3nNIsBABQav5UM14wTsX1sicOE1oGi3JEGJ3jYlwA_AUUV29qiWEwSYqMxH7vROfU2Tgpk7JrVjeieO5XZPAU173IuYSPg5HiGNQpr7qoiLbkWAvYV_vpKws9pRWXk/s1600-h/100_0379.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361515174942560770" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyzOi6_Ojdb3it3nNIsBABQav5UM14wTsX1sicOE1oGi3JEGJ3jYlwA_AUUV29qiWEwSYqMxH7vROfU2Tgpk7JrVjeieO5XZPAU173IuYSPg5HiGNQpr7qoiLbkWAvYV_vpKws9pRWXk/s320/100_0379.JPG" border="0" /></a>The hike from this point was unrelenting. A thin, crumbling path takes one up the side of a steep valley. Scrub brush and flowers line the sides of the trail which is almost a trench in some places. The way is lined with memorials and a tiny chapel, each dedicated to someone who lost his life on the mountain.<br /><br />Half way to the hut, the trail crosses a field and then a glacial stream. The field was a beautiful sight, as was the rushing water, and I refilled my bottles, following the example of the other hikers. The water was clear and fresh. I drank an entire liter and refilled it again.<br /><br />I was becoming quite hungry. There were several old slices of bread in my pack as well as emergency rations of dried fruit and chocolate. I decided to pause for a snack, although what I really wanted was a burger and fries. Still, I had no idea how much further I might have to hike, and the chances of a burger when I got there were somewhat less than nil.<br /><br />I chose a large, flat rock by the water and was quickly joined by a dozen soft brown moths who fluttered down to settle on my arms and legs. I took this to be a good omen. I later discovered that these little brown friends of mine, who found great pleasure in licking the salt off my arms, also feasted regularly on cow dung. So there I sat, oblivious and happy, covered in dung-eating moths.<br /><br />I was soon hiking again. The remaining hour consisted of another thousand vertical feet. As I climbed, the greenery became thinner and more superficial. As with the last vertical part of any strenuous hike, every step was becoming a burden. My pack felt like lead on my shoulders and waist, and I reduced my pace to a crawl. I lost track of the scenery and looked mostly at the reddish earth, fixating on the crunch of every painful footstep until finally I found myself staring across the flat green bottom of another glacial bowl. In the near distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile further, stood <a href="#" onclick="window.open('http://www.memminger-huette.at/', null, 'height=600, width=800')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=6113098259693399459#">Memminger Hütte</a>, like a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJA_1YBXLKDugNDCI2zAE06z1tZXtVjCW4Jrckknrg3L_yAd_cqbZ7nfeatGWjPmKB6gfXc8AVfkQ1mPx9KJxgLI2zjACcr8FBEX_BGxmvT5s9uQq0QGfzse-sYHhsPiSVSk1BJjVUSLs/s1600-h/R1-12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361520097255675890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJA_1YBXLKDugNDCI2zAE06z1tZXtVjCW4Jrckknrg3L_yAd_cqbZ7nfeatGWjPmKB6gfXc8AVfkQ1mPx9KJxgLI2zjACcr8FBEX_BGxmvT5s9uQq0QGfzse-sYHhsPiSVSk1BJjVUSLs/s320/R1-12.jpg" border="0" /></a> small wooden ranch against a backdrop of colossal, looming cliffs.<br /><br />I pretty much jogged the final stretch, arriving completely winded with shaking legs and a light head. The vastness of the moonscape was hard to absorb. I dropped my pack on the porch, sat my back against the building and pulled off my dismal boots.<br /><br />I had been hiking for nearly nine hours, over demanding mountains and hard asphalt. I was ready for a beer and as much dinner as I could afford. I entered the wood-paneled dining room and found a small, empty table. From the menu, scratched on a chalkboard, I ordered the tagessuppe (soup of the day), a vegetable medley that I finished in under five minutes. I moved on to the suppe mit wurst (a pea based soup with hot dog bits). Each meal came with the typical dense rye bread which was infinitely more palatable when dunked in the soup. After this I drank two hefeweizen and felt quite satisfied. I had not yet discovered a staple as satisfying as spaghetti bolognese but, sooner or later, I hoped that I might. In the meantime I tried to remember the names, and consistencies, of the dishes I had ordered, so as not to repeat my mistakes.<br /><br />I spent the next two hours wondering when, or if, Charles would arrive. When he finally walked through the door, he looked just as exhausted as I had recently felt. He had started late, he assurred me, and had taken a number of longer rests. His bronchitis was completely gone but he was nonetheless ready for sleep. We confirmed that we would meet in the morning and he headed for the dormitory.<br /><br />My bunk that night was, again, in the matratzenlager (mattress camp). I was starting to realize that the better rooms were always booked well in advance. Since I did not have the confidence to negotiate a reservation over the telephone, I reconciled myself to more lousy nights of sleep. Even so, I was enjoying the trip more than ever. Tomorrow I would be hiking with Charles once again. He was going to help me to buy some new boots. The hike would be shorter and mostly down hill, and we hoped to find private rooms in Zams.<br /><br />Next Week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/zams-and-uber-familie.html">Zams and the über Familie</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-58649544419430528862009-07-14T20:42:00.001-07:002009-08-05T12:23:12.375-07:00I Go Solo, Days 5 and 6<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE4GXjghI4onVaIyvViADCu02IZIZ1JJRW5LQB1qn-NMusQln1rR9yk3ZuddmlbzhdF1tGxaeLppypQmVaw_iixKKfjSVvVVHrmTdAi4JluHtml8cAdb8Es3VwXSXZsHX2s23D6JLGfU/s1600-h/cows.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358344890193862962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE4GXjghI4onVaIyvViADCu02IZIZ1JJRW5LQB1qn-NMusQln1rR9yk3ZuddmlbzhdF1tGxaeLppypQmVaw_iixKKfjSVvVVHrmTdAi4JluHtml8cAdb8Es3VwXSXZsHX2s23D6JLGfU/s320/cows.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/no-sleep-til-sonthofen-day-4.