It’s Downhill All the Way!

By Jim Johnson

November 2002

In September, the Chattanooga Bike Club will offer two bike trips in Germany and Austria. Here’s an article that Jim wrote several years ago for the Los Angeles Times about part of the Austrian tour.

The Tauernradweg – Tauern bike path – in Austria is a bicyclist's dream come true. It cuts through some of the world's most mountainous terrain, yet it's almost all downhill. It passes through dozens of picturesque towns and villages, yet it stays almost totally clear of traffic. Instead it meanders through alpine meadows and woodland and along the banks of the Salzach River. And it's clearly marked, signs at every turn, for worry-free riding.

The path starts in Krimml, elevation 3,400 feet, and ends 100 miles and 2,000 vertical feet later in Salzburg. While some fanatics ride the route in reverse, I preferred to pack my rental bike and gear and take the train from Salzburg to Krimml. From there I would let gravity take over for the four-day return trip.

When I arrived in Krimml, I realized I had underestimated the impact of altitude on endurance. Even a test ride around the village left me winded. A 90-minute walk mid-way up the 1,000-foot Krimml waterfall, the highest in central Europe, almost did me in.

Undaunted – and with no other choice – I pushed off the next morning from the "Start" sign at the base of the waterfall. A light mist washed over me as I looked out past the steeple of the 13^th-century parish church into the cloud-filled valley below. Within seconds – and without pedaling – I was hitting 15, then 20, then 25 miles an hour, as the village disappeared behind me. I braked as I came to the Salzach, whose waters would guide me toward Salzburg for the next four days. As the clouds burned off, snow-topped mountain peaks came into view. From both riverbanks, meadows stretched to the base of the mountains, becoming nearly vertical as soil hit rock.

The Tauernradweg runs along the northern boundary of the Hohe Tauern National Park, Europe's largest, complete with 246 glaciers and 304 mountains over 9,000 feet. Ibex and other alpine creatures run wild. I paused again and could hear the wind in the trees, the birds, small brooks and distant waterfalls. The scents of fresh-cut hay and moist moss hung in the air. Overhead lay the first of several ruins I'd spot along the way, the stony outcroppings of the ancient Friedburg castle. I'd found paradise.

The sounds of cowbells jolted me from my reverie, as I made way for a dozen bovines crowding down the path. A bull with menacing horns glared at my bright red jersey then thought the better of it. The path carried me through tiny hamlets – some no more than a few farmhouses and a chapel. In larger villages, like Bramberg, life centered around a small market square bordered by a medieval parish church, several small shops and an inn. Most of the time, however, the path wound through farms and fields. At one point a sign even asked cyclists to close the gate behind them to keep the cows in.

It was harvest time, and I passed whole families toiling with scythes and rakes, cutting and stacking hay. Husbands and wives worked side by side, the women in puffy peasant blouses and skirts, the men in green-trimmed leather pants and work shirts. In front of most homes, trees brimmed with apples, pears and plums, and I stopped to see if I could buy some from an elderly farmer. "Moment, bitte," he said and disappeared. He returned with a small sack, filled it with ripe fruit. He refused money, pushing it back with leathery hands. After I rode another 50 yards, I stopped and looked back. His wife had joined him, and the two waved as if bidding farewell to an old friend.

Around the bend, a neighbor displayed similar hospitality with a sign offering "Fresh Water for Cyclists." I filled my bottle with ice-cold water flowing from the mouth of a wood-carved knight. Behind it, a wooden home lay bathed with waves of impatiens and petunias. A few minutes later, I entered Hollerbach, nicknamed "The Blossoming Village" both for its proud floral displays and for its botanical garden with more than 500 different kinds of flowers and herbs. After three hours, 21 miles and a vertical drop of nearly 1,000 feet, I arrived in Mittersill, the first sizable town along the route. I locked my bike in the market square and enjoyed a lunch of soup with dumplings, spaetzle with native cheese, and, for dessert, strips of crepe mixed with blueberries and powdered sugar. That's another benefit of riding: gorging without guilt.

From the 14th to 16th centuries, Mittersill lay at the crossroads of two major trade routes. From Italy came wine, olive oil, fruit and silk. In return, Austria sent salt, mined nearby and known for centuries as "white gold." Celtics and Romans followed the same route, and I passed a Roman mile-marker later in the day. A medieval watchtower still stands, serving today as a museum marking a millennium of commerce and local history. One floor displayed farming and carpentry tools, while another housed traditional clothing, paintings and woodcarvings from the past four centuries.

Later that afternoon I arrived at my first day's destination, Zell am See, an idyllic lakeside town encircled by mountains. My itinerary called for just one night's stay in Zell, but I wish I'd planned several. Zell is a year-round tourist resort, and I soon found out why. First, the lake itself is known as the cleanest bathing lake in Europe. Others may be cleaner – but far too cold for bathing. As I walked my bike along the promenade, I saw wind-surfers, sailboats, and paddleboats. Families fished from docks, and teenagers water-skied behind electric powered motorboats. Zell am See and neighboring Kaprun also draw thousands of hikers weekly, from casual day-trippers to more dedicated climbers who spend their nights in mountain huts. There's even summer skiing on a nearby glacier. A local cycling map and brochure described nearly 40 rides, ranging from seven miles along the lake to 60 miles winding over nearby mountains.

