My First Time (on the Brocken)

We set out under drizzly grey skies, bundled into mittens, scarves, hats, and three or four layers of jackets against the breeze brushing our exposed faces, reddening our noses and cheeks. Starting up the mountain, we choose the paved road. Although the road is closed to motor traffic, several bicycles sounded their warning bells, as the bikers themsleves, clad in shiny spandex lighting bright against the grey backdrop but looking far too thin for the weather, painstakingly pedaled up the steep grade of the highest mountain in northern Germany.

After 20 minutes or so, we turned off the main thoroughfare onto one of the many trails to the top: Eckerlochstieg. I'm no stranger to sharp inclines, being, afterall, a native of the Pacific Northwest, where hiking trails abound in the Willamette Valley, Columbia Gorge, and Pacific Coast; however, the path upon which we embarked was...different--if you can call it a path at all, that is. Large boulders jutted out of the ground, snaking a slow curve up the slope and providing the natural equivalent to a month's, no, a year's worth of excercise on the fitness center stair-stepping machine.

The rain had subsided a little by the time we passed a group of hikers huddled around an older man signing autographs. Turns out, he was the hiking guide Benno Schmidt, better known as ''Brocken Benno'' for his daily treks up the mountain--at the time of this post, 6,140 round trips--regardless of rain, wind, snow, or, presumably in summer, extreme heat. He was already heading back down the mountain, so we didn't pause long, resuming instead our steady uphill climb.

Halfway up, we encountered the first traces of fog--cotton white puffing out from behind wet green brush, squeezing between trees, and rolling over bushes as it slowly erased the landscape of the higher altitudes. We walked onward into the enveloping mist, re-donning the caps and mittens we'd removed earlier in the heat of exertion. Beyond the slick wooden railing, damp greens and greys muted together--components of the famed mystique and intrigue of the Harz Mountains, home to the Hexen (witches) of folklore and inspiration to famous authors and poets.

Snippets of German literature popped into my thoughts: from Goethe's Erlkönig, the father, riding, perhaps, through these same woods; his son fading in and out of consciousness; the suffocating fog concealing the Erlkönig's malcious advances. 

Passing the 700m marker, we emerged again onto the paved road and into the full force of wind gusting our jackets to resemble blow-up inflatable devices. We read signs as we passed them, their frames and words only visible a few inches in front of our faces.

Finally at the top, we headed for a looming dark shadow--on clear days, the signature tower crowning the Brocken; today, shelter from the buffeting gales sweeping the 1,141m summit. Crowding into the tourist hall, we bought lunch, sipped hot coffee and tea, and prepared for the trip back down. Normally, the view from the top extends for miles with Schierke, Wernigerode, and neighboring towns popping up from the rolling hills like a 3D topographil  mat. This time, the landscape offered only its shrouding of thick, milky fog.

We descended more quickly than we'd ascended, and once we re-entered the woods, the fog also rapidly dissapated. The whole way down, wet and laughing, we promised to do it again--on a day more condusive to showcasing the surrounding scenery.

For the first time, however, hiking the Brocken certainly proved memorable. And although, I won't beat Brocken Benno, I plan on more adventures up the mountain before the year is out.