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />The rhythm of my boots on the trail puts songs in my head. And once a song gets stuck, I inevitably end up humming it for days on end. So it is only natural that I sometimes add my own lyrics to a tune that has been rattling around in there. It was on day 5 that I started writing The Wanderweg Song, sung to the popular 1920's tune <a onclick="window.open('http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WJjiV4HQ6I', 'popup_id', 'scrollbars,resizable,width=800,height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=5864954441943052886#"><em>Baby Face</em></a>. Before teaching you the lyrics, I'll need to cover some background and basic terminology.<br /><br />Firstly, we were walking on a trail generally known as the Europäischer Fernwanderweg E5. Literally the "European long hiking trail E5". This trail links together a number of smaller trails throughout Europe. Each of these smaller trails, to a German, would be known as a wanderweg -- pronounced "vaunder-vegg". We had started seeing the word "wanderweg" all over the place. It's easy to remember, just think "wander way".<br /><br />Second, the most typical greeting we were hearing on the trail was "Grüß Gott!", pronounced "groose gut" or "groose goat" (don't forget to gargle your "r") depending on the accent of the speaker. In my song, I favor the latter pronunciation because it rhymes better. "Grüß Gott!" translates, literally, to "Greet God!", which is presumably what any good German does upon reaching the top of the mountain.<br /><br />With that background, and with the tune from <a onclick="window.open('http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WJjiV4HQ6I', 'popup_id', 'scrollbars,resizable,width=800,height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=5864954441943052886#"><em>Baby Face</em></a> in mind, you should soon be able to sing this song at parties and other special occasions. For the American palate, I have written the words in a pseudo-phonetic fashion. That way you can sing it like a true German:<br /><br /><strong>The Wanderweg Song</strong><br /><br />Vaunder-veg!<br />I love to vaunder on der vaunder-veg!<br />I getting stronger on der vaunder-veg, vaunder-veg<br />Nothing is verboten<br />Ven ve are Groose Goatin'!<br />Vaunder-veg!<br />I am so happy when I'm on der vaunder-veg!<br />I get der stronger leg<br />upon der vaunder-veg<br />as I get blonder, vaunder-veg!<br /><br />Yes, there were other verses but none that I was quite so proud of. The song proved quite popular with Germans -- kind of an underground cult classic. Of course I don't like to brag...<br /><br />The hike from Sonthofen to Oberstdorf was a relaxing, flat hike along a meandering river. The scenery was mostly trees with the occasional farm or small village to break up the monotony. We needed a restful day so there was no complaining en route. In fact, the easy terrain resulted in a significant thawing of moods.<br /><br />In a shady beer garden in Oberstdorf, we agreed that what we really needed was a little time alone. We decided to spring for separate rooms and to go solo for the next couple of days, only touching base briefly at our nightly destinations. This discussion lightened our mood considerably and, to lighten it still more, we each drank several tall glasses of the refreshing lemony hefeweizen beer that is so popular in Bavaria and the central Austrian Alps.<br /><br />It was here that I ordered my first accidental plate of Käse-Knödel. I had decided that it was about time for me to start taking some initiative with respect to the language. I knew that Käse meant "cheese" but Knödel was not in my abridged pocket language guide. I did not ask Charles for a translation. "Knödel" sounded like "noodle", and anything resembling noodles would work for me. And I had been living on spaghetti bolognaise, so cheese would make a nice change from the usual meaty red sauce.<br /><br />Having ordered, we sat back to enjoy the authentic, small-town alpine scenery. The beer garden was shaded by trees and surrounded by a low fence. Outside the fence we watched tourists and natives stroll past picturesque buildings of stucco and rough hewn lumber. The restaurant played an eclectic mix of top 40 rock, classic rock and polka, with little thought to stylistic transition.<br /><br />Oberstdorf was a bustling little town, enjoying the influx of vacationing visitors from Munich and beyond. We would later learn that Oberstdorf serves as the practical trail head for the most popular section of the Fernwanderweg E5. German hikers shun the section of trail that we had just completed, preferring to arrive in Oberstdorf by train. Oberstdorf also provides easy access to several other hiking and skiing routes, both by trail and by cable car. It is, therefore, a popular destination both in the summer and winter tourist seasons.<br /><br />My food arrived after our second beer. It consisted of three heavy cheese dumplings the size of baseballs in a shallow dish of thin broth. These proved difficult to swallow, both literally and figuratively, and I only prevailed because of my extreme caloric deprivation and my unwillingness to admit that I had made a mistake. Afterwards I felt full but my carbohydrate fix had not been satisfied. I compensated by ordering dessert. The dessert menu had pictures so I felt confident in my ability to choose something more satisfying.<br /><br />I ordered a "Heiße Liebe" sundae. The picture looked amazing: three large scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, cherry sauce, whipped cream and a piece of chocolate that I failed to recognize as a little heart. The waitress smirked and asked, in English, whether we would be needing two spoons.<br /><br />"No thanks, it's just for me." I replied.<br /><br />"But it is not common to eat this dish all by yourself," she insisted, smiling a coy smile.<br /><br />"Don't worry," I said confidently, "I can."<br /><br />Perhaps, I thought, she was amazed by my incredible appetite. Or maybe she was flirting with me. Either way, I had clearly made an impression. "I think she likes me," I said to Charles after she had returned to the kitchen to make my super-man sundae.<br /><br />Charles shook his head. "'Heiße Liebe' means 'hot love'" he replied. "She thinks we might be eating it together."<br /><br />Sure enough, the sundae arrived with two chocolate hearts and two spoons, a set pointing suggestively toward each of us.<br /><br />After dinner we did a quick survey of town and decided that all of the rooms were either full or too expensive. Luckily, Sonthofen was a short train ride away. So we returned there after our meal and found separate rooms. Despite the peculiar cheese balls and wanting to eat my sundae alone under the table, the evening had been exceptional. Having my own room made it a four-star night.