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?"