To Zwieselstein, Day 10

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I was wide awake by four, weighing whether it would be rude to go to the restroom for the third time. Would the Übers start thinking there was something wrong with me? Were they already awake and wondering? Was my water bottle really empty again? Why was my mouth so dry? Would I be hung over on the most dangerous stretch of the hike? Would they mind if I used my headlamp to read?

Worries grow like weeds in the middle of the night. After they've taken root it is pointless to even try sleeping. So I slid out of the top bunk, grabbed my boots and my bag and slipped out the door. The dining room door was closed so I sat on the floor in the hall, between other people's boots, and read about Kerouac hiking down from Mount Desolation in tattered sneakers. Thank goodness for boots!

I was not feeling sick, which was lucky considering the circumstances. I felt very alert, even excited. The thought occurred to me that I might still be drunk but I didn't feel that way. That day I escaped the worst of it. A few days later I would not be so lucky.

The Übers opened the door around 6:30, wondering where I had gone. They had soon packed their bags and we proceeded to the dining room together. At breakfast I began to realize how thrifty they really were. They had brought their own bread and butter, as well as cheese, jam (in a heavy glass jar no less), a large slab of ham, freeze-dried coffee, a dried up sausage and milk in an aseptic drink box. And while I was paying $6 for my morning rye bread, they ate a better breakfast for next to nothing. Of course, this meant that they carried it up and down every mountain but they didn't seem to mind. As a rule, Germans don't complain much.

It was after breakfast that I discovered what a bad idea it had been to fill my water bottle from the plastic hoses in the washroom. The washrooms in huts are frequently equipped with faucets with plastic hoses that hang, like elephant trunks, from the faucet spouts. These hoses are just the right size for the mouth of a water bottle and had made filling mine much easier than cramming it into a tiny European sink. I had filled my water bottle this way in every hut we visited.

Regrettably, it was not until that morning at Braunschweiger Hütte that I first observed the bathing habits of the other men. It may seem strange that it took this long but I am a modest man and usually prefer to use the facilities during the quieter hours of the late evening. This morning, however, I was going through water more quickly. So I slipped into the bathroom at a very busy time. There, to my horror, I realized that the aforementioned plastic tubes were intended for an entirely different purpose than filling water bottles. In short, German men are very thorough with their washing. And, since there were generally few if any showers in the huts, the hoses were actually intended for up-close cleaning of regions that would, otherwise, be awkward to rinse. Cruelly disillusioned, I retreated to search for a tiny European sink.

We met on the terrace, the Übers and I, to finish our packing and to pull on our boots. There was little to see through the fog. Dietrich looked serious as he brushed up on the guidebook. Regarding the day's hike, the Cicerone Guide states firmly: "Under no circumstances should it be attempted in anything but perfect weather conditions." At the time, however, there was no English translation, so I was getting all my information second hand -- not that reading it myself would have made any difference at all.

"This will be a very tricky climb," he said. "I am not sure what it will look like on the other side of Pitztaler Jöchl but if it is too dangerous, we may have to come back to the hut and descend the way we came."

I did not argue but was determined to go over the top. Dietrich had his family to think about but I was feeling stronger than ever. I think Dietrich sensed that my over-confidence might be as much of a liability as an asset. He took firm control of the party and, by the tone of his voice, made me understand that it would be best to follow his lead.

Walking in the fog was like being in a bubble. We could see for perhaps twenty feet in all directions but finding the trail markings was a treacherous business. At first the trail was easy to follow, leading us through a series of switchbacks up the side of the mountain, but somewhere near the top, we ran into a dead-end at a jagged rock wall. The Übers paused while I scouted around to find another red and white trail marker. I started to climb the wall, to get a better view, but Dietrich stopped me: "I think that is not a good idea," he said, and I realized that this was an order, albeit a polite one, rather than an observation. I imagine he was particularly concerned that his 14-year-old son might try the same stunt.

We finally located the markings and struggled up to the pass. On the far side was a steep descent down a slope of sheer ice. Above the slope was a jagged, looming cliff of boulders, some larger than houses. Until recently packed tight with snow, the entire loose wall was creaking and groaning as the rocks shifted and settled. Scattered down the mountain, across our path, were the rocks that had recently fallen. It was only a matter of time before another large rock shook itself loose and came tumbling down.

