If even the cows have special attire for coming down from the mountains, then one has to assume that there is a dress code that separates serious climbers in the know from mere weekend wanderers. One would not want to be seen as part of the dilettante crowd. Of course, there are levels of seriousness which also must be matched with cultural preferences. The Austrian farmers coming down the mountains with their cows came down clearly on the lederhosen and checkered shirt side but it is fair to say that on a normal day, neither they nor their fellow countryman wear such garments. Even the sports shop in Bezau appealing to the more traditional customer has only a small part of its inventory filled with lederhosen – though a not insignificant part is comprised of loden and tweed jackets with leather trim for both men and women so perhaps as the weather begins to change, lederhosen with tweed may be de rigueur. I was tempted by a lovely camel coloured pair of tooled leather kneehosen ,but the tramp rolled his eyes when I pointed them out. He didn’t respond more favourably to the short lederhosen in the same colour. I admit they would have fit in perfectly to the Springtime for Hitler scene in the Producers so probably don’t meet the criterion of understated (we won’t even mention age appropriate!). Still the kneehosen were quite lovely – though they probably would have added as much weight as the large backpack – a plus if one considers that extra weight undoubtedly over time would add a few points to the VO2 max and take off a few pounds from the trampess- effortlessly.
So leather and tweed rejected we moved on. The shop just around the corner, which is part of a small chain, and which is run by a young, exuberant sportsman who has a new-fashioned sense of service coursing through his veins, has not a pair of lederhosen or loden coat in sight. He does carry every Austrian, German, Swedish, Swiss and English brand of high tech outdoor garment available. He seems to have tested them all, knows entire catalogues by heart and is willing to order anything that he has not decided to stock. He also has a magnificent selection of backpacks, Nordic walking sticks, gloves, carabiners and everything else one could possibly want for a hike up the local mountain. The tramp is well familiar with the shop and is greeted like a long lost friend whenever he enters (long lost friends in Germany and Austria being greeted by name, surname of course – it takes a very long time before one becomes a first name friend!) It is clear that when he was left on his own, the tramp spent a lot of time (we won’t even mention money) improving, if not the technique of his climbing, at least the technical quality of his wardrobe.
To be fair, this is in part because the trampess herself made some small comment about the importance of sweat wicking garments. The tramp, of course, knows what sweat is, and knows that he sweats, quite a lot in the mountains if the truth be told, (which is why climbing mountains is such an effective aerobic activity) but until the trampess explained, had no idea about wicking sweat, let alone why it was an important aspect of hiking apparel. Confession: the trampess did not know this either until she was setting off for Nepal with tramp4 some years ago and mentioned to a very sporty friend that she would, of course, be packing all cotton garments (the trampess having never been a fan of polyester or anything similar). Said friend gasped in horror and said that trekking in Nepal was definitely not to be done in cotton, was she out of her mind, and did she not know the importance of sweat wicking fabrics? Obviously she did not. Ignorance was replaced with knowledge by a quick trip to Covent Garden and the numerous outdoor sport shops there with the result that the trampess and tramp4 sat in comfort over lunches in Nepal after 4 or 5 hours of heavy trekking in dry shirts while their fellow, less informed travellers, were getting a chill in their sweaty, cotton t-shirts. Happily, though not expecting to return to Nepal anytime soon, the trampess kept her wardrobe and hiking boots (4 season Christopher Brasher leather boots, still wearing well) and so had a base wardrobe for the current adventure. The tramp not having gone to Nepal and not having seen the wardrobe, what with its unsuitability for nights at the opera in London, packed a comfortable but low tech wardrobe for his hiking. As he was suffering from both very wet shirts on hot days, and rather soggy jeans on wet days, he took the trampess’s comments seriously and decided to kit himself out more appropriately. Easier said than done given the tramp’s extreme (he would say elegant) height. Happily, no doubt due to more milk and meat being available than at the time the tramp was born during the war, current generations of Germans and Swedes have a sufficient number of tramp height, outdoor sportsmen to make it not impossible to find trousers long enough off the peg (though certain brands are more likely to produce results than others). Occasionally, the trampess was asked to make small alterations to insure the success of such garments (large hooks sewn on the inside of trouser legs to attach to shoe laces to keep the trousers in place – the tramp is nothing if not inventive in his solutions – some might say he is inventive in creating problems that require creative solutions. I have yet to take him to Monticello but it will without doubt be his favourite house ever, Thomas Jefferson’s inventions being as personal and idiosyncratic as the tramp’s).
