| What are we doing?
September 22nd, 2003 4. Int. IML 3 Tage Einhornmarsch, Seefeld  I didn't get that anyway. On the site of the Einhornmarsch they spoke of, apart from the 10, 20 and 30 kilometre Wanderungen, a 42 kilometres long 'Marathon' per day. So there's me thinking they were on about running, though I was seriously wondering what kind of idiots they were talking about in that case, because running over the Alps is possible (I'd seen someone do it once, some time in Switzerland, in sport's shorts and Nikes, but he logically looked like a commando-on-active-duty doing some extra training for fun), but isn't something normal people, with a brain and such, do. And so I thought that for us it would be the Wildmoos-, Lärchenwald- and Karwendel-wanderungen, 30 kilometres each, as the longest available distance to be normally marched.
With this in mind I took a train, with Lourens E. Dinger, on Thursday, September 18th, in the early hours of the morning (but later than planned, because I woke too late and Lourens forgot his passport), to Arnhem, where, at a station heavily being reconstructed, we were picked up by Swarts, Harm, who then guided us, together with Raymond de Gisser, also arrived in Arnhem, to his Audi, and, together with his cousin Anne-Jan Telgen, successfully stashed us into it. 
Harmhaste for ya: for where Lourens and I, for comfort's sake, did suggest renting a bus, Harm would have none of that, because his Audi is so much faster. Oh well, happy anyway, that he was willing to drive at all, we decided not to make a fuss about it, and so, at breakneck speed, underwritten here and there by howling tires at ditto stops, we drove through Germany, to Tirol. This was an emotional matter to me: two schooltrips to the northwest-Tirol situated around Reutte had made an overwhelming and indelible impression, sometime during the eighties of the last century. 
Once in Seefeld it naturally turned out to not become a similar, for all of it just that little bit different, experience. The south-Tirol around Seefeld namely certainly is impressive in its beauty - but differently so than the more northwestern bit, where the mountains are sharper, and the look of it all is more rugged. A kinder, gentler Tirol, in short. It turned out, moreover, in the WM-halle (many of the facilities in Seefeld had names relating to the Olympic Wintergames, result of their once being held in nearby Innsbrück), that the situation with this 'Marathon' was much different: it was namely only called that because of the distance, which is equal to it. The name concerned, therefore, applied to the largest possible distance that could be walked normally, and because the Wandelsoc. always opts for the crown distance, we chose this one (even Lourens Dinger committed himself to it, with a somewhat timid "are we sure about this?", as Harm blatantly cursed me for going for it). 
Sometime later, by the by, Harm would thank me for it after all, because we would otherwise have missed out on what the 30 km-ers never got to see. But that came later. First, we booked rooms in Hotel Helga, from the entry hall of the WM-halle. This was a coincidence, because that lady behind the counter in the WM-halle divides guests across all Seefeld hotels, and Seefeld almost entirely exists of hotels and pensions, barring a few shops and some houses belonging to doctors specialized in bone fractures, but we were very lucky here. Hotel Helga, namely, turned out to be an utterly friendly family hotel, run by, besides Grandma Helga, her daughter and son-in-law in particular. 
And they are the kind of staff one can only dream about. Fully correct, discrete, ut-ter-ly friendly, and of a strict 'the customer is always right'-mindset. Should they not have something at your direct disposal (half a stuffed deerbutt, a gleaming black Porsche for a tour around town, a pleasant dirndl callgirl), then all you have to do is mention it and it shall be there after all, some five minutes later. And the hotel itself is beautiful too, besides very cheap. In this, the down season, we paid €37,- per man per night, sauna and minibar not included. Ended up in a spacious two-person room with Raymond, with a pretty view of the surrounding mountain ranges, I felt it could all have been a lot worse, and, having taken up our quarters, we contentedly prepared for dinner. 
