Walking to Oberstdorf

by Fred Rother

The balcony frames my picture-postcard view of the scenery. Waves of red and white begonias cascade out of their flower boxes that line the edge of my balcony. Just beyond the garden below me, a bevy of contented cows feeds on the offerings of an emerald meadow. In the distance, a skinny railroad track segregates the country from the village beyond. The centuries-old, onion-domed church majestically peals the time across the countryside. Its white steeple points toward fleecy puffball clouds grazing in an aquamarine morning sky. The eight o'clock train timidly proclaims its departure from the station as it heads for Oberstdorf.

"Tomorrow, we walk to Oberstdorf," my wife, Irene, interrupts my reverie, "it's only about six miles." Back home in Oklahoma, we had agreed that we needed a relaxing vacation this year—no driving all over the place, no hectic shopping sprees, and no Oktoberfest(which would then be in full bloom). Instead, we decided to infringe upon the privacy of Irene's brother, Hugo, and wife, Rosie, who live the small village of Altstädten, snuggled in a valley against the foothills of the Alps in the Algäu region of Bavaria. From there, we would walk or bicycle to adjacent villages and towns, hike up a small mountain or two, marvel at the breathtaking scenery, visit some of the many beautiful churches, and sample the local foods that are so impossible to find in Oklahoma..

Our list of "soul foods" is long. We always enjoy a meal of Kässpatzen with Weisslacker (a boiled noodle dough formed into small drops, with mild, melted, limburger-like Alpine cheese). This entrée is one of Rosie's specialties. With very little prompting, we can usually also convince Hugo to make his famous Wurstsalat (a salad consisting of finely-cubed cold-cuts, chopped onions and dill pickles, marinated in oil and vinegar).

For our first outing we usually head for the little town of Hindelang to visit an cozy, old tavern called: Salzstadlwirt. It is just a small pub with only five or six tables. They produce the best crisply-broiled Schweinshaxn(roast pork leg) we have ever had the pleasure to eat. A tall, tulip-shaped glass of Weizen (wheat beer) works well with this treat, and an Obstler(apple brandy) to cap off the meal.

Hugo and Rosie are avid tennis players. So, we often visit the Tennisplatz in Altstädten to watch them play a match or two. While relaxing on the terrace, facing the tennis court, we always order a piece or two of Elke's (the proprietor) outstanding Zwetschen Datschi (plum cake).

On a more unusual note, Hugo and I usually indulge in a men-only ritual at 9 o'clock on Friday mornings. We visit the sausage kitchen of Metzger(butcher) Lang. It's a rare treat, indeed, for me to eat fresh-from-the-kettle Weisswürstl (a boiled white veal sausage). We drive to Sonthofen, a nearby city, walk in the back door of the butcher shop where the maestro himself just finished cooking his 'würstl in a giant stainless-steel kettle. We, with a bunch of other guys, stand at a long butcher-block table which contains a pile of crusty rye-bread slices and several large blobs of sweet mustard dumped right on the table. We tell the butcher how many sausages we want, which he then fishes out of the kettle, hot and fresh, for us to enjoy. We dig our sausage into the mustard pile, grab a chunk of bread and chomp away. What would food be without beer here in Germany, one must invariable wonder. To accommodate that requirement, several cases of the stuff are stacked against the wall. Upon completion of this feast, we tell the butcher what we consumed, he states the price, we pay, and happily depart, just itching to do it again next Friday

Another of our must-do activities includes a visit to the Altstädter Hof. This facility consists of a large cabin perched half-way up an adjacent mountain. Its primary purpose is to house a caretaker couple, who guard the young cattle, belonging to the farmers in Altstädten, during the summer months, while they graze on the lush Alpine meadows high above the village. Only the hardiest of folks hike up there. One can also reach this place from the village by car after paying a fee for traversing this narrow and very steep road.

Largely, however, it also serves as a rest-stop for the many hikers who trek the trails along the mountain range. Moreover, it is a destination for the tourists who come to this region of Bavaria from all over Germany to enjoy the invigorating air, the fantastic views and prolific nature all around. Throughout the day, people sit on its wooden terrace in the mild sunshine(in October) to enjoy a cool beer while marveling at the Edelweiss plantings around the building, the panorama of the whole valley below and the mountains beyond. One also finds this place so appealing because of its rustic and cozy interior. A roaring fireplace greets the visitors during the cool evenings, who come to socialize and to enjoy the simple foods served here, accompanied, of course, by barrels of Bavarian brewery magic.