Idiosyncratic he may be, but let it not be said that the tramp doesn’t fully embrace the new when he sees the light: once he tried the odd sweat wicking t-shirt and climbing trousers, he set out to build a hiking capsule wardrobe with a vengeance. Indeed, soon his gym clothes were new as well (why wouldn’t one want high tech t-shirts in the sweatiest of all environments?). Of course, he did notice the one downside of these marvellous fabrics: smell. There is no getting around it they do get smellier faster. This is all right as long as either we don’t encounter anyone else or get to a washing machine frequently enough, but with the limited water supply in the WLW it could prove a touch tricky in Mongolia!
It was with this future limitation in mind, and with the arrival of slightly cooler weather, that the trampess spotted a small section at our favourite shop that she had only glanced at before since it was next to men’s underwear (not my natural browsing zone): merino wool t-shirts (long sleeved and short) in basic black (a bit harsh for an aging blonde and not exactly a nature friendly colour) but also in some livelier colours. The blurb accompanying the t-shirts emphasised the technical wonders of merino wool: soft, light, sweat absorbing, non-smelly (nota bene), easy to care for (hurrah!) and so suitable for turning weather. Who would have thought – all this from a natural fabric. Before you know it cashmere will be the latest solution for fall climbing! Allowing for all the marketing hype, I did nonetheless find myself tempted by a little coral number with a darker red edging, short sleeved, summer weight and on sale. Clearly an indication, that in the interest of knowledge and enlightenment, I should be open minded about old fashioned fabrics repackaged as high tech solutions. One must always be open to experimentation.
To say that it was fetching and functional is to understate the sheer delight this small investment afforded your trampess on one of those days where it was cool in the forest and hot in the open fields – or the warmth it added under a fleece on a particularly grim day. So perhaps cotton is passé but wool is in. In fact in order to ensure a comfortable fall in the Dolomites, your trampess ordered (our new best friend in Bezau was more than happy to order ahead of his normal stocking plan and went through the new catalogue to make sure that there was nothing else I wanted and to be certain I was happy with the weight and colour I had chosen) the slightly heavier weight, long sleeved version. The tramp, convinced that the trampess knew her onions when it came to technical clothing, and being at her side when she was indulging her desire for the long sleeved version, ordered himself a long sleeved version in black (well black does suit white hair much better than blonde – and in his all black gear he resembles Wotan, especially with his big hat and Nordic sticks, more than Johnny Cash, which may or may not be a good thing depending on your philosophical outlook). We were promised that we would have them in 3 days. It should be added that in the meantime, our NBF also accepted the tramp’s Polar trekking heart monitor overnight to set it and explain to the tramp the next day how to use it (it is well known that most manuals are useless except to people who already know how to use the instrument in question). Now that is real service especially when you know that he didn’t even sell him the monitor! We will never buy anything anywhere else – well not for mountain climbing anyway.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
Friday, 10 October 2008
Exploring Old Haunts, the Importance of Chin-ups and Watching the Cows Come Home
The tramp had often commented that on the road to Mellau (base of the beloved Kanisfluh) there were signs to Lech, a village where we had gone skiing with tramps 1 to 4 at the insistence of friends with whom we stayed at the delightful Hotel Schneider (arguably one of the most expensive holidays any of us had ever taken, the Excelsior and Gritti notwithstanding). Still one can be nostalgic even about outrageously expensive holidays and it has to be said that the food and the company made up for a lot. Since there was no danger of our giving up the WLW visiting Lech would be relatively danger free (at least to the purse strings). And of course it met the tramp’s primary criterion for climbing: the possibility of a long hike up and a gondola down. It also was near enough to be reached by Brengenzer bus. The trampess, as usual, was put in charge of logistics and the date was set.
