Hiking

Kiefersfelden, Germany 2022 by William Bryan

Gale force winds buffeted the windows of the apartment. Outside, tree branches littered Berlin’s parks and miniature dogs were getting blown down the sidewalk. It was a chihuahua, if you’re curious. A genuinely powerful storm was blowing it’s way across Germany, and it didn’t care about trees, dogs, or vacation plans. Lena and I were set to leave for Bavaria by train that day, but all train service in northern Germany was disrupted by the storm. Our trip was off to a great start.

The next morning train service resumed and we fought our way onto the ICE, elbowing along the aisle in an effort to find two unreserved seats. Otherwise we’d be stuck standing for 5 hours on our way to Munich. After a quick stopover for a family dinner, we hopped on the last train of the night to Kiefersfelden, our getaway for the week.

Our goal for the trip was to hit the slopes for a few days, but without a car our options were limited. The local ski resort operates a ski bus but you have to call the day before to reserve your spot, so everything was pushed back a day after our arrival. For our free day we enjoyed the fresh mountain air on a 10 kilometer loop from Kiefersfelden over the Austrian border, and back again. There wasn’t much snow on the ground, but we didn’t mind the warmer temperatures for walking around.

We awoke early the next morning and walked downstairs for the ski bus to meet us. A decalled VW bus rolled up, I handed the driver €10 for the both of us, and we were off to Sudelfeld. At the resort, we told the young woman behind the counter we wanted to rent for three days and she shook her head no. I didn’t understand. What do you mean, no? I asked. There were three big groups coming the next day and she couldn’t guarantee us equipment past today. I hadn’t even considered the possiblity of the resort running out of skis to rent. There was no use arguing it, though, so we took what we could get and rented for the day.

We had an awesome day of skiing, exploring a new mountain and getting our snow-legs back after a few years off the slopes. The bang-for-buck ratio felt just about right, and great Bavarian food on the slopes never hurts. The forced one-day limit at Sudelfeld was a blessing in disguise, though. Sudelfeld is a fun local resort for low-key turns or teaching younglings, but it doesn’t boast the epic views that can be found further south. With those epic views in mind we had some planning to do.

My classmates Stephen, Paul, and Leo arrived that evening and we got them up to speed on the situation over food and beers. There was a lot of back and forth but we decided to go for the full Austrian mission despite the hurdles we’d have to jump through. At 6 a.m. the next morning the adventure began.

Our trek started with a short train ride one stop over the border to Kufstein. From there we hopped on a bus that took us to Wörgl — with 27 stops in between. There, we took the S-Bahn regional train to the famed ski town of Kitzbühel. Only, we took it to the center of town, not the stop before that’s right at the gondola. 20 minutes later after walking back to the ski resort we were at our destination. We dipped into a ski rental shop and frantically started the check-in process when an employee told us there was no need to rush because the resort was closed because of high winds. It seemed our fairytale Austrian ski adventure wasn’t meant to be.

We walked up the street to the gondola to look at the live resort map to confirm the bad news. It wasn’t entirely true, but only one gondola and two small lifts were open. Compared to the 57 lifts on the mountain only having access to three felt like a massive defeat. After a brief powwow (without gulasch or beer, sadly), we decided that we’d made it this far so we might as well commit, regardless of conditions. We had also heard that the winds were expected to die down by mid-morning. What felt like hours but was really only 30 minutes later we were on the gondola with rental skis in hand and hope in our hearts. After two runs they shut the entire mountain down.

Everyone on the slopes was forced to ski down to the base of the gondola along a slushy, mogol ravaged, disaster of a run to await further updates. When we got to the bottom the gondola was running (with massives lines) and a few lifts had opened up again so our hope had returned. Over the next hour every lift on the mountain came to life and our Austrian fairytale was back on.

We explored all over the huge resort, testing out every lift we could see. We found the best groomed snow, some leftover powder in need of fresh tracks, and a couple of off-piste kickers for a few successful starfishes and unsuccessful backflips. Over a hearty alpine lunch the clouds cleared and our afternoon was blessed with bluebird skies. The fairytale wasn’t just back on, it was better than our dreams.

We were having too much fun to worry about the time until suddenly time was of the essence. With four lifts and a confusing string of runs between us and the rental shop we suddenly had a daunting task ahead of us. One wrong turn and we’d end up stranded on the mountain or in a different town. As the sun slid below the peaks around us we raced down the slopes, making our way ever closer to the final run. At the bottom of one lift I noticed that the “last chair” time and the “current time” were the same.

When we finally made it to the top of the final run we let out a sigh of relief and pulled out our cameras to capture the immense Kaiser mountains bathed in the last light of the day. Grinning ear-to-ear we pushed off one last time and, not wanting it to end, adopted the most leisurely pace of the day for the final run. Lena and I took it slowly, so by the time we made it to the bottom the boys were already enjoying cold beers and classic Austrian aprés ski pop hits (read: terrible, terrible music). Even our commute home contributed to the fairy tale. The train-bus-train became train-train-train and was 40 minutes shorter. I was in love with Austria.

