Site Features
Bavaria
Fall 1997
An early snow caught Autumn sleeping . . . and Autumn blushed. In early
morning, several hours before first light, flakes of snow, the first of
the season drifted slowly to the ground in dark stillness partially
obscuring the distance between my up-stairs window and the street lamp
below. With exception of but precious few, the village of Garmisch, nestled
within the Bavarian Alps, lay sleeping unaware the dense cloud cover, hanging
low the day before, would paint the surroundings white by first light.
Maples, still red and aflame, not yet naked, bent under a heavy load and
bows of Firs and Spruce, laden with snow, wept knowing that Winter’s bitter
cold was almost upon them. Large majestic Beech Trees, cloaked in golden
leaves and flocked in white, shivered in a light breeze and Ornamental
Crab Apples, their leaves dark crimson, contrasted starkly against a blanket
of fallen snow.
Excited, I hurriedly prepared myself for the day. The luring smell of hot
coffee, fresh Brötchen, and eggs became increasingly pronounced as
I made my way downstairs to the frühstück zimmer where other
guest were probably eating breakfast. I was the first to have arrived.
A young Bavarian lad with long blonde hair that had been closely trimmed
high above the ears and around the back (typical of current European style),
blue eyes, and no more than 12 years of age greeted me with a warm smile
and a hardy "Grüß Gott". He had braces and his posture exuded
self-confidence brandishing a keenness rarely seen in today’s youth. He
was clean and neat . . . well kept . . . and beamed with advanced maturity
. . . intelligence . . . a pronounced active listener. I was impressed.
With polished politeness he asked if I would be having hot tea or coffee
and I smiled responding, "Kaffee bitte". Quietly slipping away he made
his way to the kitchen where his mom was busy preparing breakfast.
The room was large and quiet . . . dimly lit by several pre-WWII wall lamps
offering a cozy feeling of warmth. The walls had been painted with large
elaborate figures in mauve colors and Bavarian design. Tables were neatly
arranged with carefully positioned white linen table cloths, a tiny vase
on each bearing small fresh cut flowers, one candle and one coffee warmer,
cups and saucers, and ‘smiley face’ paper napkins next to the utensils.
An antique washstand, doubling as room furnishing, served as a small serving
bench on which had been placed several large wicker baskets filled with
fresh baked Brötchen and Black German Bread. Slightly above the washstand
and positioned on the wall was a dried arrangement of wheat shafts and
various bread grains tied in the middle by a brown ribbon. Several feet
away was what appeared to be an antique pie-safe filled with decorative
bowls of assorted marmalade, honey, fresh German Butter, and cereals. I
helped myself to a Brötchen, a large spoonful of Black Berry marmalade,
and several slices of butter.
My young friend returned bearing a small white China Pot filled with coffee
and a butane candle lighter. Pouring my cup almost full, he set the pot
on the table and tasked himself to light my 'coffee warmer' as well as
the small table candle. He had obviously been well schooled in his Practicing
Art. Taking one step back, surveying the table for any omission, he satisfied
himself that his charge had been adequately dispatched and said, "So!".
"Dankeschön", I replied and with that he briefly paused. With innocence
only manifest at his age, and facial gestures and body language usually
reserved for mature adults he said, "Mein name ist Sebastian.", offering
up, as a means of introduction, his small hand for a Gentleman’s hand shake.
What a well mannered, fine young man! He reminded me so much of Chad and
his desire to please.
Chad Eric
Wingo
My Youngest
Son
Killed
15 May 92
Finishing my breakfast I called to Sebastian in Deutsch and he approached my table. His mother had yet to present herself but I saw her standing at the kitchen door with a somewhat perplexed expression thinking, perhaps, he had omitted something or perhaps done something wrong. The young man stood erect next to my table, his shoulders squared and his chin held high, then slightly bending at the waist he nodded curtly, "How may I help you?", he asked in his finest German. Reaching into my coat pocket I handed him a DM10.00 bill and I thanked him for being such a kind host. The lad’s eyes sprang to life and danced as a broad smile parted his lips displaying his braces. "Vielen Dank!", he exclaimed then turned, looking over his shoulder at his mother. I directed my attention to his mom, now partially standing outside the kitchen, saying to her that she had a fine young son and I was impressed with his personal character. Surprisingly, she responded in broken English, "Danke much Sir.", as she eyed her son with great pride.
