The Quietest Time of the Year

It has started to snow once again; gossamer flakes blowing about in the ever-changing winds that characterize this corner of our valley. There is a gray yet sweet melancholy in these winds, that ensconces everything in sight. The village is very still, as if sleeping.

It does not surprise me that for Austrians and Bavarians, this most wonderful season of Advent is called ‘the quietest time of the year’. Indeed, there is a peaceful yet expectant stillness in the air as we await the birth of Our Lord. Everything here round and about our village reflects this, from the lovely yet restrained Christmas lights hung in windows and on trees to the music coming from homes and churches.

The music played during Advent likewise reflects this transcendent restraint. In many village and town churches as well as city cathedrals, choirs and instrumentalists are performing Adventsingen evenings. The melodies are from Alpine folk tradition, distinct, echoing, melodious…evoking a peace of heart that we sometimes forget we possess.

There is warmth amidst the cold, the gray-white outdoors becomes soothing; troubles set aside, concerns dispelled as one watches the tannen branches droop under their thickening white burden. That this could ever remain so.

 There is one event that breaks this placid repose. On the 6th of December, Austrians and Bavarians celebrate the feast of St. Nicholas. The mitered Bishop wanders through village and town, visiting children, asking as to whether they have been ‘naughty or nice’. The nice are thanked and rewarded with a small sweet.

Yet, there are those who have not always been without the sins of youth; these are relegated to the clutches of the much-feared Krampus…a Grimm brothers nightmare of malignant disorder and hideously distorted countenance. Long scraggled black hair half covers a twisted hunched tortured frame sporting arms and clawed paws that sway with each step as if pendulous grandfather clock weights. 

This Krampus is on a leash, controlled by Nicholas. Yet, approaching those in its path, the Krampus always seems to manage to be released from its bonds; speedily launching itself into the crowds. Villagers scatter, but stay nearby to watch the spectacle that unfolds. Krampus carries a short bound thrush of dried grasses with which he strikes many on the backs of legs.

It is said that Krampus takes those who misbehave, crams them into a coal sack that he carries on his back, and hauls them off for a period of time. Today, however, the Krampus reveals another side. Small children are at first frightened at this under-the-bed-at-night beast, but are then comforted when Krampus in all his growling ugliness, bends low, speaks soothingly with the child and gives him or her a branch from the dried grass thrush. Fear soon disappears and, perhaps reluctantly, the child regards the Krampus less of a threat and more of an odd warning…odd because a glance up at his or her parents reveals they are smiling, laughing and displaying a seeming lack of terror at the spectacle. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, Nicholas and Krampus are gone…having wandered back into the Advent night to appointed rounds in the next village.

Now, the gray darkens to thick purple as evening arrives. Stars twinkle alive on window panes and Christmas trees and the strengthening winds bring with them faint voices cast aloft from across the fields. One no longer sees the falling snow, but feels it as it alights upon ones nose and cheeks. The unmarked trail is hidden, blending in with the snowy expanse of the fields surrounding our home.  Each step upon the frozen Roman Road produces a dull crunch.

The Ulrichskirche, with its glassed windows illuminated by flickering candles within beckon one underway in this beautiful bitter night to come ever nearer…to gaze as the flakes of snow become visible but for a moment, passing on their descent in front of the lovingly lit Christmas tree on the ridge fore the Church.

The tower bell tones the quarter hour as the purple recedes into a comforting blackness. From within the Church, one hears the choir; “O lasset uns anbeten” they sing…O Come All ye’ Faithful. Rehearsing the quiet harmonies to be sung on Heiligeabend…Christmas Eve.

AUSFLUG: PICKING OLIVES NEAR BRESCIA

Whilst one can spend an entire lifetime exploring Pinswang and its environs, living in the heart of Europe provides one with a splendid opportunity to also cross nearby national borders and experience the joys of true diversity; that is, the lifestyles, culture, food and drink, languages and customs of different folk in their own beautiful countries. This, in the end, is the true gift of living in a non-homogeneous Europe; to be able to maintain with great pride ones own national and cultural/religious identity, yet concurrently being able to enjoy the wealth of experiences offered by so many others living in other countries but a short distance away.

Thus, it is off to Italy. Departing Pinswang in our 20+ year old used-to-be-white Renault is always something of a daunting challenge, as one never knows if the time has come for this old trooper to give up the Ghost. We celebrate when, upon twisting the key,  its diesel starts to clatter like an old tractor.  This wonderful beast, employed during the past nine years to haul everything from recyclable garbage (to the village dump each week) to sacks of cement, bricks, stone and other assorted building materials used in the renovation of our house, to precious cargoes of people and artwork…still retains its four-wheeled dignity as it bravely crosses the Europa Bridge from Innsbruck into the Sued Tirol (South Tirol…that area ceded to the Italian government as part of the winner’s spoils following the First World War) and over the Brenner Pass headed south.

This area remains a point of some contention today; the legacy of political and legal activities since 1918 when the victors of the First World War carved into the body of Austria, artifically creating new borders and geographically dividing its peoples. Later, prior to the start of the Second World War, citizens of the Sued Tirol (in Italy, the Alte Adige) were required to decide whether or not they wished to remain in Italy or to move into German/Austrian lands. The families of a number of our neighbors living today in the Tirolean Ausserfern (including Pinswang) elected to make the move north; many suffered great hardship and deprivation as a result of their impossible decision to depart ancestral lands, homes and kin.

Driving further south, one notes the changes in the landscape and especially the architecture. The white facade Tirolean Baroque onion-domed Churches take on a darker stone appearance, and sport point-peaked Gothic steeples.  The lovely high-altitude solitude of Tirolean mountain farm houses eventually give way to ancient hillside Italian villas with their colorful groves of fruit and olive trees.

We reach our destination, the city of Brescia, a mere four hours drive from Pinswang. It is here that we truly relish the sights, sounds and smells; the thin side streets whose high-topped stone walls with metal gates hide villas with secluded courtyards, shuttered windows, sculptured gardens and absolutely nowhere to park. Tiny, almost obscured ancient chapels with lovingly carved sorrowful holy figures overlook all who pass.

It is noon. The shops are closed until 1400, and Brescians are on their way back home.  Business is left behind; the only thought is of the next few hours when the main meal of the day will be served. Families will gather, the pasta will be plentiful, and the conversation (especially regarding politics) will be at times passionate. Then, after savoring the final glass of red, the house…indeed…the entire city becomes remarkably still. The whirl of frenetic vehicular traffic ebbs to a faint trickle.

This is the time of siesta, when this tiny slice of the western world retreats to the comfort and solace of a darkened bed or a favorite plush chair. The children are admonished to be silent. The only sounds for the next couple of hours will be the fluttering of turned book or newspaper pages and the patting on wooden floors of slippered feet by those who do not or cannot partake in midday somnabulence.

The city also sleeps. Still, there are some out and about. Women looking very smart indeed in their haute couture and placid self-confidence, slowly stroll the avenues peering deeply into darkened shop showwindows..staring intently at their silent immobile physically contorted plastic counterparts sporting even higher haute coutur and, credit card vibrating madly in anticipation of use,  noting the address for a later return visit.

Some businessmen continue to work through this quiet time, or head to the local cafe for a quick meal. Others sit on benches, relaxing in the late October cool under the shade of tress or fore the rush of water from a 17th century stone fountain….just watching the world walk by.

Late afternoon. The already slowly sinking sun streams through the slits of  the wooden window shutters. Drifting slowly out of the deep warm heavy haze of pleasant sleep, I can hear that there is a phone call being completed. The faint voice of Antonello confirming a meeting with the as yet unknown speaker on the other end of the line.

I stumble, thoroughly disheveled and still relishing my half-dreaming state, out of bed and into the long high-ceiling hallway. The rest of the family are already busy.

Susi asks if, on the morrow,  I would like to accompany Antonello and some friends out to the countryside and do abit of pleasant work. The ever-polite guest, I quickly nod my head in the affirmative. I have no idea at all as to the nature of what I have just committed myself. I am startled completely awake by memories of spreading gatsch upon miniature tree tops perched precariously on the very steep side of a Tirolean mountain.

I peer around the half-opened door to the bathroom and ask Susi, “Er…uuhhh..for what have I just volunteered?”

“You and Antonello will be picking olives tomorrow! You need to wear some old working clothes.”

Ahhh…picking olives…no need for high-topped climbing shoes…no gatsch-stained clothes, hair, shoes…no risk of toppling to ones untimely death from grassy overhangs a few thousand feet above. Just picking olives from trees…lovely!

It is shortly after an early breakfast the following beautiful Mediterranean warm blue October morning. I am ready to pick olives. It does not matter that I have never before engaged in such an activity…indeed, I could never have previously imagined that I would ever be introduced to such an activity so far out of my everyday routine.  Still, I feel prepared.  Nothing special or elegant to wear…just the thick leather gloves purchased by Antonello the evening before.

It’s time. Antonello and I walk the stately marble stairs down to the street where we meet his friends Giuseppe (Bepe) and Flavio. Antonello and I squeeze into the Bepe’s tiny Fiat, and we are off…careening at surprisingly high speeds with confidence along the sidestreets (almost no wider than the Fiat) headed out of town.

The conversation in such cramped quarters is quick and relaxed. I realize that formal introductions are not even necessary; the camaraderie is such that despite Bepe, Flavio and I having never before met, I am treated with the type of casual aire as if we all have been the close friends for decades.

