October 6th, 2007 - Berchtesgaden

Bavarian "Top Ten" Around Town

Counter to almost forty years of socialized “purpose” programming, the idea of this week in Berchtesgaden is to consciously relax and enjoy. It is easy to enjoy climbing in the mountains because there is purpose or correlated accomplishment inherently attached. But, ultimately counter programming would be defined as existence for any period of time without accomplishment, while inclusive of enjoyment.

So today, I wandered the town of Berchtesgaden in recognition of the fact that I only truly know the bits that have been repeatedly exposed. See, purpose is so infused in everything that programming wins again. Oh well, baby steps.

As long as I’ve already admitted to purpose generation and therefore “free flow failure” I decided to try to capture the most typical or stereotypically Bavarian pictures possible. This of course would require criteria or judgment points that would be gathered along the journey.



Fortunately for me there were many classic examples of “Bavaria” throughout town, since today was the next to last day of celebration for Oktoberfest. Walking along the drive way and looking up hill, men prepared a festive bonfire for the evening.



By taking a right turn at the end of the drive I stumbled across a youthful celebration. It appeared that the owners of this particular Gasthaus were helping to educate or reinforce tradition with the younger generation by holding an Oktoberfest celebration just for the under 16 crowd. (I found out later from my Gasthaus Frau that this is a hospital for sick children.) There was a hired Um-Pa band and dancers to get things moving with the “wall flower” set. The universal “Tween” need to be cool combined with the embarrassment of being faced with an actual girl was amusing to watch. The dancers did a great job of working around the awkward “x chromosomes” and literally bent over backwards to accommodate,



... while the young girls danced whole heartedly with their lederhosen wearing princes, never losing eye contact even in a spin.



I really appreciate the good-natured disposition that everyone seems to have. Granted this “is” Oktoberfest and the musician and dancers are hired for a purpose, but they carry out their task with honest laughs and smiles when a gawky teen actually gets the dance in time.



So what truly “makes” a traditional Bavarian scene? Walking down the hill into town gave me some criteria clues. The hotel down the hill/mountain, on the way into town, was built in the early 1900’s and had some obvious characteristics: carved woodwork, vegetation, artwork, an understated elegance, and a hint of depicted history or religious reference.







In town I stopped into the local church whose bells seem to ring right in my balcony window.



Inside was a surprising display on the alter steps. Autumn apples, grains, vegetables, and breads were splayed on the steps, almost in offering.



On the way out, a “grovin’ monk” carried an enlightened child. I have really grown to like the still movement form of the relics in this region of the world. This is in contrast to the stone anatomy lessons of Grecian form. I’m definitely not a prude, it just seems impossible for a human body to flex that many marble muscles at the same time, so it looses impact in chiseled overkill.



There is no shortage of churches in Berchtesgaden or in Bavaria for that matter. The cityscape is littered with jagged towers. This makes for a really interesting skyline.



Wandering through the back streets of Berchtesgaden I stumble onto the Furstensteinweg that leads up to a wooden scaffold path along the cliff’s edge.





This is known as the Konigsweg or King’s Way. The hike is an adventure up the hill side on leaf covered paths and could actually have been a “mushroom hunt”, if I knew the difference between what kills and what "schmecht gut". There were little white fairy tale mushrooms…



… and great big ones dwarfing my shoe.



Wandering back into town there were cows, with bells clanking across the valley, on the hillside. Now where is Heidi?



So many childhood barriers come crashing down as I walk through downtown Berchtesgaden. There is no time pressure or attentive expectations but a simply idle absorption of a scene.



The King’s Castle or Palace is attached to his own church. The square surrounding is impressive.



But what is more interesting is that one wall of the palace is shared with the church, so palace windows open right up into the edifice. All the king needed for requisite church attendance was to open the window.



The evening comes early in the mountains, with the peaks blocking the sun sooner than the actual set itself. So by 6:30pm I’m ready to push through the huge oaken doors of my evening dining habit.