We all yearned for another amazing day of skiing in Austria, but travel plans and work schedules were unfriendly to our continued fairy tail dreaming. Instead, we hiked up into the foothills of the Kaisergebirge from the other side. Along the way we found a slot canyon with snowmelt gushing down.

Running out of time before Stephen had to return for his train we had to decide between an epic view of the Kaiser mountains and some classic Austrian food and drinks. The food won in the end, but we still snagged a glance of the mountains out the window of the hut.

For our final day Lena and I took the train to Salzburg, a town I’ve visited many times but a first for her. I showed her all of my family’s favorites. Meaning we tasted all of the classic Salzburg foods we could get our hands on: Mozart kugel, Salzburger nockerl, and leberknödelsuppe. (Pro tip: the “original” Mozart kugel from Fürst isn’t as good as the copy from Reber). We also chanced upon an organ performance in the Salzburg Cathedral. An organist played a piece on each of the cathedral’s five organs, filling the chamber with resonant music. The fortress on top of the hill was our final destination before we made our way back to the train station for our ride back to Kiefersfelden.

The next morning as we packed our bags and hopped on the train, excited to remember the trip before it was even over, our phones began to buzz with push notifications. What we’d been talking about in the background for weeks had become a reality: Russia invaded Ukraine. Except for her sister, Lena’s entire immediate and extended family were suddenly living in a warzone and all of our attention went to finding ways to get them to safety. If you’re able to support those affected in any way, please find resources here.



Skyline to Sea Trail, California 2019 by William Bryan

I woke up that morning to a bed soaked in sweat. I had managed to contract the flu during our college reunion the weekend before, which didn’t bode well for the three day backpacking trip to come. But we’d been planning this trip for months now and it was set to be my one real chance to sleep in the great outdoors in 2019 so I wasn’t going to let a bit of a fever stop me. After filling up on a final home-cooked meal my dad drove us to the trailhead—making sure to pick up burritos on the way for our mid-hike lunch.

I have a picture of my sweaty bed from the night before our hike but was told it was too offensive.

The plan was to start hiking in the Santa Cruz mountains north of the Monterey Bay at Castle Rock State Park. From there we would hike 30 miles, one-way, to Waddell Beach. Along the way we would stop in the Waterman Gap Trail Camp, which was more remote and primitive; and the Jay Trail Camp which sits just down the road from the Big Basin Redwoods State Park headquarters.

Things got off to a great start with a gradual downhill walk amongst the fog-covered Redwoods and Oaks. We got a late start, but we were making great time so no one was worried. My Dad had decided to tag along for part of the first day’s hiking as long as he had to drop us off at the trailhead (that’s thru-hiking).

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We stopped at the summit of one of the ridges overlooking the bay in the distance for our burrito lunch before saying goodbye to my Dad and continuing on. Later that day after arriving at the Waterman Gap Trail campsite Sach turned his phone on and got a text from my Dad. He’d gotten extremely lost on his way back to the car and extended his hike from a reasonable six miles round trip to a frantic 10 spent wondering where the hell he was.

On day two we made mince-meat of the 9 miles to the next campsite, even while stopping every twenty minutes to admire the redwood tree rings that lined the trail. When we arrived at the Jay Trail Camp still had time to go over to the Camp General Store for some chips and beer before sundown. Not the most rural backpacking we’d ever experienced but none of us were complaining about a cold tall-boy after a long day of hiking.

Our last day of hiking, we realized, was set to be a bit of a doozie. Goose and Sach both had flights home from San Francisco that night at around 8. But before then we needed to hike just over 10 miles, meet up with my Dad for a ride home, shower, and drive the hour-and-a-half up to the airport from my house. After some quick maths the night before, we decided that we’d be safe if we left camp by 8 a.m.

Everything was going to plan: we woke up on time, left on time, and were keeping pace for an early arrival at the beach. But when we got there—tired, hungry, and with sore feet—my Dad’s truck was right where it should be, but he was nowhere in sight. We chucked our packs in the back and ran for the ocean to cool off after the long dusty hike, resolved to wait and not stress too much. We were early, afterall.

And then 30 minutes went by with still no sign of my Dad. We were now approaching our cutoff time, and I wasn’t certain that the boys would make their flights.

Then another 30 minutes ticked by, but there wasn’t a thing we could do.

Then, finally, my Dad and his partner Vince ambled out into the parking lot, explaining how they’d meant to meet us on the trail but somehow ended up on the wrong one. Without much pomp or circumstance I said they could explain it in the car while I corralled everyone into the truck and shut the doors—we had two flights to catch.

Iceland 2018 - Part 2 by William Bryan

“These renowned, dramatic cliffs on the headland beside Bjargtangar Lighthouse, extend for 12km. Ranging from 40m to 400m they're mobbed by nesting seabirds in early summer,” my dad read from the Lonely Planet guide to Iceland.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m excited about, we get to take pictures of puffins! And not the nasty cereal,” I replied excitedly.