A hungry gut and the thought of lunch drove me from the mountain. Making my way down the narrow, snow covered road an unexpected bonus took me by surprise. Though the windows were up in my car I could hear my little gift well before it came into sight. Approaching the village the sound became louder and I fumbled for my camera as I searched for a place to pull over. I had seen this before and no less, each time, I enjoyed the sight. There was no mistake; the sound was clear now, and they were close. Cars had stopped on the cobble stone street and I eased from my car camera in hand. The air was literally filled by the sound of ringing bells . . . hundreds and hundreds of bells. Sound reverberated off the Ginger Bread style buildings lining the narrow streets the sound now almost deafening. Rounding the corner they came . . . each and every one with a large ovoid shaped bell clinging & clanging hanging from their broad necks. Cloven hoofs clapped loudly as they tromped on square, uneven black cobble stones. My favorite time of year; the herding of livestock from the Alm, a high summer pasture, to the lush green valley below. And cow "poo poo" was everywhere having splattered cars that had been freshly washed and those otherwise not so clean. There was no discrimination within their ranks as they parted around cars and then swallowing them whole like a giant ameba phagocytosing a bacterium. Others, not yet so unlucky, frantically attempted to turn their cars around in the narrow streets . . . to escape certain onslaught but it was too late as they too were swallowed by the herd . . . then "organically soiled".
No more that 10 minutes has elapsed until the final few cows passed being herded by a middle aged man on a bicycle. And no more that 20 feet behind came an enormous flock of sheep each and every one sporting a smaller bell sounding a higher pitch. As the bleating wave of white wool filled the street and sidewalks, rebels and mavericks were seen jumping over wooden flower boxes, jumping into flower boxes, and some stopped, standing in flower boxes helping themselves to tender morsels that once served as flowering decorations for the alpine village. Still others were observed leaping into the air and over the backs of their cousins; the young, I’m convinced, had springs on their hoofs as they frolicked and bounced in gleeful disregard.
After another 8 to 10 minutes the ringing of bells and the bleating of sheep became distant as the final Waltz began. The distant ringing bells were overcome by honking the likes of which I had never heard. Rounding the corner, walking backward, came a young boy bent partially at the waste with outstretched arms reminiscent of a basketball player guarding the basket as the ball was carried down the court by the opposing team. The noise became louder and almost ear splitting. Then I spied a lone white goose fly into the middle of the street. The kid attempted to head off the goose with outstretched arms but by that time he was over run by perhaps 200 geese . . . waddling and squirting poo poo. Their heads turned frantically, first in one direction then another, confused and bewildered, searching for the lead goose but that baby was long gone as it had taken to flight and touched down somewhere between the herd of cattle and the bleating flock of sheep. That solid wall of geese waddled left and then waddled right . . . in unison . . . schooling like fish . . . as if an invisible conductor orchestrated their movement. Never in my life have I seen such a gaggle of geese. The air smelled of manure . . . confused manure . . .! At one moment it smelled like cow manure; with the changing of wind it reeked of sheep dung and in an instant it bore the flavor of "The Green Fog of Death" produced only by geese. By the time this menagerie of barn yard animals passed, the street was slick and [rich] from a composite of spoil. The well-to-do, lift-your-little-finger-in-the-air German men were livid! Foam oozed from between clinched teeth and arms violently whipped the air. They were PISSED because their Mercedes had been soiled by biodegradable waste. That’s what I wanted to see!!! It was worth every minute. No one "cuts a shine" like mad German men. Fulfilled and richly blessed I let out a "hoot" and made my way to the nearest car wash. My day was complete.
Morning brought me in touch with a Natural Wonder touched by the Hands of God. Although my reason for being in Garmisch was to attend a mandatory Dental Conference, I reasoned that I "cut-on-jaws" every single day and I needed a rest from this now mundane labor. So I fabricated an excuse and justified my reason for intentional truancy . . . Partnachklamm! How can I possibly begin to describe Partnachklamm?
By the time I had finished breakfast the fog had begun to lift. Hints of blue shown high above with a promise that this day, would at worst, be partly cloudy. I liberated a pictorial landkarte from my temporary landlord and oriented the map and myself. Driving through the village of Garmisch I twisted and turned until I reached my destination, Olympic Stadium. Above the gates, leading into the stadium, were 5 interlocking circles, trademark for the Olympic Games. High in the air at the far end of the stadium were two giant Ski Jumps . . . remnants and evidence that the Winter Games had once been held in Garmisch. I walked past the stadium and away from the outskirts of Garmisch into a sleepy valley leading into the Alps. With exception of higher elevation, snow from the day before had melted. Even in the shadows the snow had melted. A large mountain stream, Partnach, ran swiftly with cold glacial water. It was crystal clear with only a faint hint of azure indicating that the progenitor, melting ice high in the Alps, bore a high content of Limestone. At various intervals, as far as the eye could see up stream, the water turned white as it smashed against and boiled over submerged stones. The rapids were strong enough that it would be unlikely for a large man to negotiate the current without falling and being swept down stream. I walked to the stream’s edge and plunged my hand into the water; it was ice cold . . . Bush Country. The air was a far cry from brisk. It would best be described as cold as currents whipped down the valley from high above. Snow, from the day before, was sufficient to have caused leaves to absciss. In less than 24 hours leaves were falling at an unprecedented rate. The path was covered with assorted colors and leaves fell like rain in the strong cold breeze. Invisible fingers of wind taunted fallen leaves picking them up in tiny whirls drawing them higher and higher into the sky spinning them over and around. There they tumbled to the ground, twisting, turning, and finally floating on their downward flight. The air was fresh almost producing a giddy effect; a welcome change from the stench of city and industrial pollutants.