We speed out of Brescia. The congested landscape quickly transmogrifies into a mixture of almost forgotten pastured pasts and unsightly modern commerce. Along this highway, dark, seemingly long deserted yet ever-impressive villas sit incongruously between lines of car dealerships and even the occasional sterile strip mall. 

It is a clash of cultures; the cherished subdued old and the garish need to be new. Yet, as we venture further from the Brescian suburbs, the latter glass and steel flecks finally give way to open space, rolling vistas, hills topped with small towns and ruined castles.

After about 90-minutes, we depart the highway and the Fiat begins a slow, winding way up a thin rural road. We pass solitary stone and stucco homes tipped by characteristic red curved tiles. Where yards would normally surround the homes, there are instead rows of relatively short trees (about 7 to 9-feet high each)…hundreds, seemingly stretching to the horizon (or at least, to the next house). These are olive trees, and we are in the heart of this region’s olive growing territory.

The sea suddenly shows itself. I am wrong…it is not the sea…but the massive Lake Garda…the Lago di Garda. It is the largest lake in Italy, stretching from the Alps in the north (where Austrian and German tourists spend many a holiday), southward toward the regions of Verona and Brescia. The coastline curves sinuously and is lined by working villages, prosperous resorts, innumerable hotels and private stately villas. Several large green Islands surrounded by hundreds of small boats inhabit the lake.  All before me is serene, unmoving. It is picture postcard perfect.

A final twist in the road and we are at the first stop  in our day…a medieval town not far from and high above the lake Garda coast…Polpenazze del Garda….where we purchase freshly baked bread from the local baker and then a large hard salami hanging prominently from the ceiling of the neighborhood butcher’s shop. No big modern supermarkets with their massive congested parking lots are to be seen…just very narrow streets between the ancient mortar and stone walls of the houses, the crenellated walls of a castle and majestic views of the sanguine lake.

After a quick  espresso at the tiny bar/cafe at 10:00 am and a stop to buy the local paper in the corner Tabak, our quartet of olive pickers are off once again….the over-stuffed Fiat now ascending and descending with the swells of the hilly road…taking us to Bepes home and olive grove.

We arrive at a beautiful spot. Bepes villa sits upon a slightly rolling hillside. Lake Garda is about 3 miles away and below, and the view is spectacular indeed. My attention, however, is immediately drawn away from the coast and to the expansive grove of olive trees now before me. Bepe owns a sizeable plot of 200 trees. Their girth and height vary slightly, but they appear almost soldier standardized and uniform, in strict formation ready for inspection.

Bepe first introduces us to his very old but still noble single-cylinder red tractor, a working museum piece that sputters to life with the turn of a switch and some kind words from its owner. We hitch a small, two-wheeled flatbed trailer behind the tractor. Into it we dump a number of large green plastic crates (to hold the picked olives), work gloves, very large green nets, a small battery in a canvas sack and a long pole topped by a spider-like contraption sporting long bent metal prongs.

We hike the short distance into the grove, the tractor chattering away behind us and at a decidedly slower pace at that. We walk the thin trails between the lines of trees until Bepe calls for us to stop. Our first victim is at hand.

The tree is in full olive-bedecked bloom; thousands of tiny dark specks sprout from the multitudes of branches. The small fully grown olives look ready to eat…just pick one off and plop it into ones mouth. Had I done so, however, I would have immediately spit it out, as the taste would have been awful. Olives must sit in brine for a long period of time before the natural taste is replaced by that which we, the olive-loving consumer, are so attracted.

Now, knowing nothing more about olives to this point than pulling them from liquid-filled jars and tossing them atop a salad, I have little idea as to the fine art of picking olives. I also have no idea that the specimens that I am about to dislodge from this tree are, in the end, not to be eaten; rather, they are to be made into some of the most delicate tasty olive oil on Earth.

Following the lead of my olive-picking friends, we spread the large green nets under and about the tree. The edges extend well beyond the furthest reaches of the branches. Antonello demonstrates how to remove the olives.

It’s really quite simple. Grasp a single branch lightly at the root closest to the tree center, curve ones forefinger slightly beneath the branch and the thumb likewise above the branch. Then slide ones almost closed hand lightly but firmly along the branch in the direction toward the tip. The olives will be tugged off the branch and will fall onto the net. That’s it…the entire process. No need to pull, yank, wrench or brutally attack the tree…just some light tugging of the branches and the olives will seemingly do the rest.

Thus we are at it. Bepe, Antonello and I begin with the branches easily within reach. Flavio ascends a short wooden ladder propped on the side of the trunk; disappearing into the overhead growth to perform the same actions. There are 1000s of olives in this and every other tree in the grove, and they all are headed to the ground.

It rains olives everywhere. Flavio perched above us is very efficient at his task, and olives shower below and upon us at a remarkable rate. For one standinging in the midst of this storm, it feels like being pelted by dark green hail. Moving out of the way presents another problem, as one must constantly exercise extreme caution so as to not trod upon the deepening piles of the fallen, now occupying every crease and rill in the net under foot.

The storm passes…for the moment. With the lower branches denuded of their fruit, Flavio descends from the heavens. Antonello attaches some thin cables between the battery and the metal spider on a pole. With the click of an actuator, the metal tendrils spring to life, spinning, whirring and chattering…a dangerous device indeed. When Antonello holds the pole-mounted contraption into the branches, the tree seemingly springs to life…and it appears very angry indeed! The branches vibrate and flutter madly; it is as if the tree, suddenly recognizing that it has been violated and is now standing half-naked for all to see. It shakes and stirs with great frenetic indignance, and showers all of the remaining heretofore unseen olives to the ground.

Antonello circles the tree, slowly and intently, ensuring that not a branch is missed. After a short time, the movement stops and there is again an almost deafening silence. The tree, now completely devoid of its fruit, stands forlorn and tired…its year of work finished.

The nets are then carefully gathered, edges bent toward the center of the tree, so as to securely contain all of its precious contents. Olives that have flown to the ground outside the reach of the nets are scooped up and thrown in with their already imprisoned compatriots. All four of us manhandle these very heavy olive-laden nets over to the nearest large plastic crate and pour them in. The olives almost glisten in the late morning sunlight.

One tree finished…one crate filled…on to the next…and the next…and the next.

Midday. Bepe tells us to lay down our weapons and meet him at his ‘hut’. Most homes have outdoor huts where tools and other garden equipment are stored. Not so here, for Bepes hut is a large rectangular above-ground concrete bunker, built seemingly to withstand a multi-megaton nuclear attack.

Entering the structure, it immediately reeks of gemuetlichkeit. There is a large open fireplace alight in the corner and already warming away the creeping October chill. Off to the left is a sizeable kitchenette. In the center sits a long wooden table. Bepe tells us to make ourselves comfortable…and a marvelous feast ensues.

The reason for our shopping stop in Polpenazze earlier that morning becomes clear as the bunker quickly fills with the swirling aromas of fresh rich lasagna, piping hot bread, and thick slices of the aged salami. We weary olive pickers eat heartily indeed. It is all washed down with very tasty red wine and some sort of liquor from bottles without labels…very dangerous, but excellent!!

We are stuffed, content, lethargic after our work and this meal. For the next hour or so, we sit with our feet raised toward the warmth of the large corner open fireplace, the room made all the more steamy by the heated yet friendly discussions about politics that invariably follow.

I am delighted to note the extravagant body language that so defines such impassioned discourse. Unlike peoples to the north, who remain fairly stolid even during the most disagreeable debates, those in the south express themselves best by physical movements; it is as though words themselves are unable to fully represent, or better, elicit the emotional depth required when making a point or two. All one needs to see is the exaggerated shrug of the shoulders, the closed eyes and look of disdain, and one requires no words to see that a difference of opinion is in the air.

A passing cell of rain clouds perspires heavily upon us, releasing cooling mists amongst the trees and lush grasses outside our bunker. Flavio misses this all as he is out cold on the table bench, hat pulled over his face.

There is quiet for a while more. Then, the conversation begins anew. We speak of history, and soldiery. Flavio and Bepe had until recently served as Alpini…courageous mount fighters. Antonello tells us of his time in the infantry.  I share a few stories of my career in the Navy. We all nod our heads as in agreement with each others tales; there is an almost universal understanding shared uniquely by those who have served, regardless of where or when.

With the siesta finished, we resume work, picking, shaking and denuding until the sun can no longer provide us with the light and warmth we need for this task. In all, we fill about nine large plastic containers with green olives.

We deposit what would soon become treasured extra-virgin olive oil into a large barn, stow away our tools and head back to the bunker. After another round from the unmarked bottles, we squeeze again into Bepe’s tiny Fiat and motor our way back into the night toward Brescia.

GATSCH

Our friend Reini has published a book about the Tirolean folk hero, Andreas Hofer, whose 200th anniversary year is being celebrated throughout this region. Titled “Franzosen-und Bayernkriege im Ausserfern und Allgaü (The French and Bavarian War in the Ausserfern and Allgaü), this a marvelous work, describing the little known period of the Bavarian-French alliance against Austria during the years 1789 to 1816. On this evening, sitting in the Library at the High School in Vils (a short drive from Pinswang), I listen as Reini enthralls the audience attending his book signing with stories of heroism, national pride, inspiring leadership and great courage.

In closing his narrative, Reini notes that tomorrow he will be up on one of the mountains overlooking Vils and Pinswang…something to do with helping cultivate the young tree growth against being eaten by deer and other such denizens of the higher altitudes. Susi suggests that I might want to help him with this noble task. Although I have absolutely no idea about what this effort entails, I readily agree.