It was a beautiful day and the journey by bus required only one change. After only a short distance, the bus pulled to the side of the road. Traffic had come to a complete halt. The local citizenry were on the pavements (from the aged to young babes in arms) and many had cameras. Soon it became apparent why they were out in numbers and we were stopped: the cows were coming home. Now you may think that the cows come home in the evening, and indeed that they come home every evening, but you would be missing the point. Alpine cows live up in the mountains during the summer, grazing on fields that are covered in snow in the winter. The fields in the valleys are growing the grass that becomes the hay the cows eat in the winter – and, of course the tramps watched the farmers near them mowing, turning and collecting grass several times from the same fields the whole summer. So the cows coming home was a very special day marking the end of summer and the return of the cows from the high fields down to the valleys. Such a day is full of ritual and the cows and the farmers both were suitably decorated. You may ask how a cow dresses for such an occasion. I assure you that Cinderella going to the ball was not more carefully adorned: artful sprigs of rosemary and pine were turned into wreathes, wild flowers interspersed in the greenery for colour and bells (well, I am sure you expected the bells) around their necks ringing to announce the parade – for a parade it was: all the local farmers were bring their herds down to the village at the same time. If you know that this part of the world is referred to as the Kaesestrasse (cheese street), you soon will understand just how many cows we are talking about and just how long it took them to pass. If the cows were adorned for the ball, so were the farmers: lederhosen, leather braces, checked shirts and wonderful hats – also adorned with rosemary, pine branches and flowers to match the crowns on the cows. Even the tramp leapt to his feet and pulled out the camera. This was truly an amazing sight: an endless stream of cows and farmers oblivious to their traffic stopping march. Since there were no signs in any village announcing the re-entry, one can only assume that this remains an unadulterated, genuine, farming ritual and not a tourist event. Nor does it seem to be co-ordinated across the region: we later ran into similar, smaller versions in other villages, each one traffic stopping (it doesn’t take much to stop the traffic – a slow moving tractor will do the job quite nicely) whether 10 cows or a hundred.
This did, of course, make us wonder if we would ever make it to Lech, but as the event was so spectacular in itself, and the day so perfect, we decided not to let time be a worry. At least we had a seat (the bus to Lech turned out to be quite popular and a number of hikers joined after we did and had to stand for the best part of an hour) and no need to worry about the navigation system or where we would be able to park. A change of bus after a short wait and we were nearly there. Of course, we hadn’t counted on the road works. It seems that much road improvement takes place in the summer so that the roads are ready for both the snow and the great influx of winter tourists. Just as we were nearing Lech, which is much higher than Bezau, we hit the road works. Dear reader, the road went up a steep and curving path and was completely unfinished – and in some places only passable by one vehicle, so that great queues of traffic were held at a temporary light (or worse road workers who decided randomly when to let the cars in the other direction have the right of way) to control the flow of traffic into the treacherous, single file zones. The tramp breathed a deep sigh of relief that he didn’t have to drive in such alarming conditions. Such scenic routes under such conditions do not make for enjoyable driving! Eventually, we arrived in Lech, were turfed out of the bus and fell into the local tourist office where we confirmed our choice of mountain and set off.
Strange how different a village looks when you see it in a different season. Flowers everywhere, a gurgling brook and terraces with people sitting outside have cappuccinos. The tramp remembered the various mountains he had skied (the trampess gave up downhill skiing in Lech and took up cross country – a very, very satisfactory decision: both because the cross country paths were glorious and rarely peopled, unlike the down hill slopes, and because cross country skiing is almost as good as mountain climbing in the effortless weight loss category: your trampess was the only member of the group to lose weight while staying at the Schneider where Frau Schneider’s kitchen is well known for both its gourmet standards and its Germanic sense of portion) and chose the path that would give us the longest uphill hike. It was glorious. Cool at first as we walked through gentle forest which opened into meadows or along the edge of the mountain , so we had beautiful views into the distance. As we climbed higher the terrain changed and opened up. The trampess took a deep breath as she turned a corner in the path and found herself face to face with a horse (used to meeting cows under such circumstances, she was thrown by the rather more determined look of the horse: cows may be bigger but they are somehow more benign; one never knows how a horse will react to invasion of its territory), in fact, as it turned out, several horses. The cows may have gone home, but the horses certainly hadn’t.
Beyond the horses, the path rose above the tree line and that meant a very rocky road. In fact one felt as if one were walking across a giant’s gravel path. Not easy to tell which way to go, but every time your pathfinder thought she was off the trail (except once, when she was) she spotted a blaze of colour that indicated the path – one learns that different trail markers have different eye lines and one has to adjust to the distance they judge appropriate for markers. This is, of course, all part of the fun and no doubt keeps the brain from becoming lazy (all good for preventing Alzheimer’s I am told). It was at this point I realised the importance of the machine in the gym that the tramp never uses and that the trampess always does: the chin-up and dip machine (used by those of us who cannot do an unassisted chin-up but nonetheless want perfect arms in evening gowns). There were several points where the path was so steep and narrow that the Nordic walking sticks had to be placed on rocks (or between them) in positions much higher than one would have naturally chosen. But when there is only one possibility, one must take it (it would have been unconscionable to have waited for the tramp and then to hope for a hand up!) so the sticks went up and the trampess lifted herself to the next level as if on the beloved machine (proving once again that vanity may be the motivator but the unforeseen need is not falling off the side of a cliff). While the consequence of not being able to do the manoeuvre was rather more than failing on the machine, it did make the trampess grateful for all the times she had suffered on it.
