Now you might have thought, given the encounter of the previous day, unmitigated by a refreshing shower (the neighbours were enjoying the evening and at a certain point, even your trampess gives up, makes dinner and crawls into bed where at least a movie will take her mind off the bull – though she did reject the tramp’s helpful suggestion of Apocalypto as the night’s entertainment; those of you who have seen it will perhaps understand why something a little more subdued – Middlemarch or Prairie Home Companion – was the order of the evening), the tramp would have offered the trampess a quiet day in the WLW – but it was beautiful, and on the principle of working off the excesses, he encouraged the trampess to take the car to Bezau and climb Baumgarten on her own. It may not surprise you, dear reader, to know that at the point where a decision was to be made to go up (and perhaps have to face down the bull again) or to go on a long hike through the forest to the middle station, your trampess (call her a coward if you will) decided on the latter course.
Not that it made much difference. Another gate, another herd huddled near it. What is it with these cows? Are they feeling timid in their first weeks at altitude? Have they no fortitude? Must they huddle and gang up on happy-go-lucky hikers who suddenly feel a little less happy and a lot less lucky? At least this herd was definitely female. Huddled near the gate but female. The choice however was similar: uphill or muddy, steep downhill? Uphill seemed the safer way but as I moved cautiously around the southern ends of a number of cows, the uphill choice became less attractive: one cow, standing perpendicular to the path, was munching on the uphill grass. Did I dare pass between her and sustenance? Could I get a foothold and go above her? I thought better of it, retraced my steps – gingerly - and proceeded to walk in the very mushy downhill grass. As I emerged up onto the path once safely past the cows with mud on the five fingers and looking slightly fed-up and probably a bit dishevelled, I spied another couple coming toward me. I smiled and gave my usual friendly Austrian greeting. I admit to turning and watching as they arrived at the same dilemma I had faced only minutes before. Obviously bigger, braver, and male, the husband (though it has to be said not with the macho authority I had been hoping for) pushed the cows gently to the side as his wife followed behind. It can be done – and they did it. I must remember to be braver. But at least I had no ill encounter, made it to the lift on time and without having to explain my appearance.
Still, it is somewhat worrisome to think that every time one reaches a gate designed to keep cows in the appropriate fields, one is going to meet a huddle which could turn unfriendly. Being at the bottom of a bovine scrum is not my idea of a wonderful hiking holiday. So, I decided to take up the topic of how to deal with what was turning into a daily occurrence with the tramp at dinner. What, I asked the tramp, should I have done – both the previous day, and today (though I was less worried about today since my evasive tactics seemed to work adequately). Clearly, the tramp said with great authority (after all, he did grow up in the country and knows a lot about horses which are, all said and done, large, four legged and easily spooked), you should have used your sticks and just whacked the bull (oh and by the way, it couldn’t have possibly been a bull – no farmer would allow an un-castrated male to roam in open pasture; the tramp can say that, but up close and personal that creature was very bullish – and strong as an ox doesn’t make me feel more secure when it’s his 500 kilo to my 50 at less than a meter apart! testosterone or no; which makes me realise where the expression “testy” must come from – that creature was definitely testy). He would have moved along the path and you would have been free to go. And then he smiled. So, your trampess is a wimp – face it, a wimp. The only consolation was that her decidedly not wimpish (and much larger) sons, all said that in such close quarters, while the theory of whacking the bull/ox was undoubtedly sound, the risk was simply too high to do anything but avoid confrontation. So I can whack if there is a straight run to the gate but not if I am trapped between cows, bulls and rocks. Tramp son 4, on reading my woeful tale, did ask if he had ever told me his grizzly bear story. Grizzly bear story???!!!!! Grizzly bear story??!!! These are the sort of things that mothers find out, happily, when it is too late to worry. I have the courage to listen but am still waiting to hear the tale.