Gusty, cold rain-showers had welcomed us to Germany yesterday, as we drove out of the Munich airport complex. They accompanied us on our two-hour ride to our destination. The rain continued to pelt our window as we fell asleep that evening. Sunshine tomorrow, Hugo predicted. "Tomorrow we walk to Oberstdorf," Irene reminded me, lest I forget. I was able to convince her, however, that it would be prudent to choose a closer target for our first foot-powered expedition. So, we had agreed on the small town of Fischen, only 45-minute walk away.

Raucous clanking sounds roused us to a magnificent morning. A small contingent of chocolate cows, with giant brass bells attached to their necks, was ambling past our bedroom window on their way to greener pastures. "Smell that air," I said moments later to Irene, while standing on the balcony, absorbing the crisp, Alpine ambiance. "Why don't you smell some more on your way to the village to fetch some rolls," Irene offered.

As I walked toward the village barely a mile away, I realized that I was about to participate in a most sacred of German rituals-- breakfast. Local bakers throughout Germany rise at two o'clock every morning to bake the crunchy, fist-sized breakfast rolls that the German public demands. "Grüß Gott,"( a typical Bavarian greeting, literally means: greet God) I said to the bicycling locals as they returned from their trek to the bakery, shopping bags swinging from their handle bars and bulging with rolls.

Heavenly scents soon alerted me to the proximity of my destination. "Sechs Semmeln, bitte,", I pronounced carefully, as I handed my shopping bag to the lady behind the counter, expecting to receive 6 rolls for my linguistic effort. I was out of breath by the time I returned to the apartment clutching my still-warm cargo. Meanwhile, Hugo and Rosie, had set the table with two dainty pots, fragrant with coffee and tea, cups on saucers, plates and silverware. The obligatory platter of cheese and near-transparent slices of smoked ham served as centerpiece of the setting. A small wicker basket stood ready to receive my contribution. Soft-boiled eggs, dressed in knitted warming caps, waited patiently in their individual egg holders at each of the plates. Several substantial jars, filled with various fruit marmalades, further graced the table. We were ready to partake.

After breakfast, we soon found ourselves on the walking trail to Fischen. Our dirt path snaked along the furiously rushing, glacier-green, ice-cold river Iller, guarded by magnificent pines, oaks and beech trees. Mushrooms and ferns decorated the pine-needle carpeted forest floor around us. Gray squirrels and a multitude of birds cheered us on. "Isn't this great?" we beamed at each other without breaking stride. Too soon, civilization popped into existence as we emerged from the woods. Like a painting, Fischen stood in the brilliant morning sun, its two church steeples framing the Alpine background, beckoning the visitor to come and stay a while—and we always do.

When in Fischen—actually anywhere in Germany—do, as the locals do: visit a Conditorei (pastry bakery) to sample their fantastic baked goods topped with a dollop of real whipped cream—calories and cholesterol be damned! Every little village, town or city contains several such establishments, frequented religiously by their inveterate patrons.

Fischen's narrow main street meanders around two buildings, which protrude into its path, before it discharges its load of travelers into the village square. A giant Linden tree presides over a mini-park and memorial at the center of the square. It seems to anchor the surrounding buildings to its ancient trunk. This tree was planted in 1876, a plaque informs us.

Ever alert for opportunities to sample the local cuisine and liquid refreshments, I discovered the place that would soon provide us with our mid-day meal. Eminently inviting, this charming Gasthaus (literally guest house) faces the street across its cobblestone courtyard with an impeccably white stucco facade, adorned with those ubiquitous flower boxes at every window, overflowing with waves of red and pink and white.

"Zur Post"—the words, artfully painted over the arched doorway, announce the name of the establishment. A menu, encased in a glass box next to the door, proudly proclaims the various delicacies that were soon to emanate from their prolific kitchen and cellar. Tables and chairs sprinkled around the courtyard complete the idyllic scene.

Since it was still too early for lunch, Irene decided to visit some of the impeccable, little stores strung around the square, like so many pearls on a string. Meanwhile, she graciously suggested, I might prefer to practice my philosophy under the ancient tree. While she browsed about, I lounged on a green-lacquered bench in the mild October sun under this spectacular giant, pondering its history. I wondered how many others have rested under its canopy throughout the many years of its life.