“No, you didn’t hear me. Nesting seabirds in the early summer,” my dad taunted.

And then it hit me. This 800-kilometer detour into Iceland’s west fjords was motivated, in large part, by a plethora of photogenic seabirds that nested on the westernmost part of the island. And they wouldn’t even be there.

We decided to press on and hope that, for some reason, there might be some stragglers in the puffin flock. As we drove further towards the cliffs my dad checked the weather and turned pale.

“You sure we want to make it all the way out to the cliffs? There’s a storm with 40 m.p.h. winds coming in tonight. Just after sundown,” my dad said.

I distractedly thought about how fast 40 miles per hour was as I slowly navigated the winding road that was carved out of a cliff’s edge.
“Oh we’ll be fine,” I mumbled as I eyed the front right tire, and the crumbled rock that ended just beyond it. I had other things on my mind than a little wind.

Both Lonely Planet and the weather app were spot on: no birds at the cliffs, and epic wind gusts and buckets of rain pelted the van and pop-top as we tried to sleep that night.

After the sleepless night, we were ecstatic at the site of our first geothermal hot spring on the side of the road. We gingerly inspected it, half expecting it to not be real, or warm. But when we found that it was both entirely real and hot enough for soaking—we rushed back to the car to change.

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After enjoying ourselves in the warm waters with some Dutch travelers for a while we noticed some ominous clouds sweeping towards us quickly.

“That’s my cue to leave, nice to meet you,” I yelled behind me as I sprinted up the stone steps.

As I slammed the sliding door to the van shut behind me I heard the rain bounce off the roof above me. I looked out the windshield for my dad and as he rounded the corner the rain turned to hail.

He yelped as he clambered into the van and said, “man, you’ve got great timing. I definitely don’t.”

We laughed at what we were certain would be the last misfortune on the trip.

Two hours later we meandered along more bumpy dirt roads, nearly out of the west fjords, when I felt like the car was sliding around on the mud more than before.

“Something feels off,” I told my dad.

“Yeah,” he said. “This whole Junker that we’ve been in for two weeks is off.”

“No, more than before,” I said as I pulled over. “Will you hop out and give everything a look?”

As soon as he hopped out of the passenger door he deflated.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbled.

A flat.

A flat tire in the middle of nowhere on a dirt road in Iceland, only two days before the end of the trip. After assessing the damage, we climbed into the back of the van, donned our most wind-proof gear (thank god it wasn’t raining, also) and got to work. Soon after we started an Italian couple stopped and insisted on helping, and if not for them we wouldn’t have gotten any of the nuts loose from the bolts, our tools just weren’t good enough. They offered a helping hand and a rental car with a better tire-iron.

As we heaved, pulled, pushed and kicked we snapped two rusted bolts in half as we tried to loosen them. Unfortunately, a better tire-iron doesn’t mean good bolts. After an hour of struggling we had the spare tire on the car, with four out of six bolts left to hold it on.

We realized that we weren’t in any position to push the clunky van any further than we absolutely had to so we pushed on towards Reykjavík, passing by some of the most photographed parts of Iceland on the Snæfellsjökull peninsula. After stopping at three mechanics we finally found one who would repair our old tire and thought they could replace the broken bolts (they couldn’t), before we limped on towards the van rental office and the end of our trip in Iceland.

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Seattle, Washington 2017 by William Bryan

Olympic National Forest is only 26 miles from Seattle as the crow flies, but driving there involves navigating Puget Sound, a dozen other beautiful little bays, and more than 2 hours on the road. But I still had my parks pass and I’d be damned if I didn’t get my money’s worth so of course I insisted on dragging Sach and Kev to Olympic National Forest. We had no idea where to go once we got there but we thought we’d just ask some rangers at the visitor center for some hike recommendations.

The southern fork of the Skokomish River.

After an early wake-up and two-and-a-half hours on the road our phones told us we were in the national forest but there was no visitor center to be seen. We turned back to the nearest town and noticed a small community center that looked almost like a visitor center and hoped they might have some info for us. Inside we found an elderly volunteer that was short on hiking guidance but full of kindness. She had two hiking recommendations: a flat 4-mile river trail or a 2.5-mile, 3,000-foot climb to the summit of Mount Elinor. We wanted expansive view’s more than a meandering water-way so we decided to concede our distance goals and tackle the summit of Mount Elinor instead.

It turned out that 3,000 feet in only 2.5 miles isn’t much of a hike, it’s more like climbing a ladder—straight up. After a couple hours of huffing and puffing our way up the steep barren slopes of Mount Elinor we arrived at the top to expansive views of Olympic National Park and Oregon’s Mount Hood in the distance to the south. After scarfing down our lunches, we hung out with a mountain goat friend and took in the views before sliding our way back down the steep shale mountainside to the car.

After our hike, we drove north into Olympic National Park (just to say we'd been there) and spotted some teenagers enjoying an end-of-summer lake trip with plenty of beer and boulder jumping for those that had the courage.

Lake Cushman boulder-jumpers.

Lake Cushman boulder-jumpers.