I Go Solo, Days 5 and 6

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The rhythm of my boots on the trail puts songs in my head. And once a song gets stuck, I inevitably end up humming it for days on end. So it is only natural that I sometimes add my own lyrics to a tune that has been rattling around in there. It was on day 5 that I started writing The Wanderweg Song, sung to the popular 1920's tune Baby Face. Before teaching you the lyrics, I'll need to cover some background and basic terminology.

Firstly, we were walking on a trail generally known as the Europäischer Fernwanderweg E5. Literally the "European long hiking trail E5". This trail links together a number of smaller trails throughout Europe. Each of these smaller trails, to a German, would be known as a wanderweg -- pronounced "vaunder-vegg". We had started seeing the word "wanderweg" all over the place. It's easy to remember, just think "wander way".

Second, the most typical greeting we were hearing on the trail was "Grüß Gott!", pronounced "groose gut" or "groose goat" (don't forget to gargle your "r") depending on the accent of the speaker. In my song, I favor the latter pronunciation because it rhymes better. "Grüß Gott!" translates, literally, to "Greet God!", which is presumably what any good German does upon reaching the top of the mountain.

With that background, and with the tune from Baby Face in mind, you should soon be able to sing this song at parties and other special occasions. For the American palate, I have written the words in a pseudo-phonetic fashion. That way you can sing it like a true German:

The Wanderweg Song

Vaunder-veg!
I love to vaunder on der vaunder-veg!
I getting stronger on der vaunder-veg, vaunder-veg
Nothing is verboten
Ven ve are Groose Goatin'!
Vaunder-veg!
I am so happy when I'm on der vaunder-veg!
I get der stronger leg
upon der vaunder-veg
as I get blonder, vaunder-veg!

Yes, there were other verses but none that I was quite so proud of. The song proved quite popular with Germans -- kind of an underground cult classic. Of course I don't like to brag...

The hike from Sonthofen to Oberstdorf was a relaxing, flat hike along a meandering river. The scenery was mostly trees with the occasional farm or small village to break up the monotony. We needed a restful day so there was no complaining en route. In fact, the easy terrain resulted in a significant thawing of moods.

In a shady beer garden in Oberstdorf, we agreed that what we really needed was a little time alone. We decided to spring for separate rooms and to go solo for the next couple of days, only touching base briefly at our nightly destinations. This discussion lightened our mood considerably and, to lighten it still more, we each drank several tall glasses of the refreshing lemony hefeweizen beer that is so popular in Bavaria and the central Austrian Alps.

It was here that I ordered my first accidental plate of Käse-Knödel. I had decided that it was about time for me to start taking some initiative with respect to the language. I knew that Käse meant "cheese" but Knödel was not in my abridged pocket language guide. I did not ask Charles for a translation. "Knödel" sounded like "noodle", and anything resembling noodles would work for me. And I had been living on spaghetti bolognaise, so cheese would make a nice change from the usual meaty red sauce.

Having ordered, we sat back to enjoy the authentic, small-town alpine scenery. The beer garden was shaded by trees and surrounded by a low fence. Outside the fence we watched tourists and natives stroll past picturesque buildings of stucco and rough hewn lumber. The restaurant played an eclectic mix of top 40 rock, classic rock and polka, with little thought to stylistic transition.

Oberstdorf was a bustling little town, enjoying the influx of vacationing visitors from Munich and beyond. We would later learn that Oberstdorf serves as the practical trail head for the most popular section of the Fernwanderweg E5. German hikers shun the section of trail that we had just completed, preferring to arrive in Oberstdorf by train. Oberstdorf also provides easy access to several other hiking and skiing routes, both by trail and by cable car. It is, therefore, a popular destination both in the summer and winter tourist seasons.

My food arrived after our second beer. It consisted of three heavy cheese dumplings the size of baseballs in a shallow dish of thin broth. These proved difficult to swallow, both literally and figuratively, and I only prevailed because of my extreme caloric deprivation and my unwillingness to admit that I had made a mistake. Afterwards I felt full but my carbohydrate fix had not been satisfied. I compensated by ordering dessert. The dessert menu had pictures so I felt confident in my ability to choose something more satisfying.

I ordered a "Heiße Liebe" sundae. The picture looked amazing: three large scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, cherry sauce, whipped cream and a piece of chocolate that I failed to recognize as a little heart. The waitress smirked and asked, in English, whether we would be needing two spoons.

"No thanks, it's just for me." I replied.

"But it is not common to eat this dish all by yourself," she insisted, smiling a coy smile.

"Don't worry," I said confidently, "I can."

Perhaps, I thought, she was amazed by my incredible appetite. Or maybe she was flirting with me. Either way, I had clearly made an impression. "I think she likes me," I said to Charles after she had returned to the kitchen to make my super-man sundae.

Charles shook his head. "'Heiße Liebe' means 'hot love'" he replied. "She thinks we might be eating it together."

Sure enough, the sundae arrived with two chocolate hearts and two spoons, a set pointing suggestively toward each of us.