“Wonderful!” Reini’s face becomes alight when he is informed that I have volunteered. “Make sure to wear your oldest clothes.” A strange request, sending a brief bit of doubt whirling through my mind. Just what will we be doing up on the mountain tomorrow?

Tis’ tomorrow and we are trundling up the road behind Vils…up onto a mountain path. Passing a forlorn ski hut at the base of the mountain, we depart from asphalt and rumble along what is nothing really more than a rough-hewn thin double track footpath. 

We are following another vehicle up the path. It is pulling a trailer…the contents of which are as yet unbeknownst to me. The angle of attack quickly increases as we truly start our motorized climb up the incline.  Reini’s well -worn all wheel drive jeep-like vehicle loudly rumbles and rattles, jerking hard to the left and right; giving the impression that every screw and fastener is being loosened, and that the entire aft end (with me in it) will soon depart the rest of the vehicle. I peer off to my left, and note the precipitous drop through the trees to the base now very far below.

We make a series of tortuous switchback turns, pushing higher into the lush greens and browns of the deep mountain forest. I don’t know how high we are, but Vils and Pinswang are now hidden under a cloud layer sitting well below our vehicle.

We’ve stopped. Both cars are pulled off to the side of the path, making room for some mad elk that might want to pass us by on its way to the summit…perhaps to munch some of the delectable morsels of young trees with which I am to shortly become involved.

Ejecting myself from the cramped single rear seat of Reini’s car, I see now that I am but one member of a small team. In addition to Reini and myself, there are two other volunteers and a team leader. The leader is the Jaeger (hunter) of Vils; the others are his colleagues and friends.

I must note here that unlike in some other countries where one need only purchase a weapon and head into the wild blasting without regard for license or understanding of what they are doing, the Jaeger of Austria and Bavaria are very special folks; highly skilled in weaponry….possessing a great deal of knowledge about the environment, the lives of the creatures inhabiting said environment, the laws addressing hunting and the great responsibility associated with this function. Jaegers are tested and re-tested to ensure that they are more than qualified for the job. In the end, each village has only one Jaeger. Others may hunt, but only under the supervision of the Jaeger.

But why is a Jaeger leading our team onto the mountain…and having anything to do with trees? My query reveals the answer to this puzzle. Apparently, the Jaeger and his fellow hunters have not culled the deer population to desired levels. The deer have sought out their favorite delicacy…the soft succulent tips of young, growing Evergreen trees. Munching away the tree tops essentially prevent growth and may result in further harm to the forest. Too many deer…to many trees in danger. The Forster (Forest Ranger) who oversees the general well-being of the forests was not pleased…or so I am informed. Thus, it fell to the Jaeger to lead us, his team, up the mountain, to prevent this feast from taking place. But just how?

I quickly learn the answer and in doing so, finally understand why we should wear our oldest clothes. We march over to the trailer where we are given a thick leather belt, to which is attached a large metal cup about the size of a old-fashioned canteen bottom half. The belt is tightened and the cup positioned at stomach level in front of each of us. A heavy sack of …well, how to best describe this…a semi-solid ‘gatsch’ …the consistency of which reminds me of soggy oatmeal with too little milk… is then opened and dolloped into our cups. Abit of drinking water is added and stirred with a small tree branch to make the gatch more viscous.

Each of us is provided with thin rubber working gloves. What a sight we are…toting gatch about suspended before our stomachs, bedecked in multi-layered tattered old clothes, rubber gloves, hats of all types and sporting mountain boots. And off we go, following the Jaeger up onto the side of the mountain…really…literally…there is no path…we just find a stone or small outcrop of dirt onto which to set our feet and go up. It is quite steep, and handholds are limited to some unstable dead wood protruding from tree stumps.

It is about then that I notice something abit peculiar about where we are walking. There are very few trees here. Save for the occasional Pine or Evergreen, the area looks as though it has been harvested for lumber…or devastated by an avalanche or mudslide. There were a large number of trees higher up on the mountain face, and off to the sides, but we were climbing on a portion of the mountain face that had been somewhat denuded.

It is unclear why there are so few trees in this particular area. It is possible that many have already been harvested, or that animals have eaten more than their share, or that heightened levels of vehicular pollution from the highway below have resulted in increased mortality. It is most likely a combination of all three.

In terms of the last reason, most Tiroleans, I believe, would like to continue maintaining strict control on the times of day that heavy vehicles are permitted to travel the roads of the Tirol, thereby limiting the noise and air pollution that are already impacting mountain forest health. Indeed, such restrictions have been in place for many years. However,  recent news reports suggest that the enforcement of such local restrictions  by Tiroleans has elicited great umbrige from a number of members of the outsourced government, who demand unfettered transport throughout all European Union nations (sorry….‘member states’).

We all stop to survey the scene. Unlike my companions who had all grown up climbing this mountainside, I am already showing signs of some wear…and a bit of weariness is already setting into my legs. I note this because we are on a constant steep upslope…there is nothing flat here, and much of my attention is being devoted to remaining upright. A sudden loss of situational awareness and I will be head over heels rolling down to that ski lift shack, now many hundreds of unseen feet below…with nary a tree to stop me all the way. My ankles are not happy with this, and I am wary to climbing any higher.

The Jaeger and the other members of his team get to work. Here finally is the answer to much of the puzzle. We are to fan out across this area, find evergreens that are young, no taller than waist-high, dip our thumb and two fingers into the pinkish blue gatch, and slap a thin coating of the goo onto the tips of the trees..all the while trying to avoid getting it all over the lower branches.

This I proceed to do..not an easy task with my entire unbalanced torso  waving as if in a gusty gale. The result is that I spill more gatsch on the lower branches, the ground and myself. Indeed, with each step to another tree, I find myself depositing a trail of gatch. I look around, embarrassed by my sloppy lack of dexterity, slight anxiety about the steep altitude between me and terra firma, and the Jackson Pollack masterpiece I am creating all over my short and trousers. I become quite self-conscious as I am certain there are a half dozen deer watching my performance…. laughing hysterically as I paint their forest a sickly pinkish blue.

The others in the team have already disappeared around the side of the mountain, climbing and painting the tree tips with expert precision. Here I am, mired in gatsch and not helping the trees that I have come to save.

Reini has been keeping a watchful on my ‘progress’, and has been directing my path in the search for more trees…especially the tiniest of the young, just eking their innocent ways into the pink-blue gatsch world. He shouts that I should climb higher and proceed across the thick grassy mountain face. Must I really go higher? I don’t know how I am to get down from this point. Still, I put on my best military face and march on and up, splashing and splurting gatsch with each step. Still, I note that with each step, I’m gaining abit more confidence…my footing is becoming steadier, and the heights no longer intrude on my task.

After an hour of this, I am already feeling at home on our mountain. My ankles are now beyond pain…and are planning to torture me further later tonight. For the moment, they are keeping me upright and going.

About four hours have passed, and the Jaeger has just gathered the team together for Brotzeit…our midday snack. Now, I usually don’t stop to snack..I like to get a job done as quickly as possible without pause. Yet, this is the perfect time to do just that. I sit on the sloping mountain, balancing myself on the downward slop, and gaze out onto the magnificent scene. The grand mountain range that rings Pinswang and Vils, stretches to either side of us, towering well above our lofty perch. The ancient trees surrounding our working area suddenly seem thicker, fuller, encroaching, providing shelter and safety.

I can now peer down into the valley. Most of Unterpinswang can be clearly seen from this mountainside perch. The Lech River winds its way artery-like from left to right. Pinswang itself appears above the river. I can see the bend formed by the Stiegelberg..the mountain at the base of which is St. Ulrich’s Church. To the northeast, I can see the rest of the village…and there it is…our home sitting alone across the farmers fields…next to the Erschbach and medieval mountainside Schloss im Loch fortification. I wonder if Susi is sitting on our porch, gazing up into the mountain across the valley. She can have no idea that I am doing likewise with great affection in her direction.

In should be getting back off the mountain, down to rehearse some organ works that I am to play during Mass at St, Ulrich’s on the coming Sunday, and I have the opportunity to do so. But when asked by the Jaeger if it time for me to descend, I tell him no; I want to stay and complete the job. This task has become a labor of love. Here on a steep path-less mountainside, trodden by only wildlife and gatch-slingers, in the rising fog bank that has begun to coat the air, blotting out the sun as its wistful grey tenuous fingers ensconce the trees about us and paint the area with a cool wet melancholy, here is where I wish to remain for now.

A quick meal of Jaegerwurst (dried sausage), fresh bread, a stick of Milka (chocolate) and cold spring water, and we are off once again to our task. We proceed up the mountain, higher and closer to the thick woody area marking the flattened top of our mountain. We tread perilously close to the edge of the grassy edge, carefully treading in the footsteps of those directly in front.

Suddenly, we turn inward and experience a pleasurable sensation not encountered for many hours…flat. Ankles are no longer twisting and cerebellar reflexes stop working overtime, as we find ourselves walking on an undulating grassy wooded mountaintop. As if on the signal of a Director, the fog permits the Sun to peek through, sending long, fairytale shafts of beaming gold through the trees…alighting like a flurry of searchlights pointed at the ground, blocked by the long cast shadows of the thick woods.  It is magic.

