The rain fell softly on the leaves outside my window, serving as an alarm clock. A fresh welt rose from my forehead to let me know that the buzzing last night was actually a mosquito. There were no mosquitoes here before? I had no pity on the swollen bellied insect too engorged to make an exit out of the unscreened door. Gluttony kills, but my index finger did the work this morning. Somehow the carnage is not so disgusting when the effluence contains "your DNA".
Breakfast was a typical German setting of crisp rolls, sliced meats and cheeses, minor fruit to accompany yogurt, muslix and heavy milk with the bittersweet signature of bovine freshness. Wash this all down with a micro tasse of orange juice and a kettle of tea and the day is yours.
Well, the day is yours, if it would stop raining. So, I headed to the sheltered porch of my fourth floor, peaked, room to watch the rain and enjoy the air.
One out of two isn’t bad. A bad societal habit here is smoking. Since the proprietor does not allow smoking in the dining room (Thank God) the guests flee to their balconies to achieve their fix. Unfortunately for me, one such couple shares the balcony so I just smile and pray they will finish their pack soon.
The rain is relentless, so editing pictures, planning the remainder of this European trip, and reading consumes the morning. Finally, there is a break in the clouds and a hint of sun on the hills. After a quick teeth brushing and gathering of layers needed for a hike, I exited the front door to a new volley of precipitation. Too late now, escalation of commitment dictates that the Konigssee will be the afternoon’s destination come Gortex layers or shine.
The new bus station is a slightly organized puree of locals and the completely clueless. My position is safely secured in the later group. With all the apparently inherently German disposition to order, this station is a cluster of poor information sharing. There are ten different buses that depart from this combination rail and bus station. Four, two sided and glass enclosed, information boards post the corners of the platforms. Here’s the counter intuitive point; there are only single, non repeating, schedules posted on each board. So, one would think that the posted bus would arrive in at least the general vicinity of that particular board. Nope, it could arrive on either side along the 50 meters platform.
Whew… after a 20-minute wait, I climbed into a very crowded bus packed with students coming home from school. It was only 1:00pm on a Friday, curious. A sweaty half hour later and the bus emptied it contents out on the lawn of the Jenner Bahn. From this ski lift area, a short walk to the docks of the Konigssee is a simple stroll past the park and down the street.
(Of course there are the typical tourist shops along the way.)
One of the reasons that Berchtesgaden holds the position of my favorite place on earth is this very boat ride on the Konigssee. Looking out from the docks, the Autumn scene looked promising.
The German definition of National Park holds a different meaning than the US supposedly protected forests that are always in play when some logging group gains leverage with politicians. The sanctity of this preserve is held so closely that no fuel burning boats have been allowed on the lake for the last 100 years.
The product is one of the purest waterways I’ve ever seen. There is no challenge in looking clearly to the bottoms of this glacial lake at a depth of ten meters or more of the eventual 150 meter average depth. The cool clear water retards prolific algae growth and the fish do the rest.
Autumn is magnificent in the Alps. The colors do not flare, like in New England, but smolder to the native colors of tan lederhosen, oak fired beer casks, and rich red wine. The still quiet of the crisp season and purring electric motor only add to the ambience.
Ever since I was eight years old, when the boat coasts to a stop between two massive stone faces the excitement begins. Music has been my quiet passion since memory began. Simplicity is sometimes the best stage and a single horn, playing a “round” with the echoing melody bouncing from cliff face to face and back again is an echoing of childhood amazement.
The chapel of St. Bartoloma was originally constructed in the 11th century on a leading meadow that points just slightly into the Konigsee. It is literally a picture perfect viewing and prompts far too many pictures.
Today, I climbed up to the “Ice Chapel” that marks the final remains of a glacier field.
The climb is still and beautiful. Fall is on display, minus the crunch of leaves, as the rain has softened that Autumnal sound effect. The trees are about half bare and the quiet solitude is only broken by an occasional solo hiker with the same idea in mind.
The Alps are littered with real physical chapels and imaginary ones. Trailheads will typically have at minimum a shrine wishing hikers safe trekking or an actual little chapel for a moment of repose prior to exploration.
The literal chapel was quaint in setting but my goal was the figurative glacier fields, so I headed further up the trail.
The last time I climbed in this direction was 1997 and the glacier was thick, covered the slope and emptied its rock contents on an alpine plateau about one-third of the way up the mountain.
Today was an entirely different story. The glacier has pulled all the way back to a frozen puddle on the steep slopes. No longer are there chasms to refract light and deep ice caves hinting in form to church edifices. The world climate is definitively changing and the disappearance of the “Ice Chapel” coinciding with the appearance of mosquitoes are two sure signs.
Ten years ago, I climbed up to this rock outcropping further up the mountain. With the daylight waning and the evening rains reinstated the idiocy of climbing that high alone, with no one even aware of my presence there, was apparent. Taking educated risks is all part of the outdoors and sometimes it is better to simply retreat.
On the way down, I found the exact spot where an antique bottle was freed from under a tree's roots. While walking up a rarely used secondary trail, I noticed an old bottle securely in the grips of tree roots. Given the age of the bottle and that my brother Marc collects old bottles, I set to work with my leatherman knife to free the bottle.
(I couldn't help but include another shot of this nicely located chapel, from the down-hill perspective.)
The meadow at the bottom of the hill was an Autumnal classic scene. This broken tree reminded of the Serengeti and made me wonder where the elephant was that knocked this one down?
Walking towards St. Bartoloma I heard the familiar Um-Pa sound of accordions and traditional singing.
This was an inviting sound, given the option of looking to my left and seeing the weather in the gorge beginning to threaten.
To my surprise, in the bier garden there were four teenagers, sitting with a mentor, having a great time passing two “squeeze boxes” between them while the others sang along.
It was the perfect way to spend a half hour waiting for the last return boat of the day. I was so happy after a great hike, listening to the perfect occasional music, watching the little kids dance, that it was easy to get lost in the moment and my hefeweizen.
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