<br /><br />Oberstdorf to Kemptner Hütte, Day 6<br /><br />I was going through money at an unsustainable pace. This worrisome situation was caused partly because we had yet to reach the mountain hut system. It was, therefore, some consolation that I would be staying in my first mountain hut this evening.<br /><br />Our pension, with our glorious separate rooms, served the same breakfast to which we were growing accustomed: a small selection of rolls, thin slices of meat and cheese, wedges of soft cheese wrapped in foil, pre-sealed packets of jam, tea, coffee, watery juice and a good selection of under-ripened fruit. Muesli and yogurt were also an option. It was sufficient but hardly a treat. The compensation was that one could always borrow a few rolls, cheese and jam for handy trail snacks. I always did this on the sly. Morally, I did not consider this stealing -- I was paying for the bed and breakfast -- but it did seem just a little uncouth to be slipping rolls into my pockets.<br /><br />We ate and paid separately and sat separately on the train. Once back in Oberstdorf, we lost each other in the crowds of the Hauptstraße ("High Street"). Blissfully free, as I wended my way through the cool morning air, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The sun was drying the window box flowers, grocers and pharmacists were opening their shops, and the mist was rising to reveal the nearby mountains.<br /><br />I was free of everything for the first time in years. I was completely unreachable by telephone or fax. My mediocre job was a distant memory. I was completely alone yet somehow self-sufficient, and I suddenly understood why Charles had brought me here. It wasn't just because he just wanted someone to torture. That was part of it, sure, but only as a means to an end. Rather, it was because he wanted to share this rare exhilaration -- which could only exist in contrast to the rest of it. Like a runners high, only slower. The irony was, of course, that we were incapable of sharing it together.<br /><br />At the end of the bustling Hauptstraße, I turned left onto Weststraße and, arriving at a tall whitewashed church, decided to take a look inside. <a onclick="window.open('http://maps.google.com/maps?oe=UTF-8&ie=UTF-8&q=Pfarrkirche+St.+Johann+Baptist,+oberstdorf+germany&fb=1&split=1&gl=us&view=text&latlng=7894652275724165250&ei=Re9bSq3WGpD2NZn5jdgB&dtab=5&oi=md_photos&sa=X', 'popup_id', 'scrollbars,resizable,width=800,height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=5864954441943052886#">Pfarrkirche St. Johann Baptist</a> is beautifully designed and decorated. It boasts three wooden balconies, a dark wooden ceiling, three cabinet-style triptychs and paintings of poor old Christ's agony, from trial to crucifixion. There are no decorative windows but the clear rippled glass has its own, humble appeal. Random panes are tinted pink from some impurity in the silica. The effect was more honest and pure than traditional stained glass. I sat in the lower balcony and thanked my ambiguous and under-appreciated God for my good fortune.<br /><br />Exiting the church I made my way out of town toward Spielmannsau. A horse and buggy passed me both forward and back as I sauntered through farmland, past a golf course and finally into forest, emerging on the other side at the hotel and outdoor cafe that marked the end of civilization, at least until Kemptner Hütte.<br /><br />At a picnic table in the cafe, I ordered a Coke and a apple strudel. Both tasted delicious to my calorie-starved body. I filled my water bottles in the bathroom of the adjacent hotel and then, sitting on a swinging chair in the yard, I ate the remainder of my breakfast: two rolls, some soft cheese, and two packets of jam. No point in carrying the extra weight up the mountain.<br /><br />Just beyond Spielmannsau the road became a path. The path crossed more farmland before passing into a forest and then up the east side of a gorge. The trail here was steep. I reminded myself to pay attention to the increasingly rocky terrain unfolding all around me. The trail tumbled down dangerously in places, and water dripped, sometimes splashing, from the rocks up above. A cool wind blew through the gorge and I began to notice small patches of snow. Up the wall on my left, over a cliff-side meadow, I could see a small cave in the face of the rock. I was tempted to explore it but, being alone, chose caution over adventure.<br /><br /><a onclick="window.open('http://www.kemptner-huette.de/index.php', 'popup_id', 'scrollbars,resizable,width=800,height=600')" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=337003028457370855&postID=5864954441943052886#">Kemptner Hütte</a> appeared suddenly, over a green rim of grass. It was situated at the floor of a bowl of beige rock spires. The final climb was the hardest. It was a near-vertical climb on a zig-zag trail cut deep into green hummocks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9JSLgDlHV_6a-kgE1E9lDowxWFbjeus59EfrEYnHocrsao5FXgwVo6qjc4lPteScMJHsWcNVCd9ZGD3DU-PKzVLFQUjDQNAp-RLGSmWJRqJGtAvDLWLIqb6hdSWobZWfuiC_umHrqfs/s1600-h/R1-19.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358343458827647506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 109px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9JSLgDlHV_6a-kgE1E9lDowxWFbjeus59EfrEYnHocrsao5FXgwVo6qjc4lPteScMJHsWcNVCd9ZGD3DU-PKzVLFQUjDQNAp-RLGSmWJRqJGtAvDLWLIqb6hdSWobZWfuiC_umHrqfs/s320/R1-19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The hike from Oberstdorf to Kemptner Hütte had taken less than four hours. By 3:15 I was seated on the porch, enjoying a hefeweizen. The view from the porch was a panorama of the grassy floor of a crater encircled by jagged cliffs of scree and rock. There was no other building except Kemptner Hütte in sight.<br /><br />I ordered another beer and a bowl of the "Bergsteigeressen" (hiker's dinner) which was a goulash of beans, pasta, tomatoes, sausage and other odd bits with two slices of hearty bread. I considered ordering another bowl but decided against it in order to stay on budget.<br /><br />I did not talk with anyone that evening. I am not, by nature, an easy socializer. The addition of a language barrier compounded my natural reservations. I smiled at a few people, though, and wondered if I would see the same group at the next hut. If so, I would force myself to say something to someone.