Big Wind; Happy Crew

I can't really upload things from here, but this photo pretty much sums up what an afternoon of high Greek wind does to the human psyche. (Joy!) 

We were whipping along at 13 knots here. 

Pictured is of course assorted Wehlens; the captain; a crew member, and the other captain - a simply bad ass tattooed Italian woman who sails the seven seas and I worship her. 

Must go gaze at Patmos in the setting sun. 

Xx

High Seas

Life is good: surrounded by blue water and French crew. 

F said last posts were not funny enough mommy. I'll try to lighten up; but I will have to tell you about refugees being brought here-God help them.

But for now, let's go swimming 

Xx 

Ahoy

This is home for the next week. Safe and sound- don't worry MMB!

More soon-must go kiss the crew, and then sail to Samos.

Good Bye For Now..

So last night was quiet-several couples from around here, tons of food, and rather serious dinner conversation. I think the Wehlen trio are really and truly tired. I was sitting on a hard bench, slogging away in German about the refugee crisis (the town of Lech is hosting a bunch of Syrian refugees-so much I haven't told you about!)..and it was all I could do not to pass out in my hummus. 

We leave early in the morning; by the afternoon we will be on the Vaimiti surrounded by our bad ass all women crew and our French Captain. Bikini is packed.

This summer has been a good one in the mountains: we are more like jackrabbits physically-unhappier sitting still, more unfazed about running up a hill. But our minds are also quieter, and more prone to reverence over small things. 

I have said it before, but I will again: I have very good friends in these hills. The kind of friends who light up when they see you, and cry a little when you go.  Without meaning to, they always remind me to keep it simple: love unreservedly; laugh freely-but only at very funny things; and when you get sad- take a very, very long walk. 

I have attached a letter I wrote to K and G several summers ago-amazing how it still fits today. (see below)

Bye Bye beloved Lech-you might make a grown up out of me yet. 

(Photos courtesy of Ida S.)

Grown men in Lederhosen

With the chef-he told me to make him look taller...

Austrians in black. Wear black, Be nice to blondes. (on the right is avalanche dynamiter :) 

Heart-breaking caption on the tablecloth made by the Syrian Refugees. This is where I sat.

My Dollings:
Time has come again for my annual, end-of-summer thank you to the Schneiders. As you are aware, tradition dictates it be in writing. Siri says writing is a need, not a choice. She also says (I love this): "I am afraid of writing, because when I write I am always moving toward the unarticulated, the dangerous, the place where the walls don't hold. I don't know what is there, but I'm pulled towards it." 

So here goes:

Thank you for books and wine and pyjamas and listening to my music. Thank you for caring about what we do, where we walk, how much we eat. Thank you for the tender way you fold my son into your son's life. Thank you for Angelina and buying tracing paper and for Harald delivering bicycles in uniform. Thank you for Ibiza salt! Thank you for 3,2073 text messages. Thank you for Boden Alpe and for Elmar jokes. Thank you for that thing I can never quite describe, even to myself.
Thank you especially for that.

In truth, (since we are so truthful now) I did not get what I really craved this summer: I craved rolling down the hill behind the Allmeinde with Katia like we did that first summer, just to see if it was fun (it was not). I craved seeing you reading the paper on the floor in the sunny window. I craved being able to run quickly up a hill.

My zen husband would of course say, craving is the problem- it makes you miss the moments you actually have in front of you. And I did miss some.

So it was tough to leave you and the Voralberg. Those mountains and I are not exactly friends, however: they only tolerate me in my attempts to walk up or ski down. But they watch me endure. They are quiet witnesses to my journey.  And that- with the friendship of four people, in a little house, in the mountains' long shadow, is untold comfort.


Now let's go skiing.
e

PS Katia: don't let any man tell you can or cannot sing. Sing, girl. We don't have much time.

