Around the Mountain & Across the Stony Sea

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After a week of relaxation in Bratislava and Graz, I felt sufficiently rested and recuperated to tackle my next multi-day hike through the mountains; and where better to do so than the Bavarian Alps? So after leaving my dear friend Kathi in Graz (where we'd had storms every day) and taking the train to Salzburg, I was up early the next day to take a 45-minute bus ride across the border to Berchtesgaden NP, nestled in the extreme southeastern corner of Germany. The plan was to do a 47km loop hike (known as the Watzmanntour) that starts and finishes at the park's most prominent lake (the Königssee) whilst first climbing - and then circling - its most prominent mountain (the Watzmann). By staying in mountain huts (and one 'Nature Friend House') along the way, I could eliminate the need to carry any camping gear or food, and therefore substitute my full-size backpack for an ultra-light daypack, as I had done on my most recent two-day hike in the Slovak Tatras.

Day one was never likely to be the most enjoyable, partly because I had to climb over 1300 metres from the shores of the Königssee (at just 603m above sea level) to the 200-bed Watzmannhaus (at 1930m), and partly because the weather forecast had predicted light rain - and possibly even snow - throughout the day. Still, it would set me up nicely for a possible attempt on the Watzmann's northernmost peak (Hocheck) the next morning, if the cloud cover had cleared by then as predicted. So after lingering by the northern shore of the Königssee, I set off uphill following a relentlessly steep vehicle track through what could best be described, under the prevailing conditions, as cloud forest. And though the temperature hovered in single figures, the steepness of the climb combined with the humidity meant that I was soon stripped down to my usual shorts and singlet. Even when the rain started falling I refused to put on my rain jacket, choosing instead to simply hook the hood of it over my head so that I could drape it over my non-waterproof pack to keep the contents dry.

Thankfully, despite the trail signs warning that it would take five hours to reach the hut, I managed to knock the climb off in just three hours. And while there were no views to speak of whatsoever (at times the visibility dropped to less than fifty metres) the encroaching clouds did add a certain eerie atmosphere to the day, without causing me any duress due to the sheltered nature of the trail - which was a nice change from the exposed scrambling routes I'd tackled in similar conditions a week earlier in Slovakia! And if there is a finer way to warm up after slogging uphill through clouds and rain in single-figure temperatures than tucking into a hot bowl of tomato soup then I'm yet to find it! Meanwhile the shoe rack inside the hut's drying room featured a steel frame with eighty separate bars (each one designed to hold one shoe) that ingeniously circulated hot air throughout the entire frame, ensuring that anything hung up to dry would be toasty and warm - no matter how wet it was to begin with - by the time it was removed. German efficiency at its very best!

Having seen nothing but clouds on day one, it seemed the weather gods were determined to make amends on day two, as I woke to a glorious blue sky and was finally able to enjoy the views afforded by the Watzmannhaus' lofty perch. To the north the ground fell away to the depths of the Ramsau valley more than a vertical kilometre below, with forest-clad hills rising up from well-watered pastures to provide a patchwork of green; while to the south the dominant colour was grey, courtesy of the striated cliffs leading up to the pointed peak of the Kleiner (Little) Watzmann (2307m), and a foreshortened view of the Watzmann massif, whose northernmost summit (Hocheck, 2651m) remained hidden from view behind a prominent shoulder.

It was to this peak that my sights were set after breakfast, given that the two higher summits of the Watzmann - Mittelspitze (2713m) and Südspitze (2712m) - are both considered beyond the realm of ordinary hikers. And I wasn't alone, for it seemed as if the entire population of the Watzmannhaus (which can accommodate up to 200 guests) had the same idea, as a steady stream of people could be seen snaking their way up the switchbacks on the lower slopes of the mountain. Unfortunately it wasn't long before the first dusting of snow was reached, at which point any forward momentum was soon lost, as I tried to negotiate safe passage up a steep slope consisting entirely of bare rock.

Onwards and upwards I rose, making use of natural chutes scooped out of the shattered rock - as well as one stretch of fixed cable - while always following the conspicuous red-white-red painted waymarks that look like miniature Austrian flags scattered across the (German) mountainside. But just as steadily as my altitude was rising, so too was my anxiety - knowing full well that every manoeuvre I performed on the way up the mountain had to be reversed on the way down. As the snow covering got thicker (much of it having fallen the day before) there were times when I was able to trust my bodyweight to its icy embrace; but at other times the snow melt accumulating on the rocks was far more of a hindrance - perhaps more so psychologically than in reality - and I would find myself wondering how on earth I was going to continue.

