Adventures in the Austrian Alps: A Tale of Daring Escapes
“Either push your limits or suffocate in your comfort zone.”
When you read my previous post you know why I love the 80’s. (Link Here)
But there was so much more to the 80’s than Nostalgia… Ah, the summer of 1988, a time when life felt like an open road, full of hairpin turns and heart-pounding thrills. Picture this: two young Germans, fueled by ambition and a dash of rebellion, escaping to the majestic Austrian Alps for a season of transformation. I was one of them, alongside my buddy Kurt, chasing fitness goals in a remote gym while dodging the long arm of the law on those winding mountain roads. Kurt started out 40 pounds overweight, but our brutal training whipped him back into peak shape. Meanwhile, I was 40 pounds below my normal weight after enduring a grueling 1.5 years of homelessness. Standing at the same height, we met exactly in the middle with our weights during that trip, a perfect symmetry in our journeys to reclaim our bodies. But it wasn’t just about outrunning cops or sculpting ourselves; it was about confronting our deepest fears head-on, like scaling a treacherous peak without a safety net. What started as a simple getaway spiraled into a cannonball run of epic proportions – police pursuits, workouts that pushed us to the brink, and a solo climb up the formidable Granatspitze that nearly cost me everything. This article captures that raw, unfiltered spirit of adventure.
Buckle up; it’s a wild ride.
Listen to Kurt’s and Walter’s Favorite Tunes | 1988 Austria
June 1988
Kurt and I were tearing up the serpentine roads of the Austrian Alps, heading to a cozy log cabin we’d rented in the tiny village of Galtür. The place was decked out just right, with a jaw-dropping view of the jagged mountain range that seemed to pierce the sky. We’d signed up at a gym in the bigger town of Landeck, about 24 miles north, and we were en route to one of our brutal workouts.
Those sessions were no joke, they hit Kurt so hard that he’d wake up every morning with a knot of anxiety just thinking about them. But the payoff was undeniable: combined with a strict diet, Kurt had shed 40 pounds of extra weight and built a lean, muscular frame that turned heads.
We wrapped up at the gym early that afternoon and headed back. The winding downhill road from Landeck was a thrill-seeker’s dream for our little Volkswagen Polo. I gripped the wheel, downshifting hard to wring every ounce of power from the engine as I slung the compact car around the tight bends. Suddenly, around a sharp curve, an Austrian police checkpoint loomed into view.
Kurt and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance. A cop waved us over.
Kurt muttered, “You know, they don’t like Germans here.”
“I ain’t stoppin’,” I shot back, my voice steely with resolve.
I slammed the accelerator to the floor, blasting through the checkpoint. Kurt twisted in his seat, watching the officers scramble toward their cars.
“Here they come!” Kurt yelled, his voice buzzing with excitement.
I cranked up the car stereo tape player to fuel the adrenaline. Lou Gramm’s “Hot Blooded” blared through the speakers as I attacked the twisting road with fierce determination. The engine screamed at redline, but the cops were gaining ground.
Kurt screamed, “Faster!”
“I’ve got everything the four-banger gives!” I shouted back.
The police car pulled right up behind us, sirens wailing and lights flashing. I eased off and pulled over. Two officers approached, one on each side, as I rolled down my window.
The cop barked, “License, registration, and proof of insurance!” Then, “And turn down that radio!”
I dialed down the volume, rummaged in the glove compartment for the insurance card and registration – but damn, I’d forgotten my driver’s license back home – in Germany!
Handing over the papers, I said, “I left my driver’s license in Germany, Officer.”
The cop, smirking like he’d hit the jackpot, replied, “That’ll cost you 300 Schilling for speeding, 300 Schilling for not stopping, and 300 Schilling for not having a driver’s license.”
I pulled out my wallet and leaned toward Kurt, whispering, “Can it be that everything costs 300 Schilling in Austria?” I added with a half-grin.
The next morning
We were back on the road to Landeck for another gym session, barreling downhill through those serpentine twists. Out of nowhere, another police checkpoint appeared around a bend. The officer flagged us down.
“Haaaa Haaaa! We’re going downhill; let them try to catch me now!” I hollered at Kurt.
Kurt spun around as I floored it through the checkpoint, watching the cops dash to their vehicle.
“Here they come! Faster!” Kurt yelled.
“Not a chance!” I growled, determination etched on my face.
I clung to the wheel like a lifeline, carving through the corners and pulling away from the pursuing car until it vanished from sight. Emerging from the serpentines into the valley just before town, we spotted a roadblock ahead.
“Oops, I didn’t think of their radio!” I admitted, chagrined.
I pulled over, glancing in the rearview as the chase car caught up. The officer who stepped out? The same guy from yesterday.
In a venomous tone, he snarled into the car, “Papers!”
I grabbed the documents from the glove box and handed them over. “Still no driver’s license,” I tried to quip lightly.
The officer snatched his ticket book and started scribbling. “300 Schilling for not stopping, 300 Schilling for speeding, 300 Schilling for not having a driver’s license, 300 Schilling for reckless driving, and 300 Schilling for the repeat offense!”
I reached for my wallet again and whispered to Kurt, “I’m glad they can’t count any higher than 300 in Austria.”
Kurt fired back quick, “Yeah, but they can add.”
It’s Morning Again… but not like any other…
I was up at dawn. As Kurt came down the stairs, he found me staring out the window at the towering mountain outside.
“What are you thinking about?” Kurt asked.
“How time just slips away,” I replied. “And about how much we’re missing out on in life.”
“Yeah, there’s so much we never get a chance to do,” Kurt agreed.