Which we then enjoyed at the terrace of a hotel-restaurant in the nearby city centre (Hotel Helga is situated on the Haspingerstrasse 156, which is only a five-minute walk from it, at the most), where service and food were of the same, if not even better, quality as in Hotel Helga - we would therefore not eat there for the last time. But tonight I had the duck's breast, on which I feasted, like the rest of the food pleased the others. Not to mention the accompanying beer. Harm especially had a grand time, grinning from behind his Hefe Weizen. Day 1  Seefeld is a terrible place otherwise, costly skiresort all of it, sporting shop windows mainly stocked with the kind of crystal and timepieces meant to spice up much too expensive blond bimboes. Would fit a Bond effortlessly, which also applies to the fleet of cars, spread out across the parking lots, consisting almost entirely of the more pricey Audis. What was fun though, loads of it even: the Ferrari-running shoes, with complete matching 'Don't I look like Michael Schumacher?'-suit. Too expensive to acquire for fun, though, otherwise we would have. Anyway, the horror of the village was no problem to us. It's kinda fun, after all, to for once pretend you're the millionaire you're not, this without spending accordingly. Also, breakfast, the next morning, which we took below the bleeding Christ in the room especially reserved for the purpose (there is a dining room too, but we made no use of it during our stay), turned out to be of the same quality as all else: having been prepared especially for us at six o' clock (normal breakfast time in Helga is 0800, but we had to start between 0600 and 0730, thus 0700), all ingredients (as the landlord explained to us) were freshly obtained from surrounding farmers, and, while we had already tucked into the sourdough bread so particular to Austria, even the white kaiserbrötchen were fetched for us from the bakery by his personal self.
 Fabulous, and a fine basis for what was now to come. Thrown uphill sharply from the onset, with the petite Japanese dame present for years now at all marches across Europe, through the village, this march for a while resembled a kicked-up version of the Berner Zweitage. That impression remained for a while, for as we moved onto the beautifully bemisted Wildmoosalm, in front of us the lump of rock arose that we would continue to circle today, and that would harass us with its grandeur around noon in particular. This therefore slightly likened the view of Eiger and Jungfrau that has become so characteristic, over the past two years, of the Schweizerischer Zweitage.
 But the difference with it soon became apparent too: for at the far side of the Wildmoosalm, for once, no Rivella and Knorr awaited us, but himbeertea, sneakily laced with a small base of schnapps by the Klaus Kinski lookalike who distributed it. That tea would return all along the course: but it would only continue to contain alcohol with Kinski, and he would yet greatly please us with it, at the end of day three. But on this first day of marching, we grimly moved on for now, fearful, after all, of the qualifications dished out about this march, by fellow walkers in other parts of Europe: I had been assured that this march would run above the treeline, and would be the heaviest in Europe. On both counts, we were today disappointed, for the march largely ran a flat course, and through the valley.
But that is also part 2 of what makes this a wonderful march: more so than the one in Diekirch, previously most definitely the crownbearer in this, to my mind, this is a splendidly built-up march. That one small warning at the start, it would later turn out to be just that. But not so today, although today was heavy enough. For although the factual distribution of kilometres across the walking days, as is customary with the better marches, differed from the 3x42 matrix, and we therefore today would make less than, but on the last day would definitely do much more that those 42, Lourens Dinger did not have an easy time at it. But his tactic had improved, for one learns along the way: where in Diekirch he had marched himself out of the endeavour by going at day 1 like a moron in overdrive, he now maintained a very steady speed of 4.5 kilometres an hour, resting for 2 minutes every solid hour. With that constantly menacing tread he eventually dragged himself through it all gloriously. But he didn't yet know that on day 1, and by the end of it he therefore did not even dare to think of participating in day 2. 
There was no reason to either, by the way. For, having marched into the village again, by way of a dreadful set of steps up through the forest, and a lost game of the local FC (this following an end-of-day stop with nudelsuppe-and-beer, where we re-encountered Harm, who had until then spliced way ahead, and some joint marching with Beau, her good friend Margriet and the pleasant Belgian who had run into us before), and after some beerdrinking in the WM-halle, we now, thanks again to Harm, who besides Haste also has Comfort as high principle, enjoyed the thing we would learn to remember as one of the most pleasant aspects of this happening: the municipal swimming pool, to which our stay in Hotel Helga automagically included free admittance.  Fantastic, not just because that is very much beneficial to the plagued leg muscles, but also because it sported a heated outdoor pool with massage jets and slide (misused, to everyone's hilarity, by a rotund German, bombing the pool with his self), with a view of the surrounding mountain ranges and some pretty lady pool attendants. Lourens, by the by, wasn't up to all this at all anymore, and so he had long gone to sleep, following a hot bath, by the time we entered the sauna in Hotel Helga. This turned out not to be a smart idea. Since besides Haste and Comfort, Harm also has Teasing as high principle.