And then, more than two hours after I set out from the hut - and probably no more than thirty metres below the summit - I decided that I'd had enough, and turned around. The steepness of the final slope, combined with the steady trickle of meltwater that was running down it (not to mention the steady trickle of hikers also coming down, making progress even more precarious) was more than I could bare; and as much as I would have loved to have seen the view of the Königssee two vertical kilometres below - from where I had started out just 24 hours earlier - the prospect of having to come back down that slope in the icy conditions was simply too much for me to face. As it was I felt unable to properly enjoy the climb knowing that I would have to come back down again - a descent that ultimately took just as long as the ascent had, due to the care I had to put into every foot placement. Still, after my recent experiences in the Slovak Tatras, I couldn't help feeling that being able to turn around within sight of the summit - probably the most difficult place psychologically to turn back on a mountain - was a bigger achievement than actually making it to the top. Maybe I had learnt a lesson after all.

Back at the Watzmannhaus I was determined to try the local delicacy of Kaiserschmarrn for the first time. Somehow, despite having visited Germany on at least four previous occasions and had a German girlfriend for six years (though we lived in Australia) I had never tried this famous German dessert before - which I believe constitutes an abusive relationship in Germany, punishable by law. Unfortunately by the time I made it back to the hut just after midday, it had filled with both people coming back down from the Watzmann and those who had come up from below, meaning that a full 45 minutes passed while I gazed longingly at the kitchen. But then just when I was convinced I had been forgotten about, a plate of shredded pancake covered in icing sugar and served with a bowl of apple sauce was placed in front of me, and all at once I couldn't believe what I had been missing out on all these years!

From the Watzmannhaus my onward route led down the back-side of the mountain, plummeting 1200 metres into the Wimbach valley in just an hour-and-a-half, and thus losing almost all of the elevation I had gained the day before... which I would then have to regain, with interest, over the ensuing 24 hours. After plunging down into the depths of the Wimbachklamm (gorge), the trail then followed a gravel track uphill at a constant 10% gradient for the next couple of hours, following a wide, gravel-strewn ablation valley walled in on either side by limestone cliffs. Eventually, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, the Naturfreundehaus-owned Wimbachgrieshütte appeared, nestled in the bed of the valley at 1330m. And pleasingly I had been allocated a three-bed room which I would be sharing with just a lone German hiker named Andreas, who had come up from Kühroint-Alm (which I had passed halfway through the previous day) with the plan of traversing straight over the top of the Watzmann's three summits, only to abandon his plan at the first summit (just beyond where I had turned back) because of the icy conditions, forcing him to follow the same route as me for the rest of the day.

With just a single roommate for the night I had the good fortune of being able to sleep without earplugs for a change; though on the negative side I realised I was going to run out of cash before I completed my walk on the fourth afternoon - a serious problem when very few huts offer card payments - as a consequence of my sweet tooth, which had resulted in me ordering three serves of cake already in just two days. To be fair though, the servings of chocokirschkuchen (chocolate cherry cake) at the Wimbachgrieshütte were almost as big as my head, so if I wanted to get maximum bang for my buck it could definitely be considered a sound investment! From now on I would have to be much more disciplined, though I cried on the inside when I had to order a 'klein' (little) serving of breakfast the following morning. I also couldn't help wondering whether the next hut would accept my last ten British Pounds as payment for breakfast on the final day...

Getting underway on day three, the trail led up the final couple of kilometres to the head of the Wimbach valley, where a low, wooded pass offered access to the mountains beyond. Traversing across the valley's headwall on a narrow, exposed trail offered a dash of excitement to go with the stupendous views back down-valley - though I chose not to linger once a chilly northwesterly wind sprang up out of nowhere, driving a bank of clouds towards me that threatened to complicate matters as the trail continued to climb beyond the pass of Trischübel. Emerging on the lip of a grassy basin, the trail to the higher pass of Hundstotgatterl could be clearly seen leading up at an alarming angle on the far side. And it was just as I started up this interminable slope - the lower end of which consisted mostly of loose rock - that the rain returned, forcing me to once again don my rain jacket to keep the contents of my backpack dry. Someday I might be lucky enough to cross a pass in fine weather, but until then I won't hold my breath.

Eventually the gradient eased back from 'hellishly-steep' to merely 'steep', and I soon found myself in a maze of solid rock, through which navigation would have been awfully difficult if not for the ever-present red-white-red paint flashes. By now the sun had inexplicably come out, and after crossing my high-point of the day at the Hundstotgatterl (2185m) I descended into a sea of grey rock basking beneath a blue sky: the fabled Steinernes Meer (meaning 'Stone Sea'). If I thought the rubble-strewn Wimbach Valley had appeared stark and barren, this was on a whole other level. Andreas had described it as 'waves made of stone', and there was more than a passing resemblance to a tempestuous sea frozen in rock. Unfortunately descending into this grey netherworld required all the agility, concentration and patience of an oceanic crossing, as the route dropped steeply down through a labyrinth of jagged rock, where even the slightest slip would have surely resulted in a painful injury. It took me thirty minutes to cover just 750m, whilst dropping almost 200m in the process.