<br /><br />I slept in the "mattress camp" between two total strangers. On my left was an older man, probably in his sixties, who kept the whole room up with snoring. I was hit by at least two pillows during the night, both presumably aimed at him. On my right was a pretty young blonde who was quickly replaced by her boyfriend when he noticed me looking. He slept with his butt jammed right up to my side for the greater part of the night.<br /><br />Next Week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/memminger-hutte.html">Memminger Hütte</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-12566178822042134832009-07-08T20:00:00.000-07:002009-08-05T12:24:02.440-07:00No Sleep 'Til Sonthofen, Day 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBj3C4CmOGQZKL03wNzi7D3SS8FIPaci9-X3Xc5sr8AKHcrp4Ht-nyfAf2DxG2b9tcfFDpajLO-PmPkD1_uiq4_9qdHKRjt_1N_-dUeQVsThByuTKmSM9jNXgWDvgdSe1MzIe5c4AKwxg/s1600-h/R1-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBj3C4CmOGQZKL03wNzi7D3SS8FIPaci9-X3Xc5sr8AKHcrp4Ht-nyfAf2DxG2b9tcfFDpajLO-PmPkD1_uiq4_9qdHKRjt_1N_-dUeQVsThByuTKmSM9jNXgWDvgdSe1MzIe5c4AKwxg/s320/R1-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355923600949839202" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/into-foothills-days-2-and-3.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br />We rose early to a sour-tempered Frau Hubertus. In the dim light of a foggy morning, with what must have been a magnificent hangover, the English woman served her American guests a Germanic breakfast of sliced meat, cheese, thick brown bread, butter, jam and tea. There was no more talk of a desk manager position for Charles. In fact, there was no talk at all, just a dark, lurking spectre who would appear from time to time, growl and retreat. After breakfast we were presented with a bill that was twice what we had expected. The previous evening Charles had asked for the room rate and Frau Hubertus had, instead, told him the price per person. It was an honest mistake, and $42 was not exorbitant by any fair standard. Even so, we took our leave in not so jolly a fashion as we had arrived.<br /><br />This was to be our most demanding day yet. We had planned it that way, hoping to hike a double leg. We needed to avoid a certain alpine hut known as <a href="http://www.staufner-haus.de">Staufner Haus</a> in which Charles had been ill the previous year.<br /><br />The alpine hut system requires a bit of background. Scattered throughout the alps are hundreds of remotely isolated huts, each with its own personality. Some are ski huts, mostly empty in the summer, others are hiking huts that close down in the winter. From any given hut, one can count on finding at least one other within walking distance.<br /><br />Although some huts are privately owned, most are run by the alpine club of their respective country. Many are sponsored by a particular alpine club branch and bear the name of a town or region in that country. All offer rustic accommodations, many serve meals, and most offer at least one local beer on tap. To be ill in such a close setting is a miserable experience both for the victim and for the other guests sleeping close by. Charles had a horror of reliving that experience, and that was our main reason for this doubly long day.<br /><br />Charles was still carrying a half-kilo tin of fish in his pack. This fish became our mascot as we started our first real ascent. If I were ever to design a family crest for Charles, canned herring would place prominently on his shield. It added significant weight to his pack but, he claimed, it would give him strength when he needed it most.<br /><br />The first part of our hike was a climb up to Staufner Haus, the hut that we wished to avoid. The uphill hike was tiring but not so harsh as Charles remembered from the previous year. The trail was well-traveled and wide, winding over the grassy foothills that lead to the hut.<br /><br />We reached the hut around noon but did not stop. Instead we continued hiking until <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiFTt2wrKH-_GHK7PcbCB3eqhJo3jqQW5LbmXbzrrQckadwl88KcJcqJOWTTyhu9S1FxPz_w4A2meHk0KKLlQ8dtWbGwBZs8Vd27_3OZFb-HPSf-J8XMl9_zFry0KuetK7LaWk214ntQ/s1600-h/R1-10.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiFTt2wrKH-_GHK7PcbCB3eqhJo3jqQW5LbmXbzrrQckadwl88KcJcqJOWTTyhu9S1FxPz_w4A2meHk0KKLlQ8dtWbGwBZs8Vd27_3OZFb-HPSf-J8XMl9_zFry0KuetK7LaWk214ntQ/s320/R1-10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355925344490676034" /></a>we reached a nearby ski lift with a restaurant. There I ordered my standard spaghetti bolognaise and Charles indulged in a plate of weisswurst. So far we were making good progress. Best of all, we had finally reached real, honest to goodness, mountains. Beyond Staufner Haus, the cliffs were striated where layers of rock had been turned on end by some prehistoric tectonic collision. Between the standing layers of rock, pine trees grew neatly in rows, as if intentionally planted. Overlooking this striking scenery we finished our lunch and continued on our way.<br /><br />It was 5:00 when we noticed the storm clouds behind us. We were in the middle of an extraordinary ridge walk, completely exposed on all sides. On our left, the ground dropped off sharply to green pastures hundreds of feet below. On our right, diagonal layers of rock formed great downward cliffs, progressively eroding into to a steep grassy slope. To encounter a thunder storm on such a ridge could be life threatening. We picked up the pace, glancing warily over our shoulders, but the ridge went on and on with no visible end in sight. Worse, on the right side of the trail a barbed wire fence snaked on for miles in either direction. It occurred to me that one strike, anywhere along that fence, could light up the entire trail.<br /><br />Adding to the problem of the storm, we were both starting to suffer from trail claustrophobia. We could have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more by hiking separately for a couple of days. Without space, we became peevish and unbearable, imagining slights and devious motives where none could possibly exist. I remember secretly, and unfairly, blaming Charles for our lodging issues. Charles, tiring of my frequent thoughtlessness, was starting to snap at me.