PPS. Oooooooohmm!   Danke...Wir sind eurer nicht wuerdig. T

The Mountains' Picnic

G announced last minute that we would have a little sausage roast at my favorite place outside of Lech. It only takes 15 minutes or so to drive there along a road that is closed to traffic during the day. We have had picnics (epic picnics-lordy) there before, with large groups and the river filled with wine bottles, but I had never been in the evening.
It is very difficult to describe how stunning the scenery is-and I mean that literally-it stuns you into silence. The first thing one notices is the absolute solitude: I have never seen another person there besides us, and it always makes me slightly giddy. It is a biblical-like oasis: rolling mounds of wild grass, leading to a river of fresh drinkable water, that in turn leads to a waterfall and a turquoise blue pool. Surrounding us on all sides, very close by, are the mountains. And without human chatter and chair lifts and car noise, the mountains somehow come alive: as if we have peeked into the children's play room and seen the toys playing. They are at the picnic; or perhaps we are at theirs. That's the only way I can describe it.
Anyway I love it so much, and the Schneiders know this, so they always try to get me there.

The menu is "Arlberg fitness" shall we call it: sausages and cheese appetizers; sausage main course; potato salad. G has brought beers galore, five bottles of wine (for four adults) and no water. In fairness, the river water tastes like something out of Willy Wonka. I am not kidding. It is delicious (when is water delicious?) It really is.
K is telling me the story of the soccer players who crashed in the Andes and turned to cannibalism and she is soberly describing how they did not cook the bodies-they ate them sort of frozen- and sliced thinly. Then they discreetly put the slices onto the side of the plane, for anyone's anonymous use, should they become desperate. "You know like Carpaccio..."
Well I come unglued. She is literally the most obsessed about food girl I know..and I know a few (my bloggers are the best eaters), but she is a new level. Somehow, even in a story like this, she mentions Italian dishes. So off I go: I am unleashed for the rest of the night, amusing one and all with soccer player carpaccio jokes.

Thomas said wryly that she and I would start eating the men immediately, dead or not.

Ok now don't get sensitive! F already in a veeery teenager who hasn't eaten or slept enough moment said to us: You do know you are laughing about cannibalism don't you?
No. We are laughing at Katia and the idea that she would have fashioned an apron out of leaves and a chefs hat out of an air sickness bag, and would have started peeling carrots in the jungle. so there. Do not write in with complaints.

Where was I? So Ida serves us drinks (she is a heavy pour that child..very loose wrist), and G makes the fire, and I approach with this sausage dangling precariously on a stick, ready to do battle.
Oh San Francisco....I really am out of my league. It is all wrong: needs to be re fashioned on the stick, placed on a rock just so, nurtured into toasty brown perfection. All performed by our hero G. Ida has us play a game where we each have a name on our heads and we ask questions until we guess who we are. It got confusing because G put a right wing Austrian politician on Thomas that very few of us had heard of, and I got Brigitte Bardot. ( I don't mean to brag; actually I really do, but in moments of great passion, G calls me B for Brigitte and this is why I am friends with him. )

None of us wanted to leave, but the darkness, and Luis' need to see the last half of the soccer match ended the evening. So we gathered what food was left and tottered over the mounds of grass through the trees, to the base of the mountains where our cars sat waiting.

How I wish I could show you all this sacred place. We could tip toe in like one does into a sleeping baby's room. And we could whisper and giggle and marvel at our good fortune at being together -together at the Mountains' picnic.

Thomas hoarding the only non sausage dish on offer. Like Gollum with his gold ring. "My pretty potatoes...."

Ida's photo in black and white of the water fall. In the day the water is the color of the Mediterranean 

Quickie photos ( + Addendum)

After lunch the fog started rolling over the hill like a waterfall

I'll explain it all in the morning. For now the relevant statistics are: 12 miles; 3,400 feet elevation; two beers; one raclette; two cigarettes (not mine). No divorces. (Ahh but the night is still young...)

Below photos of the dream team

Night America xx

Addendum!

So we survived despite Thomas leading me in the wrong direction, thereby forcing me to do an extra climb. It is my concerted belief that he likes to go up more than he likes to go down. Luckily for him my legs were too tired to kick him off the cliff.  He kept asking me if things looked familiar. And I kept reminding him that last year I was in a hail storm followed by fog. Also I didn't look any further than the person in front of me, so no. nothing looked familiar. That's like asking me if the cow over there  looks familiar.

F came for the first 8 miles, then as planned, walked home and made himself lunch. (Katia was horrified: Frederick! never ever do that again!! make yourself lunch!!! You come to me!)

So the team was: visitors from Berlin/SF; and Regina the woman who runs the house here-super fit as you all remember. She arrives in tight jeans and a tank top. No hat, no water (she said there are some springs somewhere..) and-not making this up-three cigarettes. No food. 

