Die Meistersängerin

There may be "No Kangaroos in Austria," (as many cheesy tourist t-shirts here advertise), but there are definitely Meistersängerinnen in Australia. The winner of last night's Meistersinger competition was Siobhán Stagg, a soprano from Melbourne who had been giving the orchestra goosebumps in every rehearsal with her rendition of Bellini's O quante volte.

***Note: the picture above is not Siobhán, but another of the finalists warming up during our morning dress rehearsal.

The Meistersinger competition began soon after the beginning of the festival and progressed through several eliminating rounds till the final eight contestants, plus two alternates, were presented in concert last night at the Helmut-List Halle. A panel of distinguished judges listened to each of the eight finalists and then left the stage to deliberate over a winner while the two alternates sang. After all ten singers had performed, the audience and orchestra were invited to vote for their own favorite on a paper ballot that had been distributed at the beginning of the concert. The ballots were collected by AIMS staff and as the orchestra commenced with Walter Piston's The Incredible Flutist, the results were tallied.

Over the course of the week, all us orchestra folks had overwhelmingly fallen in love with Siobhán. There are no adequate words to describe the smooth and penetrating quality of her voice, or the exquisite artistic timing she applied to every phrase, but whenever she sang it was impossible to do anything but gaze adoringly and submit to the waves of buttery tonefulness she sent permeating throughout the hall...her singing even made our little rehearsal gym at the Elisabethschule seem beautiful and resonant. Despite our confidence in Siobhán we were all sitting on pins and needles to see who would actually come out on top in the end. Every finalist delivered a superb performance and I was actually a little torn between Siobhán, Eliana Piedrahita--a Colombian soprano who absolutely sparkled through the virtuosic antics of Rossini's Una voce poco fa--and an incredible countertenor whose rendition of Mozart's Parto, parto, ah si ben mio surprised and thrilled us all.

A quirky little highlight for me was hearing Michelle Pretto sing Puccini's Vissi d'arte from Tosca. When the piece began, I was surprised to recognize the same melody and chord progression that accompanies Inigo Montoya in that scene from The Princess Bride where he's lost in a circle of trees and kneels down with his sword pointed to the sky and prays to his father to help him find the "man in black." I always have to smile when I find the source of a soundtrack...like when I discovered a portion of a triumphant theme from the Willow score is quite close to the opening of Schumann's Rhenish Symphony, or when I noticed how much of The Gladiator is taken directly from Holst's Mars.

After the final ecstatic notes of the Piston, the judges came back from their deliberations, the final vote count was turned in, and our artistic director Andrea Huber took the stage to announce the winners. She stressed that everyone who had sung that night was a winner and that all would likely go on to maintain long and illustrious operatic careers. Still, everyone knew there were artist agents and talent scouts in attendance, and that the pressure was on to see who'd gain the highest praise (as well as the hefty cash prize). When it was announced that Siobhán had won both the Meistersinger and the popular vote, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause. The orchestra accompanied the thrill with Strauss' Radetsky March and capped the night off with Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever...complete with a piccolo trio and a (somewhat grudgingly) standing brass section during the grandioso.

So...the 2011 AIMS festival is officially over. I'm leaving dark and early tomorrow morning (my ride to the airport departs at 4:00...ugh!) and will be back in Ithaca by dinnertime. Through all its ups and downs it has been a great summer and--though I have no idea what's going to happen over the course of this coming school year--right now I think I'd like to find a way to come back to Graz next summer.

Sacher-Torte

It has been the most beautiful day here in Graz--cool air underneath brilliant golden sunshine--it almost makes up for the near sleepless night I had last night trying to ignore the party that went on outside my door until 2:00 am (ugh! I am SO glad I don't live in a student dorm at NU!!!)

After this morning's dress rehearsal I was invited by another orchestra member (and fellow chocoholic) to sample an "Original Sacher-Torte" at the Sacher Hotel Cafe in the Graz Rathaus. Eddie, a violinist and, more recently, extra percussionist has played in the AIMS orchestra for the past 15 years and has a special affinity for the torte. He always makes a special point to have at least one slice each summer and was nice enough to let me tag along for this one.

