Holiday in Austria, Part IV: Predigstuhl, cont'd.

Not long afterwards the gravel path petered out into an earth path, and then that earth path sprouted tributary paths by the handful, and whether these were made by overly intrepid hikers, hikers following the right path, wild animals, or some other influence was wholly unclear. We eventually stopped and held a long debate, then decided to advance up the highest of the hills around us. Undergrowth brushed against our shoes, a fallen tree trunk barred our path, our feet sank in rotten wood — cannon to left of us, cannon to right of us, cannon in front of us volleyed and thundered — etc., but stormed at with shot and shell, boldly we rode and well, and we still went half a league, half a league, half a league onward. By dint of this perseverance, we finally reached the top of the hill and had a breather. I emerged out into the sunlight and looked around a little, and there, on an abruptly rising slab of rock, was the cross which undoubtedly marked the summit of the Predigstuhl!

We clambered up the steep rock with the help of a guiding rope and of steps, and when an ant latched onto my hand I at length brushed it off into blueberry bushes, and then we all emerged out onto the rather small platform that was the peak. Toward the Dachstein mountain streamers of white linen with messages written on the fluttered from the thin bushes, and the other sides of the scene were rimmed by mountains in what is retrospectively probably the medieval European's idea of the end of the world, if it were not for the open vista beyond the Hallstätter Lake and the human habitations that liven up the solitude. Mama entered us into the logbook, kept in a little metal box affixed to the cross, and we realized that it was her birthday and sang accordingly. Gi. took photos of us with his digital camera, and we drank and partook of candies and dextrose tablets. It was a triumphant and festive interlude.

What goes up must come down, of course, and so we set off again to find our way down the mountain and return to Bad Goisern by a different path. This time it was well marked, so the chance of getting lost was minimal. But pretty much at the top my foot slipped into a crevice at the side of the path and both my knees were scraped. The left one quickly bled and the right one, though at first it was hidden by dirt, also bled a little. We hadn't brought along the bandaids and iodine salve; our water bottles were pretty much empty so rinsing the scrapes was out of the question. So the only alternative I could think of to prevent infection was to pinch the cuts so that they would bleed more and hopefully wash away the germs a little. When I did catch up to the others I felt rather like a drama queen with the blood trickling down from the knee in lurid contrast to the admittedly pasty hue of the skin, etc. It was only long afterwards, however, that the bruises formed and rounded out the spectacle in an achy rainbow of colours.

Anyway, the path was continually steep and peppered with loose rocks on which it would be easy to slip. All of us were on edge and the sound of someone sliding, though fortunately we would always recover quickly, was particularly unnerving. I was in an impatient mood, so it took a great mental effort to be careful and not to mind lagging behind the others as a result. And frankly the whole hike was as strenuous mentally as physically, perhaps even more so.

Then we reached a broad gravel road that winds, very leisurely, down to the parking lot of the Berghof Predigstuhl. The sun blazed on it and I felt more smug than ever about the sunscreen that I had applied with atypical prudence back at the cottage. What was not so nice is that my feet had slipped in the shoes all the way down the rocky slope, so my foot was a mass of tingling blisters and there were even little separate ones distinguishable on the toes. Then my back ached from time to time and so did the knees, though the scrapes only smarted at times and were otherwise well-behaved.

We reached the parking lot and looked at the map. According to the legend, a green dot denoted our position. Unfortunately there were two green dots on the map. Fortunately two other hikers passed us and informed us which green dot was the right one. So then we continued down along the asphalt road and began the immensely long descent into the valley. The slope of the road is very gentle, which must be a relief to those going up it, but for us it meant a seemingly endless back and forth along its windings. The asphalt was murder for the feet, especially blistery feet, and to be honest I intermittently felt like crying not because the pain was sharp but because it was so emotionally draining. On the positive side, the scenery was perfect — forest, brush, creeks, pastures, houses adorned in gingerbread, sleek cars gliding up the road, cyclists, inquisitive goats, cows whose bells sounded as they grazed, sheep, etc.

At last we wound through Lasern, down a little further to Bad Goisern, and in short order we were back at the cottage. I finally sat down and cried a bit, and that relieved the tension and made me feel better, though not much because even looking up at the Predigstuhl afterwards was dully traumatizing. It turned out that this ordeal had taken six hours. It's one of those experiences where it's hard to tell whether it was more worthwhile or awful.

[N.B.: Part V is next; it has slipped up above Part VIII on the blog.]