The Team Sherpa Blog

  At the tail end of the winter this year, I set off on an adventure that I had planned years ago but had never had the chance to complete. The adventure was simple: cross the entire Harz mountains of Central Germany on foot. It would be a walk through woods and low mountains on some of the most historic walking paths Germany had to offer; I would follow the words and philosophies of great minds that had also set out on the same journey. As my research about the trails and towns of the area began, it quickly became clear to me that I would be walking in the footsteps of the great romantic movement- Schiller, Goethe, Schubert had all spent time and had been inspired by the Harz mountains simple beuty and friendly villages. My Journey began in Osterode, in the Western reaches of the Ober (upper) harz, and headed directly west up and over the Brocken summit to end in the village of Thale some 100km away. But along the way…

      My friend Deniz had decided he would drive me from Goerlitz, a small town straddling the German/polish border that I once called home for about 5 years, to Osterode. We woke up at 3.30, and by 4 we were on our way. The roads were a mess- the autobahn A4 had suffered major snowstorms between Leipzig and Dresden the day before. By the time the sun was rising at about 7.30, we were nearing Magdeburg. It was only a skip away to Braunschwig, but a world apart. We had crossed the old border that had for some 40 years separated this country into the BDR and the DDR. The same border ran directly through the Harz mountains- for decades, the mountains were a no-man’s land. Patrolled by soldiers looking for border hoppers on both sides, the East and West German armies stood facing each other here during most of the cold war. Remenants of the ordeal still remain, and as we drove into Osterode at 12.00 we could feel that we had crossed into the West.

      It took us about an hour to get organized and find some maps. None of the local hiking shops had anything current, and finally we were directed to go to the city hall and speak with the areas’ tourism meister. We walked up the ancient stone stairs to city hall, and were ushered into an elderly woman’s office. Deniz is Turkish, and I am Canadian so everybody was very surprised that we both spoke German. This goes a long way with German people. We were presented with a full topo-guide of the Harz mountains, a bumper sticker of a witch in flight on a broom and lapel pins that featured the same. Everybody in the city hall popped their heads out of their office to take a look at us- this is a fairly unknown area even to German’s and to have a couple of foreigners that plan to hike across the mountains through the snow was a spectacle.

       We quickly had lunch at a bakery, then stowed Deniz’s car at the city hall (where they would “make sure everything is okay” for us) and by 13.00 we were standing at the trail head. The path we would follow was called the Harzer Hexensteig (Harzer witches climb), a network of medieval and brand new paths that linked their way through the mountains. It was inaugurated in 2005, so the marking and trails should be in great condition; something that I had hoped for. I was wanted to use my maps as little as possible, to just wander my way across the mountains and use the time to clear my mind of all the nonsense of the daily grind. As we started up and out of Osterode, I couldn’t help but think about the adventure that lie ahead- so much of German Romantic thought revolved around the Harz; it would be interesting to see the same waterfalls and mountain passes that had been the muses of Goethe.

      It was a tough slog up to Eselplatz; only a 200m climb, but the snow lay fresh and in some places half way to the knee. Snow shoes would have been helpful. We were quickly surrounded by dense and ancient pines, thickly covered in the fresh snow that had been dumped here in the last 2 days. Every minute or so we would see a fantastic cascade of snow falling, as the sun warmed the snow laden branches and it would come crashing down. The sun was still high at 3.30 as we approached Blokkotentopf, a small clearing and crossing of paths. Here we left the logging road that we had followed up, and followed the markings (a witch on a broom) into the dark forest. It was heavy forest here- the sun overhead was already weakened by the overcast sky, and what little light did penetrate the boughs was not even strong enough to break the dense shadows of a late winter afternoon. It was easy to see why so many fairy tales were brewed up in these forests- and why the Harz was a favorite stronghold of the sorcerers and witches of times gone by.

Our plan was to head for Altenau, where we would find a room for the night. It was a little… optimistic. We had barely covered half the distance when the sun was starting to fade. Tired from the long days drive, and drawn in by the prospect of beer and kuchen (German cake) we left the trail at Polsterberg and made a beeline down to the charming town of Claustal. First order of business- shake the snow off of our boots and enjoy a pint of the local brew.

      Because of the nature of this journey, and because I wanted to keep it very simple I had decided that I would find lodgeings at days’ end each day, whenever and wherever that might be. It is a feeling we so seldom have, being absolutely carefree to pick and choosing where we rest our heads and an experience that I very much enjoy. We found a room at a small Pension, and after a quick nap we went out for a huge feast at a Croation restaurant up the street. Exhausted at 21.00, we crawled into the warm beds. Tomorrow would be a monster day, with nearly 33km to cover in the snow.