After a few more gruelling lifts, the object of our hike was in sight: a lift station. The tramp decided that it was still some distance off and we should sit down on our wonderful, protect the bottom from rocky places pillows, last used in Verbier, and have some nuts and chocolate. The trampess never says no to such a suggestion and this was no exception – though the thought had crossed her mind that if they just pushed on, made it to the lift, and sped down, perhaps, just perhaps, one could still catch a late lunch at the Schneider. Clearly the tramp had reached a blood sugar deficit that required immediate action, so the trampess kept the thought to herself. An hour later, the tramps found themselves back in town. The tramp suggested going to the Schneider – but amazingly it was closed, apparently, as always, for the summer. We repaired to terrace of the wonderful Voralberg just below the Schneider and had a rather magnificent cappuccino with delicious biscuits (now you know the trampess never eats biscuits but these were small, delicate, clearly home-made, too good to resist biscuits and it would have been almost criminal not to eat them – and after a long hike, a little sin is almost a virtue).
The trip home was uneventful except for the beginning. The tourist office gave us the wrong bus stop for our return and when we arrived at it, the driver there told us we had 3 minutes to get to the other side of town to catch our bus. With only one bus an hour, the tramp and trampess threw on their backpacks and ran. You will be pleased to know that the caffeine and sugar rush proved up to the job even if the shoes were inappropriate for running and the tramps arrived home in time for supper as usual.
It was a beautiful day and the journey by bus required only one change. After only a short distance, the bus pulled to the side of the road. Traffic had come to a complete halt. The local citizenry were on the pavements (from the aged to young babes in arms) and many had cameras. Soon it became apparent why they were out in numbers and we were stopped: the cows were coming home. Now you may think that the cows come home in the evening, and indeed that they come home every evening, but you would be missing the point. Alpine cows live up in the mountains during the summer, grazing on fields that are covered in snow in the winter. The fields in the valleys are growing the grass that becomes the hay the cows eat in the winter – and, of course the tramps watched the farmers near them mowing, turning and collecting grass several times from the same fields the whole summer. So the cows coming home was a very special day marking the end of summer and the return of the cows from the high fields down to the valleys. Such a day is full of ritual and the cows and the farmers both were suitably decorated. You may ask how a cow dresses for such an occasion. I assure you that Cinderella going to the ball was not more carefully adorned: artful sprigs of rosemary and pine were turned into wreathes, wild flowers interspersed in the greenery for colour and bells (well, I am sure you expected the bells) around their necks ringing to announce the parade – for a parade it was: all the local farmers were bring their herds down to the village at the same time. If you know that this part of the world is referred to as the Kaesestrasse (cheese street), you soon will understand just how many cows we are talking about and just how long it took them to pass. If the cows were adorned for the ball, so were the farmers: lederhosen, leather braces, checked shirts and wonderful hats – also adorned with rosemary, pine branches and flowers to match the crowns on the cows. Even the tramp leapt to his feet and pulled out the camera. This was truly an amazing sight: an endless stream of cows and farmers oblivious to their traffic stopping march. Since there were no signs in any village announcing the re-entry, one can only assume that this remains an unadulterated, genuine, farming ritual and not a tourist event. Nor does it seem to be co-ordinated across the region: we later ran into similar, smaller versions in other villages, each one traffic stopping (it doesn’t take much to stop the traffic – a slow moving tractor will do the job quite nicely) whether 10 cows or a hundred.
