In search of the supernatural
Back outside, the August air is motionless
and warm. All around, bare and craggy
peaks give way to ridges of dark-green
forest beneath. Far in the distance,
among the torrents of rock and pine,
are occasional postage stamps of grass,
each with a tiny house at its edge and
the suggestion of a white picket fence. I
wonder at the lives lived out there. The
scene could be an illustration for a Hans
Christian Andersen fairytale. Here, on
the mountainside, I can believe that
extraordinary things might happen — that
the fence between the real and the imagined
has been shaken slightly loose.
And I’m not alone; the locals believe it, too.
Outside my hotel in Alpendorf, a gondola
carries visitors up Geisterberg (Ghost
Mountain), where a forest trail leads of in
search of the supernatural. There’s a snoring
gnome in a stump and a mischievous spirit
that hides under a bridge and startles people
by blowing gusts of air at their legs as they
pass overhead. Witches cackle from cabins
and a goatish bogeyman called Krampus
snarls through his whiskers. Be good,
parents warn their children, or Krampus
will come to get you. Although it’s a family
attraction, adding interest to an aternoon’s
hike, these imps and demons are anchored
in centuries of folklore, and their stories
must seem all too real when night falls on
the mountains.
Elsewhere, legends are more muscular
still. Locals will tell you that the nearby
Liechtenstein Gorge was cleaved by the
Devil ater his plans were thwarted and he
lew into a foul rage. The Kitzloch Gorge in
Taxenbach has viewpoints called Devil’s
Canyon and Mary’s Rest, names heavy with
the struggle between good and bad. I tackle
that ravine, hiking upwards on wooden
walkways, wearing an oversized helmet
that makes me look like a mushroom.
Alongside me, the water surges from
issures and cascades down the rock faces.
This is nature possessed, as mad as the
wind at Eisriesenwelt. The river below sets
upon fallen trees, thrashing them pale and
bulldozing them against boulders into ragged
nests. Among them, the odd dropped helmet
gleams white like a killer’s trophy.
But as I get higher, the mood changes, the
water rippling over stones smooth as sucked
tofees. Good has gained the upper hand.A mischievous spirit hides
under a bridge, witches cackle
from cabins and a goatish
bogeyman called Krampus
snarls through his whiskers
April 2020 111AUSTRIA