But no sooner had I reached the bottom than I spied my next overnight stop sitting high on a ridge to my right: the Ingolstädter Haus, which happened to be located just across the border in Austria. Not that there was any sign of an international border at these heights - if I'd not been keeping a close eye on the offline map on my phone I would have had no idea I'd entered Austria, though I did notice that the paint streaks on the rocks changed to merely red and white, without the second red stripe... so apparently it would seem that the 'Austrian flag' waymarks exist only on the German side of the border! In any case, after spotting my first alpine marmot grazing on the sparse vegetation of a natural hollow, I pressed on to reach the Ingolstädter Haus (my highest mountain hut yet, at 2132m).

By now the sun was out in full force, and despite my usual preference for shade I couldn't resist the opportunity to sit outside on the terrace basking in the sunshine, while taking in the astonishing views of the Steinernes Meer rising and falling all around the hut. And then just when I thought I would have to skimp on food to stretch my remaining fifty euros as far as possible (my bed for the night costing half of that, and with four meals still to pay for before my return to civilisation) the lovely waitress that greeted me broke the news I'd dared not hope for: card payments accepted! Needless to say my gemichte (mixed) salad for lunch was immediately followed by a serve of tageskuchen ('cake of the day'); and while I saved money by taking advantage of the nightly bergsteigeressen (literally 'mountaineers' meal', an offering that is available to all Alpine Club members in both Germany and Austria for just €9) I then used these savings to secure some apple strudel for dessert. Any notion that you have to rough it in the mountains is utter nonsense in Europe!

It was over dinner that evening that I met one of my roommates - a woman named Doris who had walked for over eight hours (including tackling a Via Ferrata route - with all the necessary safety equipment - along the way) and was clearly fitter, faster and more experienced in the high mountains than me. After conversing in English for a while (my knowledge of German being restricted to the names of various foods and beverages, along with the standard greetings) she returned to the table proclaiming "I know your name! It's Matthew". She had read it in the hut's visitor book, where my entry would have stood out from the rest both due to the neatness of my writing and the fact that, once again, mine was the only entry with an answer other than 'D' for 'Deutschland' in the 'country of origin' column. Surprisingly though, when I got up to leave my place was taken by another Australian, who along with his wife and two teenage kids had just arrived after taking twelve hours to reach the hut via various hiking trails and a Via Ferrata route. I neglected to mention my experience with Via Ferrata routes in Slovakia from the previous week when we spoke briefly outside the hut the next morning...

Retiring early to the comfort of my small dormitory, it wasn't long before my trusty earplugs were called into action to combat the sound of a piano accordion being played downstairs... no doubt a result of the steady stream of beer and schnapps being consumed in the various dining rooms! It wasn't until I woke the next morning that I discovered there had been a boisterous communal singalong - in which Doris had gleefully taken part, according to a companion of ours at the breakfast table - as I had somehow managed to not only sleep through the cacophony of traditional mountain music performed by inebriated hikers, but also a raging thunderstorm! Surely one of the great 'acquired tastes' in the musical world (along with bagpipes and yodelling), I couldn't help wondering whether this fleeting appearance of the piano accordion might be a portent of events to come during my time in the Austrian mountains - perhaps I would have to substitute tageskuchen for alcohol myself in the future, if not to inspire me to join in (though that would certainly be an interesting cultural experience) then to knock me out before things got into full swing!

Thankfully the low cloud cover and accompanying rain that greeted me through the bedroom skylight had cleared by the time I finished stuffing myself at breakfast ('all you can eat' are surely my four favourite words in the English language), and within ten minutes of leaving the hut to strike out across, or at least skirt around, the Steinernes Meer I was already stripped down to shorts and singlet. It wasn't long afterwards that the silence of the morning was suddenly shattered by a piercing whistle, as an aggrieved alpine marmot shrieked its displeasure at my presence from atop a large rock just twenty metres away. Whether or not it was working in tandem with the black-faced sheep that then blocked my path a few minutes later I can't be sure, but it would be hard to believe even a drunken piano accordionist could be any louder than that buck-toothed furball!

