Peaking early (Wunsiedel Part1)

Three kilometers outside the village best known as the burial site of Nazi Rudolph Hess - and as a result, a rallying spot for black-clad Neo Nazis - we started up a mountainside bearded in pine and freckled in ancient rock.

Wunsiedel has fought back against fascist visitors rallying around Hitler's personal assistant, launching diversity initiatives, banning the rallies and holding counter-rallies promoting democracy and emphasizing that "Wunsiedel ist bunt, nicht braun" or "Wunsiedel is colourful, not brown" (all according to Wikipedia's entry on the village).

All those thoughts quickly dissipated on our journey up the hill.
Though parched, the long path of German beers golden, brown and wheat strewn across Monday night left no feeling of hangover (Thank you, beer without chemicals or preservatives - I'll save that tale for a future installment).

We scooped mouthfuls of pure chilled water from a drizzling mountainside fountain at the park's entrance, then proceeded up through past the hillside theater sealed for the winter.

The first stretch involved a labyrinth, though not of the underground, mythological Cretan type. Huge slabs fell in a domino pattern that allowed us to cut between them. Its tenders cut steps where necessary, and the blue arrows kept wanderers onto the path. A few too many narrow passages and crouched walks threatened to turn me claustrophobic, but then labyrinth fanned into open rolling ground.

Little inspiration verses were carved into the rock below several lookouts, with "Live well, wanderers" the one I still can't shake - We are all wanderers no matter how little we stray, after all.

Only weeks after a massive wind storm struck much of Central Europe, the mountain face was pockmarked by pines uprooted in the gales. In some places they toppled in rows, while elsewhere trees sat on their sides with their root systems evicted from the ground.

We continued, even though Dietmar, our guide and host, wryly quipped that we wouldn't survive the night on the mountain if we became trapped.

The labyrinth behind us, we had only to hike a few more kilometers to reach the hidden restaurant. There wasn't an easy kilometer among them, as the terrain urged us ever upward.

Despite a hazy afternoon, the lookout points gave splendid views onto Wunsiedel, the circle of small mountains that opened to the Czech Republic in the east. A derelict American listening station from the Cold War still sat atop one of the last peaks inside the border; in those pre-satellite days, the post scrutinized Soviet troop movements across the Eastern Bloc (according Dietmar, the mountains flatten out quickly to the north, so this part of Franconia is among the last decent spots for such a structure).

The warmest European winter in 50 years was not without some snowfall - above a certain elevation. Climbing grew more difficult as we neared the top, with steep grade made more slippery by the water streaming from the ice snow during the last quarter mile uphill.

From necessity I moved quickly up the final rise; my running shoes barely gripped the sheer surface.

And then we found a pile of plowed snow, a road, and the mystery restaurant accessible only by walking (a road allows for supplies as well as tours of elderly and handicapped to reach it).

With a glance from the highest lookout yet, we adjourned to our mountaintop snack (in my case, German sulze, a peculiarly delicious pork served cold and wrapped in a gelatinous coat then topped with spiced pickles and carrots).

Need I say it all tasted great, having been earned by the twitching calves and quadriceps resting up for the descent (luckily, we followed the road around the mountain and skipped the slippery incline).