And it's all very well for him to claim that one of these gushes of cold water on the hot stones eventually makes the temperature fall, in a sauna, but the fact remains that I died just as much as my black swatch, which gave out after ten years of spotless service, as he took our breath away twice, with clouds of ramsteam. Spluttering and gasping for air, we therefore tumbled from it - but relaxing it all was nonetheless, and the muscles were the better for it. 
We, together with the newly awakened Dinger, therefore happily ended this first day, with a renewed bout of dining at the same restaurant, and an ensuing bit of dessert with coffee and icecoupes at the local Segafredo, run by young Italian girls, opposite the Casino. Pleasant, pleasant, pleasant. Day 2  The next day went ahead more dynamically than the previous one. Having first moved through the valley a bit, along a rather flat stretch, we were suddenly sent up a forest hill, so that we arrived at the first tea-rest, which followed a sharp descent from that hill, steaming after all. From there, through a horribly steep small slope through a roadtunnel, we moved towards more forest. Once throught that, the track remained flat until we got to a pleasant farmrest - but after that fun started. Up two terrible (and terribly long) slopes, the second much steeper than the first, we were worn out effectively.
 In the end though, we could enjoy the beer in the WM-halle, where we again ran into Dick Okkerse and girlfriend, happily training down after Arenzano. Dick is the 'man-with-the-bird', whom we know from so many other marches, but Diekirch in particular. He had this time forgotten that bird, which normally sits on a shat-on shoulderfelt in textile shape, for the second time in a row, but he turned out to, even without that bird, be an excellent partner-in-conversation for walkwrecked Lourens Dinger, who after all is a flying fool too (Dick serves at Twente airbase, you see, and is lucky enough to be up for pension before its shutdown).
Nicely beered-up, therefore, Lourens and I then cheerfully reported to the swimming pool, into which the rest had retired a long time ago. Because we were unfashionably late, we decided to skip the sauna, and, after dinner at the same restaurant we had had it at for the past two days, made our way back to the WM-halle, where for an extra €4,- admittance, a Tiroler Fest started, for, apart from about half the marchers (the more ghastly half, you will understand), many locals. With waldhorn, lederhosen, polonaise and loads of jollity, the Alpengaudi of the Inntaler came over us like a warm beerbath. To Harm's astonishment, but to the eventually great merriness of not just the hatted well-known Blisterkicker, who proceeded to do a festive linedance, but us all, and Anne-Jan Telgen in particular, who amused us by stealing a dancing lady-of-age from her dancepartner, by brazenly tapping his shoulder. 
Utmostly hilarious, but almost surpassed by what had happened to us in the meantime too: two highly blond young ladies, who besides pretty turned out to also be sly. Because they were selling a CD, containing all kinds of befitting Austrian Wanderlieder, of which the worst, 'Auf geht's zur Olympiade', sung by Anni Jäger, was on it no less than three times, one of which in English, as 'Let's go to Olympiade'.  But that CD is as smart as the ladies selling it, for on it there also is one version of the Nijmegen Four Day Marches' Song, taped during the Flag parade in the Goffert-stadium, this obviously mindful of the fact that three quarters of the walkers present at the Einhornmarsch (which this year was only held for the fourth time), are Dutch. And of this CD, they sold us three, no less. Mission accomplished, therefore. Myself, it has moreover incited to, upon homecoming, start producing five different Wandelsoc.-CDs, which will, to be sure, contain much better music too, but will definitely sport 'Auf geht's zur Olympiade' and this version of the Four Day Marches' Song. With the latter of which, loudly playing on the Audi audio, resounding through the open windows as we tore through the centre of town, we then contentedly returned to Hotel Helga, to enjoy a well-earned night's rest.
 Well-earned, for Dinger in particular, who had after all managed to survive day two, and already was a lot more positive about his participation the next day, than he had been the night before about today - "I've only got to start", was the uplifting thought he uttered about it. Whether he would, he said yet to doubt, but I myself did not, at all.
