saint gilgen

From Salzburg we take a day trip to the lakes district in the hills that rise around the city. This involves getting on a bus and hoping we’ll get off somewhere interesting. The gamble pays off; we end up in Saint Gilgen, a lakeside town with the familiar surplus of horse-drawn carts, swans, and ice-cream. Europeans eat ice-cream near lakes like they’re at the beach. It’s cheap and plentiful, and the sellers are generous. The concept grows on me with my daily scoop.

There’s a three kilometre sky lift that stretches up the mountain behind the town. Little red and yellow boxes work up and down the hillside like suspended Lego bricks. They’re barely big enough for four people, and they swing in a gust of wind, so we buy our tickets because that seems like a good idea. It’s midday, and the girl at the counter suggests a return trip, as we may not have time to hike down; rain is expected around three.

Half way up the mountain our little yellow box is absorbed into cloud. The cables run away from us in opposite directions and fade into the close grey mist. Every now and then an empty box passes, appearing and disappearing in a few seconds. The air cools as we climb.

The top of the mountain is clear and cold. I change to jeans and still my nose starts to run. As we work our way around the peak to the other side, swathes of hikers pass in the opposite direction. They’re fleeing the grey mass of cloud that puts the mist below the peak to shame. This is probably sensible of them. Of course we continue on our path. We are hit by the full fresh wind as we round the peak. On a clear day the blue lakes and matchbox towns would be peaceful postcards; on a grey day the scene seems tense like it's charged with static. I wrap my scarf around my head to save my ears from the wind.

Standing on the mountain and watching clouds roll around me, I can’t decide whether the feeling of power or of powerlessness is stronger. The height, the sweeping scope of the land below, the feeling of being within the clouds: these make me feel like a god. Or at least like some kind of powerful immortal or angel, or a really wrinkled and wise weather wizard, or something mighty (like I can shoot lightening from my eyeballs, you know). At the same time, the sheer force of nature up here, the power of the wind, the strength of the old pines: these make me feel so pathetically human.

It’s some feeling.

We climb higher, into the wind. The tinkling of cow bells against the shivering trees is an eerie soundtrack to our ascent. Small wooden signs point to places we can’t pronounce. We don’t meet anyone on this side. When the wind picks up and the clouds darken further we make our lonely way back.

We eat our traveller’s picnic – bread rolls and Nutella spread swiped from the hostel breakfast – on a bench on the protected side, and watch the storm come in.

The storm sirens sound just before three and we make the journey back to the lake beneath the clouds. Ice-cream is in order.