Mountaineer's Guide- Skiing the Circus at Saalbaach

We liked our little spot in Saalbaach, but little is a critical adjective. With two pads set out like couch approximations, some low tables, a bed, and a smudge of a kitchen all huddled under the agressive slope of a Tirolian Ridgeline. We shared a communal toilet which made it all feel a bit like camping, but luckily had a shower in the apartment. And what a shower it was. A space-age TARDIS of a shower with knobs and vents a-plenty and several misleading but well meaning sharpie annotations. When we saw it, we should have known it would take a little time to figure out, but we were excited to finally be settled for a few days and ready to explore so we put it off for the morning.

Woe unto us. Stu was particularly encamped under the duvet, so I had the privilege of showering first. After a few minutes spent deciphering the scribbles around the three central knobs I tried turning things on and was greeted by a gushing waterfall out of the right side of the panhead mounted to the top of the box, and some half-hearted spritzes from the mobile showerhead to the side. I turned the water up and tried to get it to start heating, then came back to adjust it to a more manageable temperature. After that, I had to readjust the water pressure, then the temperature again, then, just after getting everything perfect, the miniature hot water tank ran dry. Out of hot water, frustrated, and anxious to get on the mountain, Stu and I finally called it and started gearing up.

After a quick stop at the rental shop to pick up skis and poles for me, and the full set-up for Stu, we clunked our way down to the base of the nearest Gondola, bought our lift tickets, and loaded up.

I know it's juvenile, but I couldn't stop sniggering at the name of the gondi-- the Schattberg Xpress. Rediculous names aside, it took us up to the top of the southern set of peaks. We looped the backside of Schattberg Ost for a bit in order to warm up and get used to our rental equipment. Plus, the southern face was getting some morning sun and Stu found some fresh tracks of his own just off-piste.

The lift itself (actually most of the lifts at Skicircus) was a bit over-the-top. New lifts with all the niceties built in are apparently a point of pride in Austria. The one we looped on Schattberg Ost not only had footrests and a snowshield, but also a magic carpet to bring you up to speed as you loaded the lift. We definitely had a bit of a laugh when we saw the whole setup.

Wanting to explore beyond our single mountain, we traveled west, first to Schattberg West, then over to the peak of Zwolferkogel. We dipped down onto the south face of the mountain range again to find lunch away from the crowds. I finally got my first hit of Landjager since returning to the Germanic region of the world, and we grabbed some currywurst and bier to round things out. We ate and drank on the deck outside so we could continue to enjoy the splendor of the Alps.

Over the course of the afternoon, we managed to crest four more peaks (Reichkendlkopf, Hasenauer Köpfl, Reiterkogel, and Bernkogel), bringing the total to seven (let that sink in--SEVEN PEAKS.) One of the coolest moments was toward the end of the afternoon when we looked across the valley and saw the morning's three peaks all lined up and were able to trace our day along the range. It really hit home how absolutely huge Skicircus is.

Finally, it was time to call it. My legs were starting to get sloppy, my right knee was hurting, and the snow was devolving rapidly into a slushy mogul-y mess. At the top of the final run, we agreed to head back down into town and hit up a bar to warm up and let our limbs recover a bit before hiking back to the cave in our gear. Stu made it all the way down to the street but I answered the siren call of a swedish band singing Freddy Mercury at a hut just below the chairlift called Soul House. After some hasty texts trying to locate one another, Stu hiked back up to meet me while I nabbed us a table near the stage and the bar for a little bit of proper Austrian Aprés-ski partying.

party @ Soul House

We were late to the game. Many of the heat-lamp seats were occupied and the party was well on it's way by the time we settled in around 4:30. Stu grabbed a bier but I was chilled so I grabbed a hot chocolate...and then another while the band ramped up and the crowd got into the swing of things. There was a particularly boisterous older guy, well into his schnopps, leading the call for smoke on the water and other classic hits while the band wavered between queen and snow patrol. On the understanding that he'd play air guitar, they gave in to raucus pleasure from the crowd. Finally, the lack of heat lamps began to overshadow the party around us and we called it for the promise of a woefully late shower at home.