“You know, our fears are responsible for this dilemma,” I said, still gazing at the peak. “We’re missing out on life because we’re afraid. For example, did I tell you I’m afraid of heights?” I turned to him.
“No, I didn’t know that,” Kurt said.
“But not today,” I declared. “I’m going to climb that rock!” I pointed at the massive Granatspitze looming before us.
Kurt eyed me. “Sounds like a great idea, but we’ve got no equipment.”
“Who cares?” I shot back, my eyes locked on the challenge.
“No ropes, no carabiners… no safety?” Kurt grinned.
“Solo,” I said, staring down the mountain.
“I love this hero shit! Let’s go!” Kurt shouted.
The morning air was already warming up as we set out with nothing but tennis shoes, and shorts. We bushwhacked through tall grass, dense shrubs, and trees until we hit a stream. I glanced at Kurt and nodded.
“If we gotta go… we gotta go!”
We plunged into the icy, foot-deep water, our shoes and socks soaking through with a squelch that echoed our reckless spirit. We reached the base of the 10,000-foot Granatspitze “Grenade Top” in English, and started our ascent on the shadowed side. The rock was frigid, biting into our numb hands, and our wet shoes made every hold a gamble. But as the late-morning sun crested the peak, it thawed the stone – and us – though the rising heat had us sweating buckets without a drop of water to spare.
Luckly, we were in serious physical condition, and after five grueling hours, we’d clawed our way to about 4,000 feet, facing a sheer 100-foot vertical wall that spiked the difficulty from a manageable 5.4 YDS to a heart-pounding 5.11 YDS. I was facing a very hard climb, with small holds, overhangs, and sustained difficulty all the way.
Dehydration was hitting hard, amplified by the adrenaline and scorching sun. Kurt was just ahead to my right, still finding decent holds. Me? I was stuck, no clear grip in sight. A small ledge taunted me six feet above, out of reach. I had three fingers of my right hand crammed into a chest-high crack, my right foot wedged in the same fissure below. My left hand clung to a slippery dimple, while my left foot braced knee-high in a one-inch groove.
Kurt climbed higher and looked down. “What’s the matter? Are you coming?” he shouted.
I scanned desperately for a way up, keeping my cool. “Well, I’ve got a little problem right now. You just go on, I’ll figure it out.”
Spotting a plateau 300 feet above, I called out, “See that plateau? I’ll meet you there.”
Kurt nodded, gave an “OK,” and pressed on.
My right arm was screaming from bearing most of my weight. Carefully, I crossed my left arm over to jam it into the crack, then let my right arm dangle, shaking it to restore circulation. After about 90 seconds, I switched back, fingers digging in deep. I eyed a dip at chest height, my only shot was to wedge my knee in there and lunge for the ledge above. My muscles were tiring fast, sweat pouring, electrolytes vanishing. No time to waste before cramps set in.
I hauled myself up with my right hand until it was at hip level, then crossed my left over to pull higher, jamming my left knee into the dip. Now I was nearly sideways on the wall, defying gravity.
Kurt watched in horror and yelled, “In God’s name, what are you doing? Are you crazy?”
The abyss yawned below, the lake a mere puddle, roads like threads. Reality slammed home: 4,000 feet up, no rope, no net. “No time out here!” I thought, forcing a grin. “I’m climbing, you numskull!”
This was it. I released my right hand, propelled myself upward with my precarious holds, and stretched across with my left for the dip. If I missed… it was over. With a guttural groan, I lunged. My legs slipped, but my fingertips caught the edge, clinging for dear life. Now dangling by three fingers on my right hand, legs kicking air, I paused, eyes closed, breathing steady, to avoid a fatal rush.
Seconds later, I grabbed with my left and pulled up, securing my right foot below. That was the closest I’d ever come to the end. (At least up to this point in my life. Little did I know…) Reaching the plateau, the adrenaline crash hit like a wave. “Man, get a chopper because I ain’t climbing another inch,” I gasped, utterly spent.
Fear gripped Kurt too, his voice shaking. “And how in the world are you suggesting I get a chopper?”
I collapsed on my back, eyes shut. “I need to rest for a while.”
I dozed off instantly for about 45 minutes. Waking refreshed, we scouted an easier descent on the west face, just one more tough scramble left, then a straightforward drop.
On the way down, words poured out like a flood, pure joy at being alive. Back at the cabin, I stepped on the scale and stared in disbelief: I’d lost 11 pounds because of severe dehydration. Feeling seriously dizzy and confused, after seven hours without water, extreme effort, sweat, and terror had wrung me dry.
We took the next day to recover, savoring the hard-earned peace.
Two days later
We were cruising back from the gym in Landeck, pushing the Volkswagen uphill through the twists. Around a corner, another checkpoint appeared, but too close to evade. The cop signaled us over. I punched the gas, roaring through. Kurt whipped around. “Here they come! They’re going to catch us!”
“Yeah, but not with me driving!” I barked. “We save 300 Schilling when you’re behind the wheel! Let’s switch seats.”
Amid squealing tires and hairpin turns, we swapped places like daredevils. The cops closed in, sirens blaring. Kurt pulled over.
Our streak ended, it was the same officer. He stormed up to Kurt’s open window. “You switched seats!”
With youthful bravado, I deadpanned, “Right! We’d be so crazy driving through the twisty mountain roads and switch drivers on the fly!” Grinning, I added, “How’s the Jägermeister in Austria?”
The cop fumed, yanking out his ticket book. “300 Schilling for speeding, 300 Schilling for not stopping, 300 Schilling for the insult, and 300 Schilling for having no driver’s license!”
Kurt piped up excitedly, almost innocently, “I’ve got a driver’s license! We save 300 Schilling!”
