Tuesday, July 28, 2015

In which there are even more of those boring dramatic vistas (Austria part IV).



The following day was devoted to r&r with b&b (book&balcony), as it was vacation, after all. And in order to prepare for the exhausting act of turning pages, chocolate chip banana pancakes were an order.  


The valley hosted a terrific cloud show that evening...





...which ended with a cartoony interpretation of the Witch-king of Angmar reaching out his ghostly hand. 



The next adventure was the most scenically spectacular yet, and if I had to choose, this would be my favorite. Destination: Zillertal Alps, Friesenberghaus, 2498 m (8196 ft), which as I just learned upon a-googling, apparently has a nice bit of WWII history. Getting there involved first driving up and up and through roughly hewn tunnels to the Schlegeis Reservoir. As with many mountain roads, we had to pay a pretty hefty toll at the beginning. However, thanks to these hefty tolls, all the potentially dangerous mountain roads were in great shape, for which we were very grateful.



Once arrived at the reservoir, we first walked across the genius of engineering holding back lots of blue-green mountain runoff. From the middle there was a great view of the valley below and of the road we had just driven.



 

The hike itself led through woods and fields and over streams, views broadening the higher we got. As the Friesenberghaus at the end of the trail is a set summertime establishment for eating and sleeping, the path leading there was beautifully tended and relatively easy to ascend. Alpine hiking is fun, and I much prefer the kind of alpine hiking that also allows me to breathe.











Check out this Turkeyzilla cloud conquering the mountain! See it? See it?!



The Friesenberghaus was not yet open for the season, but supplies were already being airlifted to the cabin from below. A bright red helicopter made several trips up and down and made the swift and skillful maneuvering look easy.





We arrived at the cabin just in time for the seasonal workers to start their elaborate picnic on the porch. Luckily we had a picnic, too, and that bread and cheese never tasted better. Then we poked around for a little while outside, though there wasn't much to see with meters of snow covering the nearby lake and other attractions. A few more swigs of snow-flavored water and down we went.





  
On this particularly warm day, snowfalls quickly morphed into waterfalls and filled the valley with their gushing (as always, click on the picture to enlarge -- do it!).




One waterfall that we crossed with ease in the morning had been pumped up substantially by the time we got back to it at the end of the hike. The simple wire line strung up as a handhold then became more of a lifeline as the bridge of wooden planks was doused again and again with mighty splashes.


A wonderful hike, to say the least.

We stuck closer to home the next day, deciding upon the local Gerlossteinwand. It was one of the home peaks, clearly visible from the balcony. Getting there meant crossing the valley and then taking a cable car up to the trailhead, which rose grandly over the Zillertal. This deposited us in time to see some paragliders take off, whooping and yeehawing above. 




The trail on this route was the shortest we'd done yet, but also the steepest and meanest and most neglected. Despite the heat, parts were still completely covered in snow, making it necessary to figure out new routes or just plow through to the best of our ability. Luckily there were many other hikers there (including an exuberant black poodle named "Otto"), some of whom had so kindly footprinted safe paths through the snowy bits. 









After what felt like an excruciating long battle with gravity and my body (even though it was only an hour and a half or so), we finally made it to the summit, which turned out to be a gently sloping meadow covered in wildflowers.











The easier route that we had selected to take back down was great for a while, until it disappeared under winter. We then had to decide whether to turn back or take a chance on finding the trail again at the bottom after "skiing" down the mountainside. Skiing it was -- and fun -- and by far the quickest option. Thunderstorms were forecast for the afternoon and turning back would have cut it close. Thankfully it all worked out in the end, just got a bit wetter than anticipated.







We got back to the cable car just in time for it to start raining, and rain it did. After all the smashing weather we'd had, it was about time for a little more meteorological excitement.





Friday, July 24, 2015

In which: the cows, how they jingle! (Austria part III).



In order to calm the ol' kickers, we decided on a more gentler incline for the next day's excursion. The Wimmertal was touted in the hiking guide as a landscape forgotten in time, peaceful and solitary. Its name in English could be directly translated as "Whimpering Valley", and while it did evoke a kind of softness of step, there wasn't much whimpering involved. 

The trailhead started at a glassy stream, followed by a deceptively steep incline through thick forest before finally opening into the majesty of the valley. 



A far-off tinkling could be heard as we rounded the first bend, which soon escalated into a full-fledged cowbell orchestra at the height of rehearsal. Now, when I think of cowbells, I generally think of the classic, four-sided bell with a flat, hollow klang. On this dairy farm, the cows were belled with instruments of all sizes and pitches. A jingle here, jangle there, ding-a-ling to the left, and proud, sonorous dong to the right. All this raised questions such as "Does this affect their hearing?", "Can they identify each other by their bells?", "Can farmers identify them by their bells?", "Do they get used to it?" and "How do they not go absolutely bonkers?" -- I know I would if there was a bell strapped to my neck that rang with every move. I didn't have my video-enabled camera with me, but the youtube has a pretty good representation of the valley soundtrack.





Eventually the trail wound up and out of its bovine lair, became rockier and lined with dirty patches of snow still leaking cold air. Goosebumps ensued, quietly. Soon the only sound was that of the gushing stream, fed here too by seasonal waterfalls.



The trail ended (at least for us) in a soggy meadow at a stone cabin open for travelers. By the state of the dust and spiderwebs inside, it was clear that the only residents in the winter and thus far early spring were those with 8+ legs. Four bunkbeds were perfect for small hiking parties, but in a sorry enough state that I preferred to nap outside.


 

The only soul to cross the path before reaching the farm again was a female alpine ibex. She literally crossed the path in front of us, cleared the stream with a clicking of heels, and observed us from the bank before adroitly making her way up the steep and stony mountainside. None of the pictures I took came out well, so you'll just have to imagine her sturdy form on this ancient landscape:




The sun had made itself scarce for a while, but came out to play again as we descended.






It appeared that one of the buildings in the valley was a café of sorts, or a "Jausenstation" ("snacking station") in those parts. We walked in for further investigation and walked back out with strudel, coffee and a giant mug of fresh milk.



Full and fully satisfied with the adventure, we hiked back to the car and slowly made our way home. The road was much obliging with views of the Zillertal headed north and of our apartment across the valley on this patch of mountainside:



Once home, the light show continued over the Zillertal, viewed to the south.



After dinner was decided, the only query remaining was: "Where to next?"