The men who came down from the mountain
The last time I wrote, we were all tucked up in the little house in Lavantgraben. Now we're sitting in a cafe in Neumarkt making the most of the cold drinks and coffee on offer, and of course, the wifi. Between there and here was a "killer" climb up to the Stoana Hütte on the Zirbitzkogel. We're only four days in, but there's one thing I've learned about myself. If you were to compare me to a car, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be a Ferrari, or some big four-wheel-drive, off-road vehicle. No ... I see myself more as a 1967 Morris Minor van wheezing and backfiring my way up the steep slopes of the Alps. Somehow, even when the tank is completely empty, with nothing but rusty joints and bare threads to show for the fifty years on the planet, the car makes it to the top. The big jeep (that's Sepp) is already there sipping on his ice cold radler, feet up, and a big grin on his face, erm, I mean his front bumper. Sorry about the mixing of my metaphors, but I think you get the message. Yes I could be fitter. I wish life could be like one of those video games where, if you complete a challenge, your car gets upgraded to the next level. Didn't happen in my case anyway. We shall see ...