The next day, I stashed my bike and joined some rangers and other visitors for a day-hike. Austria's alpine escape, the Hohe Tauern National Park, which includes nearly 500 square miles within the Province of Salzburg, offers even rustic solitude. This protected wilderness contains nearly 300 mountain peaks two miles or higher, and year-round snowfall adds new layers to ancient glaciers. Within the park's so-called "outer zone," roads are open only to farmers, innkeepers and a handful of van drivers. The "core zone" is accessible only by foot.

A network of hiking paths and nature trails connects the dots between mountain lodges and rustic huts, and many travelers spend a week or more traversing the area, either alone or in guided groups. Having neither equipment nor stamina, I opted instead for a day-trip led by park rangers selected for their knowledge of the region's flora and fauna and of local culture and history. Their love of nature is a given.

According to the rangers, our trek into the Huettwinkel valley followed a north-south trade route established by Celts and Romans. By comparison, a nearby mountain lodge was modern; it dated to 1389 and had been in the same family since 1556.

As we entered the valley, meadows burst with buttercups. On each side, waterfalls flumed over sheer cliffs. A ranger pointed out mountain goats on distant outcroppings, barely specks to the naked eye. Along an elbow in the path, cows barricaded and butted us mischievously. Further ahead, a pony adopted our group and stayed with us for miles. "They must be from small farms," a ranger explained. "During the winter, the farmers bring them down from the mountains and pamper them. During the warm weather, they're allowed to roam free. They really crave the attention."

About two hours into our hike, we reached a rustic lodge that served as base for a World Wildlife Federation project to bring back the bearded vulture from the brink of extinction. Using a telescope, we viewed two hatchlings on a sheltered ledge. Each day, a worker climbed the cliff and lowered fruit and meat by rope.

Soon, the cliff walls grew closer, and we were forced to cross a raging river. The only way across was to leap from rock to rock. Someone had placed a small marker nearby mourning a recent death -- by drowning. I slipped during my first leap, trailing my left foot; the glacial flow was numbing.

Just ahead, the path took a sharp turn, and I saw the rest of the group standing silently. The view, until now hemmed in by the cliffs, exploded. Ahead of us, a broad waterfall crashed into the river. Behind it, a dozen snowy peaks formed the backdrop for a massive glacier. I don't even remember crossing back.

I awoke the following morning to the sound of rain splashing on my window. Following the widening waters of the Salzach, most of the hard-packed dirt route was sheltered beneath a leafy canopy. The rain splattered on the leaves and misted downward in a symphony of sounds and  scents. As the symphony reached a downpour crescendo, however, I took refuge in a small restaurant in the village of Taxenbach. Even my mother's chicken soup had never tasted better – or warmer.

After lunch, the rain stopped, and I took one of several hillier side options, climbing nearly 600 feet to a ledge overlooking the river. It was exhausting, but rewarding. At the top, I shared the view with a pair of weary Dutch cyclists who noted, with some understatement, that their country offers flatter cycling. Clouds puffed like cotton through the valley. I slept well that night, just outside the town of St. Johann.

Until now, the route had run almost due east. The next morning, the Salzach and I turned north toward Salzburg. By mid-morning, the powerful Hohenwerfen castle came into view in the distance. The route passes by the base of the castle, and I walked up the steep path through a series of mighty walls.

Built in 1077 and rebuilt over the centuries, the fortress today stands a peaceful watch over the river. Its dungeons are closed, the guns just for show. From the top courtyard, I looked across the river to the cablecar leading up to the "Eisriesenwelt" or "World of the Ice Giants," the largest ice caves in the world.

Just north of Werfen, two mountain ranges come together, and the Salzach roars through the narrow chasm, kicking up 15-foot standing waves. Cars and trains can take a tunnel through the mountains. Bicycles, however, must climb through the Lueg Pass, which the river has carved between two shear cliff walls. As I approached the pass, the walls seemed to merge. To the right, mountain. To the left, the surging Salzach and more mountain. Ahead, a sign warning of falling rocks. I pedaled faster. It was great.

I eventually passed through the marketplace to the 12^th-century Romanesque Dekanats Church, where "Silent Night" composer Franz Gruber once served as choir director. His grave lay outside the door, his home just beyond. After dinner that ended with Salzburger nockerl, a soufflé-like specialty, I took a final walk around town and went to bed.

My final day of riding carried the anticipation of seeing the famous Hohensalzburg fortress that dominates the Salzburg skyline. Only nine miles lay ahead. The bike path ran through dense forest, and I heard Salzburg before I saw it. It was Sunday morning, and the city's church bells rang in chorus. Finally, through a break in the trees, I saw the fortress towering over the baroque spires of the city. I'd made it.

During the week, cars clog the narrow streets. On Sundays, pedestrians and cyclists rule. I rode along the Getreidegasse, Salzburg's most famous medieval alley. I slowly made my way past the palatial Residenz to the cathedral, where street musicians played their guitars and artists drew chalk Madonnas on the sidewalk.

I parked the bike and climbed up to the fortress. On previous visits to Salzburg, I'd spent hours there looking out over the city. This time, I looked to the south, where a small path along the Salzach gradually disappeared into the mountains.

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