This did, of course, make us wonder if we would ever make it to Lech, but as the event was so spectacular in itself, and the day so perfect, we decided not to let time be a worry. At least we had a seat (the bus to Lech turned out to be quite popular and a number of hikers joined after we did and had to stand for the best part of an hour) and no need to worry about the navigation system or where we would be able to park. A change of bus after a short wait and we were nearly there. Of course, we hadn’t counted on the road works. It seems that much road improvement takes place in the summer so that the roads are ready for both the snow and the great influx of winter tourists. Just as we were nearing Lech, which is much higher than Bezau, we hit the road works. Dear reader, the road went up a steep and curving path and was completely unfinished – and in some places only passable by one vehicle, so that great queues of traffic were held at a temporary light (or worse road workers who decided randomly when to let the cars in the other direction have the right of way) to control the flow of traffic into the treacherous, single file zones. The tramp breathed a deep sigh of relief that he didn’t have to drive in such alarming conditions. Such scenic routes under such conditions do not make for enjoyable driving! Eventually, we arrived in Lech, were turfed out of the bus and fell into the local tourist office where we confirmed our choice of mountain and set off.
Strange how different a village looks when you see it in a different season. Flowers everywhere, a gurgling brook and terraces with people sitting outside have cappuccinos. The tramp remembered the various mountains he had skied (the trampess gave up downhill skiing in Lech and took up cross country – a very, very satisfactory decision: both because the cross country paths were glorious and rarely peopled, unlike the down hill slopes, and because cross country skiing is almost as good as mountain climbing in the effortless weight loss category: your trampess was the only member of the group to lose weight while staying at the Schneider where Frau Schneider’s kitchen is well known for both its gourmet standards and its Germanic sense of portion) and chose the path that would give us the longest uphill hike. It was glorious. Cool at first as we walked through gentle forest which opened into meadows or along the edge of the mountain , so we had beautiful views into the distance. As we climbed higher the terrain changed and opened up. The trampess took a deep breath as she turned a corner in the path and found herself face to face with a horse (used to meeting cows under such circumstances, she was thrown by the rather more determined look of the horse: cows may be bigger but they are somehow more benign; one never knows how a horse will react to invasion of its territory), in fact, as it turned out, several horses. The cows may have gone home, but the horses certainly hadn’t.
Beyond the horses, the path rose above the tree line and that meant a very rocky road. In fact one felt as if one were walking across a giant’s gravel path. Not easy to tell which way to go, but every time your pathfinder thought she was off the trail (except once, when she was) she spotted a blaze of colour that indicated the path – one learns that different trail markers have different eye lines and one has to adjust to the distance they judge appropriate for markers. This is, of course, all part of the fun and no doubt keeps the brain from becoming lazy (all good for preventing Alzheimer’s I am told). It was at this point I realised the importance of the machine in the gym that the tramp never uses and that the trampess always does: the chin-up and dip machine (used by those of us who cannot do an unassisted chin-up but nonetheless want perfect arms in evening gowns). There were several points where the path was so steep and narrow that the Nordic walking sticks had to be placed on rocks (or between them) in positions much higher than one would have naturally chosen. But when there is only one possibility, one must take it (it would have been unconscionable to have waited for the tramp and then to hope for a hand up!) so the sticks went up and the trampess lifted herself to the next level as if on the beloved machine (proving once again that vanity may be the motivator but the unforeseen need is not falling off the side of a cliff). While the consequence of not being able to do the manoeuvre was rather more than failing on the machine, it did make the trampess grateful for all the times she had suffered on it.
After a few more gruelling lifts, the object of our hike was in sight: a lift station. The tramp decided that it was still some distance off and we should sit down on our wonderful, protect the bottom from rocky places pillows, last used in Verbier, and have some nuts and chocolate. The trampess never says no to such a suggestion and this was no exception – though the thought had crossed her mind that if they just pushed on, made it to the lift, and sped down, perhaps, just perhaps, one could still catch a late lunch at the Schneider. Clearly the tramp had reached a blood sugar deficit that required immediate action, so the trampess kept the thought to herself. An hour later, the tramps found themselves back in town. The tramp suggested going to the Schneider – but amazingly it was closed, apparently, as always, for the summer. We repaired to terrace of the wonderful Voralberg just below the Schneider and had a rather magnificent cappuccino with delicious biscuits (now you know the trampess never eats biscuits but these were small, delicate, clearly home-made, too good to resist biscuits and it would have been almost criminal not to eat them – and after a long hike, a little sin is almost a virtue).
The trip home was uneventful except for the beginning. The tourist office gave us the wrong bus stop for our return and when we arrived at it, the driver there told us we had 3 minutes to get to the other side of town to catch our bus. With only one bus an hour, the tramp and trampess threw on their backpacks and ran. You will be pleased to know that the caffeine and sugar rush proved up to the job even if the shoes were inappropriate for running and the tramps arrived home in time for supper as usual.
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