After a brief scramble over giant, tilting slabs, we reached the top of the icy slope. After a bit of a search, we found a metal cable that trailed off over the ice as far as we could see. We could only assume that there was a path below but the quality of the path was impossible to know. Dietrich decided to risk it. He announced that he would lead the descent and man the bottom of the cable. I would remain at the top, assisting Haike and Robert to take hold of the cable and start downward.

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

Haike went next. She was nervous, as were we all, and moved slowly, hand over hand, down the cable. The ice gave no foothold except for small, frozen stones so she strained every muscle in her body to stay rigid. I realized that we were fortunate to have no weak links in our party. Everyone, including Haike and Robert, was capable and strong. Haike reached the bottom and Dietrich yelled up for Robert to begin.

Robert lowered himself slowly without incident, and I followed. The ice was so slippery that it was a challenge to stay upright. I worked my feet from one tiny stone to the next, using these minuscule footholds to keep myself upright. I gritted my teeth and my knuckles went white but I soon made it, like the others, to the relative safety below.

At the bottom of the cable was a thin path carved into the icy slope. We had to walk carefully to keep from slipping, and the rocky cliff still loomed up above. As we slid our way forward, like children learning to ski, we could hear the grumbling of the rocks. We wanted to run but all we could manage was a careful, plodding pace.

Dietrich turned to me and said "I hope Charles does not attempt this alone. That cable was hard to find, and it could be very dangerous for him."

I had not given much thought to Charles until this moment but was not particularly concerned. Being Dr. Death is really more about blithe negligence than intent. "I am sure he will be alright," I said. "He did this hike last year so he knows what to expect." It turned out, however, that Dietrich was, indeed, justified in his concern.

The trail wrapped around the north wall of the valley and down to a parking lot. There we found a restaurant and bathrooms. We took advantage of the latter, and put on our rain gear, as the fog outside had turned to drizzle. We briefly considered the optional bus to Zwieselstein but, realizing that the way was less difficult from here, we decided to walk.

The next stretch was a decidedly dull, gravel service road running parallel to a highway. For an hour or so we tramped through sparse scenery until the trail branched southeast through pine trees and fields.

Just as we were beginning to feel hungry, and just as the drizzle turned into a shower, we found a small restaurant near a village called Gaislach. I asked the waitress to bring me the best meal that $10 could buy. I was feeling adventurous and figured I'd end up with some strange sausage. Meanwhile, the Übers had noticed a special wild mushroom on the menu called Pfifferlingen. It was expensive, they said, but well worth the splurge. I knew nothing about mushrooms at the time. Knowing what I do now, I would definitely have opted for the rare Pfifferlingen (chanterelles). What I got, instead, was more Käse-Knödel. While the Übers rejoiced in their gourmet meal, I resigned myself to eating yet another serving of cheese balls. I explained my bad luck with this local specialty and they offered me tastes of their wild mushroom dinners. The Pfifferlingen were, indeed, delicious.

Outside the rain had let up, and we descended through warm pine forests to the small town of Zwieselstein -- an hour and a half walk down the trail. There we claimed rooms in the Talherberge Zwieselstein, an unstaffed Austrian Alpine Club hut with a full kitchen and, if I remember correctly, showers. I took an empty bunk room with four beds and a view of the river burbling noisily by. The sun had finally burned a hole through the clouds so I hung out my clothes on the line in the yard. Then I moved a chair to a shady spot and waited for Charles to appear.

It was two and a half hours before Charles finally wandered into the yard. He looked a bit shell shocked and I noticed large slashes in the seat of his rain pants. When he had taken off his pack and unlaced his boots he sat down on a bench and told us his story:

"I made it to Braunschweiger Hütte in record time. It was brilliant to stay in Mittelberg. The way up was amazing with the river and the glacier, and it was not until after the hut that I started to have problems. The fog moved in just beyond Braunschweiger and I got a little bit lost near Pitztaler Jochl. On the other side it was sheer ice for as far as I could see in the fog -- there was no path at all. I tried to walk from stone to stone but I fell right away and started sliding out of control. I was sliding faster and faster, barely steering myself with the carbide tips of my poles. Thank God for those tips."

"It was then that I noticed the edge of the cliff. I noticed it just in time and, by jamming the carbide tips deep into the ice, managed to drive myself into a large boulder. I must have been going at least twenty miles per hour because it hurt like hell when my boots slammed into it. After I caught my breath, I crawled, hand over hand, using the tips of my poles like ice axes. I have no idea how I finally made it down. It was pure adrenaline."