Having tested the waters earlier, I had a game plan that got me warmed up and cleaned without further issue. To give the hot water heater time to fill back up, Stu pushed his until after a dinner run. We went to an Italian place reccomended by our host and liked it fairly well. Then Stu showered, and we settled in for the night with a bottle of red wine (I know, I know but a girl can only drink so much bier!).

Our first day was slowed by the shower incident and rentals, but we had plans to hit it early on the second day. Austria likes to party, which, unlike Jackson, seems to make them later risers. Despite a bit of a hike to another gondola which would take us to another part of the resort, the slopes were pretty quiet for the first two hours, allowing us to loop a run called the panorama a good 8 times, savoring the courderoy like a particularly good wine. Once the rest of the resort seemed to wake up and make it on the hill, we were ready for a quick break.

Apres at the Soul House really inspired me, but I wanted something other than beer. So while Stu ordered the typical .5L, I went with hot heiße schnoko mit Bailey's (Hot chocolate with Bailey's) and it was absolutely the right choice (and my drink for the rest of our time in Saalbach). After some time letting our feet get some sensation back, we went exploring, forsaking the panorama run (now much more populated) for whiter pastures.

The rest of the slopes were wonderful, although nothing lived up to the perfect courderoy stretch of panorama, but I did use the new terrain as an opportunity to develop a new kind of falling, called Ostriching. To ostrich, one must accidentally cross ski tips midway through a partially developed mound of snow well on it's way to identifying as a mogul, and then dive down the mountain chin first once the whole crash starts to really get away from you. This is different from other ski crash techniques in that it requires a true disassociation from self-preservation; where you might usually expect someone to a)attempt to recover or b) launch sideways to avoid a full tomahawk situation, an ostrich requires a full commitment to the risky, face-first downslope orientation. Done properly, you might be able to achieve a scope-eye as the goggles dig forcibly into your cheekbone.

 

Two days of skiing and ostriching at a high level really takes a toll, so we called it quits with a final run down panorama before returning our skis. We went in search of a wine bar we had spied on our first night but which had been packed to the gills. It was much emptier at 4:00 and turned out to serve Brandy instead. This isn't your grandpa's Brandy either. Expecting something pretty sweet, Stu and I both ordered tart fruits- an unripe white plum and an oaked sour cherry. Both were very dry and very hot. Our bartender and presumably the owner dimpled at our faces before trying to explain that no fruit syrup had been added to sweeten it, which is what you typically get in a Brandy. In her bottles, the fruit flavor was distilled in. We ordered sweeter fruits to better results-- particularly an apricot that's a Tirolian specialty. But after two glasses each, we decided to look for further Apres elsewhere. Most places were either completely stuffed or echoingly empty but we managed to nab the corner of a bar graced by the auspices of a heat lamp where we people-watched (and ski shopped) over beer (Stu) and hot chocolate with Bailey's (me, naturally).

Wearing thin, we nabbed a quick dinner at the Wok & Burger Boys food cart (it was fine, but we aren't going to write home to you about it--other than this, that is) before settling back into The Cave to shower, watch some Clone Wars on the phone, and chill.

Saalbaach was great skiing and a really fun town but we are excited to head to Innsbruck tomorrow, first thing, for some more sightseeing, to let our bodies recover a little, and to finally hunt up some proper food which has been a little lackluster thus far (Munich excepted).

Mountaineer's Guide: Munich- Coming and Going

 

For once, we didn't book a flight before dawn. Instead, our trip out of DC was a red eye scheduled to head out at 10:40pm. We've realized having some day is great -- you can check off all the last minute tasks because everything is open. Having too much day, however, is trouble. We're both proactive people who were having a hard time sitting still as we rounded 7 o'clock. So much so that we decided to metro to Dulles airport (an hour and a half walking/metro/shuttle adventure rather than a more direct route) just to finally get going.

