Alpine hiking is not for sissies. If you aren't prepared to pack your winter coat in July, you mind as well stay home. Knowing it's chilly at 7,800 feet, I swallowed my Southern pride and brought along the warmest clothes I own. With reports that two extreme athletes died of hypothermia just a week before, I jammed my fleece into my bag. It was well worth it.
Like most Germans, my husband has a predilection for understatement. "Oh, the Alpine cabin we've booked for an overnight will be our starting point. It's only a two-hour hike from the gondola station."
The kids heard gondola and thought they had it made. A little woodsy traipse to the hut, and they were set. They rubbed their hands with anticipation of the hot chocolate awaiting them. Then it started to rain.
"Oh, what's a little rain!" my husband grinned. He had had the foresight to invite the kids' grandparents along for distraction.
"Want a gummi bear?" Opa rifled through his knapsack. Like any good boyscout, the man comes prepared. We greedily dug our fingers into the split open bag of sweets. After a short respite to rest our week-weary bones, we just made it to the cabin before the restaurant closed.
Admittedly, the hardest part of the climb was the last kilometer. We clocked over three hundred meters (1000 feet) to the top. After a full day of school and a three hour drive, the kids had no energy left to
complain. They hopped gracefully up the stoney path to our destination at 6300 feet above sea level.
The adults wheezed and whimpered (only slightly), but we too made it to the top. My son declared his day complete and fell soundlessly into bed while we choked down freezer-burnt Wiener schnitzel. The beer never tasted so good!
A quick round of UNO and the adults were bed-ready as well. The next morning proved to be cloudless so we eagerly ambled up the rocky path. My mother-in-law was skeptical about the loose rock, but we managed to move forward despite the Arctic winds. After almost three hours, we stopped for a snack. I never knew day-old cheese could be so satisfying!
Through the snow-kissed path, we lit up as the landscape became more verdant. "Trees!" I yodeled. We slid down a wicked hill of gravel to the forest below. By three pm we finally sat down for a cool glass of apple juice at the restaurant near the gondola station.
My husband grinned, satisfied that his uncomplaining brood made it safely back to civilization. As we happily munched on Apfelstrudel and ice cream, my husband confessed.
"Kids, you know the tour we just did?" Their ice cream-stained faces looked indifferent as they crunched on their cones. "It was for kids 14 years and older..." Note to self: remember husband's propensity for understatement, then duck like a prairie dog.
Truth be told the kids beamed like the sun that scorched our hat heads.
No, Alpine hiking ain't for sissies -- for sure.