Dietrich had been right. Charles could have easily been a splotch on the pavement below Pitztaler Jochl. And Dr. Death would have had some serious explaining to do. But the carbide tips from Charles' new poles had saved his life. After he finished his story, I crossed the street to the store and bought several bottles of beer which we shared with the Herr Über. We raised our glasses to Charles' health and to our tremendous good fortune to be safely together again. Then Charles and I went across the street to find dinner at Hotel Gasthof Zwieselstein while the Übers cooked their dinner in the hut.

Next Week
Over Timmelsjoch and Into the Italian Alps

Braunschweiger Hütte and the Ötztal Glaciers, Day 9

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The next morning those beautiful white sheets still felt clean and cool. The bells of a nearby church rang out seven o' clock. Through the window came the smell of geraniums, and I could hear the muffled shufflings of Charles on the other side of the wall.

The day's hike would be demanding, bringing us within spitting distance of the Ötztal glacier field and the highest hut of the Fernwanderweg E5, Braunschweiger Hütte. It would also require careful coordination with various modes of transport. The "Venetbahn" cable car would bring us to the start of our hike. We would need to leave early to make the first lift. Later in the day, we would need to catch a bus from Wenns to Mittelberg, the small village at the bottom of our main ascent. It was vital that we keep to a tight schedule or we might have to spring for a very expensive taxi.

So I reluctantly slid out of bed and began packing my things. The previous evening I had washed a pile of clothes in the shower with me. As I had done on earlier stops, I made myself into a human washing machine. The clothes went on the shower floor while I danced liquid soap into their filthy folds and the grey puddle at my feet slowly turned clear. In the morning, my belongings were still hanging from every protrusion in my room, excepting Mother Mary of course, and were mostly dry. I decided to wear the dampest. They would either dry more quickly or would soon be sweaty again.

I left my old boots in my room. It was the footwear equivalent of a burial at sea -- not exactly courteous to the staff but there was no obvious places to dispose of such large garbage. I wore socks down to breakfast, leaving damp footprints on the hardwood stairs, with my new boots slung over my shoulder, tied by their fresh green laces. They took their place by the front door, next to my pack, while I found a seat in the small breakfast room. There was fresh fruit for breakfast and bowls of yogurt, muesli and corn flakes. There was even a bowl of hard boiled eggs, still hot. So I made the most of this royal feast, eating something from every plate on the buffet.

As I ate, the matron shuffled in and out of the breakfast room. When it was clear that I was done eating, she started talking to me as if I understood German, which of course I did not. The only German words that came to my mind were "my friend" and "Deutsch" (German), so that's what I said, pointing to my mouth to indicate the verb "to speak" and to the stairwell to indicate where Charles most probably was.

I am not quite sure what she made of this charade, "My friend is eating Germans upstairs," perhaps, because she looked perplexed and a little concerned. Finally I dug into my pocket and pulled out some Austrian Schilling notes. She nodded several times and then left the room, returning shortly with a pad of paper and a pencil. On the pad she tallied my expenses. I handed her a large enough wad to cover it and she gave me back a respectable pile of coins. I passed back ten percent, which seemed to evoke appreciative noises, and our awkward transaction was complete.

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

When Charles came outside he looked tense. He walked quickly down the steps and I had to throw on my pack to follow. "What's up?" I asked, as I struggled along behind him.

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

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

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

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

"Then what?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

"Well, anyhow, it kind of exploded. So then I had fish oil all over the television and the lace doily, and then the hand towel that I used to wipe it all up. I got them as clean as I could but the room really smells like fish. I don't know how they're going to get that smell out."

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

"Definitely not. Too bad, though, it's a nice hotel... Damn, these E5 hikes are really starting to feel like a one-man version of Sherman's march to the sea."

At the Venetbahn we found Kirsten and Werner who were also waiting for the first lift. A teddy bear poked its nose out of Kirsten's pack, and Werner was chain smoking hand-rolled Drum cigarettes. The top of the mountain was obscured by clouds and none of us had heard the weather forecast. Charles and Werner chatted in German. Charles enjoyed practicing his German and Werner was happy not to struggle with English.

The door finally opened and we climbed the steps to the platform. The cable car was a steel box, large enough for maybe two dozen cramped hikers but this morning it was just the four of us. As it clunked and bumped out of the lift station and cranked its way up to the sky, we watched Zams disappear in the mist. Droplets built up and skidded along the windows. I was sorry that the view was obscured. All we could see were the tops of thinning trees and the support towers passing like speed bumps.

