Wandern, Stark Wandern, Nordic Walking and 54/40 or Fight

The first few days in Bezau were retraces of former hikes and the addition of a Nordic walking lesson courtesy of the village. It seems that in order to increase tourism, all the villages in the Bregenz region have small, beautifully appointed information offices which provide you with everything you could want to entice you to stay: maps of the region, free bus passes (if you stay longer than 3 days) which include not just local buses but hour long journeys (!) to the major railway station, gondola passes, and free entry to the local swimming pool (which is adjacent to the now famous football pitch near our campsite). They also provide guided walks through the mountains (both easy walks where the main interest is looking at wild flowers or rather more strenuous walks up serious, vertical inclines). We showed up one morning and found, no doubt because it is early in the season and it was raining, that we were the only two for the hike. The small, wiry guide offered to turn the walk into a Nordic walk. (Public walks can become private lessons if one is the only member of the public to show up – wuenderbar!) He even had Nordic walking sticks for us – in the correct length (when you consider the tramp is nearly 6 ½ feet tall it is no foregone conclusion that any equipment will be the right size for him). The tramp was keen for us to become “Nordic walkers”, but being of a precise nature, felt we should have proper instruction (he had bought adjustable sticks earlier which we had yet to try out). This was our chance. In the rain (a little rain in Bezau cannot be allowed to put one off one’s stride so to speak or one would never get out of bed – the alpine weather being what it is), we set out. Soon we were in full swing. All limbs working at a good clip, tiring at first but invigorating – the arms working much harder than normal. I feel the shoulders as exposed in evening gowns will benefit!

My efforts at mastering the walk were interrupted by a return (on my part) to London. In the meantime, the tramp continued to use his sticks to conquer the mountains of the region. On my return he announced he had been doing 5 and 6 hour hikes and that he quite liked this new life. It should be noted that the tramp was looking particularly slim and fit! So after a splendid, welcome home dinner at the Schwann (a very modern, excellent, and extremely health conscious restaurant in Bizau), the tramp announced that the next day we would climb to Kanisfluh. Having no idea what this meant, except that Kanisfluh was obviously the name of some local peak, I could only reply, “Splendid!”

The next day I understood what Kanisfluh meant. Most walk (if such a word is appropriate under the circumstances) to the top from the top of the berg station, but the tramp eschews such easy routes and deems the gondolas only suitable for the return journey (ie downhill). We were to begin from the very bottom in the valley. Now, it must be said that the tramp and I have a different pace (not to be confused with travelling to the beat of a different drum which would be truly catastrophic); possibly this is metabolic, possibly it has to due with size (the tramp being almost a foot taller than the trampess), possibly it is temperamental, but it does exist and indeed, the aforementioned, noble instructor noticed the difference and casually said that each person had to find his own pace. Your trampess recorded this advice. We set out, from the village of Mellau, in the valley, not from the berg station (we are not wimps after all). Soon the trampess was noticeably ahead of the tramp, but stopped frequently to allow the tramp to catch up. Dear reader, the first two hours were unrelenting: 45 to 60 degree vertical inclines, absolutely no breaks. We reached a little hut that seemed to be something of a marker on the way up. A sign gave us two alternative paths up but then one was closed owing to a bridge being out and not yet replaced (wading through waterfalls was not on our agenda so we followed the other option). The path was steep but very narrow – an indication of the narrowness was that often ,as your trampess put her downhill stick in the ground it didn’t find ground (it was at this point that slipping was viewed as not an option – not that one would fall off – but one might slip a very long way. The pain of the fall being not nearly as daunting as the thought of having to retrace the upward climb).

Finally, we reached a glacial valley. We found a bench (so thoughtful, these Austrians, there are benches everywhere – well, when there is room), sat down and pulled our lunch out of the rucksack. Did I mention, that the tramp and I had to switch rucksacks – the large one, in the end, didn’t fit him properly but was fine for your small boned, but reasonably tall trampess. As it is more spacious, the trampess had all the food and water (this has its benefits as you shall discover later) – each rucksack having to take anoraks, ponchos, a fleece and gaiters – so no room in the tramp’s for fuel. The wander sign behind us indicated 2 ½ hours to reach our destination – the first part across a glacial valley but around the corner there was obviously more vertical to come. The tramp announced, despite lunch, he had no more energy and we would just have to walk down to the berg station and return to the WLW. He was disappointed and baffled (after all in my absence he had done 6 and 7 hour hikes, fuelled by roast chicken from the local supermarket) but could only think that the pace with which we reached nearly 2000 meters was too fast. We would have to try again at a more reasonable pace.

The next morning, the scale revealed that the tramp’s insistence on starting from Mellau had very positive benefits – well negative to be precise in terms of the kilos on the scale I stood on – I broke through the 55kg barrier for the first time since the Marathon. It suddenly occurred to me that I could reach the elusive goal of 3.5 kg in the foreseeable future. Indeed, it made me recall the American history lessons of my youth and some war we fought (1812 maybe?) that was all about not conceding territory below a certain latitude; the war cry became: 54 40 or fight! Your trampess has seized the slogan – 54.4kg before the next trip to London or else! I suddenly feel quite confident.