Letter from Leogang

Words by Kasra Lang

Austria really looks like Austria, if you know what I mean. It looks exactly as you’d expect, exactly as you’d hoped, like a quote of itself. There is an exact one-to-one ratio between the Austria of the mind and its rock-and-soil reality. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place that corresponds so precisely with my preconception of it. There it is, heaven’s tricolour flag in the frame of my vision - green of greens on the valley floor, a holy blue up top, and in between, a more complicated shade of limestone silver: the Alps sheared upwards.

Every bad picture I take is a solid contender for the cover of a major international travel magazine. I swear it’s that easy - take aim, tap, and a marvel appears on the cracked screen of my phone. It’s as if the very concept of photographic skill disappears here. The real challenge is to take an ugly picture, and I just don’t have that sort of talent. Even a downward shot at my mud-speckled boots in the grass looks gorgeous. It’s uncanny, this self-referential image of beauty, as if I’ve been here before: a lingering memory of God’s garden.

Though in this Eden nothing is forbidden. (There is even an abundance of apple wine). There’s mountain biking in the summer, skiing in the winter, and year-round lounging about in the sauna, three sports which attract athletes of a professional standard. Nobody’s embarrassed at their nakedness in the spa, not even me, though admittedly it took me a moment to adjust to my renewed state of grace.

The local Leogang museum tells me the town relied on the salt trade for centuries. It was a terminally poor place, materially if not spiritually, until the miners and farmers reinvented themselves as hoteliers. The family-owned Naturhotel Forsthofgut (where I’m staying) hosted their first guests in 1990. Seven years later they sold their last cow. Despite this transformation the old spirit of the place remains, particularly in the 350 year-old farmhouse.

Given that I’m here during an Austrian autumn, I set out on a hike. Orange and red trees dot the otherwise evergreen mountain face, full of birch and spruce and coniferous larch. The constant hiss of the river follows us up the gorge. The higher you look, the rockier it gets above the treeline. Below us are alpine pastures, home to the most absurdly healthy-looking cows, well-fed and moaning.

My guides leads me to what they are tentatively calling a glacier. I say tentatively because there is apparently some debate whether this accumulation of ice - the result of successive avalanches over time - qualifies as a glacier at all. It is the Pluto of glaciers, so to speak, vulnerable to the caprice of human categorisation. One thing is certain: it’s vanishing. For decades the Bavarians, ever conscious of life’s priorities, used to drag huge blocks of ice over the mountains to cool their beers in the summer. Now, in October, there isn’t much permanent ice left.

The next day my guide bundles me into the ski lift. Above a certain elevation we vanish into the fog. It blocks the panoramic view, but I enjoy the atmosphere it imposes on us, the faint thrill of knowing what is there but can’t be seen. We walk for a few miles in the fog and drizzle, our anticipation heightening, until finally the sun breaks through the clouds, exposing the entire limestone massif drawn shut over the horizon. A wild, purple mountain.

The valley is its own contained world. The luxury restaurants never stray too far for their ingredients. That evening I am presented with a twelve-course meal, which is at least seven courses more than I have ever eaten in a single sitting. I was well-raised, so I obediently finished the whole dozen, even the fish (which I dislike) and the liver (which I despise) - but ten out of twelve courses are delicious, even on a full stomach. The main attraction is ultimately the irrepressible chef himself, who emerges from the kitchen to narrate the details of his concoctions. There is more than a twinge of madness to his brilliance. As the night progresses his English understandably deteriorates, until ‘goat’ and ‘God’ begin to sound like the same word, and after four hours of delirious eating, it’s not inconceivable that he is actually feeding us something perfect and holy, morsels of the divine.

God knows I’ve been treated well here. I spent my 20s camping in the mud in far-flung places, longing for my middle-of-the-road comforts, and admittedly I’m not opposed to this change. I’m a useless skier (that is, I’ve never touched a pair of skis) but somehow I’m already dreaming of a winter return, a day on the slopes, an evening in the spa. Normally I try my best to temper my expectations but on the available evidence - Austria’s autumn idyll - it feels safe to indulge in runaway anticipation, in good days delivered.

For more Austrian inspiration, click here.

Mountain High

Words by Liz Schaffer & Photographs by Chiara Dalla Rosa

Every time I get swept up in nature, I remember how blissful it can be. When standing beneath a cloudless sky, floating in the sea, or skiing downhill my body is soothed, my thoughts are caught up in the glorious present and I feel nothing but joy.

Stepping away from our desks and into wilderness is good for the soul. I know this, and am reminded of it each time I’m amongst trees or surrounded by snow. Why then do I sometimes struggle to get myself there? I am starting to wonder if it’s because the high I feel when switching off from deadlines and venturing into the wild is so exhilarating, the restoration so complete, that I keep it as a treat - a little bit of bliss amongst the buzz of the everyday.