Half way up, Charles told the not-so-reassuring story of a hot shot American Marine surveillance pilot who, in February, had flown through the cables of a similar car on Italy's Mt. Cermis, hurling all 20 passengers to their deaths. I am not really afraid of heights but, given the setting, the story definitely made an impression. Charles has a remarkable memory for details, morbid and otherwise.

We disembarked into a misty landscape and surveyed our maps. Werner paused to roll another Drum cigarette and then we were off. The way pointed east along a wide, green, treeless ridge, to a nearby peak known as Glanderspitz. A forty foot cross marked the top of the mountain. There we paused only briefly, to reconnoiter, then continued to a second cross. By the time we reached this next minor peak we were walking in spitting rain. We decided to throw on our raingear. Werner, Charles and Kirsten all realized that they had matching red ponchos which seemed rather funny at the time, so I took this picture with Charles looking a bit like Marilyn Monroe just before an upward breeze.

We now began a long descent on comfortable, spongy turf. I jogged for a bit before coming to my senses. A twisted ankle or a blown out knee would mean the end of my hike. So I slowed to a more reasonable pace and followed the path down into the valley below. I had lost my companions but intended to wait for them in Wenns. In the fog, the scenery was fuzzy and close but it cleared as the sun climbed toward noon. I entered a pine forest which eventually gave way to green fields and old farms. The trail went directly through farmyards, around the corners of barns and through and over fence stiles. The smell of cows was, at times, overpowering but the pastoral scenery of well-built barns made for fair compensation.

When not alongside a barn, I was on a dirt road that wound down through the hillside grazing slopes. I could see other parties hiking on the switch-backed road above and below me, and I passed several families by cutting through the tall grass that divided us.

Though surrounded by cows, it is hard to resist calling Wenns a one horse town. Its main claim to fame is the bus that connects it to Mittelberg. There was very little commerce, and I was disappointed not to find a convenience store close by the bus stop. I was dying for a Coke. Several other families had already queued up for the bus and I was nervous that Charles might miss it. Busses being infrequent, this could set him back by several hours -- or perhaps an entire day.

I was, however, pleased to find the Übers all queued up to go. Dietrich told me that several parties had formed an ad hoc group to qualify for discounted tickets. It was with some reservation that I pitched into the discount, realizing that this might mean leaving Charles wondering about me. But Charles and I now had a firm agreement to hike more independently. So I threw in my hand with the newly formed party and sat down on my pack on the sidewalk.

While we waited, I chatted with young Robert about his family. He had been born in East Germany several years before the wall fell. Career opportunities were better now for his father, and his home town had recently undergone a period of intense reconstruction. Still, there were prejudices against "Osties" ie: people from East Germany. West Germans resented the subsidies given to the reclaimed regions, and this sometimes made him feel like a second-class citizen. And although Dietrich had more opportunities, it was still harder for East Germans to find work than it was for their West German cousins.

Just before the bus rolled up, Charles turned the corner and joined our group. He had left Kirsten and Werner a mile or two back and had run down the fields to the town. Charles was beat and had decided to stay at the hotel in Mittelberg. He would hike over the mountain the following day and catch up with me in Zwieselstein.

This seemed like a turning point in our hike. We had already hiked separately but had always been able to check in at the end of the day. Splitting up would mean being out of touch for a day and a half at the very least. And if Charles did not appear in Zwieselstein, I would have some tough choices to make. I was determined to hike up to Braunschweiger Hütte, and did not want to lose the Übers, so I nodded and said "no worries" but that easy expression covered a deep sense of concern.

The bus ride was uneventful. I sat with Robert and we chatted sporadically, the way you do when there is plenty of time to spare. At the end of the ride I decided to have lunch with Charles before we went our separate ways. Dietrich offered to reserve a bed for me at the hut, a kind offer that I readily accepted. We made plans to meet for dinner before they started up the hill along the trickling glacial stream.

At lunch Charles seemed very pleased with his decision. He assured me that I would see him in Zwieselstein, as if reading my thoughts. "Really," he said "I just need a little more rest."

I was in the mood for macaroni and cheese -- comfort food -- so I ordered Käse Knödel, having entirely forgotten the previous Käse Knödel debacle. Again, I was stuck eating three enormous cheese dumplings, heavy as lead and not the least bit enticing. And, again, I ate most of them -- not wanting to starve on the way up the mountain. I drank a large Coke, anyhow, which gave me some solace and courage in the face of my growing uncertainty.