Eventually the trail dropped down from the edge of the Stone Sea to the grassy pastures surrounding the Kärlingerhaus, where I had originally planned to spend the previous night only to find out that it was fully booked - presumably they would only have taken cash payments (though unfortunately their kitchen wasn't yet open to test this theory, so no tageskuchen for me) meaning that I had dodged a 'hunger bullet' by ending up at the Ingolstädter Haus instead. Having had a single sheep blocking my path earlier in the day, I now faced the prospect of an entire flock of them crowding around me on the approach to the Kärlingerhaus, and though the vast majority suddenly darted away at the last moment, one particularly confident sheep simply leaned into me and demanded a head rub! Like a woolly labrador it then proceeded to rub itself against me so vigorously it was all I could do to avoid tipping over! My new companion looked most upset when I finally tore myself away to seek sustenance...

After a brief break at the hut I resumed the 1500m descent to the Königssee, but it wasn't long before I was stopped in my tracks by the astonishing sight of the Saugasse - a deep, narrow vertical cleft in the rock looking like an elongated 'V', down which a succession of 36 switchbacks descended almost 400m to the pine forest below. It was a stunning sight, and I could only be thankful that by walking the circuit in an anti-clockwise direction I had avoided the sweaty climb up through this narrow chute. From the base of the Saugasse the trail meandered on through a section of damp, lush forest that provided an extraordinary contrast to the previous couple of days' scenery through the rocky, barren landscapes of the Wimbach Valley and Steinernes Meer. And all the while the sound of the Schrainbach stream steadily rose as it gathered water from its various tributaries, before disappearing into the depths of a slot gorge where it could be heard crashing thunderously a hundred metres below.

After a second series of switchbacks only marginally less steep and prolonged as the Saugasse the trail finally caught up with the stream at the base of the Schrainbachfalls, where the negative ions flying around instantly brought a smile to my face (if you believe in that sort of thing). I also got my first glimpse of the startlingly turquoise waters of the Königssee through the pines, and before long I was down by its (occasionally) sunlit shores enjoying a most invigorating swim... which was also for the benefit of my fellow ferry passengers on the half-hour ride back to Schönau am Königssee from the chapel at St. Bartholomä, having not showered in three days!

And although my arrival at the tourist honeypot of St. Bartholomä brought a sudden and most unwelcome return to 'civilisation' as I encountered more people in thirty minutes than I had over the previous three-and-a-half days, the ferry ride back to my starting point provided a fitting finale as the Ostwand (East Wall) of the Watzmann rose more than 1800 metres above the beautiful clear waters of the Königssee... and best of all it didn't cost me a cent, since the crew onboard the ferry weren't checking tickets for the return trip - presumably because only 1% of visitors to St. Bartholomä would have arrived on foot rather than having taken the boat! All of which meant that, against all odds, I'd managed to finish my 50km circumnavigation of the Watzmann with €17 cash left in my pocket. Surely somewhere in Schönau am Königssee I could find a restaurant serving tageskuchen!

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Photos

A Fitting Finale
The chapel at St. Bartholomä backed by the imposing East Wall of the Watzmann

Boulder Problem
Overhanging rock on the climb to the Watzmannhaus

Climbing Through the Clouds
Exposed section of trail between Kühroint-Alm and Watzmannhaus

Sky High
The Watzmannhaus under a blue sky

Follow the Leader
Negotiating a narrow chute on the climb to Hocheck

So near and yet so far
My turnaround point just below the 2651m summit of Hocheck

What goes up must come down
The steep trail down from Watzmannhaus

Thunderous Cascade
In the depths of the Wimbachklamm

Friends of Nature
The Wimbachgrieshütte

Standing Guard
Pointed peaks guarding the upper end of the Wimbach Valley

One pass down; One to go...
At the base of the climb to Hundstotgatterl

Border Crossing
Straddling the Germany-Austria border on the climb to Ingolstädter Haus

Lapping up the Sunshine
Impromptu sunbathing on the outdoor terrace at Ingolstädter Haus

Not Backing Down
The lone sheep that claimed right of way on the trail around the Steinernes Meer

Whistling to the same tune
Family of alpine marmots enjoying the early morning sunshine

Grassy Basin, Pointed Peak
View of the Funtensee from Kärlingerhaus

Steep Descent
Negotiating the 36 switchbacks of the Saugasse

Split in Two
The twin falls of Schrainbachfall

Twinkling Turquoise
My first glimpse of the Königssee in three days

Lakeside Trail
Strolling the shoreline of the Königssee

Scenic Swimming Spot
Back down at water level beside the Königssee

Comments

[D MJ Binkley]

Rest and Relaxation
Amazing scenery you are hiking in. It is good you were rested when you started out. I would think the sheep have the right of way! Thanks for sharing.