The following day, with no reason to fear (after all a clear strategy: chase him off with your sticks; and de-classification of the level of threat: an ox not a bull), your trampess set out to the upper station (one could not admit fear in the face of such expert counselling and besides, the tramp was taking the road to the middle station). As she approached the higher climbs, your trampess did wonder if there would be the smell of fear on her (be brave, remember your favourite things, smile, you made it through the previous close encounters, surely it will only get better, why didn’t you bring perfume?, will flowers help or will they only want to eat them – and as a consequence me??). But as she approached the gate (that gate) there were no cows; she breathed a sigh of relief and walked on. Ha! Did you think that sense of security would last??? Did Captain Hook leap out of his skin whenever he heard the tick-tock of the crocodile? Did your trampess make a similar leap when she heard the cow bells’ ding-dong thinking one of those bells might be on him???? Well, this time at least there were only four of them; and praise to the Almighty, all of them cows; but we were on a path wide enough for one person, or one cow (and only because they have such small feet). Were they all huddled together? Did they look at me??? Did I gently tap them on??? Yes to all of those, and the front two were persuaded to move (one small step for the trampess’s confidence), but as the third stood firmly in place, the first turned around (unbelievably doubling up with her sister in a space two Austrians would find difficult to share) and started sniffing my backpack. Now this is getting ridiculous. I carry no food, only water, what could possibly be interesting about my backpack? I pushed her off, and decided that I would simply climb into the weeds (hoping that poison ivy was not one of the plants in the undergrowth) and push forward til I was beyond the path occupying cows. By now these cows must think I am crazy: climbing above them, slipping, cursing, and waving my sticks – what a sight. But the sight of one still alive trampess. This time, I did not lose my stride and I arrived at the bergbahn in good time.
The tramp is beginning to wonder if someone has cast a cow attraction spell on me. He recommended that for the next hike, I should take his path to the middle station and then follow a gentle path up to the top – not the more challenging – and particularly if you take into account bovine encounters – path I normally take. His path, he said, was not muddy (particularly delightful as it had thunderstormed all night and I knew my path was guaranteed to require a full shower and not one of the usual commando ones) and there were no, underscore, no cows. He was right about the mud. Of course, as I turned the path near a farm house and greeted the farmer’s wife, what should I encounter but their entire herd coming home for the evening!!! No cows, he promised me no cows, and there were 20 or more heading straight toward me! I stood straight, walked to the right of the happily wide path (well we are in Austria not England and I expect the cows to know which side of the road they should be walking on), stick in hand to nudge any animal that took too familiar an interest. A few gentle taps with the stick and I was past them all. Hurrah! I met the tramp back at the car and just looked at him. No mud I said. He smiled. A herd of cows I said. He fainted.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls
The Joys of Hiking Alone – or How To Deal with Raging Bulls
Not that your trampess has extraordinary adventures just for your benefit, or because ordinary life doesn’t provide enough entertainment, but sometimes it just happens, and lately it seems to be happening more than enough. Your trampess has just come back from being gored by a bull (well, let me clarify, he had his head down and shoved his horns toward me several times. We did touch but I used my hands to good effect so the horns never penetrated my flesh).
Your trampess has always been quite content passing through fields of cattle in the mountains – after all they are basically domestic creatures and used to being man handled. Even my earliest encounter with a cow at close quarters, when I was about 3, my great Aunt Ethel was considerably older, and the cow was somewhere in between, was only a cause for much amusement on my Aunt Ethel’s side, the result of which is that I remember it with laughter even now (she asked me if I would like to milk a cow; being 3, happy around animals and curious, I, of course, replied in the affirmative. She showed me what to do; I grabbed the cows teats and squeezed; nothing happened; Aunt Ethel let out the most adorable peel of laughter and took over the milking; I watched in wonder).
The recent encounter that has led your trampess to committing it to paper was not of the same kind. The tramp was having a short hike to the middle station but recommended that the trampess head up to the top of Baumgarten on her own. It was such a lovely day and a pity to let it go to waste, besides after 3 weeks of decadence in London it was important to get the old hind side up a mountain for as long and as frequently as possible in order to keep evening gown fit. So, five fingers on the feet and backpack on the back, off your trampess set. Apart from meeting too many trucks, cars and tractors on the way (while a hiking route the path also provides access for farmers to the higher barns and occasionally one meets the odd vehicle – today’s encounters were excessive). Once above WildMoosAlpe, the path was once again clear, and all the tree felling that had been the bane of my existence in April was now over. That did not mean peace though.
I walked along the path, on the part of the walk where I usually gain speed (this was good as I had begun to worry that I would not make the last bergbahn down for the day – suddenly I was back in control and confident that the Tramp would not be worried that his dinner would be unduly late owing to the Trampess taking 2 hours instead of 5 minutes to make it to the car!). But things turned rather more eventful than planned as your trampess reached a previously non-existent gate with a lot of cows huddled near it on the other side. Not good, but not necessarily bad. I opened the gate, let myself in, and shut it again and proceeded to go along the mountain side of the herd (the other side was fenced with barbed wire, a sleep incline down, and all things considered probably the less wise option).