Once there, we breezed through security and settled in to wait at our gate. Chelsea nabbed us a Wendy's frosty to help wile away the time before we boarded. The flight was nice enough -- we managed to sleep through a decent portion of it and had an empty seat in our row which we capitalized on. We also watched JoJo Rabbit, which we have had on the watchlist for a while. Note that watching a Nazi movie, even if it's ironic, is still probably a bad call when on the way to Germany. We've had to forcibly stop each other from repeating some of the funnier scenes from the movie, including some aggressive Heil-ing.

We flew Air Portugal because of some serious deals they were offering on European flights through most of last year. The flights all come with layovers as Portugal seems to have stolen a page out of the Iceland playbook and is subsidizing flights with layovers to boost tourism. That being the case, our flight to Munich was interrupted by 4 hours in the Lisbon Airport. We will be spending 3 days on the way back, but on the front end of our trip, it's just pushing through.

The second flight was equally ignominious, although we traded a screaming baby on the first flight for a grumbling row neighbor and no airline-sponsored entertainment on the second. But it was quick and one-time and the final leg of a 18 hour journey, so we were grateful. Once we landed, we grabbed bags and with only minor moments of confusion, and managed to load onto the S-Bahn (metro) into the city. Since this isn't our first European rodeo and we knew we would be coming in hot, we booked a hotel extremely close to the hauptbahnhof (that's some German for you; we're all international like that). That part of the plan worked perfectly and once we we were off the train, it was less that 15 minutes until we were walking into the hotel lobby.

We dropped bags, ran back out for a quick bite at a decent kebab joint around the corner, and then settled in for the night at the estemable Kings Hotel, First Class. The bed, the walls, and the ceiling tiles were all covered in wood paneling, which actually felt very cozy after the long haul of travel, and we didn't have much trouble passing out.

The next morning, we wanted to see a bit of Munich before continuing on to the next leg of our journey down into the Tirolian Alps and towards the Saalbaach-Hinterglemm skicircus. It started with a stroll through Karlsplatz (not much to see) and on to Marienplatz, home of both the old and new rathaus(es) and at least one kirche (yup, more German for you; we're basically bilingual at this point). I'm always a fan of big spiky gothic architecture, so the plaza did not disappoint.

After some wandering through damp weather, we sat down for a traditional München breakfast: brezels, bier, and weissewurst. These little white sausages are boiled in a casing because they are crazy delicate. The texture is somewhere between a mousse and scrambled eggs, which was a little odd, but they were absolutely delicious paired with some sweet mustard. We drank slowly and killed some time over the leisurely breakfast so we could time our return journey through Marienplatz to catch the Glockenspiel tower.

The bells of Marienplatz toll at 11, 12, and 5pm for tourists. It consists of almost 15 minutes of glockenspieled tunes accompanied by dancing statuary in a scrubbed-green clocktower. The spinning figures could be straight off of a Disney animation frame, and the Glockenspiel part sounds like it's played by two slightly deaf instrumentalists who can't hear the other playing. The old machinery struggles through like a hundred-year-old music box. So, enjoyable once, probably wouldn't go again, four stars.

 

We caught our 1:30 train into Austria without issues, and made a 6-minute transfer in Wörgl (which is quite the picturesque blur). The regional express quickly acsended into foothills, hills, and then real Alps. Snow over craggy cliffsides like a well-worn blanket and unbroken meadows of white filled the train window. We started to get truly excited when we began to see ski lifts dotting the landscape. Later we realized that all of these connected up to the skicircus area (and we still had half an hour on the train!) Another 5-minute transfer in Zell Am See got us onto a local bus to make the commute into Saalbach, where we checked into our attic-like AirBnB, dubbed The Cave.

Tomorrow, we ski!

Ore-Gone (Oregon 11)

We were up pretty early to get our acts together before tromping down to the Pearl District and Blue Star Donuts to meet up with some old college friends. Rachel and Devin live in Seattle, but had reached out about meeting-up when they saw my prolific Oregon Instagram posts. It was especially awesome to connect with them as they are brand-spanking new homeowners and newlyweds and we got to congratulate them in-person and catch up on their busy year.