There is some snow at this height, and the air has taken on a distinct chill. We walk in silence, for no matter how often one has been here, there is never a sense of complacency here. Rather, one is consumed by a transcendent stillness and beauty; an experience one encounters at mass, or when listening to a Bach Passion or the second movement of Beethoven’s Eroica, or when gazing so deeply into the eyes of a beloved.

The Jaeger shakes us out of this bit of solace, instructing us to recommence gatching. There is much young growth on this side of the mountain, the side overlooking Vils, and it is all downhill from here. Wonderful! Just point myself downhill and…..falling…falling…gatsch everywhere. Hard landing on my posterior. Only my pride damaged this time. Still, I curse my clumsiness at not recognizing that despite going downhill (which would seem less of a challenge than the earlier climb), this side of the mountain had been in shade. More snow had accumulated here and as it is melting, it has left this face of the mountain extremely slippery. The rocks are coated with moisture and the previously helpful thick grass is now matted down with dangerous wet. The walk down is going to be slow.

Still, after yet a few more hours, I have been able to paint the tips of many a young tree. I look back and can see a wide area that I have painted, and can feel just abit of pride in this accomplishment. I cannot tell if I have indeed made any difference, but can only hope that the nasty gatsch will dissuade any trespassing critters from devouring my full days work.

Now, the sun is making its way slowly toward the mountains to our west….over the other side of the valley in which Vils proudly resides. Slowly…carefully…falling once..twice more…I finally make my way down to the flat of the walking path where Reini has strategically placed his car. We bid the Jaeger and one companion farewell; they will remain abit longer on the mountain. For the rest of this team, however, we are tired and covered in gatsch. We pile into Reini’s car and make our way back down the rumbly path to the beautiful green valley so far below.

ERNTEDANKFEST

Tis October. The air has turned a crisp cool; venturing out, one must brace for a delightful fresh chill. Sweaters are reappearing after a long summers hibernation, smelling like freshly cut cedar with each unfolding. The change of season in Pinswang reminds one of the continuing temporal life cycle that guides agrarian lives so prominently throughout our valley.

It is a time to walk, wander and hike and bicycle; to explore the ruined centuries-old fortresses that line the finger-like valley from the nearby border with Bavaria up to the marketing town of Reutte, the  capital of the this region, the Austrian Ausserfern.

This October time is also the best to venture up to ones favorite mountain retreats and inns, as the snow level will be soon be descending and the high altitude paths will be closed. The delectable warmth of a schnapps, freshly made Speckknoedel counterbalanced with an icy glass of Almdudler or local beer will soon be no more for the current hiking season.

Those not at play continue to work, as the fields (now devoid of crops) must be resown and manure spread. They will be shortly clothed in the hard freeze and a mantel of white and the earth will soon be too hard to cultivate until the Spring. Livestock must be sheltered in the barns that are built as part of the houses where the families reside. Half of these very old stately multi-storeyed wood and stone farmhouses, some as old as 600 years, are devoted to family quarters wherein two of more generations may live. Contiguous with the living quarters are the barn and stalls, separated from the rest of the house by a single thick whitewashed wall.

Children are not to be seen out and about; their days are spent ensconced in the few classrooms of the Pinswang combination school, meeting hall and Mayor’s office. The kindergarteners are out enmasse, walking the Roman Road, watching Karl’s cows in the fields devouring the last of the late green grasses.

The trees are a glorious golden red brown mix, but not for very long, as the winds from the east have already started the denuding process. There is great calm and beauty in the manner with which the proud dying leaves spiral their way to the ground; the turning twisting winding fall from the lofty heights yielding a thick decaying carpet across the fields below. Ashes to ashes.

The sounds of wood being sawed, cut and shaped are everywhere, as each farmhouse prepares for the months of serious cold lying just ahead. There are piles of year old logs, having been aged and dried by the almost constant winds, now being split and stacked neatly in basements, along the sides of houses and in special shelters designed to store a winters worth of heat.

Many have already started to light the Kachelofens that inhabit corners in almost every home. This type of enclosed ceramic tile fireplace burns wood, but rather than uselessly expending all heat from a visually soothing open fire, the warm air circulates throughout channels tunneling their way throughout  the Kackelofen. It then is released evenly into the surround through the porous tiles, creating a large area of steady unfailing enduring warmth.  When combined with a similarly designed Kachelherd (wood burning stove) in a nearby kitchen, an entire small three storey house can be heated for an entire wintery evening with but a few small logs. The earthy unique semi-sweet odors associated with glowing Kachelofen wood waft across the valley, reminding those outside to turn up their collars and pull jackets closed against the caressing chill.

The harvest is now over. The grocery shops large and small are bedecked with a feast of color. Freshly picked apples of every sort, size and texture are everywhere. A plethora of squash including pumpkins, gourds and zucchini for sale are heaped into baskets and wagons. Impromptu roadside stands are doing a vibrant business. Ciders, wines and fruit and nut pastries unique to this change of seasons are now available. Flowers seem more colorful and beautiful in the reduced Fall light; they adorn lapels, hats and hang in wave-like rainbow cascades over the sides of window flowerboxes.

Now, it is time to give thanks for this generous and fruitful harvest. As with many of  the living traditions celebrated throughout Austria, doing so takes the form of a village fest; in this case, a harvest festival of thanks (Erntedankfest). Throughout the Tirol, such fests take place at the beginning of October, when villagers gather early on Sunday for a Mass and Procession.

Church altars and portals everywhere are gaily bedecked in flourishes of fresh vegables, fruits, squash, potatoes and flowers; explosions of brilliant color and sweet smells. Each house of the village has the honor of contributing something that they have themselves grown to the altar.

As seen in Pinswang’s gorgeous Baroque Ulrichskirche, the natural tapestry  arranged so lovingly on the hard wood and stone floor complements the equally magnificent paintings (completed in 1729 by the highly regarded Bavarian artist Johann Heel) that one can see on the ceiling and throughout the Church. 

The bells ring the start of Mass at 8:30, earlier than usual this Sunday morning. Susi and I quicken our pace as we walk from our home, on the via Claudia, passing the Celtic ruins, the frog-croaking Erschbach pond, the Schloss im Loch – a medieval fortress built into a large cave up and in the side of the mountain behind our home – and through the patch of trees that separates the fields from the side streets of Pinswang.

We arrive at the Ulrichskirche just as the village Musikkapelle is playing the final measures of a lively march.  The Mayors of both Pinswang and its sister village across the Lech River, Musau, are there.  Everyone is bedecked in their Sunday finest.

The ancient pews are filled. Susi and I note that a date is inscribed with deep permanence into the pew before us…178o it says, along with the initials AW. Little could AW know that more than two centuries later, I would be running my fingers lightly over the desecrating letters, wondering who he or she was. I pause for a moment as I realize that American independence from England was fought for and gained only fours years before that date was scratched by AW into the already aged wood.

Pfarrer (Father) Simon’s sermon is concurrently poignant, celebratory and cautionary. He blesses the fruits of our farmers labors, thanking God for the gift of a plentiful harvest, and reminds us all that one should never take such bounty for granted. Possessing a brilliant intellect, deep Christian spirituality, the fine art of clock-making and a mean game of chess, Pfarrer Simon has blessed Pinswang with his presence as our Priest for the past seven years. Long retired from his previous parish in Bavaria, Pfarrer Simon is now the beloved shepard for a flock of about 700 souls from both Pinswang and Musau.

Mass ends and we file out of the Church. The Pinswang Musikkapelle is now joined by the Musauer Musikkapelle; their worn Pinswang gray and Musauer red-brown jaupe (jackets), white shorts, worn comfortable lederhosen, high socks and white feather-bedecked hats mixing harmoniously with the massed instruments gleaming in the morning sun.

A procession spontaneously forms; everyone seems to know exactly where to be in line. The procession is lead by a gentleman carrying aloft a large centuries old Crucifix. He is followed somewhat timidly by the Ministranten (altar boys and girls) carrying small Austrian red-white-red striped flags and pulling a wagon holding a beautiful handcrafted cross-topped harvest ‘crown’.

The Pinswang and Musau Musikkapelle blocs follow, marching in time to the dirge-like pieces they are playing. Between them are the men of Pinswang, formed into lines of four abreast. They as well as the rest of the procession, march in slow time to the work being played.

Some are elders whose deeply lined faces and white hair tell stories of difficult pasts, of hard lives when, as youth, many went to war, returning in demoralizing defeat to an occupied destitue land.  Many, who were forced out of their homes by occupying forces, were not able to return and rebuild until years after the formal capitulation. But rebuild they did, for their children and grandchildren. Speaking with them of these times as we march, they reflect with sober faces, faltering voices and for moments, midst tears, about those near-starving years when there were no harvests.

There are the young, although not as many, who know not of those sad times, but who hear of them during evenings when the family gathers for a meal and Opa (Grandfather) breaks his usual silence on such still private matters. The young know a very different world. Many have left, seeking dreams elsewhere. For those who have remained, there is a sense of tradition. They have rejected the social follies of the latter half of the last century and have returned to their cultural roots. They celebrate this and the other Brauche (traditions) with heartfelt pride. Now, they march together in-step with their parents and grandparents.

Interspersed throughout the procession, uniformed members of the volunteer fire brigade and honored notables carry large, heavy fabric flags; handsewn with the figures of Christ and Saints. Their height and weight are such that even the slightest gust can cause the carriers to lose balance. They are thus accompanied by others who will rebalance the carrier and his priceless flag, preventing both from toppling to the ground.

