“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity…”
Not tired or nerve-shaken, but over civilized? Guilty and happily so, thanks to days traipsing through spectacular boulevards in Vienna and schnitzel in Salzburg. I won’t forget any time soon hearing my daughters sing for their last time as students together* in their school choir.
It was, after all, our incentive to go to Austria. We saw them perform and waved good bye as they continued on to Prague. Then we jumped in a rented convertible and headed south.
The approach into the Alps matches a list of other first impressions imprinted forever in my mental map: bumping between potholes through mango valleys in St. Lucia; driving in sleet through the hills of Connemara before the Irish mist cleared; sprinting from the car over the Prince Edward Island dunes to shout hello to a wild Atlantic; stopping for a minute, then an hour, then two, at Cathedral Grove to stare at trees en route to Tofino on Vancouver Island.
Driving into the valley that would be our last stop before flying home, the conversation broke off. It was enough just to ogle.
Deep in the woods, hiking one of a myriad of trails in Hohe Tauern National Park, a thunderous waterfall almost drowned out the pounding in my chest. A steady ascent will do that to an infrequent hiker.
Around a twist in the path and we stood before a wide clearing, cool alpine air filling our lungs. The peaks were hidden but still, suddenly massive.
I began to make little deals with myself about leaving it all behind-the toxic soup of city summer weather, the clogged tedium of traffic, the colliding and shoving, the search for a parking spot, the punishing pulse of activity rushing forward.
It is an ancient reckoning: small as we are in these valleys between high mounds of rock, we bump up against ourselves. I am home in these parts unknown.
I had my love to keep me moving and we were the last people on earth. Is there anything better than this?
Well, yes, in fact, there was an alpine hut waiting, with cold beer, wild blueberries and fish almost as blue. A note of caution when ordering poached or “blue” fish from the menu, it is in fact, just that: blue.
The alfresco meal gave us momentum to push on, for the next, slightly steeper ascent, strewn with twigs and other hazards to trip you up, should you falter, you in your Birkenstocks. Hiking boots would have tipped the weight balance of my suitcase, so there! The end of the path is the beginning of another long ascent, to a higher peak where a lake shimmers. Alas, we turned back, time waning and knees whining, but were rewarded with a view that kept us company all the way down.
We had been gone for hours. If I had a little skip in my step, it may have been the anticipated swim in our inn.
|Gruner Baum hotel Hoteldorf in Badgastein|
Although most come to the Gastein valley to ski, it is known across Europe as a health resort town, due to thermal spring waters.
We loved to end the day in the healing pools.
That and glass of wine, and I might never have come home.
I will take up picnics to workers in the hills, I thought, and hand out beer between hikes. Braid my hair and wear dirndls, plunging neckline and all.
But there was one last adventure. To do it, I had to stare down a phobia. I didn’t know I had any until I slid into forty. Spiders and snakes? I went to summer camp. Podiums before a crowd? I am the middle of five and was encouraged to speak up. Heights? The higher the better. But… I won’t peer over the cliff. There it is. I love being on top of a ski hill but don’t have me ride shotgun, cliffside, on car routes that lead to magical spots. Just beam me up, Scotty.
There is evidence somewhere in our home movie tapes of me panting and emitting tiny shrieks. Shut off your dirty minds, naughty readers, I was in jeep, racing to Myrtos beach, known as one of the most spectacular on the planet, high praise in Greece where there are pretty beaches everywhere.
|Myrtos Beach, Kefalonia island, Greece and yes, the water is really that colour.|
To get there, drivers must negotiate steep hillsides and “you’re kidding me-we’re driving that?” roads. Along the route are little shrines to remind drivers of all those who took the turns to a tragic end. With shaky hands, I handed the video to my kids in the backseat and gripped the seat in a cold sweat. We made it but it was only floating in the stunning water that brought my breathing back to normal. Four years later, I am in a convertible, on a much, much, higher trek, on the Grossglockner High Alpine Road.
|Note the tight grip on my bottle and no, it is not vodka.|