Day 3 And I turned out to be right, because Dinger was part of the party the next morning. As expected, as I said, but no less admirable and brave, for it. That bravery would come in handy, for today this march became: it was to be a tough day. Although it started out with an endless, disquietingly downward sloping stretch straight ahead along the forest's edge to Scharnitz (by the railroad track and past an incredibly kitschy imitation castlette, restaurant in truth), and there already was 1 warning in that stretch, in the shape of a very steep climb after the second tea-rest, it was only after this whole bit that we got what I'd waited for all this time. 
Along the Karwendel, striking us as being an unnaturally blue river with awesomely clear water, it went steeply upward over hard gravel roads, by way of which, along with Harm, I cheerfully stomped my way upward, to the point where we had to cross that Karwendel. Past a prettily situated wooden bridge, we arrived at the sort of trail I remembered from my two schooltrips to north-western Tirol: upward along a 45-degree slope in a longwinded zigzag, constantly climbing over treeroots.  Because the sun made itself felt by now too (we were ridiculously lucky where the weather was concerned, anyway: where many a marcher claimed that this was "the first time" they could see "how beautiful those mountains really are", because it had rained dreadfully here, last year, it had now been cloudless, blue, and almost thirty degrees Centegrade for two-and-a-half days in a row) this was a nice trying test. "His coat began to steam", Harm later contentedly said about me, to the rest of our band. Quite so, and I was therefore happy to here be able to do what I had announced I would do, on day 1 already: for because I was attempting to complete my coaching of Lourens Dinger, I wanted to drag him through this march too, and because I wanted that, I had told him on that first day that I would keep an eye on him during the first day, stick with him on the second, but on the third, provided he started at all, would first do my own hefty thing for a while, and would then wait for him at the first real rest, as I did at every rest in the two previous days.
 And so I could happily have my coat dry out here, in the three quarters of an hour that I spent waiting for Lourens, and I was also caught up with by Anne-Jan and Raymond, who had by now lost a lot of speed too, because they were no longer having an easy time at it. Anne-Jan in particular had, during the first two days, gone way out of his length by moving much too fast. But because he wasn't coached by me (he has a lot of walking experience already, and besides, I would consider that task the realm of Harm, who, being his uncle, has after all enticed him to join up) I let that all be - I should possibly not have done that, for upon homecoming it would turn out that Anne-Jan had incurred a nasty tendon inflammation, because of which he would have to forego leg 9 of 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe'. But whatever the cause, he had a hard time here, and so, for the rest of the day, we remained in eachother's neighbourhood, until at the rest before the last one, in Scharnitz again, we marched apart again.
This to me, at the foot of a steep forest hill on which we, to an unsuspecting Dutchman who had accidentally ended up in our convoy, sang the Wandelsoc.-song, and which took us from the treeline (along which we had finally walked, at the foot of the Goldene Einhorn this march derives its name from, although we did not pass above that treeline) down to the bridge across the Karwendel in the village, appeared to be sensible, because Dinger could no longer fail now, and the rest of the course was almost entirely flat and straight.  Almost entirely that is. For when, once unshackled, and having marched through the valley in pursuit of Harm at an ungodly pace, I arrived at the farmrest soaked and steaming, where before, on day 2 we had arrived from the opposite direction, and had there deeply enjoyed both a very large glass of beer and, for the last time, the 'Speziellthee' of that good old Kinski-clone, I found myself inside the 10 kilometre-loop, and in it, we went steeply upward for one final time. Fitting end, to a march in which the organizers both beautifully build up and surprisingly time their efforts to keep participants from claiming that beautiful blue-yellow ribbon and the accompanying IML-strip.