<br /><br />Really, I was being terribly inconsiderate. I was relying on Charles for everything: he ordered my meals, he found us rooms, he handled the maps. He had even paid for my plane ticket. The only thing he didn't do was carry my pack. And I don't think I had yet thanked him for any of it. Instead, I resented my dependence on him and that made me irritable. All the same, I did not have the courage to strike out alone for even one day. Having since found myself many times in the position of trail guide, I understand well the pressure that Charles must have felt. It is no surprise to me that he was sometimes a little out of sorts.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a-bAK3qzmKI_vJG2-qc6jVnjTLYC5ZEfstdY_I6c2Z2Ts9_M5tsHTQOyi7uY1KN7fiWTjLCMCVJJhNKqu2I3-VXE3tQP3oGgGXmTqNhul2JdP4FvtCBwokfDDAgVyPEB426u_TJKjuA/s1600-h/R1-15.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a-bAK3qzmKI_vJG2-qc6jVnjTLYC5ZEfstdY_I6c2Z2Ts9_M5tsHTQOyi7uY1KN7fiWTjLCMCVJJhNKqu2I3-VXE3tQP3oGgGXmTqNhul2JdP4FvtCBwokfDDAgVyPEB426u_TJKjuA/s320/R1-15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355924806525457922" /></a>At about 6:00 we started to notice the play of lightning on the mountains behind us. I am not a cowardly man and am willing to take my chances with all sorts of weather but lightening on a ridge, I'd rather not face. We sped up again and were thankful for a blue patch of sky that seemed to hover over our heads while everything in sight turned grey. From this vantage we warily watched as the storm swept through the valleys on either side of our ridge. Soon the rain was falling like curtains to the east and west. As the evening wore on, those curtains were closing in.<br /><br />It was 9:00, and we had just stepped onto a road, when the sky opened up on our heads. Fortunately the road took us through the heart of a thick pine forest. That was some consolation, as we would be safer from the lightning if not from the rain. Unfortunately, we still had three miles before the first chance of a room.<br /><br />As the sky darkened and the rain pelted down, we put on our headlamps and rain gear. Half a mile later, we stopped to look at our map. It was encased in a plastic map bag and difficult to read through the raindrops. As we studied the route, Charles' trail claustrophobia got the better of him.<br /><br />"Stop looking at me!" he snapped. "Your light is shining right in my eyes!"<br /><br />I apologized, half-heartedly, and suggested that he walk on ahead. He did so and we continued, both stewing like a dysfunctional married couple.<br /><br />Two and a half miles later we came to the first pension. Charles knocked as we huddled, half covered by the awning above the door. A moustached man in lederhosen opened it a crack.<br /><br />"Do you have any rooms available?" Charles asked him in German.<br /><br />The man looked us up and down and seemed to consider for a moment. We shuffled impatiently, soaked to the skin, waiting for him to show some courtesy and let us in. We must have made quite an impression.<br /><br />"Nein" he finally replied, and made as if to close the door.<br /><br />"Excuse me," Charles said, again in German. "Can you at least tell us how far it is to the next pension?"<br /><br />He shrugged, "One kilometer, maybe two?" and then closed the door neatly in our faces.<br /><br />Now we had a common enemy and could direct our irritation away from each other. We spent the next mile replaying the incredible scene and thinking up new epithets to hurl back over our shoulders. I remember imagining that this walk was my atonement for sins of the past. Charles was thinking along the same lines, promising God aloud that he would be a better man if we survived. It was all very melodramatic.<br /><br />Our anger got us through the first mile but, into the second, despair began to take hold. At every turn we expected to see the lights of a town but Sonthofen was still a full hour away. It was there, at 11PM, that we finally spotted the next pension. We had determined that our pathetic appearance had lost us the previous chance. We did not want to risk a repeat episode so, across the street, in the vaulted doorway of a church, we changed into our best remaining clothes. Then we crossed back and rang the buzzer.<br /><br />The young lady of the house, a dark-haired beauty, hustled us into the hallway and out of the rain. In complete contrast to the moustached man's greeting, she was all courtesy and kindness. Charles was not hungry but I was famished. I asked her if there was a chance of getting something cold from the kitchen. <br /><br />"I can make you anything from the menu." she replied pleasantly.<br /><br />"How about a steak?" I asked, testing my luck.<br /><br />"No problem," she said.<br /><br />Fifteen minutes later, at a table in the rustic dining room, I ate the best steak of my life. I fell asleep at midnight, feeling very fortunate that I was not sleeping in the church doorway -- or even in the same bed as Charles.<br /><br />Next week<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-go-solo-days-5-and-6.html">I Go Solo, Days 5 and 6</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-10163340471324717542009-06-28T18:21:00.001-07:002009-08-05T12:24:44.733-07:00Into the Foothills, Days 2 and 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnH5Hc_BHbV2ofRfULKGFZPJUWUx2d0C19txZ741Efc9cA73vjaOI6AqkrXyMLE68SWfXO3D-e_NRiMHSg9ijgR1BNJ-WlqaupGlewO4ZR-mYr30WteNZaOkDd1V4da6VwFKjKZSPKTRY/s1600-h/alpspan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353706371907527410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 126px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnH5Hc_BHbV2ofRfULKGFZPJUWUx2d0C19txZ741Efc9cA73vjaOI6AqkrXyMLE68SWfXO3D-e_NRiMHSg9ijgR1BNJ-WlqaupGlewO4ZR-mYr30WteNZaOkDd1V4da6VwFKjKZSPKTRY/s320/alpspan.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<First Page of Series</a><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-day-1.html"><Previous Day</a><br /><br /><b>Day 2: Arbon to Höchst</b><br />It is fair to say that we were both amazed by how much that first day destroyed us. We crawled out of bed around 8:30, sore but thankful for Rudi and Margrith. Charles was coughing deeply, so I braced myself for the inevitable and wondered if I had the cojones to hike on without him. My sore hip was giving off cowardly twinges.<br /><br />Rudi left for work before we awoke. We had said goodbye the night before but I still felt bad for sleeping so late. Our breakfast was already set by Margrith: cheese, toast, boiled eggs in egg cups, hot chocolate and tea. It was a tremendous spread and I ate like a pig at a trough. My body, back then all skin and bones, craved calories. Charles ate sparingly however, and this confirmed my suspicion that I might be nearing the end of the "guided" part of my tour.