The past three nights at Hubertus Stuben have been a culinary taste bud extravaganza. First there was venison, then a salad with grilled chicken, and tonight would be rainbow trout! Well, I didn’t exactly expect for it to arrive like this, but trust me the chef delivered once again. He just happened to peak out of the kitchen and I waved my fork at him with enthusiastic approval. The chef is a rounded man in his late sixties and returns my gesticulation with a hearty “Schon Appetite”.



My after dinner up hill ascent has become a welcome post evening gorge energy boost. I can feel the metabolic furnace stoking. In spite of my daily hikes and given my sumptuous consumption rate, I'm definitively losing the Germanic “Battle of the Bulge”. Maybe my waistline will recover before returning home for Christmas? If not there will just be more cushioned hugs to dole out.



I can smell smoke before actually seeing the bonfire. Rounding the corner to the half-kilometer driveway back to Belvedere Gasthaus, flames reach easily ten meters into the sky. The children who were eating and dancing hours before were eagerly waiting for the flames to dim and the more approachable embers to gather. Many carried long sticks with pieces of meat dangling. I guess it makes sense since marshmallows or smores would hardly be traditional.



Speaking of traditional, here is a top-ten of sorts for traditionally Bavarian pictures of the day from the previous criteria of needing: carved woodwork, vegetation, artwork, an understated elegance, and a hint of depicted history or religious reference.

Number 10


Number 9


Number 8


Number 7


Number 6


Number 5


Number 4


Number 3


Number 2


Number 1, Most Bavarian Scene




Ok, so here’s your bonus question. Do you know what this is?
Clue: It is attached to the side of a wall on a house porch…



Backwards answer: sti a gnidolf elbat

October 5th, 2007 - Berchtesgaden

Hike to the Ice Chapel Redux

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.

October 4th, 2007 - Munich to Berchtesgaden

One Ticket to Paradise

Leaving a beautiful city to settle into the most beautiful place on earth was hardly a trial today. The morning weather had changed from the beautiful blue skies of the previous week to overcast and threatening rain. There was a plan to the day and it started with waking at 7:00am.

First on the agenda was mailing several kilos of extra clothes and remaining carved soapstone from Africa home to the states. My challenge in Bavaria is that the use of English by most people 30 and over is minimal at best, so this was my day to speak some Deutsch. Surprisingly, I made it through two conversations with employees at the Post, inclusive of filling out customs papers. This made my day and it was only 7:45am. Other things greatly appreciated were efficiency of service and the reasonable price tag. It basically cost me $20 USD to send about half the weight that was sent from London, both to the same address in the states, vs. the $100 USD spent on the uber expensive island in the North Sea. Maybe African postage is so expensive because many of the countries are former British colonies and it is just part of "keeping up with the empire" to charge way too much for parcel service.

Anyway, back at the hostel, I packed and prepared for the twenty-minute Hauptbahnhof stroll to catch the Berchtesgaden bound train. A light sprinkle added a little extra spring to my now lighter (but still 50+ pound load) step. The train-ride through Bavaria and into the Alps is one of my favorites. Selfishly, today I just soaked in the Autumnal glory of turning leaves, combined with lush green grasses, and the remaining summer flowers still hanging on until the first major frost demoralizes their ongoing efforts. So there are no pictures of the ride today, just memories.

Once in Berchtesgaden, the trick was to find accommodations.



I tried calling the Youth Hostel where I slept back in May, but for some reason no one picked up the phone, so the Information Office was the best bet. My sister, Kristen, suggested that every week or so I should take a break from the Youth Hostel scene and actually get some rest in a real hotel. Easier said than budgeted, but she has a very good point. Sleep deprivation from the constant nocturnal interruptions of 20-something sloppy drunks can really wear a hole in a middle-aged constitution. So, instead of “hoofing it” the half hour out of town and up a rather large hill to the Youth Hostel, a local Bavarian Gasthaus seemed like the perfect alternative. The lady at Information Desk booked the room, drew ink lines on the map, told me short cuts, and sent me on my way with the salutation, “It is only about a five minute walk past the train station.”



