Via Alpina Day 2: Meilerhütte to Knorrhütte

<< Previous Week: Via Alpina, Munich to Meilerhütte

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.

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.

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.

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 castle built by King Ludwig II of Bavaria 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.

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.

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.

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 the Kungsleden, 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

Next time: Coburger hütte

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

To Zwieselstein, Day 10

<<First Page of Series
<Previous Day

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

<<First Page of Series
<Previous Day

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

Zams and the über Familie, Day 8

<<First Page of Series
<Previous Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

"Then I look forward to meeting your son," I said.

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".

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.

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, KoRn, 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.

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.

"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."

He was right, of course. We soon came to realize that Dietrich was generally right about many things.

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.

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.


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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 Postgasthof Gemse, operated by the Haueis family since 1726.

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.

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.

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.

"I wish I had the Virgin Mary over MY bed," said Charles, after our hostess had departed.

"You can have my room if you want," I told him. He declined, and I was secretly happy that he did.

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 Lowa 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next Week
Braunschweiger Hütte

Memminger Hütte, Day 7

<<First Page of Series
<Previous Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Memminger Hütte, like a small wooden ranch against a backdrop of colossal, looming cliffs.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Next Week
Zams and the über Familie