<br /><br />But it was not in the purview of Dr. Death to make quitting easy on Charles, so I carefully avoided opening the door to that discussion. Instead I complemented Margrith's unique rotating cheese knife and made grand offerings of American hospitality which I could never hope to fulfill. Afterwards we both thanked Margrith warmly. She had already packed us a generous bagged lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches, tomatoes and freshly picked fruit from her own backyard orchard. With these in a plastic shopping bag (no room in the packs) we slogged it back to Bodensee.<br /><br />The section we intended to hike, from Arbon to Rheineck, Switzerland, was very similar to what I have already described: sidewalks and gravel paths along the side of the lake. The only difference was that the heat was more intense and Charles was coughing up blood. I felt certain that the moment of truth was at hand but Charles hung in, complaining only of blisters. My hip had not recovered so I made up my mind to lighten my pack at the next available post office.<br /><br />I longed to dive into the clear water of the lake but was determined to match Charles for stamina and self-deprivation. I also didn't want to suggest anything that would slow down our progress toward the mountains. If solo hiking was inevitable, I first wanted a glimpse of the higher altitude terrain.<br /><br />During our frequent breaks I devoured the sandwiches and fruit that Margrith had prepared for us. Charles was not interested in eating, which I took as a bad sign. Still, he was stoically silent about quitting. It was shortly after noon, following another coughing fit, when I finally broke down and asked him whether or not he would continue with the hike.<br /><br />"I just need to get to the mountains." He said, repeating his assertion from the previous day. "The alpine air will cure me of this, I'm sure of it."<br /><br />I hadn't realized how determined Charles could be. It was hard to believe that a guy who was coughing up blood could continue with something so strenuous. Yet he had no intention of quitting. He even seemed a little offended that I had assumed he would. As if to underscore his determination, he picked up the pace and we made it to Rheineck in good time.<br /><br />When we arrived in Rheineck, just on the Swiss side of the border, it was only 4:30. There Charles continued with his phoenix-from-the-ashes recovery. At an outdoor cafe, from which we could have lobbed meatballs into Austria, Charles ordered and ate a hearty dinner. I did the same. My spaghetti bolognaise was delicious, and for the first time we revelled in our progress. Over several cold beers we closely examined our map and determined that we might still make some distance before nightfall. Although we could have easily found lodging in Rheineck, Charles suggested that we head for the next pension on the far side of Gaissau, Austria. I was thrilled with the idea, though I would regret it soon enough.<br /><br />As soon as I heaved my heavy pack onto my shoulders, my beer-strength deserted me. The one mile remaining could not go quickly enough. Thirty minutes later, at the door of the pension, I rested while Charles went looking for the master or mistress of the house. Charles was unfamiliar with this particular pension. On his previous tour he had slept in a patch of stinging nettles nearby. That turned out to have been a lucky choice, oddly enough, because when he did finally locate the owner he was told, rather sharply, that this was not a pension at all and did not offer rooms. We were trespassing and he wanted us out of the yard.<br /><br />There was no other building in sight that could match the guidebook's description. It was almost certainly the place where the pension was said to have been. We pressed on, disheartened, toward the next small town -- about two and a half miles further. Perhaps, we considered, the guidebook was not to be trusted.<br /><br />The going was slow. Our feet burned and our shoulders ached. We found ourselves hiking on asphalt roads through corn fields, uncertain of our direction, only hoping that the next town would eventually appear beyond the green wall of corn.<br /><br />We arrived in Höchst an hour and a half later, once again totally shattered. After several false leads we found a "zimmer frei", a vacant room, at an inn on a residential side street. There were two twin beds and a small private shower which felt like Shiatsu to my wasted muscles. As I showered I stamped soap into my laundry and then hung various pieces over every knob in the room. Charles had already announced that he would take a brief nap before doing the same. That was his way of saying goodnight.<br /><br /><b>Day 3: Höchst to Bregenz</b><br />I am not a superstitious man but there may be something to be said for the power of faith healing. The moment we entered the Allgäu (pronounced OW-goy) region, Charles' bronchitis started to disappear. We awoke feeling strong, ready to enter the foothills.<br /><br />The town of Bregenz, Austria was a short walk from the pension. It was there that Charles bought new hiking poles with carbide tips and a large tin of herring which he stuffed in his pack. The carbide tips were an improvement on the rubber-tips of the poles he had left on the train. They would, as I have already suggested, save Charles' life several days later. I also bought a pole, a Leki Wanderfreund, that has been my walking companion for the eleven years since.<br /><br />I took the opportunity to unpack and send back several items, via post, before we hit the mountains. My pack was now blessedly lighter and we both felt optimistic again -- Charles with his herring and I with my lightened load.<br /><br />We hopped on the bus to Lingenau, about eight miles southwest as the crow flies. The bus ride was part of the hike recommended by our guidebook. We would, otherwise, have wasted another day walking along roads and gravel bike paths. Instead, we were dropped in Lingenau and proceeded to tackle our first 1000 feet of elevation. It seemed like a dream after the roads we had suffered. The trail was soft and my new cane-style pole gave my hip just the cushion it needed. Like Charles' bronchitis, my hip was healing nicely.