  Next, one sees a lovely four-post canopy providing shade for Father Simon, who is carrying the Sacred Host, visible to all through small clear oval glass windows in a golden Monstrance. It is a sacred picture that, if painted, would be recognizeable in the 17th as well as 21st centuries.

The women of Pinswang follow, smiling, chatting gaily; their traditional colorful dirndl dresses and aprons wafting with the slight breeze of this crystalline morning.

The procession marches in slight steps, winding its way down the slight incline from the Ulrichskirche and into the center of the village. The  two Musikkapelle play slow 18th century folk march melodies one after the other.  Traffic through Pinswang is stopped and the ensuing silence disturbed only by the melodious bird calls above.

After a reciting of prayers at a small wooden alter erected for this occasion by the old fountain on the shaded tiny village green, the procession wends its way back up to and reenters the Church. The bells peal out the welcome as the Te Deum is sung. It is mid-morning when we again leave the Church.

Now, it is time to take our celebration of thanks to our homes and, of course, the two inns of Pinswang, Gutshof Schluxen not far from the Church in Unterpinswang and Gasthof Sauling just abit further away in nearby Oberpinswang. The men of Pinswang sit around the Stammtisch….the table reserved for village regulars…where local news and rumors are dispensed via the ‘bush telephone’ (chat) in every manner of dialect, and drink is imbibed in copious quantities.

At noon, as the bells of the Church ring out the time, the men pay their bills, wish all at the Stammtisch a Gruss Gott, and depart, heading their separate ways back to homes and farms where their families have been preparing the midday feast and giving thanks for the bounty that will soon be gracing their tables.

AUSFLUG

“Let’s get away abit…someplace new!”

 My request is more of a plea, as a steady bout of Fall rains has kept Susi and me house-bound to the point of cabin fever. Today, however, the sun has appeared…the skies are a crystalline azure with nary a white tuft within sight. It’s time to get out…get away…to drive somewhere…an Ausflug!

 Susis Volvo has just arrived from overseas and we are eager to introduce it to the challenges of Alpine driving; the thin winding mountain passes, the steep climbs and brake-wrenching descents, the non-Austrian workers packed into old Mercedes drafting your bumper at a distance of 0.5 microns and at speeds that would permit the passing air pressure to clean one’s teeth.

 Still, it is a glorious day, our spirits aflight, and we are on our way. The goal is to explore a beautiful road that makes its circuitous way from nearby Reutte (a town that is the capital of the Ausserfern region) to a high-range pass known as the Hahntennjoch.

 Heading west out of Pinswang, all five Volvo cylinders surprised at breathing and igniting clean Tirolean air, we climb over the Kniepass; an ancient road guarded by a now-ruined fortress. Most of the remains of this structure are hidden behind a large stand of forest. I note that a handful of trees have been cut down for winter fuel, thus exposing a large piece of fortress battlements. I write “must visit soon” on my mental yellow sticky note.

 We wind our way slowly through Pflach and enter Reutte. There is little traffic as we pass through this very old town. The streets are lined with buildings dating from the 17th and 18th centuries. Some have facades adorned with ‘Luftlmalerei’ an art form whereby a flat surface can be painted to appear as if something has been built in three-dimensions. Boring windows can be painted to appear surrounded by marble or wooden frames and half-closed shutters. Plain doorways can sport elegant painted medieval arches and walls may lead to dark showed inner courtyards, where none exist. It is an art form that is also seen in many local churches, where wooden beams appear to be made of elegant marble.

 A ride through town brings us to a road headed toward Elmen and Steeg. However, we turn left and start heading aloft into the alpine range. Climbing and watching the valley below miniaturize. The roads are surrounded by the swells of the grassy mountainsides. They are soft, as yet green and thick, inviting the traveler to stop, turn off the ignition and lie down if only for just a moment or two.

 We avoid this Siren song and continue our ascent into the rugged upper alpine region. The tree line appears and the road becomes less steep. Finally, we arrive at our destination, the Hahntennjoch; a stretch of road at abit more than 1900 meters high. The mountains surrounding us are magnificent, their rocky faces parallel to the road showing us the way from the Lech Valley toward Imst and the Fernpass.

 We do not feel up to braving the ponderous eighteen-wheel transports and bulky motorhomes behind which all must invariably crawl up, over and down the Fernpass road, so we elect to reverse course and head back to see Boden, one of the prettiest mountain villages in the Tirol.

Boden is located near two villages with delightfully odd names, Pfafflar and Bschlabs. Both are tourist areas where one can rent a rustic log hut and luxuriate in the high altitude mountain summer sun. We descend slightly through rolling green hills into Boden.

 

The lush rolling vista surrounding Boden

 Boden is too tiny to be even called a village; it is a ‘Weide’.  There are approximately 140 souls living in Boden’s magnificent old farmhouses, some dating from the 13th century.  Luxurious flowers that beg to be touched surround them all. The exterior walls of the houses are mixtures of deep rich aged woods and off-white painted cement. The wood is crafted and molded into elegant swirls, heart-shapes and slats that suggest the builder was more an artist than pure craftsman.

 

Boden

The residents are older folk, farmers, retired, taking care of their families. One woman in her 50s is taking care of her husband, who has been in a coma for many years. Along with her daughter, this kind soul spends her every moment tending to her beloveds needs. He cannot respond to her ministrations, nor can she ever be certain that he hears and understands her loving verbal caresses. Yet he will spend his days and nights (however many or few they would be) in his home in warm comfort with a loving family praying for and awaiting his return. It is a very old home within which there is constantly renewed hope rather than despair.

Slowly walking through Boden, we come upon the Church; a tiny jewel of Baroque art and sculpture. In its interior ambience there was transcendence and in its facade, sadness. For Boden is situated in the heart of avalanche territory. Embedded into its outer wall near the entrance are painted plaques listing the names of those who had perished in furious cascades of freezing death, plummeting down from the precipitous heights above Boden. The wall plaque is simple, the hand-painted snowbound chalet suggesting a picture of peace rather than death. There were three names in 1847 – Martin, Rochus and George - and five further names in 1856. Two Johanns, Josef, Peter, and Alois. One family alone lost three male members during those two major avalanches….another, two.

 Moving further up the one road through Boden, we come upon a very ancient farmhouse so old it is that the outer walls are buckling under the weight forcing down on the dry supports. The outer front facade appears as a surreal sculpture without parallels and skewed irregular angles where even straights should be. The house will eventually collapse under the irregular uncontrolled strains, and with it, another piece of Boden’s past will likewise disappear, relegated to the collective memory of its citizens and perhaps a rustic painting on the wall of the Church.

Collapsing farmhouse

 There is sadness in this thought, for as the homes die, so do the inhabitants of this tiny piece of living history.  I have seen very few young people here. Without them, as with so many tiny rural communities that bejewel the Tirol, there may be a day when Boden will be a name on a map and little else. Still, I pray that this day shall not come to pass, for in Boden there is such beauty, such respite from travail, that it should be protected, maintained not as a museum, but as a living thriving part of this beautiful land.

Ruhe in Frieden, Theo

I’m attending a funeral for someone whom I never even met. We have never spoken, nor shared a joke, had a meal together or socialized in any way. Yet I believe that I know Theo very well….through his music.

There was great expectation here about a week ago, as many of us in the village were going to attend a special celebration in the mountains. Each year, the local ski club hosts an all day summer celebration; if one cannot ski, then one should at least have a party….and this they have done for a number of years with great gusto.  So it was that shortly after Mass this past Sunday, we rushed home, changed into our hiking clothes, and headed off to the heights of The Sauling, one of our local peaks.

The one and a half hour climb up to the Skiverein hut, located a couple of thousand feet above Pinswang and environs, was abit slow in the noontime Summer sun, yet we took our time, pacing ourselves so as not to go into over-speed…a nasty mountain hiking habit into which I often fall…only to find myself exhausted and minus about five gallons of various physiological fluids by the time I have reached the destination. Still, on this day, the ‘getting there’ was part of the overall enjoyment of this peaceful afternoon.

We knew that we were getting close to the hut, as in the faint distance we could just detect the sounds of laughter and brass. My pace unconsciously quickened; there was a sausage calling to me, and I was never one to disappoint my digestive system.

Almost suddenly, around the last twist in the ascent, Susi and I had reached our destination. The smells of grilling ensconced the thick dark forest mountainside in a most welcoming vapor. I glanced up at the peak of Sauling, yet a couple of thousand feet above, framed by trees and an array of too-beautiful- to-be real wildflowers, and took a deep breath of the clean, fresh altitude.

 A short narrow off-road path led us to the hut itself, a small wooden log structure perched on the side of the mountain.  The panoramic view down into the valley was breath-takingly beautiful;  one could see some of the local villages and towns along the sinuous Lech River…Pinswang, Reutte, Pflach, Vils. Yet the view also encompassed points due west into Germany and south into the higher Lechtal Alpine range.

Long wooden tables and benches covered the grounds surrounding the hut. Friends from Pinswang and the surround were everywhere; we nodded and waved. The greeting “Servus” flew from table to table…even from those whom we did not immediately recognize. The nice thing about this is that by the end of the day, we had at least made acquaintence with most of those there.

A delightful gentleman from the nearby Bavarian Allgäu was the master of ceremonies for the afternoon, telling jokes and composing witty poems, mixing the regional dialects such that I could only sit and wonder what the howling laughter from all around was about.