The Sacher-Torte was originally conceived in 1832 by Franz Sacher, then a 16 year old apprentice chef, who saved the day when his master fell ill before an important dinner in the court of Prince Metternich. At the Prince's request he created a unique dessert--a dense chocolate cake with a layer of apricot jam in the middle covered in thick chocolate icing on all sides and served with unsweetened whipped cream--that delighted the evening's guests and secured him a place in culinary history. According to a pamphlet at the cafe, the Sacher-Torte has since become the "most famous torte in the world" and there is even an official Austrian holiday dedicated to it: December 5...mark your calendars!

Though imitations abound, and almost every family has their own secret version of the torte, there is only one bakery in Vienna that makes the true "Original." Here in Graz, daily shipments from Vienna arrive at the Hotel Sacher and allow residents to indulge their cravings without having to leave town.

Eddie is a real fanatic for Sacher-Torte. On one trip to Vienna, he went from cafe to cafe and sampled 6 different varieties to compare taste and quality (he says the "original" is still the best), and he even had two of the Hotel Sacher's largest tortes delivered as a groom's cake on his wedding day. He had faxed in the order just a couple days before the wedding hoping against all odds that there could somehow be an arrangement made. In the fax, he told them about his experience with the AIMS orchestra and how he always made a special trip to Vienna each summer specifically to eat one of their tortes. On the day of the wedding a large DHL box arrived from Vienna. It contained the two tortes and an invoice for $0.00! Can you believe such generosity? Ever since then he's delighted in spreading the good word about the Sacher-Torte and introducing more people to Austria's national dessert.

The Sacher Cafe is nestled in a little courtyard just inside the entrance to the Graz Rathaus. The ambiance is chic, but warm and casual in an afternoon-siesta sort of way which, along with the gorgeous weather, set up the ideal conditions for sampling the indulgent confection. Listening to Eddie's stories as we waited for our plates to arrive was a fascinating prelude and I think I was sold on the dessert even before taking a single bite.

That first bite however proved to be just as delectable as I'd hoped. The cake tends to be on the dry side, but with a hint of apricot moistness in the middle, thick, decadent, ganache-like frosting, and a compliment of real whipped cream, the combination was heaven for the taste buds. I'm not generally a cooked fruit fan and was a little worried I'd be dodging rubbery apricots to get at the good stuff, but the jam in the middle turned out to be more of an essence than a centerpiece and it's subtle tartness balanced nicely with the sweet intensity of the chocolate.

After learning about and experiencing the heritage of Mozartkugeln and now the Sacher-Torte, it's becoming clear to me that Austrians are pretty darn serious about their chocolate...yet another endearing thing about the country that I can add to my list of "Why I should try to come back to AIMS next summer."

Magic

When I purchased Neil Gaiman's American Gods from Moser--the nearest Austrian book seller with a respectable English language selection--I figured that at 640 pages it was sure to last me through the end of the festival. Alas, as is so often the case with a good read, I sped through it in about half the time I expected and was left with nothing to help pass down time in rehearsal or to settle my body and ready my brain for dreaming at bed time. So--after hemming and hawing a little over whether or not it was worth it to shell out 12 or 14 euros on another novel when I could get the same one for about 5 bucks cheaper in the states--it was back to the bookstore for me.

The book I ended up chosing was a bit of a gamble. The Magicians by Lev Grossman had been recommended as a good read on NPR, but you never know with fantasy--sometimes books that come highly recommended turn out to be cheesy or trite or just another "page turner" with a cliff hanger at the end of every chapter (I HATE books like that). Still, Gaiman had put me in the mood for magic so I caved in and spent the dough. So far it seems like a semi-grownup version of Harry Potter--a brilliant loner gets whisked away to a secret University of Magic where he begins to study the mysterious craft of wizardry--but I admit I've already been sucked into the story enough to wonder what is going to happen next.