       Deniz left the next day after breakfast. He would take the bus back to Osterode to pick up his car, and I would continue on towards Thale. I was on the trail at 7.30, marching up towards the Kurstberg. The morning light was stark today, even through the clouds just above my head. The simple scenery of the rocks and trees blanketed in snow repeated itself in an infinite number of variations as I ambled up and over the hills. I was now entering mining country, and the paths I was following were often bordered by canals. Mining had been a part the history here in the Harz since the 16th century, and many of these canals were built in the 18th and 19th century to harness water for the watermills. Every so often I would cross networks of sluice gates and small reservoirs that would be used to control the flow of the water from up here in the mountains to the mills further down in the valleys. This type of construction is typical in this area of Europe; some feel that it detracts from the natural beuty of the mountains, but I find that it is like a living museum.

      As I mentioned before, it was easy to let my mind wander around as I walked these old paths. The repetition of the world around me and the rhythm of my footsteps allow for a natural and awake state of contemplation- it was quiet out here, the only real sound aside from my footfalls was the babbling brooks that were beginning to tell a story of spring arriving. I rested for a half hour at Ludwigplatz, preparing for the steeper climb up the Magdeburgerweg to Torfhaus.

      Snow began to gently fall as I began the 250m climb, and the air became noticeably colder as I approached the ridge of the mountains. I had been hiking all day in about -2C, but now things had dropped well below -7c. After about 30 minutes, I was suddenly above the trees and at the top of a small ski hill. Families were out on sledges, skidding down the snow-packed slope. I followed the old road into Torfhaus, a tiny mountain top hamlet that is dominated by Broken (highest point in the Harz at) just to the East. I stopped here for a coffee and cake, and the waitress also brought me a tiny glass of something brown and thick. “Zum warm halten”, was all she said and smiled. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. The local schnapps here is called Scheirke Feurstein (fire stone) and it taste very sweet and herbal. It does a great job of keep out the cold…

      When I left the Café the weather was deteriorating. Visibility was getting low, and the wind had picked up. It would be about an hours’ walk from here to the summit of Broken, and with no trees to act as a wind break, it would be a cold climb up. The path I followed was icy- I wished that I had brought the walking crampons that I had taken with me to Slovakia. A sign warned me that the way up was very dangerous, and that only experienced mountain climbers should proceed at their own risk. It also stated that leather boots were required for the climb, so double checking to see weather not I complied (I figured that my Yak leather boots would do just fine) I headed up the path. I approached the mountain from the West, and the path eventually followed and contoured until it approached the summit on the east side of the mountain. As I got higher, so did the wind. The path was very icy now; I looked over and noticed some rail lines just above the path. Hmm… skipping along the rail ties seemed a much better idea than slipping up the icy slope. It was a very small gauge rail line, so for every step I crossed two ties. I was moving much faster now, and the wind had died down for the moment but a thick fog had quickly moved in.

       I was moving along a quite a pace when from somewhere behind me I heard a train whistle. I looked back, but could not see more than about 10m into the fog. I jumped off the tracks, and waited in the knee deep snow banks. A minutes later an ancient steam strain came chugging up the tracks, pulling a few cars packed with people. They all waved to me, and must have thought I was either lost, crazy, or a bit of both. A minute later and the train was gone, swallowed up again by the mist- it was a surreal moment, something that I won’t soon forget.

      The last 100m of the climb were difficult, up an icy road against a stiff wind. When I reached the top, I could see nothing though the fog. The Broken is famous for the “weather” station on top, from which the East German police (with help from the Russian army) used to watch the goings-on of their westerly neighbors. It is now a hotel, where I stopped again to warm my bones. There was no fire lit inside, so I ordered a Feurstein which I figured would be the next best thing. This was becoming a pattern.

        As I sat atop the Broken, a thought suddenly struck me. I have walked, hiked, scrambled and crawled in many different places in many different lands. Some of these adventures are very difficult, requiring concentration on the terrain with technical and logistical planning. I enjoy the feeling of completion after an arduous walk up and over a particularly difficult pass; but where was I during the hours on the way to the pass? Here I was, sitting on the Broken and half way across the Harz. I didn’t know where I would spend the night, nor what lay ahead. The weather was failing me, and I was cold. But I had a deep feeling of contentment- this type of walking was the true sense of the German word for hiking; “Wandern”, which is closer to wander than it is to walking. I was simply wandering here, completely disattached to a life that lay half a world and 7 time zones away. It feels great to know that all I have to do to keep the feeling going is pick up my pack, lace up my boots and head out the door.