After dinner we did a quick survey of town and decided that all of the rooms were either full or too expensive. Luckily, Sonthofen was a short train ride away. So we returned there after our meal and found separate rooms. Despite the peculiar cheese balls and wanting to eat my sundae alone under the table, the evening had been exceptional. Having my own room made it a four-star night.

Oberstdorf to Kemptner Hütte, Day 6

I was going through money at an unsustainable pace. This worrisome situation was caused partly because we had yet to reach the mountain hut system. It was, therefore, some consolation that I would be staying in my first mountain hut this evening.

Our pension, with our glorious separate rooms, served the same breakfast to which we were growing accustomed: a small selection of rolls, thin slices of meat and cheese, wedges of soft cheese wrapped in foil, pre-sealed packets of jam, tea, coffee, watery juice and a good selection of under-ripened fruit. Muesli and yogurt were also an option. It was sufficient but hardly a treat. The compensation was that one could always borrow a few rolls, cheese and jam for handy trail snacks. I always did this on the sly. Morally, I did not consider this stealing -- I was paying for the bed and breakfast -- but it did seem just a little uncouth to be slipping rolls into my pockets.

We ate and paid separately and sat separately on the train. Once back in Oberstdorf, we lost each other in the crowds of the Hauptstraße ("High Street"). Blissfully free, as I wended my way through the cool morning air, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The sun was drying the window box flowers, grocers and pharmacists were opening their shops, and the mist was rising to reveal the nearby mountains.

I was free of everything for the first time in years. I was completely unreachable by telephone or fax. My mediocre job was a distant memory. I was completely alone yet somehow self-sufficient, and I suddenly understood why Charles had brought me here. It wasn't just because he just wanted someone to torture. That was part of it, sure, but only as a means to an end. Rather, it was because he wanted to share this rare exhilaration -- which could only exist in contrast to the rest of it. Like a runners high, only slower. The irony was, of course, that we were incapable of sharing it together.

At the end of the bustling Hauptstraße, I turned left onto Weststraße and, arriving at a tall whitewashed church, decided to take a look inside. Pfarrkirche St. Johann Baptist is beautifully designed and decorated. It boasts three wooden balconies, a dark wooden ceiling, three cabinet-style triptychs and paintings of poor old Christ's agony, from trial to crucifixion. There are no decorative windows but the clear rippled glass has its own, humble appeal. Random panes are tinted pink from some impurity in the silica. The effect was more honest and pure than traditional stained glass. I sat in the lower balcony and thanked my ambiguous and under-appreciated God for my good fortune.

Exiting the church I made my way out of town toward Spielmannsau. A horse and buggy passed me both forward and back as I sauntered through farmland, past a golf course and finally into forest, emerging on the other side at the hotel and outdoor cafe that marked the end of civilization, at least until Kemptner Hütte.

At a picnic table in the cafe, I ordered a Coke and a apple strudel. Both tasted delicious to my calorie-starved body. I filled my water bottles in the bathroom of the adjacent hotel and then, sitting on a swinging chair in the yard, I ate the remainder of my breakfast: two rolls, some soft cheese, and two packets of jam. No point in carrying the extra weight up the mountain.

Just beyond Spielmannsau the road became a path. The path crossed more farmland before passing into a forest and then up the east side of a gorge. The trail here was steep. I reminded myself to pay attention to the increasingly rocky terrain unfolding all around me. The trail tumbled down dangerously in places, and water dripped, sometimes splashing, from the rocks up above. A cool wind blew through the gorge and I began to notice small patches of snow. Up the wall on my left, over a cliff-side meadow, I could see a small cave in the face of the rock. I was tempted to explore it but, being alone, chose caution over adventure.

Kemptner Hütte appeared suddenly, over a green rim of grass. It was situated at the floor of a bowl of beige rock spires. The final climb was the hardest. It was a near-vertical climb on a zig-zag trail cut deep into green hummocks.


The hike from Oberstdorf to Kemptner Hütte had taken less than four hours. By 3:15 I was seated on the porch, enjoying a hefeweizen. The view from the porch was a panorama of the grassy floor of a crater encircled by jagged cliffs of scree and rock. There was no other building except Kemptner Hütte in sight.

I ordered another beer and a bowl of the "Bergsteigeressen" (hiker's dinner) which was a goulash of beans, pasta, tomatoes, sausage and other odd bits with two slices of hearty bread. I considered ordering another bowl but decided against it in order to stay on budget.

I did not talk with anyone that evening. I am not, by nature, an easy socializer. The addition of a language barrier compounded my natural reservations. I smiled at a few people, though, and wondered if I would see the same group at the next hut. If so, I would force myself to say something to someone.

I slept in the "mattress camp" between two total strangers. On my left was an older man, probably in his sixties, who kept the whole room up with snoring. I was hit by at least two pillows during the night, both presumably aimed at him. On my right was a pretty young blonde who was quickly replaced by her boyfriend when he noticed me looking. He slept with his butt jammed right up to my side for the greater part of the night.

Next Week
Memminger Hütte

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