Before my son was killed I ran on an average of 6 miles a day and in 1990 I ran a Marathon. After Chad’s death I couldn’t sleep so for a year I ran 10-12 miles each day in attempt to wear myself out so I could sleep. Over the course of a year I caused permanent nerve damage to my left foot and simultaneously developed a sever stress fracture which could never be effectively treated. For over 5 years I had been in constant pain. The answer to 5 years of prayer came several months ago when I purchase a special pair of shoes and this has allowed me walk three miles every day . . . and it has once again offered me the opportunity to spend time, as I once did, with my old friend Mother Nature. On this day my heart laughed and my feet danced as I set out on what culminated as a 12 mile Wonder (German for walk) and what a [wonder] it was. I walked briskly with a bounce in my step. I even passed Spaziergaenger and they most always walk very fast. I followed the stream for perhaps a mile admiring Fall Colors and I stopped but briefly to watch a Mallard drake swim in the pale blue water. His head was so green and swimming from the shadows into sunlight his feathers glistened like emeralds. Several miles later, still walking beside the stream, I paid a DM3.00 toll and began my walk through the klamm (Deutsch for gorge). Almost immediately the valley walls closed to within 100 feet and they are best described as "steil nach oben" . . . straight up . . . perhaps as much as 1000 feet.
Water roared
and raged as it forced its way through the narrowing passage. Ferns and
Liver Warts hung from both sides of the sheer rock walls. The walls closed
quickly and a small tunnel had been cut through solid rock allowing for
safe passage. The tunnel was no more than 25 feet long and breaking through
the other side left me standing in awe. The klamm had narrowed to no less
that 8 feet and the water, now white with foam, raged no more that 5 feet
beneath me. The walls of the canyon, still equal distance apart jutted
upwardly in a serpentine fashion as much as 1200 feet, almost as if giant
pinking shears had cut straight through this mountain of rock. At its rim,
high above, it widened and a wooden foot bridge, barely recognizable, spanned
the intervening space. The roar from the water was loud and I deliberately
spoke aloud so as to gauge the magnitude of the roar. I felt my throat
vibrate and the muscles of my jaws flexed but I discerned no audible sound.
When first I entered the klamm I was shooting pictures at f/16 250th/sec.
Now I was shooting at f/1.4 15th /sec. Light barely found it way to my
position.
The walls began to close even more. Had not rock been excavated from the
side in a semicircular fashion the trail would have terminated but as it
was I walked above the swift water for more than 200 yards until the walls
closed within 3 feet. At that point another set of tunnels had been cut.
Passing through these tunnels, coming out the other side, the walls separated
substantially and I broke into a semi-sunlit area with cascading waterfalls
perhaps 60 feet high. Ice sickles, long and slender, glistened in the sunlight
and mist from the crashing water rose and condensed on the canyon walls
producing a frozen glaze. Several trees had sprung to life deep within
the klamm among the cascade’s boulders. Undernourished, tall, spindly and
racing for the sky their branches searched for light the first branch being
almost 40 feet from the ground. Ferns once again had found sufficient light
to support their life sucking in moisture from the mist while other small
plants found a niche in which to survive this harsh ecosystem. How unfortunate
they were . . . destiny imposing such a Life Sentence on them;
a dark hole with no means of escape. With each dawning they strive to survive
on skimpy nourishment and degraded sunlight. Never knowing the taste of
rich humus and copious light abounding on the forest floor no more than
1200 feet above, prisoners, they will live out their life in the confines
of Nature’s Cell.
The path turned left and away from the cascades and I began my trek upward.
Stopping several times to catch my breath I continued. The canyon walls
were behind me now and the scenery below had rapidly changed to a deep
wooded forest. My turn-around-point was nearing. Out of breath, tired,
but pain free I continued upward to where the trail forked. Two roads diverge
in a yellow wood . . . and I took the easier of the two with plans to return
in the Spring so as to take the other just as fair. Far below, the stream
had widened and a tributary from the adjoining valley fed into the larger
stream. I made my way down the well maintained trail taking pictures along
the way. At the bottom a small hutte (a small shelter) had been constructed
sporting primitive benches and a crude table. I was alone. No mechanical
sounds . . . no human voices; just the pounding in my ears from my beating
heart. It was calm and serene; branches high above my head swayed in rhythm
and leaves rustled as they fell to the ground. Babbling water and the songs
of birds sang the main chorus as I sat in the auditorium swallowed by acoustical
genius and the orchestra played.
In the far distance playful laughter from little Deutsch voices shattered
the stillness. Sadly, it was time to leave.
Ah . . . . Bavaria!
Dr. Harold
H. Wingo
Schweinfurt,
Germany
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The Expat Dentist All Rights Reserved