The Alps!

         Finally, on the trail. 

         We took a short bus ride from Franz’ house to Bergschule Kleinwalsertal, the mountaineering school that chartered our trip.  A mere 620 euros later, I was booked.  Our guide, a friend of Franz' named Charly, led us off into a field on a road that could have easily accommodated my Subaru.  
         Uh-huh.  So, this is roughing it in the Alps.  

         The valley walls are extremely steep and portions seem as manicured as putting greens.  They almost don't seem real; more like solid patches of primary color than features of an actual world.

         I’m walking with Lynda, one of Franz and Carol’s friends.  She’s hiking in a skirt.  Which is weird.  I've never seen anyone hike in a skirt.  Then again, that could be because I usually hike with men.  Or maybe I should say: I usually hike with men who aren't cross-dressers.

         “I always hike in skirts,” she said.  “Why not?”

         Indeed.  It looks extremely comfortable.  Full range of motion for your legs.  Great ventilation.
         I want to hike in a skirt.

         Lynda and her friend, Karen, had been traveling in Europe for several days before they joined us in Kleinwalsertal for the trip through the Alps.  Karen lives in Australia, a place whose existence has always seemed somewhat hypothetical to me.  I mean, we all believe in Australia, but really only in the same way we believe in quarks. There is pretty good authority for the existence of quarks, but has anyone actually seen or touched one?


         I am similarly skeptical, I find, about the color of Karen's eyes.  I have to keep checking. They were liquid blue and lustrous and rather stunning last time I looked but . . . oh, yes: They are still limpid and stunning. But are they green? Or hazel? No, blue; definitely.  Well, maybe a little green. Better check.    OK, maybe kind of blue-green.  But wait . . .        

       We reach the first in a series of hüttes and load our backpacks onto a chair lift, which ferries them to our next hütte several hundred feet up the mountain.  It's nice to hike unencumbered, although my pack is not that heavy.  Except for my laptop, which I don't feel comfortable leaving in the chairlift, so I carry it on the trail anyway.

      We come across these really cool creatures called Ibex.  I gather that mountain goats are their closest relatives on my continent.  With those gigantic horns, they almost look mythological, like a Ray Harryhausen special effect.

        

         Charlie and Franz are both from Austria.  We've also picked up three other German-speaking hikers who joined us at the school. So, not surprisingly, much of the conversation is in German.  It's a language I only know from the technical terms I learned reading German philosophy--terms like Übermensch, begriff and wissenschaft.  But Charlie and Franz don't speak philosophy, so most of what they say is Greek to me. 

         “I am so sick of German,” I say to Carol.  "I am desperate for some background chatter in English. So I can ignore it."

         I'm joking, mostly, although it's interesting that I'm finding it more difficult to tune out a language I don't understand.  In any event, Carol conveys my comment to Franz and suggests that he try to speak English for the benefit of the mostly English-speaking company. 

         Actually, what I really want is a little quiet.  Just some of that good ol' Uinta soundlessness. Silence.  Shhhhh.

         At our next hütte, we have sausage, cheese, bread and prosciutto.  With a rather good no-alcohol beer.  Really good, actually.  So good that it's almost hard to believe it has no alcohol.
         Still, when I finish it, I'm wondering why I uploaded all those carbs without even the compensation of a little buzz. I think I’ll stick to coffee.

        

         From here, we climb a little more until we reach the saddle and cross the border into Germany.  There is a white pedestal marking the border and we all have to stand atop it and feel what it's like be in two countries at the same time.       

      And, wow, what a view.  OK: I confess: The Alps are a little cooler than the Uintas.  A little.

      We arrived at the Hanauer Hütte around 5 p.m.  It is really pretty.  And seems very updated—new paneling and tables.
      Showers, however, are at a separate locale, some 50 yards, excuse me, 45.72 meters down the hill. Which, I gather, accords with regulations.  Having a shower inside the hütte would make it too much like a Holiday Inn, I guess.
      One minute of water costs one euro. Which really doesn’t work.  You use at least 30 seconds just getting the temperature right. 

     
      All of our meals are pre-paid, so we all eat at the same time.  We even have tables reserved for us courtesy of the Bergschule Kleinwalsertal.
       Karen joins me at the dinner table. I try to make conversation, but I'm feeling really wiped out from the time change and the hike.  I wrack my brains for everything I know about Australia.  And I don't come up with much.  Just tidbits of 80s pop culture, gleaned mostly from my one-time stint as the "alternative music critic" at a daily newspaper in Salt Lake City.  There's Michael Hutchence ("tragic suicide"), Midnight Oil (with lead-singer-turned-politician Peter Garrett), AC-DC ("I love Back in Black") and Christina Amphlett, lead singer for a band called the Divinyls.
       "Remember those guys? They did that song called . . ."

       I hesitate, wondering why this particular song is stuck in my head.

       " . . . it was called 'I Touch Myself.' Remember that song?"
       Karen does remember the song.  And Christina Amphlett.  In fact, Karen is friends with someone who knows the person who works for the woman who styles Christina's hair. Or something like that.

       "That's interesting," I say, then add, fairly nonsensically: "Small world."


      Tonight, I have my first taste of dormitory-style sleeping since . . . when?  I guess it was about 30 years ago when I stayed briefly at a hut (we spoke American back then; no umlauts allowed or required) along the Appalachian Trail in Adams, Mass. 
       In our Austrian hütte, we sleep seven people in our room.  Fortunately, there are enough of us that we don't have to sleep with strangers.  Rocco and Shawn sleep in the top bunk with me while Lynda, Karen, Franz and Carol take the bottom.
       I point out to Karen that there's more room on the top bunk; there's three up here, four down there. She's skeptical, probably because she quickly realizes her relocation would leave her circumstances unchanged. Numerically speaking, that is. Since I don't do math, I decide not to press the point.