Carina and I met up with my student Kathrin and her sister Berna on the train platform. Both were looking a bit tired from the Farmer’s Union Ball the night before. That was actually were I had seen them last. But since a cowboy hat wasn’t quite the traditional clothing that was in that night, and the other 7,000 people all have cows, clothes, dancing and dialect in common, I had felt a bit of an outsider. I had left early, at two in the morning. Even though the girls were tired from getting home at six, they were happy to see us, and when the train from Vienna to Basel pulled up, we clambered in.
An hour later, Carina looked out the window, and asked “What is the name of this little creek?” Kathrin grinned, “The Inn!” I wouldn’t have guessed that either. This was no longer the powerful river in a wide, even Innsbruck bed. Instead, it was a stream perhaps ten meters wide, gracefully slipping around gravel corners. The pines were frosted with snow and hoarfrost down the north bank. The trained eased up to the Landeck station.
The loudspeaker broke in, “Passangers in first class, please be advised that the platform does not extend to your wagon, to disembark please continue through the resteraunt car to wagon 21.”
We grabbed our packs, and not having to worry about announcements for first class swung down to the poorman’s platform. At the station door a plain, dusty man, slouchy knit cap high on his head, greeted his daughters with a hug. He gave me his hand and told me his name was Stephan. His cheeks were pink from the cold, his eyes dark brown and amused. We got into the old car, and with a squeak from the handbrake, headed through town and up the valley. I asked if this was also the Inn, and he said it was. There wasn’t much water here because the rest was used for hydropower and first reentered the river at Imst. When he spoke in dialect to his daughters, neither Carina nor I could get more than the gist—but the words had the melodic pace of a patient life.
The mountains around this valley were abrupt, and formed a tight fence of peaks to the south. We pulled of the highway, and onto a more modest road. “Now we have to go up the mountain,” said Stephan. We drove through 4 switchbacks, the alpine sort you just don’t see in the States unless you are hiking. We drove through the little town of Fließ, where the Wolfs technically live. We kept going up, though more switchbacks, and up steep sections were the old motor strained, and the snow banks rose on the sides of the roads. We passed into a thick forest, black firs carrying heavy loads of white snow. We climbed up to a ridge, were an alpine hotel watched over the street signs to Imst. We took the other road, down a ridge. Several curves later, a sign announced “Puschlin.” The only thing behind the sign was a big blocky house and a barn. I held my breath; we slowed for the curve; we turned into the driveway. I am sure I was grinning uncontrollably.
I probably did a little dance getting out of the car. On the dark weathered wood of the barn wall were the “Staffel” that the cows had worn coming down from the high summer pasture. On the wall of the house the word “Gasthaus” had been painted over, “Alpenrose” remained. Walking through the front door, I was almost knocked over by the view. On the other side of the great vaulted entryway were floor to ceiling windows with a view of the whole valley. In the distance I could see glaciers on the highest peaks. There was one arm chair positioned just in front of the projecting alcove, and the thought of morning coffee and that view robbed me of language.
We were quickly ushered into the huge kitchen. There was a beautiful raw wood kitchen table, the planks smoothed and joined, but still retaining their pale hues. More windows looked out onto more views, which were being capped as it started to snow. Kathrin and Berna cooked us a hefty dinner of pasta and cabbage salad. Afterwards, we went for a walk down the road. One car passed as the sun washed the snow in coral alpenglow. The silence was clear and icy, being broken only by our tinkling footfalls. The snow fell gently, openly. It did not impede the view into the valley. As we walked back, the cold pressed down hard. Lenny the dog had run off, and Kathrin told me he was once gone for a week. I hoped he had the sense to head for home in this cold. The clouds were shredding off the hard blued sky, and one chip of planet burned brightly. The shadows turned dark blue, and the black trees were fading together in the distance. Everything hunched down for the cold open night on the mountain. Walking toward the house, I could see the shapes of the windows, the clear wheat yellow of the lights on the snow banks. It would be good to be inside, but I wished I had the thick fur of a wolf, to simply sit and look out across the deep heavens as this valley was turned their way.