("Past the train station" really meant climbing the hill behind it and only the beginnings can be seen here.)


"Five-minutes"...Yeah right. The term “Upper Berchtesgaden” means climbing up the side of a mountain for a full half an hour. Once you have successfully past the city limits sign, then you are getting close. I had to laugh at myself a little. Yep, you bet Paul, this is much easier than the half hour to the Youth Hostel. Not!



Locals stopped to watch me labor up the hill. One man said in German, “Wow, that is a harsh back pack!” Then he had to change his noun to a plural and change verb tense in recognition that there were actually two packs, one on the front and another on the actual back. I miss my hiking boots so much it hurts, literally. These Solomon trail shoes are great for walking, but under the 28 kilo load on my combined back and front, the flexibility of these trail shoes makes every metacarpal strain under the incline pressure of the slope.



The German language is flowing from some deep linguistic recessive genome, because I am able to greet the Belvedere Gasthaus matron and even joke with her, “Five minutes from the train station… Ya, in which auto.” She laughs with me in recognition of my sweat soaked clothes, face, and hair replying, “Maybe the lady at the information office said fifteen minutes and not only five?” I assure her that “Five was the promise and not fifteen”. I know this as a fact because that conversation at the info booth was in English. In German the difference between five and fifteen can be easily misgiven by a lazy tongue or mistaken by an inattentive ear.

Kristen was absolutely right about the need for periodic "quality rest" breaks. After a shower, I open the door to the balcony and received in the cool Alpine air to crisply counter the humidity of my warm shower.



This, combined with a down duve and overly inviting super-sized down pillow square resulted in a Pavlov nap reflex.



Waking an hour or so later to head out into the alpine Fall scene, there are two things on my mind; lunch for tomorrow’s hike and venison.



I've been going to the same store for cold cuts, cheese, and dense dark bread for over ten years. There is little doubt in my mind that the lady working the deli counter has no ongoing recollection of me, but we have the same routine each time. I apologize for my poor German in advance and she replies in German that she speaks little English, which draws my same response that together we will make all things good. We laugh and the game begins. We point at the different slices. She asks how many I would like. I say, “Six pieces.” She patiently corrects me with “slices.” For some reason that word just doesn’t stick in my head. Schenken is not terribly hard to remember and even sounds like the meaning but we laugh at me when I overtly use the proper noun to describe how I would like the cheese sliced and not in pieces. She kindly asks if I need bread and I pulled the six slices of dark, nutty, bread from my basket to show her. She smiles in approval and says, “Very good.” One final, “Many thanks”, from me and we both are very pleased with the interaction and leave smiling.

One task down, leaves one remaining and a delicious one at that. I needed to erase the physical memory of the awful venison eaten at Oktoberfest in Munchen with the “real deal”. There is one “sure fire” solution, so I head to my second “Old Faithful”. It is not the cheapest restaurant in Germany but the venison is "to die for" and with all the saturated fat that may not be far from the truth. I order the same thing every time: venison fillets, with mushroom gravy, spetzle, and a weissbier.



This particular dinner was exceptional. Alpine mushrooms are a real treat and the plate was smothered in them and a brown crème gravy. Then three, fork tender, broiled fillets were splayed on top. All I needed to do was plop the German noodles on the side of the plate and culinary bliss soon followed.



The Germans have or maybe had a tradition of evening walks after dinner. The mild activity helps to get the food rock out of your stomach and actually makes the most out of the caloric download. From the restaurant it was a twenty-minute huff uphill to the hotel. My legs ached from the earlier effort, but just as the moisture of exertion started to build on my back I simply stopped and enjoyed the afterglow of a Bavarian evening in the mountains.



Continuing in the dark, through the woods, the actualization that life was surprisingly good at this very moment welled up inside me and threatened at my tear ducts. I still can’t really cry, but happiness had returned after many, many, missing years and it was fresh, clean, and invigorating