This will not happen to us under any circumstance, of course. And so it did not. Harm, who in his Haste was in the swimming pool by himself by now, and would keep us from doing the same by claiming it was family day and therefore no longer included for free with our hotel stay at Helga's (it is possible, admittedly, that he was correct, but who's going to believe that, from a man who's renowned for his Haste, wants to have dinner and, moreover, admits being good at foul play?), thereby missed the glorious finish of Lourens E. Dinger on this, his second officially completed, and first multiple day march.  A grand accomplishment, and reason for a party, which was duly celebrated, by him, myself, Anne-Jan and Raymond, who finished shortly behind him, our friend Kinski (whom I could thus nicely thank for his tea) and loads of un- and well-known fellow marchers, amongst whom, to my unspeakable joy, Pieter Spaan! The mustachioed reservist of the Limburg Hunters, whom I saw for the last time in Diekirch, the year before, and who had then told me he was suffering from an incurable disease, probably still does - but was present here in utterly patent condition. This pleased me, greatly, so much so, in fact, that the joy over it could not be ruined by what, sadly, happened next. I had namely laid an eye on one of the volunteerettes, a very friendly lady who had supplied us, for days, with tea, and in the WM-halle, with beer, and so when I, against my own judgement by the by, and forced into it by my fellow marchers, asked her whether or not she cared to meet me later on that night, and she then answered that her "friend wouldn't approve" of that, I naturally offered her my apologies for my frankness, and didn't think all that much of it - but her boyfriend did. He turned out to be a knife-carrying Albanian, present too, who proceeded to parade said knife, stuck in his back pocket, as he cleared away tables around us.
Childish, unnecessary and pitiful (one would after all reckon that I had made him a compliment too, with my question), but thankfully things didn't escalate. They did somewhat later, after, at a different restaurant than before, we had had dinner, which by the way was fine too. The strange belligerous mood of that afternoon was first prolongated there by a lady-with-dog, who felt that Harm pinched her animal when he stroked it, and went apeshit over it, which ultimately led to apologies to us all, on the part of her husband (and a later request of Harm's to fetch him "that dog for a moment"). And after that, as we were settling the bill, I exploded into total anger because Harm, in my opinion (which I hold up to today), pulled a fast-change trick on me. Not that he stole from me, not at all in fact - but the way that the amount of money I had just borrowed from Raymond, and the amount of money that at that time still remained in my wallet, were manhandled was not the one necessary, not the one I desired, and only the one used because Harm wanted to settle accounts quickly. Loudly cursing his confounded haste I therefore furiously detoured a long way around Seefeld, on the way back to Hotel Helga, where I laid myself to rest fumingly. The next morning I decided that my general conclusion was that I should not be dependent on others when this can possibly be avoided, remembered where I'd put the pincode for my creditcard, and walked to and fro to the village, so that I could return Raymond's borrowed money to him before I'd even used it. 
And although, during that day, we no longer discussed the matter (it wasn't all that important after all), and therefore enjoyed a pleasant ride back through Germany, with a stop at the McDonald's in Frankfurt, this wasn't yet the end of the bullshit yet. At Arnhem railway station, the ticket machine hungrily ate my creditcard, then to put itself 'out of order'. And, once I'd learned from the NS that eaten cards are destroyed and I would therefore have to apply for a new one, I, roaring with anger, travelled to Utrecht with Dinger. There we were welcomed by Schelden, who had a few beers with us in a cafe at the railway station, and then took us to his home at the Van Eechoudlaan, to drink wine and spend the night there. And there Dinger, being the politician that he is (he's chairman of the Defence Committee of the Young Democrats), talked me into such oblivion that, at one time, I didn't even remember what rules we, as Wandelsoc.-board, had once devised, and therefore injustly answered "that's right" to his assertion that he was not yet a member of the Wandelsoc., because he had never partaken in an 'Across the Netherlands from Top to Toe'. But the rules neatly state, as they should, that walking along with one of our own marches and acquiring of the uniform constitute the membership, and because the practice course towards Katwijk definitely is one of our own marches, this suffices, wherefore Lourens most definitely is a member.  Reason for me, therefore, to modify the website somewhat, mindful of necessary clarity, offer my well-meant apologies to Dinger and Schelden, thank Dinger for forcing me to create clarity in this matter, and to urge everyone, by this way, not to go and ask me all kinds of things on procedural matters when I've just finished a march and have just drunk one-and-a-half litres of wine, because it might rather fuck up my afterparty, and cause unnecessary crap. So okay. I console myself with the thought that all this is not only solved, but has also led to greater clarity, and that there has to be someone who, like I did this time, creates crap at a march like this, if and when Schelden himself is not present.
We would not be the Wandelsoc., without it. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Aken awaits. |