So, I’ve decided that this year, the natural world will no longer be a reward. Instead, I will make it a regular ritual. Once a week I’ll lace up my hiking boots, load the polaroid camera, and seek out something beautiful. I will walk along rivers, toboggan down mountains, and search for scenes that are so much bigger than myself. I shall remember that natural fixes are good for me. I’ll be in the moment, and see these soothing getaways as the necessities they are. Some of my journeys will be close to home - the Seven Sisters Walk perhaps - while others will be a little more far-flung, the sort of adventures that will surely blow away the cobwebs of the everyday.

Keen to stick to my resolution, I decided to start the year in a suitably dramatic way and travel to Zillertal, a winter wonderland in Austria’s Tyrol. Many venture here for the fabulous skiing but, due to an extreme lack of grace and prowess, I opted to move a little slower through the landscape. So I instead came to explore the wanderwegs (winter hiking trails), toboggan down snow-and-sun drenched mountains, toast the day’s adventuring in Tyrollean villages, and celebrate the art of being in the moment. On this trip, I wanted to be part of the landscape, and to let the natural world work its magic.

…

I made the postcard-perfect alpine town of Mayrhofen my base (it’s famous among daredevils for the Harakiri piste, with its 78% gradient), and booked in to the charming, family-run Alpenhotel Kramerwirt. This hotel has been in the Kröll family since 1674, and while the rooms are modern, spacious and warm (and the wellness area comes with a view-boasting pool and sauna), everything still feels fabulously traditional, thanks in no small part to the woodcuts, frescoes and flowerpots.

From here, it’s a short drive to the Hintertux Glacier and Natur Eis Palast. Frozen year-round, this cave system sits beneath the ski fields and is adorned with glittering ice stalactites, frozen waterfalls that make you wonder if you’ve stumbled upon another realm, and an azure glacial lake you can paddleboard along. It is a wonderful introduction to the region - both beautiful and surreal, a subterranean marvel guaranteed to shock you out of the ordinary.

When it comes to winter walking, there is no shortage of trails. Making use of Zillertal’s 460 kilometres of cleared paths, you can hike between villages, along sparkling rivers (keeping company with cross-country skiers), and get swept up in the vistas in Fügen and Hochfügen. For me, though, it was the hour-long meander along the Penken Trail in the Mountopolis ski area that stilled my busy mind.

As I walked ever-upwards with a photo-taking fellow rambler, an unexpected blanket of cloud proved impossible to escape. Robbed of a view, all we could hear was the sound of snow underfoot, the birdsong and the breeze through the trees. I was aware that a cascade of peaks and valleys were out there, somewhere beneath the veil of white, but at the time, glimpses of snow-dusted trees and solitary wooden huts felt more than enough.

When we reached the Penkenjoch Plateau there was time to admire Granatkapelle - a geometric architectural marvel/chapel desired by Ticino architect Mario Botta - and refuel at Granatalm Mountain Lodge - a homely restaurant found 2,095 metres above sea level. While I tucked into zerggl (a traditional dish of potato and cheese, pan fried and served with sour cream), I kept one eye on the window, hoping for blue.

Our patience was rewarded on the descent when the weather gods finally graced us with sun. The valley opened up, the snow glowed and every walker we passed was beaming. Returning to the chairlift that would deliver us back to Mayrhofen, a rose-tinted sunset illuminated the landscape. Blame it on the endorphins, but the scene felt both otherworldly and deliciously calming, and I was thrilled to be part of it.

…

Walking over snow is wonderful, but sometimes you just need to be a touch faster. If such an urge grips you, I recommend strapping on the snow shoes, walking through the forest to the Hollensteinhutte mountain hut (opt for the Zillertaler käsespātzle - cheese noodles made utterly delicious by the addition of roasted onions), and then tobogganing back to the valley. It all seemed brilliantly enlivening, yet it wasn’t until I was overtaken by a father and his toddler, and manoeuvring his sled at a speed only possible after years of experience, that I realised I hadn’t really lifted my feet off the ground, my boots my brakes as I revelled in the scenery. Maybe sedate wanderwegs are more my style.

Even if I was considerably slower than a local, it took days for the smile to fade from my face.

This year, I will hike over snow-covered mountains again, I’ll toast my outdoorsy lifestyle with schnapps and zip down mountains. But I’ll also keep things simple. I will walk along the Kent Coast, ramble through Kew Gardens and take the time to watch the sunrise. I know time will pass and life will get busy. But my vow to keep up these regular jaunts into nature is something I’m going to stick to … because I’ve been shown time and again exactly how needed they are.

If Zillertal (and the wilderness) calls to you too, you can learn more and embrace the wanderlust by clicking here.