Via Alpina Day 1: Munich to Meilerhütte

<< Previous Week: Via Alpina, prologue

8/26/2006
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

While riding the U-Bahn it dawns on me that I haven't yet withdrawn any Euros.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?

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 is a sleepy suburb. I got off the subway one station too early.

A half-hour later, at the real 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For those unfamiliar with European trail systems, I should give a bit of background. The Via Alpina 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.

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.

I belong to the Austrian Alpine Club's, UK Branch. 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.

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.

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.

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."

"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. 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.

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.

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.

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 Europäischer Fernwanderweg E4 ("European long hiking trail" E4). The E4 is an older route, developed and maintained by the European Rambler's Association. 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 Europäischer Fernwanderweg E5, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next Week: Knorrhütte

Via Alpina - 10 Days Solo, Prologue

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

I'll be starting my hike in Scharnitz, Austria, a stone's throw from the German border. I'll hike on the Via Alpina "Red Trail" 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 memorable dinner 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.

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.

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.

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.



Next Week: Meilerhütte

No Sleep 'Til Sonthofen, Day 4

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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.

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 Staufner Haus in which Charles had been ill the previous year.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We reached the hut around noon but did not stop. Instead we continued hiking until 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Stop looking at me!" he snapped. "Your light is shining right in my eyes!"

I apologized, half-heartedly, and suggested that he walk on ahead. He did so and we continued, both stewing like a dysfunctional married couple.

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.

"Do you have any rooms available?" Charles asked him in German.

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.

"Nein" he finally replied, and made as if to close the door.

"Excuse me," Charles said, again in German. "Can you at least tell us how far it is to the next pension?"

He shrugged, "One kilometer, maybe two?" and then closed the door neatly in our faces.

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.

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.

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.

"I can make you anything from the menu." she replied pleasantly.

"How about a steak?" I asked, testing my luck.

"No problem," she said.

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.

Next week
I Go Solo, Days 5 and 6

Into the Foothills, Days 2 and 3

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Day 2: Arbon to Höchst
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Day 3: Höchst to Bregenz
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Why are you speaking English to him?" she asked Charles.

"We're from the States." Charles replied in German.

"But why are you speaking English to him and not to me?"

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.

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.

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.

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...

Next week.
No Sleep 'Til Sonthofen

Konstance to Arbon

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Konstanz to Arbon
<<Prologue

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.

"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.

"Don't worry," he said. "Alpine air cures anything."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

They left us sitting on our bench and biked off to retrieve their car.

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.

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.

Next week
Into the Foothills>>

Konstanz to Bozen, Prologue

Introduction

Anyone who knows me will tell you I've had some far-out schemes. Like when I bought the condemned four-unit apartment building, or the time I started an ill-fated line of T-shirts imprinted with with suggestive double entendres. Better yet, there was the time I tried to right the fortunes of the erstwhile prince of Madagascar...

Sometimes these schemes paid off, more often they ended in a hasty backpedal. This segment is the first part in a serial that will detail my earliest long-distance trekking adventure. It was this brilliant disaster that led to my obsession with the hiking trails of Europe. I don't know any better way to summarize it, so I'll just tell the story.

Prologue

I can't really claim that it was my idea. In fact, I can't honestly remember if it was my good friend Charles or I who first suggested it. He was the most committed in the beginning. In fact, I let him test the waters before setting foot myself. That would have been 1997, the year Charles went hiking alone in Europe.

Charles is a tall, lanky guy with round glasses and a superior intellect. He speaks fluent German and is always cooking up some new and interesting project. That first year is really Charles' story. So until I license it from him, I'll stick to my own experiences. What I can say without infringement is that he came back determined that someone else should know the experience first hand. I was his most constant companion so the honor was rightfully mine. And I was also easily led. The idea was a romantic one -- backpacking over the Alps. Although Charles was always painstakingly honest about the hardships involved, I was filled with naïve optimism.

Not only was Charles willing to lead the trip. He was also willing to buy the tickets. Now my reputation as a cheapskate was second only to my reputation as a schemer. So Charles offerred to buy my tickets if I would help him redecorate his apartment. The offer was an extremely generous one on his part. In hindsight, I have to believe that the bargain was partly a ruse to get me on that plane. The ceiling that I patched and the paint that I scraped was hardly worth the price of toilet I cracked with an errant beer bottle, never mind the price of the tickets.

That is how I found myself standing at an unmarked kiosk in the furthest reaches of an unfinished terminal in Boston's Logan airport, guided by vague directions and a dismissive wave of the hand from a bored information clerk. It was only the start of our journey but we were already beginning to wonder whether we had made a tremendous mistake.

We were hitching a flight on a charter airline. Charles had paid $800 for two thin, round-trip vouchers from a company called Airhitch. These vouchers were rumored to be good for seats on this mystery plane. Thirty minutes before liftoff, the staff was still suspiciously absent and the other potential passengers looked as uncertain as we both felt. Ten more minutes passed before two zombie flight-attendants arrived with a slap-on sign that read "Trans-Air" or something equally suspicious. It was exactly the name you would choose for a doomed airline in a 1974 B-grade flick about the Bermuda Triangle. Nevertheless, we submitted to the humiliation of being unwelcome guests on the shoddiest of carriers. The most important thing was to get to Europe.

I won't detail the horrors of that miserable flight except to say that food and water were scarce, service minimal and legroom almost nil. We arrived in Paris six hours later, kissed the ground and melted into the converging throngs of travellers. Munching on airport croissants we quickly located the SNCF train terminal where we purchased two tickets to Zurich, Switzerland.

It was 10:30 PM when we pulled into the Zurich railway station. A painted, life-sized plasticine cow hung from the ceiling girders. The information booth was vacant and the floors were already mopped clean. The train hissed quietly then fell silent. The other few passengers quickly disappeared out the doors and we were left alone on the deserted platform.

The first indication that things might get complicated was the young men with automatic rifles standing by the doorway. Charles, confident in his German, approached the two men to ask directions to the hostel. They had no interest in speaking with us and no patience for German. Instead they pointed at the door with their guns and, in brusque Switzerdeutsch instructed us to leave the building immediately. No discussion. So much for our welcoming committee.

The streets were as silent and deserted as the station. As the last cars drove off into a spitting mist, we stood on the damp sidewalk and wondered what to do next. The guards leered at us from the doorway and made it clear that we should be moving along quickly. No loitering in Zurich. A taxi stopped and lowered his window. It had been our impression that most Swiss understood German but we were quickly disillusioned of this notion. The driver just shrugged. I tried English with much the same response. We showed him the sheet I had torn out of the Hostelling International book. He shrugged again, rolled up his window and left us on the curb.

It was another tense five minutes before the next taxi arrived. The driver of this one spoke English reasonably well. He drove us to a far corner of town, took the equivalent of $20 in Swiss Francs and dropped us off on a quiet street corner in a residential neighborhood. He had already driven away when we realized that we had no idea where the hostel was.

After a quick scouting of the area we realized that we'd been scammed. We were nowhere near the hostel. So we picked up our bags and started looking for a busier street. It was nearly midnight when our final taxi dropped us off at the doors of the Youth Hostel Zurich, fortunately open all night. The desk clerk rang us in and found us a room. After thirty six hours of hard travelling we were both beyond exhaustion. I fell into the clean white sheets of Switzerland with my boots still on my feet.

Next week
Day 1: Konstanz - Arbon>>