To Zwieselstein, Day 10

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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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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 very 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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

When Dietrich reached the bottom he yelled back up. "There is a path! Not very good but good enough."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 Talherberge Zwieselstein, 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.

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:

"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."

"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."

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 Hotel Gasthof Zwieselstein while the Übers cooked their dinner in the hut.

Next Week
Over Timmelsjoch and Into the Italian Alps

Braunschweiger Hütte and the Ötztal Glaciers, Day 9

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I went outside to wait in the sunshine on the stone staircase.

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.

"I'll tell you in a second," he said.

When we were well down the sidewalk he finally relaxed his pace. "God that was hell." he sighed.

"Really?" I said. "My room was great. What happened."

"Oh, the room was just fine," he said, "It wasn't that."

"Then what?" I asked.

"Well, last night I decided to finally eat that tin of herring."

"So at least you won't be carrying it any further," I suggested, filling dead air with a plausible up-side.

"Yeah, but there wasn't much flat space to eat it, so I opened it on top of the television."

"Oh no," I said, already guessing the next part.

"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."

"Shit... First Staufner Haus, now Gasthof Gemse. Guess you won't be going back there, either."

"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 Sherman's march to the sea."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

After dinner, the Übers' friends wanted me to try a dubious substance called jägertee. 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.

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.

Next Week
Zwieselstein