While they have been to Portland a handful of times, they were down to hang out with us and we did the 'touristy' rounds-- including Blue Star Donuts. Portland is a donut town and there are several big names in the local donut game. VooDoo Donuts is probably the most famous with "its a girl!"-pink boxes and donuts with outrageous flavors and toppings (grape dust, bubble gum, chili peppers, captain crunch) but Sarah said that locals prefer Blue Star for similarly experimental but higher quality flavors and execution (and slightly shorter lines) to satisfy their fried dough cravings.

The secret was certainly out as there was a bit of a line to order, and a much longer one as we were sitting down (Rachel and Devin have a super power of arriving just before the rush) but the donuts were absolutely worth it. Because there were 4 of us, and we were all super curious, we ended up with 8 donuts to sample between the us. I won't break them all down for you, but some of the highlights were the Raspberry-Rosemary Buttermilk, Orange Olive Oil cake, a lemon Poppyseed Buttermilk, and a passion-fruit coco-nib with a hint of cayenne. It took us a while to work through them all, and we were stuffed but happy as we left.

The next thing on my portland must-do checklist was the Saturday Market, since I love myself a good market and this one is especially huge and famous. Interestingly, I was expecting it to be mostly farmers market with some cool artists stands mixed in, but it was almost entirely small artists selling shirts, stickers, jewelry, furniture, etc. and it was HUGE. We browsed through some of the stands (I got a snow cone and some little knuckle rings while Rachel got her cats some new toys) but I doubt we saw more than a quarter of the market before we had to beg off of the exuberant crowds and sea of tents in search of lunch. We looked at a few of the food pods in the area but many of the carts weren't open yet and nothing tickled our fancy so we ended up at a burger place instead (Stu was happy, unsurprisingly).

After lunch, we all piled into Rachel and Devin's car for a ride out to the Japanese Gardens. The area also houses the Zoo, the International Rose Test-gardens (it is the rose city after all), and a local park with several tennis courts, basketball courts, etc. and all of the parking alongside of one long road which winds through it all. It was quite busy so we had made it almost to the end of the road before we had found parking and were ready to hike up to the gardens. Our spot ended up being pretty fortuitous as we were able to wander through the rose garden on our way up. The roses were glorious and varied and we had a grand old time walking up to one or the other and then sniffing before providing a comparative commentary for the group on relative loveliness. Finally, we reached the top of the hill and the entrance to the Japanese Gardens with a view of hood rising out of the hazy distance.

The gardens themselves are beautiful and tranquil, once you get past the crowds at the entrance gate. They're designed such that all of the gift shops, the art center, and the cafe are right there at the entrance so they don't disrupt the serenity of the gardens beyond. Other Asian gardens we've visited before have been based around large and imposing water features that are used to set the scene. While there were small, wandering brooks and a bridge-tipped pond, it was the trees, rocks, and zen gardens which took center-stage here in Portland.

For the main parts of the garden, it was obvious that everything had been cultivated perfectly to create a living piece of artwork the size of a courtyard, but it was the in-between areas that really struck me, with the exotic plants blending seamlessly into local trees and moss to create a landscape that felt more real but equally as intentional. Similarly, the rock paths transformed from careful curves and lines into stream-following irregular disjoints with hidden benches around cropped corners to sit and enjoy the natural beauty.

Afterward, we drove back to downtown proper to wander the city while catching up with Rachel and Devin. We stopped by Powells again, because that place sits like a rock at the center of the taut sheet of the city for us, but made it out without adding yet more books to the backpacks we'll have to carry all the way home. We stopped at another local brewery for a while to kill some time and relax in the Portland humidity. Finally, we stumbled across yet another art festival and spent some time wandering through pottery, wood-cut prints, abstract paintings, and upcycled metal sculptures. We managed to stroll until we were hungry again (seems like a theme for us, maybe; hard to pin down...) and headed toward a roof-top restaurant that Devin and Rachel had found previously called Departure.