Today in rehearsal we spent the majority of time working on The Incredible Flutist--a wonderful ballet suite by Walter Piston. Unsurprisingly, there is a long section in the middle that features our principal flutist playing a mysteriously plaintive and yearning melody. I have at least 3 minutes of rest at this point and picked up my book to help pass the time and happened to jump in at a section where the main character is learning to cast his first spells. The process is difficult and painful for him, but he is progressing, and enjoys the sensation:

He could sense his words and gestures getting traction on the mysterious magical substrate of the universe. He could feel it physically. His fingertips got warm, and they seemed to leave trails in the air. There was a slight resistance as if the air was getting viscous around him and pushing back against his hands and even against his lips and tongue...

The music was a perfect soundtrack for this portion of the story. It enhanced the sense of awe and beauty surrounding the process of making magic and breathed life and color into the story's atmosphere. It also evoked memories of times I had fantasized about discovering my own long-hidden aptitude for the magical arts and escaping or transcending the cruel world through some flourish of mystical charm.

I think it was sometime during elementary school that my dad started reading fantasy novels to us. We'd be on the long drive to Grandma Rick's house and he'd pull out The Man Who Was Magic (boy, I wish I could read that book again!), and read a few chapters to keep us kids from fighting with or annoying each other. I don't remember any specifics of the story, just that it transfixed and lulled me into a world of innocent wonder. Later The Hobbit became a regular bed-time classic and, when I was old enough, I finally dared to pull the first book of The Lord of the Rings from the shelf and join Frodo on his quest through Middle Earth. I was in middle school at the time and Dad's hard-cover edition of the trilogy--with its thick black cover, fold-out maps, gold lettering, and evil-looking emblem on the front--seemed just about as magical as a book could get. I'd spend hours hidden away in my room or in little blanket-made back-yard tents enraptured with Tolkein's world of hobbits, wizards, elves and terrifying dark riders.

I was a nut for fantasy. I Learned, along with my sisters, to write in dwarf Runes, found enchanted landscapes out in the woods, and when teased at school I'd envision myself transforming into a bird or a unicorn and taking off into some wild magical yonder...leaving my tormentors standing on the sidewalk gaping wide-eyed at my new and fantastic form.

I'll bet most of us have had such fantasies...have on occasion (when no one else was looking) tried to move pencils with our minds, searched for faeries in the woods, or dreamt of meeting a mysterious stranger who would say "The time has come for you to learn the truth..." and then spirit us away on a quest to save some mortally threatened land just beyond the scope of our known dimension. Whether or not this ever actually happens to anyone is immaterial. I believe in the value of imagination. I treasure the beauty it introduces into our material reality and exult in the brilliant and innumerable worlds it allows us to enter...just beyond the threshold of dream and within the soul of forever.

Shadow Art

This morning as I warmed up at the Elisabethschule before my German class, I noticed rays of sunlight coming in through the windows and creating interesting watery reflections on the wall. I couldn't resist playing around with my camera during my practice breaks...and later, experimenting a bit further on iphoto.

Here are the results...

Careful What You Wish For

Our final operetta concert took place last night in a gorgeous little mountain town called Frohnleiten. I did not take the picture below, but when I saw it on Wikipedia I couldn't resist sharing it...especially because a stubbornly persisting sour mood kept me from taking very many pictures of the town myself.

As for the sour mood: my hormones are doing their usual thing with all the usual consequences (why else would I feel compelled to eat 4 giant candy bars within the space of an hour?), my chops have been really stiff for the last couple days, and due to a weekend of run-out concerts (with dinner only served afterward beginning at 11:00 PM) my usual comfortable schedule has been thrown for a loop. I don't know that anyone else in the orchestra shared my particular problems, but regardless, almost everyone seemed to be thinking the same thought last night as we set up on the outdoor stage in the town's main square: "PLEASE let it rain!" The forecast for the day predicted a 60-70 percent chance of showers, and if even a single drop of moisture falls from the sky our orchestra contract guarantees we will not have to play. If I had a 200 year old cello that cost me over $100,000.00 I think I'd be pretty darn nitpicky about a drizzle too!