I on the other hand, am an unholy mixture of weekend jogger and faux ultra marathoner with a Jordanian cowboy thrown in (due to the pattern on the little cloth I bring on jogs-worn here on my face). I am sun-creamed and hydrated and have a full cheese sandwich along even though we will walk past many alpine huts filled with other cheese sandwiches many of which I intend to avail myself. 

D looks, as always like former model in skimpy shorts that look great. But I am saying: girls girls, we are going rather high up! It might get cold! where is the gortex? They are not worried.

Best of all though is R who comes in full Hawaiian gear: top and shorts (bathing suit perhaps?) and holding a water. Oh and some black socks. It was the best. He really made T and me walk faster because he has this way of droning on during a hike about the exact way he is feeling in each part of his body. Then he moves on to describing each of his children's strengths and weaknesses in hiking situations. Thomas lasted about two minutes and then went into Wehlen overdrive, leaping over boulders and cows to be alone in his misery, leaving me to pant while murmuring: How interesting: tell me more about your neck. 

It is really quite a slog-sooo much uphill. Every time we came around a corner, I thought this must be the last of the up hill but somehow it never was. After a little over three hours, Thomas tells me that after this much time last year, I was already finished with the race. Oh I cannot tell you how that crushed me! we still had so long to go! Basically I covered in 2 hours 45 minutes last year, what we covered in four and a half yesterday. (we walked a little shorter route yesterday.) And I am not a fast jogger. 

We were tired, but happy afterwards. No one fought-in fact Devon told me 3/4 into the slog that she was feeling somewhat euphoric and the adult ADD she has, had finally, mercifully shut off. So you see it happens to everyone: this strange Alpine drug of happiness. 

Tonight I think G is going to organize that grill party (yay); and then Thursday the big gay feast. Saturday, we take the car to the Munich airport to fly to Turkey and meet the gang on the boat. 

Me; Regina;Devon

Rainer (LOL!)

Pointing to where we came from

Good Morning America...

I took this picture at 5 30 or so this morning when I woke. It was prettier than that; but Lech never lets you take a real picture of her. It's always a mediocre interpretation. 

The reason I am up early is because we are going on a very long slog today-retracing the steps of my half marathon from last year. We won't go quite 13 miles, because at mile 11 we will be back at home, and there is no way I will walk past my refrigerator (or bed) at mile 11. My guide knows whom he married. To add some super fun elements- we are taking one highly skeptical teenager, one very fit chain smoker, and one couple who have not walked one step since they have been here. Also they have this adorable way of screaming at each other during stressful moments like lunch on the terrace, or candlelight dinners; but who knows? maybe the ennui of walking up hill for hours is just what the doctor ordered. 

I have warned the newcomers that I listen to music during the dark hours and will not be available for any sort of verbal commiseration along the way. Further, I have been known to break into a run down hill, and/or whenever I sense we are near home. Much like a horse and his barn. 

On the plus side, I am the one with the gummi bears; all you need to do is ask. 

K and G are working, but they want us to go into the wilds with them this evening to "grill a sausage". Normally this is my absolute favorite thing. Outside of town doesn't feel so sound-of- music-y; it feels prehistoric. The grass and bushes are wild and un-mowed; and it is the only time all summer I am treated to such quiet: silence except for the river and the cowbells. 

After this much walking however, I'm not sure I will be able to prepare my own meal. But if I say that to a Schneider he will provide some sort of Coolie to stand at my side and cook it for me, perhaps place it in my mouth. 

So I must keep quiet. 

The locals say there could be a thunderstorm midday, which means we will be approximately 90 minutes from home. 

This should be interesting. 

More, obviously, upon our return. 

xx

Hot Air Cold Water

Morning, Glory

Ok team since I went for two yesterday, I will keep this update short: sun is out but I will not walk. Instead I will plant myself by the lech river and read my new climbing book (Savage Arena) in my bathing suit. 

T actually announced he was too tired and needed to rest for tomorrow (we are walking my 1/2 marathon.) so he is working. 

I think he is actually depressed about the hitch-bot. So sad- a scientific experiment in kindness that we essentially failed. (And both Germany and Canada did not ; Google it..)