The name seemed apt for the final evening of our trip, and the food matched the spirit. The small, expertly crafted plates and cocktails provided a perfect send-off for our foodie adventure. There was a good blend of smoky meat and seafood, which fit fairly thematically with our journey through the state. And the scenery was in turns strange (the restaurant's ambience was taken directly from Space Mountain as far as we could tell), unique (who would have thought that urinals come in Mad-Max chrome?), and exceptional (we were seated outside on the rooftop, right in the middle of the Portland skyline). It might have been my mind adding poetry to the vignette, but Departure felt like exactly the word I'd have chosen.

As our last Portland act, we found Wiz Bang, because I'll be damned if I was going to leave without a good dipped cone. This ice cream bar (their words) specializes in unique soft-serve flavors and has the technology to create various waxy shells around them. I had vanilla custard with a strawberry, balsamic, and cubeb pepper shell, and Stuart concocted a honey-lavender cone with dark chocolate shell. Mine was the unanimous winner.

The end of the ice cream signaled the end of our last day in Portland and time to say goodbye to Rachel and Devin. Once back to the Airbnb, we went around retrieving our stuff from the various corners of the apartment (we exploded into the extra space after Wendel) and then packing them away for travel. We did a little reading to polish off the stuff we had been reading on the trip so we could dig into some of the new stuff we had picked up in Seaside on the flight back. It was a short night with an unwelcome alarm going off at 4:30am to get us to PDX for a 7am take off. Obviously, we treated ourselves to one more cup of Stumptown each once through security, and then boarded our plane back to DC by way of Chicago.

Goodbye Oregon, its been a blast and we hope we'll see you again.

Stu and Chelsea

Portland 2: The Return (Oregon 10)

The final day dawned grey and overcast, which made for a good excuse to wear my Patagonia and Stu's flannel, so it wasn't all bad. We got up early-ish to give ourselves time to re-pack our bags in a more seemly manner and give Wendel a once-over tidy. We swept out sand and leaves, removed shoe prints from the dashboard, and pulled the top layer of dirt off of the windows. We took our time because we had enjoyed Wendel so much, and it almost felt like a thank you, then we hopped in and drove the last 50 miles back to where we started, Portland.

Driving Wendel through the city was much easier this time, which we chalked up to being older and wiser (and savvier with Wendel's quirks). We made the trek in rush hour and while it was certainly the most vehicles we had seen on a road during our trip, rush hour in Portland has got NOTHING on the DC-esque traffic we were expecting, so we actually had an hour and a half to spare before we had to part ways with the Vanagon. We used our time as any good Oregonian would: we grabbed chai and donuts at a place that had been on my Portland breakfast wish list (there were several more entries than Portland mornings so I had to be selective.)

Pip's Original was second on that list, but I hadn't expected to be able to go since Stu thought it was in a difficult location, way off to the side of the districts where we were staying. So we took our opportunity while we were still mobile (and honestly it was super close to Wendel's home anyways). Pip's makes enough different types of chai tea to offer a full-on tasting flight, and we decided to lean into that by ordering ourselves an impromptu flight of their mini-donuts to go along with it. We managed to take a picture before we'd completely eaten everything, but it was a close thing. The chais were all surprisingly different from each other. One tasted almost like a thai iced tea, and another used chamomile as the base tea. The donuts were something special, too, like a very high-class version of hostess powdered-donuts; my favorite were the ones topped with a maple and bacon jam while Stu preferred them covered in cinnamon sugar, honey, and nutella (who could have guessed that?).

After we scarfed down everything we had ordered quickly enough to make me slightly embarrassed, we enjoyed the cool digs, and especially the other patrons sipping out of their mismatched chai flight mugs, referencing the tasting notes and thoughtfully discussing the pros and cons of each chai in serious tones, just as we had. 

Reluctantly, we returned our dishes to the busking bins and nabbed Wendel. Time to take him home.

As I mentioned, Pips was quite close to the place where we needed to drop Wendel off and it went by so quickly. Then we were there, and I was knocking on their door and telling his owners about our lovely trip and how much we had enjoyed driving Wendel, and then we were grabbing our bags, handing over the keys, and walking off. It was like pet-sitting for a long time; where you become devoted and then you give the animal back to their owners but in your heart, they are your pet now because you are so attached to them. I'll admit that my eyes were a little misty, and it took me about a hour to break out of the funk and strangeness of being Wendel-less once more.