The wind picked up during our sound check sending sheet music and flimsy wire stands sailing all over the stage. We nervously watched the sky as black clouds rolled in over the mountains. It seemed a sure thing that our show would get rained out and we'd all get to go home early.

Though I was a little ashamed to actually be wishing for a rained-out concert, I was also dreading having to slog through my parts on such an uncooperative-chop day. Ever since Barbara Butler's warm up class my goal has been to "never have a bad day." As a professional you cannot afford to have a bad day. No matter if you're stiff or sore or tired you still have to find a way to make it all work and play the gig...or else you'll probably just lose the gig. The show must go on, as they say. I guess it's a good thing I'm still a student, because I'm still trying to figure out how in the world to make this idea work. Last night none of the usual tricks did a darn thing, so as a last resort:"PLEASE...just let it rain..."

Sure enough, just as we arrived at the "Can Can" section of Offenbach's overture to "Orpheus in the Underworld," (the first piece on the program) the drops started to fall. Almost immediately the 2nd violin section put down their instruments and headed for the door of the church directly behind us. The rest of the orchestra soon followed suit and in the space of about 7 minutes the stage had been cleared, musicians were changing back into their street clothes, and the personnel manager was fighting with the event organizers about a possible plan B.

Long story short: we still had to play. The audience was moved into the church and--after many angry words and a threat of AIMS never being hired in Frohnleiten again--the orchestra was set up in the apse. The church's interior was luxuriously adorned and I think everyone was glad to have been able to see it, but even with the last stand of every string section not performing, we were painfully short on elbow room. Plus, due to more contractual obligations we had to shorten the program...NOT by removing a piece or two, but rather by removing the narrative interludes between each number as well as the intermission. What this meant to me is that even though I wouldn't have to deal with wind-blown sheet music and poor outdoor acoustics, I would still have to play all my parts...but this time, without any rest.

I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that though I basically did my job, it was not pleasant...or particularly pretty.

I think I would have remained lost in my own personal hell if I hadn't been gleefully distracted by watching one of the sopranos (and her buoyantly bobbling boobies) flirt throughout the evening with our young German conductor. It was so completely shameless and over the top I felt like I was watching a bad movie. One of the violinists and I had fits of laughter about it all through dinner. This time it pains me greatly to have to spare you all the hilariously gory details, but for my own sense of karma and politeness I'm going to err on the safe side, use a bit of discretion, and just be glad that what otherwise would have been a horrible night was salvaged by a bit of humor.

Graz After Dark

Last night I was a little melancholy, so to keep from brooding too much I grabbed my camera and headed out onto the streets of Graz to see what I could see. I don't have a tripod for my camera and up to this point all the night shots I've ever tried to take have been hopelessly blurred...no matter how still I tried to be. Last night I took this as a challenge. Whenever I found an interesting scene I'd scan my surroundings for solid places on which to set my camera, and then snap the pictures using a timer. Not every shot was a success, but I did manage to capture at least a few interesting sights...

The Herz Jesu Kirche--largest church in Graz--as seen from the Schlossberg...

...a glowing Rathaus plaza...

...the "friendly alien" blinking on...

...and off...

...and on again...

...in a random pattern that kept off-kilter time with waves of booming dance music circulating throughout the city from a night club underneath the bridge (if you look closely you can see a trail of little love locks glinting along its railing).

Nearby, the floating island cast otherworldly colors onto the river...

...and onto me as I wandered its winding passages...

Street portraits seemed to take on a new vibrancy under the cover of darkness, as though preparing to peel away from their stone canvases and make some friendly mischief among the throngs of unsuspecting night goers...

Eventually I wandered toward Jakominiplatz to catch a Strassenbahn back to the heim..

...and paused for a final picture in front of a fountain...

...the mundane suddenly transformed into the magical...

Underneath the Light Sword

"Her arm and the sword were raised like in recent days, and the free winds blew about her form."

--Franz Kafka

This statue, located near the entrance of the Graz Opera House, It is a 1:1 reconstruction of the original steel frame that was designed by Gustave Eiffel in 1883 to support the Statue of Liberty. Hartmut Skerbisch, inspired by an early libretto by Franz Kafka, created this variation on Eiffel's structure to commemorate the 500th anniversary of Columbus reaching American shores. Instead of a torch, the right arm raises an enormous sword into the sky, and instead of tablets, a globe is held aloft by the left.

