August 12, 2022. I woke to a damp world. Everything was wet—tent, gear, me—but I had actually slept pretty well, considering. I drove down to the base of the park, found a parking lot, and did a much-needed car clean-out. Tossed some rotting vegetables, aired out the tent, and then debated with myself: drive or hike? Eventually I drove up to the guesthouse and parked there. Then I did a short 20-minute hike into this incredibly steep, majestic valley that just lit me up inside. I felt so happy there—surrounded by those mountains, breathing in that air. Sent a photo to Shawn and one to Facebook, just to share the moment.

Afterward, I stopped by the pilgrimage church near the waterfall. It was locked, but there was an outdoor chapel that felt sacred in its own quiet way. Then into the town of Golling for cake—three slices from Café Maier, which I suddenly remembered I’d been to before. It felt like walking into a sweet little memory.

I wandered into the castle and stumbled on a photo exhibit by a local man who had documented theater festivals since the 60s. He started as a craftsman and ended up being the official photographer—his grandson had curated the exhibit beautifully. This town really stuck with me, maybe because last time I met a former opera singer whose voice had been damaged. I’d told her about the lozenge Richard gave Linda Ronstadt to help her sing again.

Next up was Hallein. I was chasing a good coffee at Pan Café (it had rave reviews), but the double latte was bitter—sad trombone. By then it was 2pm, so I dashed over to the Celtic Museum. I had three hours but barely scratched the surface. I didn’t even realize until I was leaving that I’d missed the most important part—the finds from Dürrnberg. Argh.

I wandered the town for a bit, then drove up to Bad Dürrnberg to check out the saltworks museum and Celtic village. I sort of snuck into the village—it was beautifully done. Ended the night camping near the border on the German side, tucked in next to a wood pile. Pretty good stealth spot—hidden from headlights. A peaceful enough night, if you ignore the battle between German house music and traditional folk tunes echoing from a nearby festival. Turns out it was the 100th anniversary of the Schützenverein (shooting association), and they were not celebrating quietly.

August 13. Woke up early to the smell of hay and the faint smell of smoke—reminders of where I was. Took some early morning panorama shots and asked a farmer if I could photograph their house. The woman was friendly, the man… less so.

My phone had been struggling—I’d tried cleaning it overnight with an app, and it had killed the battery. So I returned to Pan’s Café to charge up, sort through photos and videos, and clear some space. Sat there till about 10, then went back to the Celtic Museum. I wandered the town a bit, found a lovely Saturday market, and then spent another three hours deep-diving into Celtic life. Pistachio ice cream break? Absolutely.

My salt mine tour was at 2:20pm. It lasted about 90 minutes and was way more multimedia than I expected—trains, slideshows, projections. It felt like Disneyland meets archaeology. Nothing was carved from salt like in the Polish mines near Kraków. On the tour I overheard some Poles from Łódź, and I mentioned I had relatives there. Small world moment.

I looped back to the Celtic Village again and had a deeper experience this time, using the app for extra context. Popped into the salt manufacturing exhibit too—but got steamrolled by a very intense German woman who monopolized the guide. This happens a lot—some Germans just take over and won’t let you get a word in.

Later, I went back to that village from the night before. People in traditional dress were everywhere, and I followed the music to a big tent where the shooting association was having a full-blown party. I tried to blend in, even though I probably looked like a bohemian time traveler compared to their crisp lederhosen and dirndls.

Then—Berchtesgaden. I have strong memories of visiting this town before. It was a royal hunting lodge for the Bavarian kings, nestled deep in the mountains. I walked around and found lots of historic façades, including one that really disturbed me—the “Monkey Façade.” It had caricatured depictions of Africans that felt straight out of an old racist propaganda book. A jarring, awful reminder that no place is untouched by racism.

I ended the night climbing a trail to a small chapel where someone had lit a candle. It felt like a quiet ritual. I thought of Jim. Earlier that day at Pan’s Café, I’d been feeling especially tender about him. That sense only deepened here. I found an email I wrote him in July 2021, saying I missed him and wanted to hike together. But we never reconnected. That sadness stuck with me all night.

August 14. I woke up to what I thought were fireworks, but nope—gunfire. The Schützenverein again. I’d forgotten all about their weekend-long celebration. I packed and tried to head to the village, but it was blocked by a parade of men in uniforms. So I turned around and wandered instead through a marshy forest outside Hallein.

Later, I accidentally ended up at what I thought was the Eagle’s Nest—but wasn’t. Tons of people were waiting for buses up to the top, but I wasn’t feeling it. Hitler’s hideout was never on my list of “must-sees,” and I had no desire to make it one. Instead, I went back to Berchtesgaden for coffee. It was bitter (again), but I asked for more milk and it helped. The best part? I finally figured out how to restore my long-lost calendar and to-do list from May. I nearly cried. I hadn’t connected my MacBook to the internet since it disappeared and assumed it was gone forever. Getting it back was like retrieving a piece of myself.

My friend Jim Charley was still on my mind. I kept thinking how much he would’ve loved these mountains—like the ones around his Tahoe cabin. I carried him with me throughout the day.

I drove through Ramsau and stopped at a national park exhibit about the high alpine dairy farms, some of which date back 1200 years. There was a great interview with a woman who had been a cowherd in the high pastures for decades, talking about daily life, love, and marriage to the farmer’s son. The whole system was eventually shut down by the Bavarian kings so they could have the land for themselves to hunt.

Talked to a park ranger about the bearded vulture reintroduction project—it’s been 30 years in the making in the German Alps, though Austria and Switzerland are ahead. Apparently, golden eagles aren’t thrilled about the vultures’ return.

Ended the day with a long hike into the mountains. I passed the bridge and bus stop and made it far enough to feel the wild energy of the upper valleys. But I had nothing with me—shorts, flimsy shirt, tiny water bottle—while everyone else had full mountaineering gear. Classic me.

Afterward, I walked around Ramsau, marveling at the transparent aquamarine water. Then I hiked up the Wimbachtal again, the glacial valley I loved so much last time. I made it all the way to the old hut built in the 1700s (maybe it used to be a Schloss?). I pushed on a bit further but turned back as it got dark. Alone, underdressed, underprepared—but happy.

Shawn had sent a thoughtful message about feeling isolated because of COVID. He missed community and connection. I appreciated his vulnerability. That night, I sat in the car listening to the most bizarre bird calls—like something straight out of Up. They only stopped once I got in the car. Pretty sure they were guarding their turf. Can’t blame them. We all are, in our own way.