You will all be relieved to know that I have bought an Etro navy blue leather motorcycle jacket for the first annual gay lech fete. 

(I could feel your worry over my mini lederhosen plan from here.) 

Maybe I'll post a photo from my swimming hole. 

Xx

Last one today I promise!

I don't mean to brag, but I think God might be reading my blog. We had a miserable rainy slog over hill and dale this morning, and I had my afternoon all planned out. I was going to sauna and sleep and feel sorry for myself due to the fact that one instagram friend is sending minute by minute pictures of herself in sunny St. Tropez. (Amy can't you stop her??) It is getting on my nerves.
Also, in honor of lions and black people being shot constantly, I was going to eat some peanut butter.

Alas, as if word got out in heaven that I was going to have one day off from love beam practice, the sun comes out. Blazing amazing Alpine Sun.

Honestly I am not in the mood.

Von Wehlen is making fun of me for citing Messner -as if I am trying to sound like a mountain climber. Sorry, but I am not backing down. All I meant was there are people who don't mind getting a few blisters in their quest for that soothing, eternal presence that caresses your cheek; and there are people who do. And Reinie and I (I call him that) are in the category of people who don't. Just because his blisters are bigger than mine, doesn't mean I don't have them. Also-today Kriegerhorn, tomorrow who knows? I hear there is a five star hotel in Tibet now.

K says we are not to bring kids to the party for her because " it is a gay party" ??! what does that mean? All the gays I know now are Republicans with kids. What is always important however is the attire: I think I might bust out my mini lederhosen shorts. (Because what could be gayer than that?)
Below is my inspiration, a waitress yesterday who really went out of her way to give the boys something to dream about. Normally lederhosen are made of something more like suede. Our girl here is wearing black leather shorts. Bless her little heart.
The orthodox Jews are back in town, and I wouldn't be surprised if one look at her leads to a few conversions.  Avert your eyes, Chosen People!!

Where was I? I do apologize for so many entries this year, (reading is not mandatory!) but it has been like therapy. It is either that, or taking schnapps into the sauna; and you do not want to see dehydration at that level.
A few photos from before the sun came out this morning.

Good grief the sun is really heating up. I have taken to my bed with weary legs and peanut butter. (Surely peanut butter in bed screams peaceful resistance ..?)

A sun beam is trying to sneak into my room now-imploring me to come outside and warm myself. 
But I can't just yet. I am too weary to withstand the light. 

Enduring The Beams of Love

.

The following day when the beams had gone again. Oh lech...

..Look on the rising sun: there God does live 

And gives his light, and gives his heat away. 

And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love,
William Blake

Ok maybe I am a overly sentimental about the sun coming out. But it was like a drug. Thomas, who did not join me due to the guest situation, said I went 'berserk'- all day, enduring the beams of sun. According to Blake- being in sun beams is practice for receiving the beams of God's love; which I find a lovely little multi tasking. 

When I finally reached the top of the second walk, I realized I was really tired and the clouds were coming in (see photos below) and love and beams aside, I really wanted water and my bed. Such a problem with hiking-you can't get in your car. So I was at the top turning to go down when I saw a lone figure in black leather-a motorcyclist who had ridden the road to the top of the Kriegerhorn. And here is the funny part- I actually thought, oh crap this guy is going to kill me and put me in that huge backpack. At 7 thousand feet, in a town where one does not lock one's doors; I happened to find the killer. Perhaps I was dehydrated, but that is a new level of paranoia. 

He was taking pictures. But I was sure this was an obvious, laughable ruse and-decided to go down the other side of the mountain towards a cliffy area to prepare myself to run (fling?) down. A last desperate attempt at life. 

People, people...you cannot imagine how absurd this is! How little progress this shows in my mental state. How I am more scarred by the behavior of my fellow man than I knew! No one is trying to kill me on the Kriegerhorn. After a little spell of this walking, it occurred to me that I would rather be killed and dismembered than have to walk back up any more than I already had. If he killed me, at least I would get a ride down on that motorcycle. 

So I walked back up to the top, so I could get down. 

I do so worry about my progress. I have taken three weeks of daily meditation: breathing about gratitude (I am grateful!) and how I need to "allow love to come to my aid.." (What the hell does that mean?)

