but we are truly incomprehensible, wir Menschen, we human beings.

grey autumn skies hang low and dismal over the urban rooftops of bavaria.  mist floats between hedges and flows slowly from Nymphenburger Schloss down the canal.  under hazy light, beggars roll in dewy blankets against the cold of morning.  a light pattering of rain besmears makeup and dulls the sheen of leather as mobs mill upon Theresienwiese and lines begin to form around the entries of beer tents.  coin purses jingle.  the slow lurch of would-be stumble drunks pulses through a faceless crowd.

as the old sun rises, the reek of vomit and urine mixes with the smell of roasting sausages, grilled onions, and beer.  cheers rise above the Wies’n; laden bench-loads of eager festival participants sway in unison, their voices rise in song.  pretty girls in Dirndl mince amongst mud puddles: flushed and perfumed flesh adds to the tantalizing cocktail of smells.

outside the central Wies’n, unhappy casualties lounge beneath the shelter of the trees.  “lounge” is, perhaps, a euphemism; half-living zombies alternate between sleep and urination.  10 am.

on crowded avenues and near on every entry to the Wies’n, cripples and the homeless beg.  €20 for a plate of festival food, €10 for a beer.  €3 would sate the hunger of the wretched on the street.

*   *   *

fast forward two days.  high above the green pastures of berchtesgaden, a lonely mountain trail winds through the pines.  the blue waters of the Königssee reflect a bluer sky.

mountains reduce us to an even playing field, wir Menschen, we human beings.  sure, money helps the Bergsteiger: good equipment, warmer clothing, limited experience — all these money can buy.  but the best equipped weekend warrior has, in end effect, small advantage over the poorest boor in leather work boots with a lust to mountaineer.

“in the mountains, there you feel free…”

the sun sinks in fire behind the alps, whips of high cirrus demarcate the Fühn.  Abendrot and the sun fades slowly over Niederbayern; long shadows creep towards Österreich.

der Berg ruft.  the mountain calls, and without so much as a cup of coffee, we cast loving glances down upon the valley and we climb.  the morning broadens, lighting first upon the greatest heights, then rising to crown the tops of lesser peaks below.  the charcoal of the night sky glows fiery red as the sun dawns above limestone crags.  long spears of sunbeam pierce deep pools of cloud.

„servus.“  „guten Morgen!“  tired leather tramps past crampons and mountaineering boots, ice axes clink to the thump of wooden walking-staves.  here is absolute serenity, here is freedom: far from the madding crowd.  weary pilgrims stumble on at their own paces, on-route to their temple.  we ascend into the sky.  „grüß Gott!“

and so it goes on.  the mountaineer struggles not against opponents, not even against mountains: the mountaineer does battle with himself.  high above the beer tents of oktoberfest, far from the temptation of roasting swine or alcohol, within a coliseum of stone and ice, the mountain climber fights alone.

here one can have no unfair advantage; in the alpine isolation, here we wrestle our own pride.  the mountaineer returns from his own predicament: the summit, if reached, is more intangible than the mountain’s rocky spire.  those who return as victors, they return as balanced men.  they walk in peace amongst the panicked masses, remembering the holy stillness of the mountain past the roar of traffic jams.

*   *   *

frisch weht der Wind der Heimat zu.  fresh blows the homeward breeze.  time to descend and buy myself Schweinsbraten and a beer…