<br /><br />When we arrived at Pension Hubertus in Hittisau we were greeted by Frau Hubertus herself, lounging in a folding chair in the front yard. She was a jovial woman, middle aged and with the red nose of a heavy drinker. Beside her was a muttish dog that she said was a pure breed but she had forgotten what type. Charles asked her, in German, how much was a room. She replied somewhat awkwardly that it was 270 Schillings. Charles translated for me that the price was just over $20 for the night. <br /><br />"Why are you speaking English to him?" she asked Charles.<br /><br />"We're from the States." Charles replied in German.<br /><br />"But why are you speaking English to <em>him</em> and not to <em>me</em>?"<br /><br />After several confused seconds we realized that Frau Hubertus hardly spoke any German at all. She was English, from Dorset, and had precious little interest in the local culture and language. Having married an Austrian she had found herself expatriated to Austria and longed for English speaking companions.<br /><br />She showed us to a comfortable room with two twin beds. We chatted for quite some time and, over a bottle of beer, she offered Charles a job as her translator and desk manager. Her husband, it turned out, was in Geneva for a knee operation. He was away a lot, she said, and judging from the pictures of Herr Hubertus and some Austrian ski bunnies, we drew our own conclusions.<br /><br />Charles did not decline the job on the spot but seemed to be seriously considering it. As we entered the town square, to all appearances an historic alpine village, an outdoor polka concert was just getting started. We took folding seats in the audience. A pair of attractive, chesty fräulein in traditional dress made their way through the sparse crowd offering free schnapps. Between them they had two shot glasses, a jug of clear liqueur and a dishrag. As the first fräulein filled one glass, the second wiped the other glass clean with the dishrag. Then they swapped glasses and moved to the next customer. They worked their way through the crowd this way and eventually offered me one of the glasses. I declined their hospitality but their quaint, open friendliness was unforgettable.<br /><br />In a restaurant nearby, all post, beam and stucco, we had a wonderful meal of sausage, potatoes, a light salad and beer. Listening to the music as it drifted through the warm August evening I could see why Charles might consider staying behind...<br /><br />Next week.<br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/07/no-sleep-til-sonthofen-day-4.html">No Sleep 'Til Sonthofen</a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-337003028457370855.post-4237303771425641872009-06-20T13:37:00.000-07:002009-07-11T14:16:55.884-07:00Konstance to Arbon<p><iframe marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=konstanz,+germany&daddr=arbon,+switzerland&hl=en&mra=ls&dirflg=w&sll=47.58045,9.309989&sspn=0.399259,1.231842&ie=UTF8&ll=47.58817,9.30445&spn=0.14622,0.26478&t=h&output=embed" frameborder="0" width="425" scrolling="no" height="350"></iframe><br /><small><a style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,255); TEXT-ALIGN: left" href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=embed&saddr=konstanz,+germany&daddr=arbon,+switzerland&hl=en&mra=ls&dirflg=w&sll=47.58045,9.309989&sspn=0.399259,1.231842&ie=UTF8&ll=47.58817,9.30445&spn=0.14622,0.26478&t=h">View Larger Map</a></small></p><strong>Konstanz to Arbon</strong><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/konstance-to-bozen-prologue.html"><<Prologue</a><br /><br />During the night I realized that Charles had Bronchitis. He kept our Syrian roommate up until dawn with the coughing. I was fortunate to be traveling with earplugs and slept like the dead. In the morning, the Syrian guy was extremely understanding but I was somewhat unnerved. The last thing I wanted was to be half way up a mountain with Charles falling apart.<br /><br />"You're actually going to hike the Alps with bronchitis?" I asked him as he pulled on his socks in the white-washed bunk room.<br /><br />"Don't worry," he said. "Alpine air cures anything."<br /><br />It was impossible sometimes to tell when he was being ironic. And deep down I wanted him to hike, regardless. I guess that's why his mother calls me Doctor Death. When it comes to danger, I don't do a very good job dissuading Charles. I made one more half-hearted attempt and then, with a resigned shrug, I dropped the subject.<br /><br />We had read that we "wouldn't want to miss the breakfast" so it was with no little anticipation that we entered the dining room that morning. What we found was not bad (brie, baguettes, jam, coffee) but certainly not praiseworthy. By North American standards it was the bare minimum. Later, once we had experienced Swiss prices, we concluded that the main reason we "wouldn't want to miss" a free breakfast was not the quality but the affordability. As for the service, it was just about what we were beginning to expect in Zurich. When Charles asked for more hot water in the carafe, the woman at the counter flew into an apoplectic rage. We both agreed that it was high time we left. I stealthily pocketed a baguette and some cheese then we headed for the train.<br /><br />In the first installment of this serial I detailed several other unfortunate incidents involving Zurich natives. So, before going any further, I want to dispel any notion that I might hold a grudge against the Swiss. I do not. Some of the nicest people I know are Swiss. I am only telling it like it was. Although our troubles were far from over, the further we got from the city the more the people seemed to brighten up.<br /><br />The Zurich natives, Zurichians if you will, are of a temperament altogether different from the the ordinary Swiss -- except that all Swiss seem to share a deep yearning for the outdoors. While walking back to the train station (no more taxis for us) we noticed a city park full of camping youths. Shabby, hung over, and possibly homeless they were just beginning to crawl out of sleeping bags and tents. Their existence was in stark contrast to the cleanliness of the streets and the orderliness of the architecture. Even so, they were not living in cardboard boxes. It was as if everyone in the city were, in one way or another, grudgingly making the best of what they considered to be a very bad lot. You had to feel a little sorry for them. So close to the mountains and yet so very far away. Even the poorest were pining for the fields, so to speak.