As I was in the middle of the herd working my way to the far side, trying to keep to the path, one ornery bull decided he didn’t much like me in the midst of his cows – and perhaps more importantly, calves. He turned and gave me a threatening look. Not best pleased but trying my best not to look intimidated by a creature several times my weight, with hooves and horns, and not more than a foot away, I more or less told him to move on and tried to shoo him away (with my superior Nordic walking sticks – not that I hit him or poked him – this was just meant to be a gentle indication of the way he should move). He nudged me (I admit I took it personally) and then lowered his head, in that way that bulls do, and pushed his horns toward me. Aarrggghhh, your trampess has crossed paths with many a cow and young bull, one time dressed in bright red and significantly pregnant, but without fear, and never arousing more than faint curiosity, but this was quite different! I pushed him away sucking in my tummy (the idea of being impaled on a bull’s horns as a kind of bucolic martyrdom is not my idea of an elegant death). He tried again. I tried to scramble up the hill. No dice: too steep, too soft, no footholds, no roots to grab, no rocks, nothing.
Finally I decided on a different tact: to retreat, walk along the outside of the barbed wire (on the downward slope) and then find a place, farther along, where I could crawl under (not fun with the ground full of mud and soft cow pats but the backpack would protect me from the barbed wire as long as I didn’t get stuck). Of course as I started my marine training belly crawl, the cows all decided they were interested and started coming my way. As it turned out, this was not an easy manoeuvre what with being up hill and under barbed wire, so your trampess was not setting world records on making the distance quickly. Once again, a change of plan: to retreat to the gate and try again the conventional way since the cows were no longer in a huddle there and the chance of passing easily was – how shall I say, more likely to be normal.
Well blow me if as I was half way through the herd one calf didn’t start licking my leg and the bloody bull didn’t start taking an unseemly interest again. So a few more times with the head down and the horns in my direction and a few more times my pushing him away (feeling just a touch vulnerable at this point what with cows on all sides of me). Nothing was working. He was determined; your trampess was trapped. Escape was the only answer: to try to get up the hill once more was the only way. Of course, the past is always the best predictor of the future and your trampess kept slipping down (one does not need to mention that her language was not the purest at this point) but finally got a small foothold, just enough to throw herself in the direction of a strong root which she grabbed to advantage and hoisted herself up with.
Safe at last, I managed to walk along the very steep pasture until I was in well in advance of the herd (no chances this time that the curious would block my forward movement) and then I ran back down to the path. By now I had lost considerable and valuable time and realised I had to hoof it to make the bergbahn. Adrenalin was on my side of course, and as I got to just beneath the station (not quite at full VO2 max) I could see the bb was in place and ready to depart; I saw a man just about to enter and waved frantically with my sticks. Luckily he saw me and screamed down if anyone was behind me. I said I was alone and steamed ahead. They waited – hurrah!!! I was of course rather muddy and dishevelled, so explained I had had an encounter with a bull which had slowed me up. Much laughter. But hey, your trampess is alive and here to tell the tale. I was a bit of a sight in the supermarket (shopping for supper could not be put off until your trampess had been home and changed – stores close early here; Austria is still a God-fearing country and the stores close at night and are never open on Sunday) and my seat in the Smart car is now on the disgraceful side. I did wash most of the mud and cow dung off my legs and shoes with the outdoor hose, but I have to wait for a shower until the tramp can off load the dirty water tank (which he is loathe to do while the neighbours are all having drinks in the afternoon sun!). Your trampess will wait, but she is not holding her breath!
Not that your trampess has extraordinary adventures just for your benefit, or because ordinary life doesn’t provide enough entertainment, but sometimes it just happens, and lately it seems to be happening more than enough. Your trampess has just come back from being gored by a bull (well, let me clarify, he had his head down and shoved his horns toward me several times. We did touch but I used my hands to good effect so the horns never penetrated my flesh).
Your trampess has always been quite content passing through fields of cattle in the mountains – after all they are basically domestic creatures and used to being man handled. Even my earliest encounter with a cow at close quarters, when I was about 3, my great Aunt Ethel was considerably older, and the cow was somewhere in between, was only a cause for much amusement on my Aunt Ethel’s side, the result of which is that I remember it with laughter even now (she asked me if I would like to milk a cow; being 3, happy around animals and curious, I, of course, replied in the affirmative. She showed me what to do; I grabbed the cows teats and squeezed; nothing happened; Aunt Ethel let out the most adorable peel of laughter and took over the milking; I watched in wonder).
