David Whitley attempts to climb Hafelekarspitze from Innsbruck, Austria – and realises that he may have bitten off more than he can chew.
In summer, the mighty Alps are tamed, like a circus tiger given a shot of morphine and then asked to jump through the odd hoop. In winter, the mountains are proud, fierce beasts, needing utter respect from anyone who approaches the scarred peaks. They’re cold, and covered not so much in a blanket of snow, but a bedspread and doona as well.
Once the white stuff has gone, though, and things start to warm up, they’re not so savage. Suddenly they are besieged by harmless old men with beards and big boots who just fancy a nice stroll.
Well, that was the theory anyway. We’d arrived in Innsbruck, the capital of Austria’s mountainous Tyrol region the night before with just one thing on our mind: the next day we were going to climb an Alp.
It didn’t particularly matter which Alp, as we’d decided that they were all rather interchangeable. A bit like bottles of mineral water or blank CDs – one’s pretty much the same as another, huh?
The next morning was beautiful; clear blue skies and the perfect balmy temperature for an amble through the hills. Everything was perfect. Even the decision of which one to tackle was a no-brainer, as Hafelekarspitze sits in front of Innsbruck like a watchtower.
But before the climb, every budding mountaineer needs supplies, so we decided to play it safe by getting a carrier bag containing a couple of cans of Coke and a few pastries from the nearest supermarket. With preparation now added to motivation, absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong.
We set off at a breakneck speed, taking on the steep incline with gusto and leering at the pathetic losers to the side who felt the only way to get up was by cable car. Why on earth is that necessary? I mean, yes, it’s fairly high and fairly steep, but nothing that a bit of good old-fashioned legwork can’t handle.
As we plodded upwards, though, our pace and enthusiasm began to slow. The crisp, bright morning had started to turn into a baking hot roaster of a day and no matter what sort of positive spin you put on it, we were nowhere near the top. Or, for that matter, the first cable car station.
The brisk jaunt had turned to a trudge, and wasn’t far off becoming an agonised grind. And there was mutiny in the ranks.
“Whose bloody idea was this?” came the disillusioned cry from the left.
“Yours. You were the one that wanted to climb an Alp. Were you thinking you were some kind of sherpa or something?”
“Oh hark at Sir Edmund ‘we’ll do that one seeing as it’s nearest’ Hillary over there, stuffing his face on that climber’s essential, the apple turnover.”
Before it could come to blows, however, we were disturbed by a dreadful wheezing noise from the right.
Panting and doubled over, clinging to a rocky outcrop, Matt was clearly in trouble. “I think… I’m going to… die,” he gasped with all the dignity of a helpless drunk slumped against the wall of a nightclub, begging strangers to put them in a taxi.
It’s amazing how quickly your stance on catching cable cars can change at times…
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