<br /><br />We were later informed that Zurichians are considered terribly rude by their pastoral cousins. Those from outside the city would shake their heads and "tut" when I told them about our first few hours in Switzerland. "Yes, they make a very bad impression on visitors." they would say. Apparently Zurichians are the "rude New Yorkers" of Switzerland.<br /><br />Glad to be on the move again, we walked back to the train station and grabbed the first train to Konstanz, Germany. Konstanz (also Constance) is a small lake-side city that that shares no land border with the rest of Germany. It should, by proximity, belong to Switzerland. It is so much a part of that country, in fact, that it never had to worry about Allied bombing raids during the Second World War.<br /><br />Disembarking at the station, we began looking for signs of the trail head. It proved surprisingly difficult to locate. Asking around, nobody seemed to know that there were any hiking trails at all. We were the only hikers in sight and, if Charles had not assured me to the contrary, I might have begun to wonder if we were in the right town. We finally found the marker in a small park. There, by an unremarkable stone tablet, we took our first official steps on our trekking adventure.<br /><br />It was a very short walk back to the border of Switzerland. In fact, we had only just crossed into Germany on the train a few minutes before. But crossing borders never loses its appeal, even when done repeatedly. Just hopping back and forth over a border can keep me amused for a surprisingly long time. As it turned out, the border guards couldn't even muster the energy to shoo us along. Charles walked right past the booth without even a glance. I, with my enthusiasm for borders, insisted on getting my passport stamped. Once I caught their attention, the border patrol began to show a great interest in me. Note to self, don't talk to any more heavily armed teenagers.<br /><br />After a few tense moments and a passport stamp, we were again skirting the south western border of Bodensee. AKA Lake Constance, this beautiful spot is a haven for sun-bathers and fresh-water enthusiasts. It is not quite so refreshing for hikers. The hiking trail, sometimes gravel, sometimes sidewalk, shares its purpose with a constant stream of bicyclists. At first we thought everyone was just saying "hi" is Switzerdeutsch, but we soon realized that the hoots and hollers meant "get off our path!" <p>The day was hot and we could feel it through the soles of our shoes. We had decided to do the 50 kilometer Bodensee stretch in order to say we had hiked all the way from the trail head. This purism would later draw baffled looks from our fellow hikers, and for good reason. There was nothing remotely mountainous or even trail-like about this stretch. Instead we faced miles of sidewalks and gravel paths, and any hiker will tell you that this is terrible for the feet.</p><p>By noon we were both hurting. Charles' cough sounded terrible and he had blisters from the heat. I had sore shoulders and a throbbing hip. Over a trail-side lunch of flattened baguette and lukewarm brie, we decided reluctantly to soldier on, preferring to get the lake behind us as quickly as possible. Charles had forgotten his hiking poles on the train in Konstanze and was missing them badly. Later this mishap would save his life but right now it seemed likely to cost us the hike. I didn't yet own poles but had decided to buy some at the first opportunity.</p><p>I can now only wonder at the figures we cut as we shuffled past trailer-camper families in their Speedo bathing suits. Between Charles, with his hacking cough, and myself in trousers and long-sleeves -- both of us carrying 40-pound packs, it is no wonder that we attracted some peculiar looks. But this was my first real hike, and only Charles' second. We were on a steep learning curve that we looked forward to leaving behind.</p><p>After 29 kilometers, while passing a picnicking area in the town of Arbon, Charles announced that he couldn't go any further. As if to punctuate this statement, he sat on a picnic bench and fell over backwards... not once but twice. The first time he drew gasps from the nearby sunbathers. The second time he actually drew applause. In Charles' defense, the bench was missing a leg. We were just too tired to notice.</p><p>We took off our packs and hobbled over to the snack bar. I got a Coke and Charles bought a Swiss "sports drink", an effervescent concoction with the great taste of sour milk. It was this horrible beverage, and Charles' reaction to it, that got us a room for the night. While he was choking it down, I noticed a middle aged couple watching in amusement. They had, no doubt, seen our slapstick entry and were enjoying the continued performance. Margrith and Rudi were their names and they were a Godsend. We had only chatted for a few minutes, in blessed old English, before they invited us to stay the night at their home.</p><p>They left us sitting on our bench and biked off to retrieve their car.</p><p>I was skeptical that Rudi would return but he did. In minutes we were swept off the street and into the comfortable bungalo of this kindly Swiss couple. The livingroom was done in rustic Swiss fashion: leather, exposed wood, and fur. Rudi explained that they were, themselves, hikers. They understood our predicament and were thrilled to be able to help us out. Margrith, nestled under what appeared to be a wolf-skin rug, talked about their son who was off at college. He was a hiker, too, and they looked forward to his visits, often traveling to the mountains as a family. It was an enjoyable evening, with a dinner of cold cuts, cheese and Swiss beer interspersed with light conversation. </p><p>After showers and foot-repair we crawled into bed -- together. There was only one bed. Ordinarily it would have been awkward, Charles being well over six feet tall. As it was, we were too tired to care. I don't even remember Charles coughing that night but he must have been. The next day his bronchitis was even worse.</p><strong>Next week</strong><br /><a href="http://sleepinginthecar.blogspot.com/2009/06/into-foothills-days-2-and-3.html">Into the Foothills>></a>Karlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14411813982584106438noreply@blogger.com0