I am unaware of the specific symbolism Skerbisch originally intended, but I found myself feeling a bit unnerved to personally see in this work the idea that American Liberty--once stripped from her superficial garb of progress and law--is found to contain at her heart an instrument of war and a symbol of universal dominance.

This impression brings to my mind a question: is the meaning of an artwork something that should be created by the artist alone? When I look at an artwork and come to a personal conclusion about its intent that is different from what the artist originally conceived, is that in essence a "wrong answer"?

My experience of the "Light Sword" has undoubtedly been colored by recent events and my feelings about what America represents to the world. In the AIMS handbook I received upon arriving in Graz there is a section entitled "AIMSers in Graz" which cautions:

We "Ausländer" are guests of Graz and Austria. Life is not the same here as it is at home. Respect Austrian culture and learn from it. Grazers will remember and appreciate AIMSers who are courteous, who offer their seat on the Strassenbahn, who honor the sanctity of their churches, who try to communicate in their language, and who behave maturely. Maintain an awareness of yourself and observe those around you. We should try to see ourselves as others see us, and at this particular time, the United States needs good ambassadors to improve its image in Europe."

I think of stories I've heard about Americans abroad trying to pass themselves off as Canadians so as to be treated with more open friendliness and wonder who and what I've represented as an American visitor. Yes, I've given up my seat on the Strassenbahn a time or two, but I still fumble over the language and am too nervous half the time to even try to use it. I turned in a lost wallet (credit cards and all) I found behind a tree the other day, but I haven't ever given a single cent to the poor tired looking old man who always stands outside the grocery store across the street, even though most of the time I'm just going there to indulge another selfish chocolate craving. I follow all the rules at the Heim: I keep my door and window closed when I practice, and make sure to observe every posted quite hour, but I've walked into local churches in jeans and a t-shirt snapping photos and ignoring the donation boxes posted by the door.

I only have one week left as a guest of this beautiful and welcoming country, and I hope I'm able to leave behind a positive impression.

The Operetta Party

So, I suppose that though I have to suffer through three operetta concerts (one down...two more to go...), it is awfully nice of AIMS to secure such fantastic performance venues for us. Being able to perform in an ancient dungeon makes slogging through all this froofy music almost tolerable!

Kassematten is an open-air amphitheater constructed over the partially demolished remains of the Schossberg's castle. After Napoleonic forces were through with it in the early 1800s, all that remained of the original Schloss were bits here and pieces there, plus a nice big chunk of the its cellars/underground prison.

This picture was taken at ground level looking down into the theater as stage hands worked to set up rows of chairs for the night's performance...

...and this is from my perspective on stage just as our morning dress rehearsal was about to begin...

It's odd to consider the notion that what are now "luxury boxes" were once prison cells. I wonder what the poor imprisoned souls who once occupied them would have thought if they were suddenly trasnsported a few hundred years into the future and given first-class seats to acts like Tower of Power (who performed here last week) or our very own AIMS operetta extravaganza.

I should say that the singers really did do a fabulous job last night. I know I've complained a lot about the music this week, but all things considered the show was a success--despite half the orchestra performing drunk or high or both. I'm not exaggerating here either. The other two trumpet players were sharing a bottle of wine on stage--sneaking it out of a trumpet case in between numbers and sipping it from a shared coffee mug. Needless to say, everyone was in very good spirits! There funny numbers that caused eruptions of tittering laughter in the audience, exotic orchestral interludes that seasoned the air with sensuous intrigue (imagine if you will, an Austrian composer trying to sound Mexican...), and nostalgic love tunes that I'm sure made all the little Omas in the audience shed a tear.

I'm hoping we can carry this atmosphere of fun and enjoyment (though, dare I hope for a bit less on-stage booze?) through to our next 2 performances. We've got "run out" concerts tonight and Sunday and will be spreading our cheesy operetta music far and wide across the Austrian countryside.