However, the recovery started with a lovely shower in our Airbnb where we had wandered to clean-up and drop off bags before truly starting our day in Portland. While it wasn't the vintage-cool of a Vanagon, our accommodations were much more spacious in a very cool (aesthetically; it was actually a bit warm up there and we kept the fans going) lofted space with lots of quirky details like a brass, claw-footed tub, and a pulley light in the kitchen counter-balanced by a mini cast-iron skillet.

Once we felt clean and respectable (I did my hair AND put on make up!), we grabbed a lyft to take us up to Northeast. I had been told that Portland's charm lies in its funky neighborhoods and to really see and enjoy Portland, we needed to commit some time to simply wandering around in one of them. I picked the Alberta Arts District, because the name seemed promising, it housed a number of lauded food pods, and is home to several unique boutiques marching down along Alberta Ave. We started with lunch as the Piedmont Food Pod.

Food Pods are semi-permanent food-cart venues where several vendors in trucks, trailers, shacks, etc. have set-up to serve a variety of offerings in parking lots, etc. They are something Portland is known for, and do a lot of the heavy lifting for the city's foodie reputation and, obviously, they were high on my list of Portland-musts. This one was not inviting from the outside, but once you had turned the corner into the Pod, you were greeted by a village of DIY decor and inviting chalkboard menus interrupted by sets of tables and chairs in various colors and styles.

There were Hawaiian bowls (more spam, less poke), fish and chips, 'health- conscious' counters, BBQ, thai, gyro, kebab, etc, etc. I got a chicken curry from BurmaSphere that knocked my socks off but Stu won this round with a kebab from a German-themed stall that made us nostalgic for the magical street food of Heidelberg. It was equal to any of our food-memories from that trip across Europe in 2015.

The rest of the afternoon was spent strolling down the main strip of the Alberta Arts District, both window shopping and stopping occasionally for a bite or a drink (you know, to keep our strength up). This part of Portland felt a lot more like I had initially expected from all my research and close-held stereotypes. Shockingly bright hair colors and nose piercings abounded, and a lot of the shops we ducked into were a certain flavor of weird and unique. We picked up a couple of small dirt- and fruit-loop-scented candles (that's two separate scents, don't worry), visited a boutique specializing in bespoke camping accoutrements (specially-sourced firewood included), and giggled through the Witch-and-Cat store (which is exactly what it sounds like).

We stopped part way through when Stuart spotted a pie and cocktail cafe where he grabbed a slice of Brandied Peach and I sipped on an Afternoon Delight (both were very delightful). Finally, we ended up at a brewery (Great Notion) which took the idea of adding flavors to various beers way too far. The Sticky Bun porter tasted more like maple syrup than malt and the blueberry one struck us as more of a breakfast novelty than a drink. Ultimately, the notions were only ok at best (badum tss).

As evening approached, we decided an encore Food Pod performance was in store (our first experience was just so spectacular!), so we hiked east to the Mississippi-Skidmore Food Pod, which operated in tandem with the corner bar that it spilled from, Prost! (note that exclamation mark is part of the name of the german bar, not just me being excited). We simply sat for a bit at the overcrowded picnic tables with a couple of seriously good german beers while we weighed our food options. A couple of beers later, we ended up with a smoked pastrami Reuben from Pastrami Zombie (which was also incredible) and boisterous conversations about board game and then video game philosophy with our bench-neighbors.

We decided to walk for a bit to help digest and see some more of the city, and ended up so content that we strolled through all 3 miles back to our Airbnb. We did happen to stop briefly at Burgerville  (we weren't wholly sober) to satisfy the effusive recommendation of our Whatum PCT hiking compatriots (it was good, in the vein of Shake Shack and In-n-Out, but sadly not up to either of those counterparts).

Finally, we wobbled the last couple of blocks home for the night, to be ready to get up early-ish to meet with some old friends tomorrow morning.

Good night from "1898 Urban Victorian Loft Near Convention Ctr."

Chelsea and Stu