The recent encounter that has led your trampess to committing it to paper was not of the same kind. The tramp was having a short hike to the middle station but recommended that the trampess head up to the top of Baumgarten on her own. It was such a lovely day and a pity to let it go to waste, besides after 3 weeks of decadence in London it was important to get the old hind side up a mountain for as long and as frequently as possible in order to keep evening gown fit. So, five fingers on the feet and backpack on the back, off your trampess set. Apart from meeting too many trucks, cars and tractors on the way (while a hiking route the path also provides access for farmers to the higher barns and occasionally one meets the odd vehicle – today’s encounters were excessive). Once above WildMoosAlpe, the path was once again clear, and all the tree felling that had been the bane of my existence in April was now over. That did not mean peace though.
I walked along the path, on the part of the walk where I usually gain speed (this was good as I had begun to worry that I would not make the last bergbahn down for the day – suddenly I was back in control and confident that the Tramp would not be worried that his dinner would be unduly late owing to the Trampess taking 2 hours instead of 5 minutes to make it to the car!). But things turned rather more eventful than planned as your trampess reached a previously non-existent gate with a lot of cows huddled near it on the other side. Not good, but not necessarily bad. I opened the gate, let myself in, and shut it again and proceeded to go along the mountain side of the herd (the other side was fenced with barbed wire, a sleep incline down, and all things considered probably the less wise option).
As I was in the middle of the herd working my way to the far side, trying to keep to the path, one ornery bull decided he didn’t much like me in the midst of his cows – and perhaps more importantly, calves. He turned and gave me a threatening look. Not best pleased but trying my best not to look intimidated by a creature several times my weight, with hooves and horns, and not more than a foot away, I more or less told him to move on and tried to shoo him away (with my superior Nordic walking sticks – not that I hit him or poked him – this was just meant to be a gentle indication of the way he should move). He nudged me (I admit I took it personally) and then lowered his head, in that way that bulls do, and pushed his horns toward me. Aarrggghhh, your trampess has crossed paths with many a cow and young bull, one time dressed in bright red and significantly pregnant, but without fear, and never arousing more than faint curiosity, but this was quite different! I pushed him away sucking in my tummy (the idea of being impaled on a bull’s horns as a kind of bucolic martyrdom is not my idea of an elegant death). He tried again. I tried to scramble up the hill. No dice: too steep, too soft, no footholds, no roots to grab, no rocks, nothing.
Finally I decided on a different tact: to retreat, walk along the outside of the barbed wire (on the downward slope) and then find a place, farther along, where I could crawl under (not fun with the ground full of mud and soft cow pats but the backpack would protect me from the barbed wire as long as I didn’t get stuck). Of course as I started my marine training belly crawl, the cows all decided they were interested and started coming my way. As it turned out, this was not an easy manoeuvre what with being up hill and under barbed wire, so your trampess was not setting world records on making the distance quickly. Once again, a change of plan: to retreat to the gate and try again the conventional way since the cows were no longer in a huddle there and the chance of passing easily was – how shall I say, more likely to be normal.
Well blow me if as I was half way through the herd one calf didn’t start licking my leg and the bloody bull didn’t start taking an unseemly interest again. So a few more times with the head down and the horns in my direction and a few more times my pushing him away (feeling just a touch vulnerable at this point what with cows on all sides of me). Nothing was working. He was determined; your trampess was trapped. Escape was the only answer: to try to get up the hill once more was the only way. Of course, the past is always the best predictor of the future and your trampess kept slipping down (one does not need to mention that her language was not the purest at this point) but finally got a small foothold, just enough to throw herself in the direction of a strong root which she grabbed to advantage and hoisted herself up with.
Safe at last, I managed to walk along the very steep pasture until I was in well in advance of the herd (no chances this time that the curious would block my forward movement) and then I ran back down to the path. By now I had lost considerable and valuable time and realised I had to hoof it to make the bergbahn. Adrenalin was on my side of course, and as I got to just beneath the station (not quite at full VO2 max) I could see the bb was in place and ready to depart; I saw a man just about to enter and waved frantically with my sticks. Luckily he saw me and screamed down if anyone was behind me. I said I was alone and steamed ahead. They waited – hurrah!!! I was of course rather muddy and dishevelled, so explained I had had an encounter with a bull which had slowed me up. Much laughter. But hey, your trampess is alive and here to tell the tale. I was a bit of a sight in the supermarket (shopping for supper could not be put off until your trampess had been home and changed – stores close early here; Austria is still a God-fearing country and the stores close at night and are never open on Sunday) and my seat in the Smart car is now on the disgraceful side. I did wash most of the mud and cow dung off my legs and shoes with the outdoor hose, but I have to wait for a shower until the tramp can off load the dirty water tank (which he is loathe to do while the neighbours are all having drinks in the afternoon sun!). Your trampess will wait, but she is not holding her breath!
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