When we got back inside, we decided to watch a film, “The Last Trapper.” It was a cheesy story about a modern day fur trapper near Dawson City in the Yukon. But the images were stunning. The winter, the landscape, the storms, the animals. Carina had loaned me a book he had written about taking his daughter to live in the same area. Kathrin was also a fan. Yet for some reason, few Americans read the books of Nicolas Varnier. At any rate, he has adventures. I also got to meet Matthias while watching the film. Kathrin’s little brother, six years old, had been to shy to come into the room for long during dinner. But now, with the distraction of a movie, he happily clambered up on Kathrin’s lap and proceeded to make various sounds in my direction. When I finally realized he was talking to me (mostly in unknown animal sounds), I made a few back, and whispered in German, “are you coming riding with us tomorrow?” He laughed. We continued to have minor disturbances throughout the film, with him finally snuggling down next to me until the movie was through.
Both the girls could barely keep their eyes open. I said goodnight to both of them and went into the room I had been given; there were lots of mostly empty rooms since the house was once a small hotel. I wrote down notes about the day, tried to read, but found myself too curious, too excited even to focus on a book, much less to sleep. Summoning my courage, I decided to go find Kathrin’s parents. I headed down stairs, and started poking my head into rooms, praying I didn’t wake anyone. I hoped sticking to the ground floor would be a safe bet. My pluck paid off. First I discovered a loom. Then, slowly opening another door, I surprised a slight dark-haired woman laying on a sofa, reading a book. She seemed a bit confused to see me, but introduced herself as Uli, Kathrin’s mother. She was suffering from a pinched nerve in her spine which caused significant pain in her foot, and had been laid up for the last three weeks. She was feeling better, but she said she had read quite a few books in the mean time. The sofa was actually an sort of bench, built right up next to a great wood burning oven. The room was filled with that glowing warmth that only comes from a wood fire.
I ended up talking to Uli, and later Stephan as well, until at least midnight. We talked about books, we talked about farming, we talked about getting started, we talked about politics (in the U.S. and in Austria), we talked about the Rhaeto-Romansch language and place names, we talked about the folk tales of the area, we talked about learning languages and dialects. I have rarely felt so at ease in German, so able to make jokes, so free to open myself. They gave me two magazines from the area full of history and recipes, and one book with a clever literary bent. I took them on the condition that I would bring something back here to them next time. I no longer had any doubt about a next time.
I woke up early the next day, still excited. Entering the kitchen, I found Kathrin’s brothers and Father. Her older brother, a year or two younger than me, served me coffee, and I asked him about living in Vienna, where he studies. He gave me the usual complaints, Vienna being a city, and therefore good to go out, not so great for the outdoors. He also graduated from the HBLA Kematen, and is now studying Cultural Technologies. This encompasses quite a bit of ground, but he is most interested in mountain engineering and avalanche planning. Only in Austria.
I had noticed before that all sorts of jars full of milk were standing around the table, and soon Stephan came in and began pouring them all into a wooden tub with metal bands. I couldn’t believe it. They were going to make butter. Matthias helped fill up the butter churn, and Stephan switched it on. After a few minutes, Stephan reached in and scooped out giant loafs of butter. By this time Kathrin had joined us, and got out the hand carved rolling pin used to imprint the butter with a blessing. After she handed me the little drum, Stephan told me to finish out the batch. I could have yodeled for joy, if only I could yodel.
Then came the riding. Once Carina had eaten (while she ate I played a rousing round of “War” with Matthias. I have never been so keen to cheat myself into losing, just to end the monotony), we headed out to ride.
To reach the barn, we walked to the basement. We went through a fruit cellar full of baskets of apples and a table of cabbage heads. The next room held the ripening milk from that morning, it was being made into yogurt and that uniquely European product “quark” (the milk for butter has to age over night, souring slightly and giving the butter more flavor). After that we came to a room with tack on the walls, grain sacks in the corners, and the smell of the animals. After trading our house shoes for boots, we entered the stall. The two horses were on the left side, their blond forelocks in their eyes. They looked at us curiously, and snuffled our palms as we said hello. Across the path down the middle were the cows. They were less interested in us, simply chewing their cuds or taking mouthfuls of feed from their mangers. In the corner was a tiny calf, born only a week before. He started away from my outstretched hand at first, but shyly tried to get some milk out of my fingers in the end, and put up with having his ears scratched.
“I came back from riding, and he was already half born. I helped with the rest, but the cow had done fine,” said Kathrin.
Carina had made friends with the young barn cat, still mostly kitten and obviously playful. After being let go, he surefootedly waltzed along the fence slats, past the horses and cows without a care.