My 30 seconds of fame came toward the end of intermission. I was sitting on stage warming up and minding my own business when one of the stage hands pointed straight at me with an urgent expression on his face and signaled me to come over.

I nervously waded through the horn section trying to think what in the world I'd done wrong (it's not MY wine in the trumpet case...honest!).

"Can you play a fanfare?" he asked me sharply.

"A fanfare?" I grimaced back, "You mean like reveille or something?"

Everyone in the brass section ogled me with stunned looks on their faces...

"Whatever you want," (he was getting impatient), "We just need to get the audience to come back in and sit down so we can start the show."

At these operetta concerts the drinks flow as liberally for the audience as they do for the orchestra and--as you can imagine--it's a little tricky getting everyone back on track for the second half when they've been at a party for the last 20 minutes.

"Ummm....ok? Sure...whatever you want?"

He led me quickly to the front of the stage and barked, "Ok, go!"

I stood there for a few seconds feeling awfully exposed. My mind was blank. What the *$#%!!!!

Somehow I managed to pick up my horn and doodle out a little fanfare:

"Ok...I'm starting in C...little trip to the dominant...hmm...better try to end on the tonic...THERE!...good enough."

I heard the entire room quiet down and focus in as I played. People turned from their conversations and looked right at me. I finished, put my horn down, and received jubilant applause from both the audience and the orchestra.

While I was doing my laundry this morning, the orchestra librarian walked up to me and said, "So, are you contemplating a second career as a composer?" I smiled and laughed in response. Then a few minutes later the personnel manager found me and, after complimenting my performance, asked if I'd be willing to do the same thing again at tonight's concert.

So, I guess I've found a little niche for myself here at AIMS: "Spontaneous Fanfare Producer."

Upon a Snail

Upon A Snail (excerpt)

She goes but softly, but she goeth sure,
She stumbles not, as stronger creatures do.
Her journey's shorter, so she may endure
Better than they which do much farther go.
She makes no noise, but stilly seizeth on
the flower or herb appointed for her food,
The which she quietly doth feed upon
While others range and glare, but find no good.
And though she doth but very softly go,
However, 'tis not fast now slow, bt sure;
And certainly they that do travel so,
The prize they do aim at they do procure.

--John Bunyan (1628-1688)

Operetta Week

This week my days have been echoing with really light, cheesy, off-beat-full music that's so easy (and dare I say...BORING) to play that it's difficult to maintain focus enough throughout the program to play it well.

To add injury to insult (yes, I'm intending that phrase to be read backwards), our parts were written for a large orchestra stuffed back into a dark pit somewhere and because we'll instead be accompanying the singers on stage, if the page says ƒƒƒ it really means mƒ (but gall-durnit it had better still sound as if the walls of Jericho are about to fall!), and if it says mƒ it just means that I'm going to have to pray really hard (and maybe send up a burt offering or two) that a next-to-inaudible, but still-lovely sound will somehow come out of my bell without cracking or double-buzzing or covering up the soloist. It's sensitive and tricky and annoyingly maddeningly challenging...even though it really IS easy.

I'm playing 1st trumpet on the second half of the program which features selections from Operettas by Austrian composer Robert Stolz, and if you like Rogers & Hammerstein you'd love his songs. He writes trumpet parts that last from the beginning of the songs straight through to the end, so even though it's real simple Lawrence-Welky kind of stuff, it leaves my chops exhausted and my cynical side so SICK of hearing lovely-twirly-chirping-birdy kind of love-sick fluff that it's all I can do to keep myself from wanting to kick over a music stand somewhere.

THERE!!!

...so glad I got that out...

The Death March

Turn in to the "The Good Shepherd,"

and we will gladly entertain you,

spare your tired limbs,

eat and drink and come on back.

These are the words that greeted AIMS tubist Elliot and I upon completing the Bärenschützklamm gorge traverse and arriving (after another steep climb) at "The Good Shepherd" alpine hut. We'd been hiking...and climbing...and scrambling for a couple of hours...often in the rain...and BOY was it tempting to take a load off for a while. Elliot insisted however that the view from the next hut would be well worth ascending another 45 minutes or so (the Austrians measure the length of their trails more frequently in minutes than in kilometers) and that once there we'd really be able to eat lunch in style! "Allright!" I said (perhaps a little too emphatically), "sounds good!"