Leaving Charles basking in the shade of an umbrella, I started my solo ascent. There was nobody on the trail, the other bus passengers having already disappeared up the mountain. To my right was the bed of a glacial river, but the gully was mostly dry. A thin stream trickled through the rocks of what I knew must sometimes be a formidable river. My path was a dirt road which led to the lower pulley of a small cable car. The car was designed to carry supplies, and hikers' backpacks, but was already half way up the mountain. Soon the road became a gravel trail which climbed toward the source of the river -- the Ötztal glacier field.

Hiking alone I could make my own pace, and I was in no hurry to reach the top. Through a series of alternating ridges, I could see the tongue of the glacier: grey, white and blue, hanging over a ridge up above.

The stream increased in power as I crossed back and forth below, then above, the layers of overhanging rock. I passed a spectacular series of waterfalls whose full force I could only imagine by the measure of this wide river bed.

The glacier's tongue was deceptively small when I passed it, giving no hint of the massive snowfields hidden behind the next ridge. Climbing, I spotted a family of gemse, or what we would call mountain goats. They peered over a cliff at me and then dashed out of view as I crept up the lonely trail.

My legs were tired but not so tired as I had imagined they would be. Hiking alone, at my own pace, was the best thing for sore legs. I had taken Dietrich's advice and begun at a sustainable clip. Now I was enjoying the dividends of this careful restraint, and the ascent was tiring but not yet devastating.

The trail diverged from the stream and a fog settled in, eclipsing my view of the emerging, compacted snow mass. I focused on my stride, pacing myself so that I could walk as far as necessary, uncertain of how long I had left to hike. I thought about Charles and the tensions we still felt. Things were better when we hiked separately but the last thing I wanted was to leave him behind. It was because of his willpower that I had made it here, and he was the only American I knew who understood the challenge and the scope of this adventure. It would be a shame if we didn't complete it together.

When the mist cleared, I found myself level with the first snowfield plateau. The scale was phenomenal. Vast blue crevasses, like stretch marks, cut deep into the tongue in horizontal layers. Grey brush strokes ran down lengthwise, and I realized that I had been hiking under a hanging colossus, oblivious to the danger above. Having left the sounds of the stream bed behind, I could now hear the ice, stressing and cracking, like massive earth-moving machinery. I stood stunned by the beauty and the power of the Ötztal Glaciers.

The final ascent to Braunschweiger Hütte seemed almost vertical. It had begun to rain again and I was too tired to take off my pack, imagining the hut to be above every ridge. It was stupid to tempt hypothermia at 9,000 feet. But despite my poor judgment, my luck held. After one final push I stepped over the lip of the small knob where Braunschweiger sits, like an island in a white sea of snowfields.

I pushed through the door and a warm rush of air nearly pushed me right back. The door led through a hallway to the dining room. I had dropped my pack just inside of the door and glanced around for the faces of my new friends. Dietrich hailed me. "Grüß Gott, Karl!" he yelled to me. "We thought maybe you decided to stay at the bottom with Charles!"

After stowing my belongings in a small room with four beds, I was soon deep in conversation with the Übers. They were joined by several other Germans who did not speak much English, but Robert enjoyed translating for me so I did not miss much. They ordered me a weissbier, which I was learning to love, but it was a special, local variety with more sediment than usual. Robert demonstrated the proper pouring technique, pouring most of the liquid slowly down the inside of the glass and then swishing the remainder so as not to miss the foggy murk at the bottom.

I ordered the spaghetti Bolognese, the safest choice, and was happy to recharge my carbohydrate-starved body. But dessert was the highlight of the meal. This Austrian Alpine specialty was called Kaiserschmarrn and consisted of strips of an eggy pancake covered in powdered sugar and doppled with a preserve made of small, purple berries. It was absolutely delicious.

After dinner, the Übers' friends wanted me to try a dubious substance called jägertee. It was a spiced tea with a serious kick, translating literally to "hunter's tea". It was strong and warm, and I drank it without considering the consequences.

At "lights out" I stumbled back to the room and climbed to my private top bunk. I had the good sense to bring with me a large bottle of water, but still awoke dehydrated in the middle of the night -- and had to relieve myself several times. The next day I was scheduled to cross the most dangerous stretch of the hike, over Pitztaler Jöchl at nearly 10,000 feet and then across the icy snowfields of an avalanche zone. A hangover would not be the best preparation for such a demanding hike.

Next Week
Zwieselstein

Zams and the über Familie, Day 8

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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

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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

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