Finally, we got down to brushing the horses. They were named Lossy and Bessy, as I understood it, and one was the mother of the other. Both were obviously work horses, Haflingers, broad backed and heavily muscled. Kathrin said they were used for work around the farm, as well as for pulling the logs her father liked to hunt down in the forest. As a hobby he logged a certain type of fir, searched for trees that grew on the north slopes, in the shade. The wood, when cured, could be used for violins and cellos.
It was decided that Carina would ride with the only saddle, I would be riding bareback. Outside I climbed up on the edge of a water trough, and Kathrin held the bridle. I lifted my leg over the back of animal and let my weight down. It was a strange feeling, nothing in front of my to grab, nothing to adjust. I was simply sitting on this big animal, holding some straps that were connected to its mouth. I summoned as much confidence as I could, and clicked my tongue. With a gentle rocking, we set off. I could feel the muscles of the horse tensing and releasing, as she could no doubt feel mine. I pulled on the reigns, sort of a test steering. She responded quickly, and I was instantly a bit more at ease. It seemed we understood each other.
As we walked down the road toward the trail that led up to the snow covered pastures, I looked around. The day was clear, blue skied and bright. I had to squint, my cowboy hat only shielding my eyes so much. I was glad not to have a saddle, as the horse’s warmth was keeping me quite comfortable. When my hands got cold, I simply rubbed the horses neck. I kept up a quite monologue to the horse, both in German and English, fairly sure that the voice would be enough.
We left the paved road, and headed up what seemed to be a cross-country skiing and hiking trail. Kathrin and Berna were walking, Carina and I out front on the horses. They had assured us that the horses were used to the snow, and even had the equine equivalent of snow tires. Their shoes had been attached with nails with special large heads: crampons for hooves.
The horses were well behaved, happy just to walk and take in the scenery, now and then nibbling a fir bough. Carina and I got father ahead, marveling at the winter forest all around us. We didn’t speak, except to the horses, mostly “shhh” and clucking. The rhythm of the walking horse was physical, calming. I felt as if I were inside a piece of music, not just acoustic but in every sense at once. The repetitious trees, the pace, the ridges swooping in unison—it all converged, all sustained into indescribable symphonic swoop.
We saw a barn in the distance, up after a long straight away. We had trotted the horses a few times, but I found without stirrups the jolting was a bit uncomfortable. Carina was in the lead now, and her horse began to trot. She had the saddle, and didn’t mind. I pulled gently on the reins and shhhhed. I didn’t really want to bounce. I don’t know if I set off what happened next or not, but suddenly I found myself in not a trot, but the first lunge of a full gallop. In that first lunge, I slipped to the right, and now was beyond rescue. I tried to haul on the reins, but to no avail with my weight so uneven. I realized it was time to bail, and landed to the side of the horse on my feet. I still had the reins as I came down, and had momentary visions of stopping the horse short, grabbing the bridle and calming her down. But the reins popped open, and I was left standing in the road, watching the powerful haunches of the horse propel it off toward the barn, probably 300 yards off. As my horse streaked past Carina at full tilt, she brought her to a walk. I was jealous. I was even riding the old horse. Berna and Kathrin walked up behind me beaming.
“I should have warned you,” she said, “we always gallop them here.” I was a bit comforted by that. Next time, I would be ready for galloping without saddle.
My horse was waiting for us quietly at the barn, and Carina took her by the bridle and stroked her as we walked up. But the horse didn’t even seem worked up, just happy after a run. Kathrin took the bridles off and let the horses wander as we enjoyed the view. She even jumped up on Lossy without saddle, or reins, or bridle. She just sat on the broad back and scratched her horses neck, and happily reprimanded her.
Carina and I felt more at ease, though a bit fatigued on the ride back. I found the muscles of my legs and back aren’t ready for extended riding. I came up with schemes while watching the snow shower off the trees of how I could ride everyday. Summer jobs? Savings?
When we returned to the house, Matthias was already eager to get on the road. It was Fasnacht in Imst, and he loved Fasnacht. Packing up and leaving, I was sorry that I had only been here one night, and only been able to have one conversation with these amazing folks. They weren’t so different. Stephan and Uli hadn’t grown up on farms. They had been town kids, had dreamed of becoming self sufficient. They had rented a mountain farm for seven years, then a valley farm for another seven, laboring like Jacob for their dreams. Along the route they had acquired cows, found a place to buy outright with loans and help from their parents, and now had a more traditional farm than they had once imagined. But they seemed to love their lives here, with their family, so far up the mountain. I couldn’t blame them.