I had used this response all morning while pushing my lungs and thigh muscles to their limits and doing my darndest to keep up with Elliot's killer pace without obviously breathing too hard or falling behind like a wimp. Back at the Heim when he'd invited me to go I assured him, "Oh yeah! I love hiking...would go all the time back home in Salt Lake City!" And when he voiced his intent to go all the way to the Kreutz at the top of the Hochlantsch I replied, "Awesome!"

At 10:20 that morning we'd boarded a train and rode out to the little town of Mixnitz--about 1/2 hour from Graz--and from there followed a neverendingly steep trail up to the beginning of the Bärenschützklamm ravine. After paying 3 euros at the gate, the real adventure began.

In 1901 the Graz Alpine Club erected a long series of 164 wooden bridges and ladders traversing the Mixnitzbach gorge (Bach means stream by the way). These sturdy but vertigo-inducing walkways fit right up against the vertical cliff walls one minute, and then soar up and over the top of rushing waterfalls the next. The climb is only moderately strenuous, but for someone like me who's always been a little leery of heights my heart rate was doubly amped in response to both the exhertion and the terror...especially once it started to rain and the planks beneath me took on an unnerving slippery sheen...yikes!

All fears aside, the views you get climbing a gorge this way are unparalleled and I stifled my acrophobia just enough to take a few pictures and keep up with my mountain-goat of a hiking partner. It's amazing how much courage can be mustered out of the threat of public humiliation!

So, now we've scaled the ravine, passed the "Guten Hirten," and are now trekking on up to the second hut...this had better be good...

Mercifully the trail leveled out for a while and we walked through a field where a herd of horses was placidly grazing and (this little guy at least) sleeping off a good meal...

Elliot blazed on ahead with hardly a pause, but fortunately turned around just as we were about to reenter the forest and saw this...

"Wow!" I exclaimed, relishing the brief opportunity to rest almost as much as the great vista. "Oh...that's just the beginning," said the mountain goat, "there's way more of that up ahead!"

...and so we moved on...

It surprised me how quickly we made it to the next hut and I breathed a secret sigh of relief as we walked down to snag a table. I had to acknowledge the that the view was incredible and once I poked my head over the edge of the balcony almost forgot all the effort it had taken to get there.

Elliot told me to sit down and came back a few minutes later with two Radlers: a mixture of beer and lemonade characteristic to German speaking countries that he insisted was the best and most refreshing mid-trail beverage. Loaded with calories, it would give us the burst of energy we'd need to ascend to the Kreutz. We sat for a few minutes eating sandwiches and Studentenfutter (a package of trail mix I'd purchased called, literally: "student feed") and making fun of a very large and particularly whiny dog at the next table. A cold wind was blowing up from the abyss and chilled our sweaty limbs to the bone--even beneath jackets--so we headed out again if only to get the blood pumping and stay warm..."Alright!" I said (a little too emphatically).

Now, I love that Austrians are avid mountaineers and it was encouraging to see so many people of all ages out on the trail together, but if there's one criticism I have it's that they have clearly not figured out the joys and benefits of the switchback. To be sure, most trails are beautifully maintained and scrupulously marked--I think it would actually take some effort be to get lost here--but if there's a hill to ascend, whoever designated the routes must have just drawn a straight line from the bottom to the top and said "there it is."

Our final ascent to the Hochlantsch Kreutz was steep and relentless. The mountain goat surged on ahead as I struggled to work what was left of my aching muscles and avoid slipping on the rain-wet rocks. I hoped that the trail would eventually begin a more merciful series of switchbacks--the terrain certainly didn't look like it would be prohibitive for them--but those hopes remained unfulfilled and I trudged on up the mountain. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I crested the final rise and beheld a magnificent cross...our destination was in sight!