The edibles and drinkables were everywhere; grills churned out sausages and pork sandwiches. Beer, wine and juice flowed freely. The hut had been taken over by the ladies of the Skiverein, who had baked what I would estimate to have been at least 20 cakes of all types; every one in desparate need of being devoured. As I pondered the calorie intake, balancing between the sausage and how many pieces of cake I could eat without giving myself hyperglycemic shock, my attention turned to the band.

Perched on some hastily hammered together wooden log risers, sat  ‘The Tuttenmusig’…a small ensemble of some of Pinswang’s finest folk musicians.

 There were Alfred and Gebhardt playing Flügelhorn, Ernst the clarinet and saxophone, Andreas the Posaune (trombone), Sigi the Bass (Sousaphone), Christof on the Schlagzeug (drums) and Theo playing the Zierharmonika (accordion). The music was a mixture of styles and periods, but the sound was very much of the Tirol; lively folk melodies and marches, polkas and yodels, boarischer and waltzes.

I recall mentioning to Susi that the accordion added a wonderful flowing foundation to the ensemble; Theo’s nimble fingers flew over the keyboard and it was clear that he very much enjoyed the twisting flowing improvisations coming and going during each piece.

A couple of hours later, with stomachs full and the last yells of ‘Zugabe’ (encore) being tossed from the crowd to the Tuttenmusig, it was time to descend from our perch on the Sauling. The walk down should have had more of a jaunt to it, but frankly, my sausage, beer and cake-based center of gravity change resulted in less jaunt and more waddle. It was a splendid afternoon.

The following Thursday, I attended the final Pinswang Musikkapelle concert of the summer. It was there that I received astonishing news. Theo, the Tuttenmusig accordionist, was dead. It was very sudden. The Monday after the fest on Sauling, he was in his kitchen and in a moment, fell over. There was little at all to suggest that he was in ill health; indeed, Theo’s outward appearance and demeanor suggested otherwise. But he was dead. Sekundentodt it is called in German…sudden death.

Like all in Pinswang and in Theo’s home of nearby Pflach, I was stunned. When I spoke with Theo’s friends at the Musikkapelle concert, their sadness was punctuated by the notion that it was indeed Theo’s time, and that such things can indeed happen to us all. Carpe diem came to many a mind that evening.

Theo’s funeral is being held at the beautiful Baroque Church in Breitenwang, a village near Reutte. I seem to have arrived at the Church about 15-minutes early…a great deal of time to be waiting for Mass to begin. However, it is fortuitous that I did so. There are cars everywhere; the quiet village is packed with mourners. The Church is already filled to overflowing into the street, with family, friends, colleagues from so many of the organizations of which Theo was a member here to say goodbye to a dear man.

I know where the music will be, and head up the flights of wooden stairs, bent by centuries of choir and organist footsteps. Reaching the choir stalls at the top and rear of the Church, I see my friends of the Tuttenmusig in their traditional uniforms. A harpist is there as well as is the Church organist seated before the magnificent historic King of instruments.

It has been about an hour now. The minor keyed strains of mourning, hymns of remembrance and words celebrating Theo’s life have moved all; he touched so many lives during his all-too-brief journey with us. The pallbearers are in place and are now slowly processing out of the Church. We follow, slowly, langsam, in measured small steps. There is little sound, save for shoe leather softly striking asphalt beneath. The village comes to a halt. Cars stop; pedestrians pause, remove their hats,  make signs of the cross, and wait, patiently, as our procession winds its unending way from the Church and through the portal into the adjacent cemetery.

About us now are graves, long dug and cared for; fresh flowers adorning each site and stones cleaned. Some of the graves are topped by chiseled stone with figures of the crucified Lord, simple crosses, the names of the departed beloved.  Some crosses are hand crafted by true classical artisans working in metal; intricate, delicate and very beautiful branches, leaves and petals sweeping heavenward with the form of the cross.

On some, photos reveal to the observer the faces of the interred individuals or in some cases, families. They stare out at you in black and white from behind the small glass oval covers held in place by tarnished gold painted frames….pictures fading in time, but there still, giving one a moment to ponder who they were, how their lives might have been.  So many of these fading faces were very young indeed, fallen in battle. One grave reads, born 1922, lost on the eastern front, 1943, and above the inscription appears the youthful smartly uniformed visage. There are so many of these about us in this solemn sacred place.

The Tuttenmusig are already there as we approach the site of Theo’s final rest; they have found a place beneath the neo-Romanesque archway of a nearby building facade. They begin to play chorales of great haunting resonant beauty, and although out of doors, the sound echoes as if within a cathedral. Mourners gather spontaneously in a  semi-circle about the gravesite. The beloved Priest recites the solemn texts and all slowly file to the grave to bid Theo a most final corporeal farewell. There are neither stones nor iron to mark the place of Theo’s rest; for now, there is a but simple wooden cross and name plate.

I ponder my own mortality, and am very thankful that I have, even for but a few moments, been blessed to have had the opportunity to get to know Theo. I heard his music, and in doing so even as a stranger, was touched by his humanity.

If it is by ones works that the values of the heart can be seen and our lives judged, then Theo’s life has been very full and rewarding indeed.

Ruhe in Frieden, Theo…rest in peace.

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE EMPEROR CLAUDIUS (Part the Third)

Headed northeast from the inn, we skirt around some cows lolling in the increasingly oppressive summer midday heat. They ignore us as we pass, returning to their eating and defecating with nary a care in the world. They really are contented beasts, and remarkably intelligent at that. They follow a ‘leader’ cow to and fro along the via Claudia, trodding its Pinswang length two or three times each day. Yet, they all seem to stay in line together. The occasional wanderer is reminded of her state when the leader cow lets out an long resonant trumpet of sound, admonishing the miscreant to get back in step wih the rest of the pack. Then at the end of the day, they walk the long road off of the via and into the heart of Pinswang, guided only slightly by one or two farmers, they split off on their own into their respective owners stalls. It’s almost automatic…they know perfectly well where to go and how to get there. ’Tis more than one can say for the many carloads of tourists who daily, guided by their windshield-mounted global positioning systems, end up across the field at our gate rather than at the Gutshof Schluxen, their intended target. Perhaps taking a moment to eschew their expensive high-tech toys and, in its stead, reading a simple roadside sign might be in order. But I digress.

We start a slow winding switchback climb up into the mountain range at the foot of which our house sits. The path is dusty, dry and rocky. The rains and hailstorms that have pelted this area for the past few months have stopped for now, and the brief respite has brought everything to a fast dry. Each step creates a puff of dirt that hangs suspended as if gossamer. Yet, despite the crusty heat-worn path, the surrounds are astonishingly green and lush; grasses and wildflowers continue to grow prolifically in all directions as though in a planned noble garden. Each turn in the rising slope reveals blazes of yellow and blues set amongst the deep soft green carpet.

We continue to ascend, passing a low ancient stone wall to our left where we can gaze down upon the ever-shrinking inn and the expanse of Unterpinswang. We take in the panorama,  from the government building and school all the way to the Ulrichskirche sitting grandly at the base of the last western mountain bastion between Austria and Germany. The wet Summer has yielded a sea of long green grass…a lush carpet of many fields separated by ancient rights of land ownership and a few rotting wooden stakes marking the perimeters.

We finally espy a flock of bright yellow direction signs ahead. A decision is now in order. We can either turn left and continue to go up into the mountain or stay on the via. The former choice takes one to the Dreiländerecke, a rounded mountaintop that is the point where the borders of three countries meet…or at least met (as noted on an engraved border stone and wooden plaque) in 1800 where Bavaria, Tirol and Augsburg were said to have met. The latter levels out into a wide, undulating path.

We stay on the Roman Road, which has now turned into a thickly forested ancient mountain trail, headed in the direction of the border with Germany. Indeed, quite suddenly the border is upon us. Ahead and to the right, we see a somewhat forlorn abandoned building….or rather, a small hut..the type that adorns many gardens here and can be used to store wood, garden implements or house unanticipated and unwanted visitors for a rustic night or two.  Now unoccupied as borders fall and nationalism and self-governed autonomous nation-states are considered anathema under European Union dictates, the old wooden log hut that once housed the German and Austrian border Police now silently keeps quaint watch on tourists who stop to pose at the former checkpoint signs and barrier. No handsome flags fly in the transitory breeze that brings the occasional breath of cool respite; there is no sign that one has reached a border, a change of culture, dialect, history or autonomous peoples. One just poses for a digital rememberance or two and than continues on unimpeded and almost unaware into what happens to be another country.

Thus we step onto geographic German soil and continue on into the rich deeply shaded forest. Maerchenwald is the word in German…a fairytale forest indeed as very ancient tall trees shade one from the penetrating sun. We are no longer climbing; the path roles in soft long sinusoidals, pleasant for the wanderer, but abit of a strain for our logo-bedecked Tour d’ France sport riders streaking past at mach speeds, ignoring the natural beauties through which they are racing.

Signs of forest control are about us as neatly aligned piles of wood; each short log cut into three-sided inverted ‘V’ forms designed to facilitate orderly and, stable stacking. The logs are each marked with the sign of the individual given legal authority to cut and use the wood. The life of the forest continues as new growth trees replace those that have been felled. The strong pervasive odors of both ageing and freshly cut wood mix with the sweet nectar smells of wildflowers, made alight by the strands of sunlight that permeate the thick high tree growth and dance waltz-like across the rich forest floor.