All I know is when one is feeling the impending doom of boarding school or or very, very bad guests -can't write about that even with the password-or Donald Trump actually running for president, or the tiring, demoralizing persistence of cruelty, or most of all -my long list of Ellie's Self Improvement ideas that I never seem to get to: the only thing for sure that helps is a very long walk. With a dash of adrenaline from the thought of me karate chopping a man in black leather on the back side of the Kriegerhorn. (!! using the avalanche barriers as hurdles!!)

Enough about me-we do not talk about Reinhold Messner enough. Little known EBW fact-I read a lot of mountain climbing accounts. I have read books on the first ascent on Everest by the English, about Messner's solo attempt, ones about people cutting their partners off the rope so they could live, ones in South America, the Seven Summit tales about rich yahoos trying to pay their way up. I love a good book about a place I will never go. My wonderful friend David Keaton, who has climbed Everest, laughs at how I drone on about the Khumbu Icefall. Fun fact: David almost drowned there. The weather was really hot that year and he fell into a huge ice puddle (my word not his) with his heavy back pack; they almost couldn't get him out. 

Messner was raised by a wonderful mother and a cruel man; but from that man he learned to climb mountains. Thomas told me that he is the lone surviving member of his original Mountain Guide Class; he lost his brother on Nanga Parbat amid accusations that to achieve an ambitious goal of traversing a highly dangerous face, he essentially left his brother to die; he has lost most of his toes, been divorced and thinks he has seen the Yeti. 

"To non-climbers it may be difficult to convey the extent and grandeur of Reinhold Messner's accomplishments. Here's a start: His ascent, with longtime partner Peter Habeler, of Hidden Peak, the 26,470-foot (8,068-meter) summit of Gasherbrum I, one of the giants of the Himalaya, without any of the paraphernalia of traditional high-altitude climbing—porters, camps, fixed ropes, and oxygen—was hailed as forging a whole new standard of mountaineering. But that was back in 1975, before Messner and Habeler went on to climb Mount Everest without oxygen, a feat that took climbing to the absolute limit. That, in turn, was in May of 1978—three months before Messner climbed Nanga Parbat, the ninth highest mountain on Earth, solo—a feat heralded as one of the most daring in mountaineering. That, however, was two years before he climbed Mount Everest without oxygen, equipped with a single small rucksack—and alone."

His solo Everest trip, in case you are not up to speed, was just astounding. He basically packed a ruck sack with some dried fruit and climbed up and down by himself in four days. The only back-up he had was his girlfriend at base camp. I am not sure I would have dated this guy. Actually who knows. I do love the tortured ones. Here is an excerpt from one of his books on what it was like: 

When I rest I feel utterly lifeless except that my throat burns when I draw breath... I can scarcely go on. No despair, no happiness, no anxiety. I have not lost the mastery of my feelings, there are actually no more feelings. I consist only of will. After each few metres this too fizzles out in unending tiredness. Then I think nothing. I let myself fall, just lie there. For an indefinite time I remain completely irresolute. Then I make a few steps again.” 

Reinhold Messner; The Crystal Horizon

That is of course the interesting part to me-the no feelings. You give up happiness, but you also give up despair and anxiety. (Not a bad trade in my book).  Messner said in an interview that he does not climb to see the wildflowers or the mountain views. He claims he is no naturalist. 
The mountains simply bring him closer to the mystery that is man-allowing him to explore our darkness and our light. And hell if that isn't the bravest thing a person can do. 

On the agenda for today (alas another rainy one..but there is hope for tomorrow); forced rain death march to lunch, then having friends over for my famous pesto by the fire. F is going to whip up Katia's coffee dessert. 

In a very short time we will be going to Turkey for a little sail. In truth I am a worried about ten days of nothing but sun and lounging. A vacation with no broiling tennis courts, no icy waters, no jogs in the heat, no long hikes in the rain? A holiday with no pain? 
How does that work, exactly? 

Someone asked about the boat-it's called the Vaimiti. I am sure you can see pictures of it on the web somewhere. One earring-ed and tattooed French captain with a taste for speed-not shown....

HAPPY FRIENDSHIP DAY! love you guys...xx

KriegerAlpe Restaurant

Glacier lake 

Karhorn (aka Mordor) I ran up to the dent and around that sucker last summer in +1 degree Celsius

Tired legs; little daisy