Elliot stood a few yards away and looked at me with a big smile on his face.

"Isn't it incredible?!" he exclaimed.

"Wow (pant) yeah (pant pant), it's awesome!" I replied..hoping he hadn't noticed how hard I was breathing.

Once I had my wits about me I was more fully able to appreciate the splendor. I followed Elliot around to the base of the Kreutz (he's in the picture above sitting on a bench on the right), looked back toward the opposite cliff face I'd just crested, and stumbled with vertigo. We were surrounded on all sides by a harrowing plunge...

It's a good thing I'd practiced swallowing my fear earlier that morning because the imminent drops might have otherwise paralyzed me.

At the cross was a thermometer that read 10 degrees C (about 50 deg. F), and a vicious wind whipped at the summit, sending my hair flying in all directions. "Boy I need a haircut!" I thought...

Off to the side was a little round table that displayed distances from the top of this mountain to various other landmarks and cities. I looked to the East and saw the Schöckl and wondered if I'd be able to see this peak in any of the photos I'd taken on friday. Straight ahead a few thousand kilometers was the North Pole. Standing up there I felt as though if the clouds were to suddenly clear I'd Have a clear line of sight over northern Europe, into Finland, and up to the polar cap beyond...

Back at one of the rest huts Elliot had picked up a regional map that showed all the local trails. He opened it up to me and said he thought it would be cool to hike down the other side of the peak to Teichalm, a little resort town surrounding a lake, and then take another trail back to Mixnitz. "It shouldn't take that much longer," he said and we both acknowledged that the thought of scrambling down all the rocks we'd just climbed up didn't sound appealing in the slightest. "Alright!" I said in my usual tone, and we were off.

The trail was a good bit kinder this time. I felt strong (relatively) and rejuvenated (well, almost) and in about an hour we reached the village.

Literally every Austrian town you encounter is picture-postcard cute. Everything is kept up beautifully and almost every house has these lovely little window-box gardens that send cascades of flowers dangling over their sides. It felt like a dream to walk out here...rolling countryside...cowbells jingling...pretty lake to stroll along...

...but shortly after, the idyll (and the pictures) cease. Turns out this round-about route back to Mixnitz was a bit (quite a bit) longer than the mountain goat had understood from the map. He'd also somehow missed the fact that we'd have to ascend again for a couple hundred meters just to exit the valley, and this time we were on the clock...we'd have to make it back to Mixnitz in time to catch the 7:20 train. We trudged up a long biking road (well...I trudged...he wanted to jog, but after a couple minutes of still trying to look tough I finally gave in and insisted we stick to walking), stopped to use the facilities at a lonely little hut along the way, and after another rise that took us up to a point that appeared about parallel to the summit of the Schöckl, we finally began our descent in earnest.

It was murder on the knees and I stumbled forward with single-minded intent. Even the mountain goat complained a little and admitted that maybe this alternate route was a bit more than he'd anticipated. Thank goodness for well-labeled trails, fresh springs for filling water bottles, and Studentenfutter. We finally limped into Mixnitz at 7:05 and made it to the train platform in plenty of time to stretch and take a load off. We traced our route on the map and figured we'd covered about 18 km (around 11 miles). The elevation in mixnitz is 400-some-odd meters and is roughly 1720 at the summit of the Hochlantsch: the highest point of the Grazer Bergland. We tried to guesstimate--with all our convoluted ups and downs--how much elevation we'd covered, but gave up after a while and just figured we'd tell people it was PLENTY! I apologized to Elliot for holding him back, but he said he was actually pretty impressed with how well I kept up (Oh good! He hadn't noticed!!!).

When I got home I ate an entire pizza for dinner.

It had been quite a day. Half the time I felt as though I were about to have a heart attack, and I have no idea where I got the reserve strength to complete that last long march back to town, but somehow it still all felt worth it. Hiking is one of those "no pain no gain" things that you sometimes hate and curse the whole time you're doing it (especially if you're as out of shape as I like to pretend I'm not), until you finally reach the summit and the whole wide world is spread out in front of you and it flips this switch inside you that makes you just have to do it again...and again.