 After about 45-minutes, a divertissment. Taking a thin steep dirt path down from the road, one comes to the bank of one of the many beautiful lakes that characterize the German Allgäu region of Bavaria. A slow lazy walk around the Alpsee reveals several grassy areas sloping down to the dark, clear cool waters. Long sea grasses dance in the ripples and time-hardened tree trunks washed into the waters by age and bank erosion slowly decay atop one another, the branches of one or another briefly becoming visible between the pacifying undulating movements of the green lake surface.

A wooden boathouse appears where small paddleboats for two can be rented and a dollop of straciatella icecream must be practically inhaled before it overheats and ends up running down the cone, turning ones hand into a less than attractive 3-Euro sticky mess. Most people there, however, discard their clothes for swimsuits, set out their blankets on the soft grasses and become targets for the glorious ultraviolet…desperately attempting to burn abit of red-brown into their bodies not already darkened during the hours of hard work in the fields, and once in a while, dipping themselves into the cool of the Alpsee to relieve the pain of the burn and the scratch of the insects living in the grasses along the bank.

 Another curve further along the path reveals a more generous grassy expanse at the waters edge. Here one finds more heliophiliacs bronzing away their pale European selves with all immodest abandon and chattering away in every language except German. The air is thick with Russian, Italian, Spanish and abit of English wafts over to this side of the lake from somewhere ahead. For as one approaches the north end of the bank, it is here that one stands at the grand entrance to the village separating and serving the castles Neuschwanstein and Hohenschangau (collectively known as Die Königsschlösser, the King’s family homes) planted on a pair of hills high above…the main reason that most visitors flock to this part of Bavaria. They come by the car, van, SUV and busloads…eager to immerse themselves in abit of fascinating German history and a wealth of souvenir kitsch heaven below. 

It is here atop the hill to our right that we find Neuschwanstein, one of the many residences of the late 19th century Bavarian King, Ludwig II. This imposing edifice is an immediately recognizable  world landmark. In keeping with the surrounds, Neuschwanstein is a fairytale, whose neo-Gothic outer hull and Byzantine-like interiors delight the senses and make one want to investigate the colorful individual who built it and, for a short time, lived within. The lines to tour the cavernous castle rooms and indoor grotto are long, such is the vast driving popularity of this icon.

Alpsee and Schloss Neuschwanstein as seen from the Dreiländerecke

Across from Neuschwanstein, sitting atop another hill is the less imposing but none-the-less splendid Hohenschwangau. Its origins date much further back than the relatively recent pedigree of Neuschanstein. Destroyed and rebuilt, it has seen a number of noble owners in its time. Hohenschangau can likewise be toured.

We round the bend on the road past Hohenschwangau and head back up onto the Roman Road headed south, retracing our path back through the forest and across the mountain into Austria.  Barring stops in the village or the castles themselves, the entire round trip from Pinswang takes a couple of hours. It is one of the reasons that so many are spending time in Pinswang; the opportunity to reside for even a short time on this placid side of the border, yet to be but a beautiful short walk to the Königsschlösser is an enticement that more astute travelers are quickly discovering.

DAY OF THE CONTAINER

Daybreak…morgengrau…the day that the 40′ sea container holding all of our worldly stuff was to arrive. It had been underway for more than a month, onboard one of the huge container ships that one sees plying the oceans of the planet, maintaining the link of transport between nations, keeping the lifes blood of international commerce moving through calm seas and gales alike.

There, amidst the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of similar corrugated heavy metal boxes making the same journey from the United States to Europe on that day…there was our container, decaled with Chinese script that I could not decipher (probably something about the ironies of how a box originating from a Communist country was hauling the fruits of Capitalism to Western Europe)..there was our container that had since made port in Bremerhaven, Germany, was sent by train to Salzburg, Austria, trucked on to Innsbruck, Reutte (the town nearest to Pinswang) and then on to Pinswang itself.

Beyond the customs inspection in Reutte, there were a plethora of additional daunting challenges to be overcome. How was a truck hauling a 40′ container going to be able to reach our house, accessible by nothing more than a couple of small paths..one traversing farmers fields and the other being the via Claudia? Once here, how were we to unload the entire container in the 2-hour free allotted time available? What if it rains, hails, or the Earth succumbs to some unforeseen catastrophic event…how do we keep our fruits of Capitalism from being damaged?

Happily, my concerns were for naught, as Susi and one of our neighbors, Willi, had been planning for this day for some time. Their conversations began long before our Airbus defeated gravity and, pointed eastward toward Europe, sought the deep purple Chicago evening skies. I was somewhat comforted by Susi’s verbal ministrations, “Kein angst…wir haben alles in griff”. which means that she had everything under control. Something said to cool the fevered brow or not..it did not matter, as the adventure was about to begin.

0830 on the day of the container. Willi arrived driving his splendid old red tractor. You could hear it chugging and putting its way along the via Claudia from a kilometer away. Shortly thereafter came more members of the moving team, along with two more tractors with flatbed trailers. We were certainly prepared for almost anything. Rain was on the horizon, topping the montains around us in the dark misty gray characterizing cold drizzley rains….if only the weather…

0930, thar she blows…stopped at the intersection of the main road through Pinswang and the short strip of asphalt marking the start of the road leading to our path. I walked this path earlier in the day, and it was narrow…very narrow for a multi-ton 18-wheel Lastkraftwagen (LKW). But there it was, blocking the unmarked double laner…the driver eyeing the sharp turn on to the asphalt section of the path and the unpaved line to the via Claudia fence.

There it came, a few hundred horsepower of pure metal and exhaust, slowly backing its way between very old cement and wood fence posts, with nary a millimeter to spare on either side of the lane. I was somewhat concerned that the sides of the container might strike one or more of the electrified wire ‘fence’  posts designed to keep the cows from wandering out of Toni’s field (where they were munching away on his ever-growing grass and wildflowers). I envisioned 1000s of volts shooting through the rig, the driver escaping unharmed and every bit of electronics therein being cooked to a braten-like crispiness.

The aforementioned cows watched this entire event unfold, heads bobbing as they fed on the millions of delectable blades and stalks, the blues, yellows and whites of their flowered sidedishes. They seemed not at all phased by the events before them. Quite suddenly, however, they all stopped ingesting and stared at the goliath passing by but a couple of meters from their dining room. Tails began to flick furiously, eyes were wide, udders quivering, they were frozen in place as they believed this was to suddenly be their last hours alive. For the truck taking them to the slaughterhouse (Schlachthaus) had arrived, and they were about to meet their collective end.

Not today, for the truck rumbled on by, and except for the one Bessie that in panic, scampered as far away from the metal beast as possible, calm was quickly restored. Munching recommenced and all was again well in the pasture. If cows could only sigh.

I was impressed, for despite the size of trailer and cab, the driver was able to bring the entire rig through the twists and turns with seemingly little effort…backing up all the way to the via Claudia.

Reaching the posts of the Roman Road gate, the driver stopped, secured the brakes, jumped out of the cab, stepped back to and watched the ensuing choreography unfold.

Large heavy boxes were carried, slid and wheeled from container onto the tractor-driven trailers, lined up patientlyto receive their anticipated load.  Then, with trailers overflowing, they began the short journey ahead, slowly made their way along the via, oblivious of the many landmines set earlier that morning, to the offload area at our house.

More mighty hands shouldered the accoutrements of every day life…chairs, lamps, tables, clothes, a wooden leg from something, and countless incredibly heavy boxes of books…books…books…more books. Someone once sardonically asked me, “Have you read them all?” My Churchillian answer was that I’ve read at least a few pages of all, and shall get to the rest in good time. Upon hearning this anecdote, more than one of the moving team retorted something to the effect of, “You’d better!!!” between gritted teeth and bent pained backs.

Finally, it was all over. the LKW driver looked somewhat astounded that the container was empty, and in less than 90-minutes! He chatted abit with one of our team and then, in a flash, had driven off to his next assignment. The  cows along the path to Pinswangs main thoroughfare remained seemingly nonplussed by the entire event, but I am certain that any collective angst they may have harbored about a ride to the Schlachthaus was happily allayed as the Chinese container rumbled by with nary an Aufwiedersehen.

A quiet descended over our village, even the many birds nearby ventured nary a sound. No more were the tractors chugging, grunting schachtel haulers straining under the weight of  the collected works of Goethe, no more LKW airbrake flatulence..indeed, there was no more container…no more moving…everything had arrived and had a place to stay for the time being.  The unpacking…well, that would come later. For now, in perfect Austrian form, it was time to eat.

All the tables we had that were not shipped over were moved into a line on the deck of the house. Some rickety, some hardly held together by a few 19th century nails, all weathered by years of harsh changes of climate…especially the heavily snowed bitter Winters and drearily soggy Summers. Still, with a heavy helping of sausages, freshly baked breads of many types, homemade cakes courtesy of a couple of our victorious moving team, family-brewed beer…ahhh, this is what the entire evolution was all about.

At one point in the meal, I rose with glass in hand to thank those assembled at the table for all of their very hard work and generosity in getting us through the day of the container. In the best German I could muster, I  told them just how much Susi and I appreciated their time, their efforts and mostly, their friendship.

Suddenly, they applauded…I wasn’t ready for that. They had done all the work…they had taken the time away from their holidays or regular routine…the difficult toil in the fields, at home, office, or at the nearby machine tool factory and electric company. They were there that crisp gray Summer morning not just to bake cakes, provide logistical and moral support, share a meal…no…they were all there to welcome home the newest residents of Pinswang. It was a priceless gift to be forever cherished.

