At 5:30 a. m. the wake-up call goes. We light the stove, have breakfast, pack and sweep out the winter room. At 7:20 we are on our way, before sunrise, but late enough that we don’t need the headlamps anymore. We descend into the Langental. The restrained chirping of green tails and goldcrests accompanies us as we first pass the tree line and then the forest line.
The Langental flattens out and we walk over the Bsuchalm, two buildings closely together and a small church standing in the middle of a meticulously cultivated pasture. It seems to me almost like an English lawn, not far away from the golf course level, as if the alpine pasture keeper had personally carried every stone from the meadow. There is also a small water wheel on the alp which was built by the great-grandfather of today’s owners and apparently drove the butter barrel.
Via a driveway we quickly walk down to the Stubaital and have hardly parked our backpacks when the bus arrives and takes us to Fulpmes, where the car is parked. The rest of the day is a mixture of driving and jamming, the normal madness of a Friday afternoon on German highways.