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IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE EMPEROR CLAUDIUS (Part the Second)

We walk past the gate separating the Roman Road with the path across the farmers fields; the double-rutted thin dirt path leading to Pinswangs one road through the village. The gate is nothing more than two short thin logs slipped between metal loops on either side of the fence opening, not designed to keep the intrepid wanderer out, but to keep the herd of cows inside, where they graze away the day.

One favorite bit of innocent sport is to plant oneself on the bench strategically located a few feet from the gate, and spend some time watching how strollers and bicyclists make their way onto the via Claudia. Some elect to shove aside both of the logs, carefully sliding them back into place after crossing the portal onto the via. Others remove the top log and hop over the still-in-place lower obstruction to free movement. Most do just fine in grand Olympic high-jump finesse.

On rare occasions, there will be a poor soul who, usually in the act of trying to impress his lady friend, will fail in his attempt to clear the admittedly low height of the lower log. Picking himself up off the landmine into which he has invariably fallen, the fellow will laugh it all off as if the pratfall was all a grand witz designed for the delight of the young lady.

Another variant of this is the attempted ‘limbo leap’ between the two logs. They are separated by a few inches and offer a challenge to all but the thinnest and most agile.  Here too, there will be those who are able to make the leg-first, bent back at the hip chest-up barely clearing the nose move between the logs. However, there are those who, by virtue of their enlightened girth, lack of adequate cerebellar control, or too many visits to the schnapps girls, will find themselves draped backwards over the lower log, looking like one of Dali’s melted stopwatches or a sopping auto rag drying in the noonday sun. Any attempt to withdraw from this position lands the unfortunate contortionists popo (rear end)  first into the same landmine visited earlier by the high jumper.

Susi and I normally elect the somewhat less elegant and decidedly less painful ‘diving through’ attitude, where one plunges between the logs starting with ones left leg, followed by ones head, upper torso, a quick grasp of the upper log, and a final pulling through of the other leg.  No landmine dangers and intact egos are the happy result.

Ahead lies a lovely walk between the sloping green fields of summer wildflowers. One will have many encounters with others on this popular pilgrimage into the surrounds; such momentary walk-bys can tell you much about the individuals headed in the opposite direction. What they are wearing (or not), their language, especially their dialect, and, most importantly, whether or not and how they greet you in passing; this last is the key to which your attention should be attuned.

Locals and Bavarians will usually greet passersby with a “Servus (if Austrian) or “Gruss Gott” (if either Austrian or Bavarian). On occassion, one will hear the kurzform (shortened) version of  ”Servus Grüß Dich”, sounding something akin to “G’risti!” or, with abit of dialect added, “Griesdi!”  Americans always smile and provide either a simple  ”Hi!” or make a “Groosgad” attempt. Older northern Germans will pass with a formal “Guten Tag” and the younger volk will  provide an oft jovial “Hallo”.

Don’t expect much from the sport bicyclists, no matter from whence they have come, for they invariably will pass you by without so much of a “howdy do” or hardly any acknowledgement at all. The pilgrim must not take offense at this, for one must understand that these pedalists are very serious in their practicing for the 7th leg of the Tour de France. Clearly that must be their intent, as they whiz by wearing second skin spandex frictionless racing outfits emblazoned with all sorts of  ’sponsor’ logos, plastic helmets designed to facilitate the easy flow of air around and about their crouched down heads (isn’t it odd that these helmets always appear to be way too small as they  seemingly float above the heads of their owners…Oliver Hardy wearing Laurel’s derby), and  those expensive sporty military standard ruggedized plastic wrap-around sunglasses that have been adapted for use by troops in southwest Asia. The faces beneath the floating helmets and shades are pictures of concretized seriousness and their purpose is all business. If you receive any acknowledgement at all, it will be in the form of a slight sweat-laden head nod or a breathy exhaustion-induced grunt that will change in Doppler effect pitch as the mountain bike streaks by.

By the way, if, by any chance, you are walking the via Claudia and hear a lilting bell and crackle of pebbles coming up from behind, just move to the side for the moment and watch as a non-sport rider cycles past you…..probably with family in tow. If this is the case, you will indeed receive one or more of the greetings noted above.

After some minutes, we approach a locked fence with a gate stretching across and slightly to either side of the Roman Road. It is a curious sight until one realizes that its sole purpose is to direct the path of the landmine layers onto the surrounding grassy knoll and away from the parking lot and footpath leading to the nearby inn. Bipeds are able to wend their way through, employing an s-like maneuver between the offset fence posts that characterize this type of  barricade.

A few steps further and Susi and I pause once again; we cannot help but absorb the tranquility of the pastoral scene about us, and especially off to our right, where horses graze and loll about in their boundried fields. What dominates this scene, however, is a large beautiful aged wooden Wegkreuz (Footpath Cross), affixed into the rocky earth at the side of the path; it is one of many such crosses and shrines, some very old and others contemporary, that line paths and roads throughout Catholic Austria and Germany…..providing those  who wish to pause or even cast a fleeting glance, with a moment of transcendence, prayer and a reminder of this region’s living Christian heritage and foundation.

Such Footpath Crosses are usually constructed of wood, but are sometimes found carved in stone or iron. Typically, a crucifix is mounted onto a thick hand-carved post, about 1.5 to 2 meters high; a backboard and small tiled roof are then added for protection. The cross is most often set upright into the soft ground to the side of the path, however it can also be found affixed to trees, fences, homes, stables or other nearby edifices. The figure of the crucified Jesus may be painted in life tones or left in natural wood that darkens with age. There are often fresh wild flowers from the field in a small water-filled glass on a wooden ledge at the base crucifix. These flowers will quickly wilt in the warm summer western winds, but will always appear a few days later, living, fresh and beautiful.

We now walk by the lovely Gutshof zum Schluxen inn, and wave at the busload of Americans arriving as part of a regional tour. Weather permitting, they will soon be taking the same path upon which we now tread, into these mountains that separate Austria from Germany and on to the castles of of Bavarias King Ludwig.

(to be continued)

EIN PROSIT!

Please allow me to divert from the Roman Road for just a few moments, and take you on a brief journey to a lovely historic village sitting in the heart of the nearby Lechthal (Lech Valley). For Susi and I took a break today and after Mass went to a special music event…the 60th Außerferner Bundesmusikfest in the little village of Häselgehr.

It was quite a spectacular event, with over 1,500 musicians participating in approximately 40 village bands from all over the entire Tirol. Each band had its own unique uniform style and colors, flags, a leader and, of course, the schnapps girls.

They marched down the main street of Häselgehr, past the region’s Governor, a whole host of village, town and city mayors and other prominents of various political persuasions. There they came, one at a time, separated by about 3 minutes or so, so as not to clash melodies and rhythms.

Our Pinswang Musikkapelle marched by in splendid form, the 12th group to parade by the viewing stands and…the feared judges. For you see, this was also a competition between bands. Separated into 5 different categories depending on the size and type of program played, the bands all had great respect for the judges and took them very seriously indeed. For these were the folks who would be grading each band not only for their performance, but for how they looked, how they marched, style, gestures, every bit of detail.

Some bands just marched…others performed maneuvers, some very intricate and with great flourish. Our Pinswanger troops did extremely well indeed, and Susi and I would have certainly given them winning scores (not that we are biased or anything like that!!!).

After a while, Susi and I left the parade route and headed to the huge circus-style tent. Inside, there was a cacophony of sounds..musical and digestive alike, as many hundreds (perhaps even thousands?) of very hungry and even more thirsty musicians and spectators were digging in to tons of sausage, schnitzel, chicken, potatoes, bread and cakes of all equally delicious descriptions.

Beer and wine flowed like a veritable Trevi Fountain. Ein Prosit!!! Every few minutes, another toast to this or that, with half-liter mugs colliding with mountain goat horn-butting ferocity and a slosh of some foam onto the table.

With the bands playing on a huge stage at one end of the tent, and an army of servers, cashiers and cleaners on top of the attendees, it made for quite a roar. Indeed, being in that tent exposed one to incredibly loud noise…it had to be well over the ultimate near-deaf limit…something akin to leaning against the intake of an F-18 about to launch at full military power. Instead of covering ones ears (a rather gauche and definitely impolite gesture that MUST be avoided at all costs), one had to just give in to the raucous fun and join in.

Believe me, it was not very hard to do. Yes, dear friends, Susi and I stood atop the benches and, holding our beer mugs high into the sweltering perspiring air, mouths still relishing the just completed strawberry and cream torte, we joined the throngs of trachten-bedecked players…some visiting groups coming from as far away as Bavaria…as all belted out songs about beautiful Tirol and how good it is to be alive and drinking and all the other wonderful volkish sentiments put to marvelous melodies, some old, some not so.

The schnapps girls stood atop our tables, holding proudly high the engraved wooden sign telling the musikkapelle world that WE ARE PINSWANGERS! Suddenly, some of the party lifted table, schnapps girls and all as high as possible…at full arms length (happily, most had arms of near equal length to one another..a lopsided table lift could have resulted in flying dirndl disaster).

We finally exited the tent into the cool of the day and headed for our car. After abit of recalcitrance, the old Renault engine was alight and we diesel chugged our way out of the lovely Lech Valley, back toward Pinswang.

The 30-minute drive home was quiet…no singing, and very little talk. The delightful din of the tent wore us out and all we wanted was some blissful stillness.

Well, at the risk of losing all of my upper frequencies, I would not want to engage in such beer tent behaviors every day. Still, it was a wonderful experience about which Susi and I will be talking for some time to come.

By the way, I never did find out if Pinswang won or not…I’ll let you know.