Short Story

Ein Ausflug in die Berge droht fast so schlimm zu werden wie die Kindheitserinnerungen unserer wanderunlustigen Erzählerin. Von MARY SIMONS

“Gumboots and dirndls”

WMEDIUM AUDIO

hy?” I had been asking myself this question since I boarded the plane from London to Munich two days earlier. Yes, it was nice to spend time with my grown-up son. But why had I agreed to go hiking in the mountains? I hate hiking. The only way I like to see mountains is as a panorama behind luxurious chalets photographed for stylish design magazines.

Tom, walking along beside me smiling, didn’t make me feel any better. It’s OK to walk uphill for hours if you are 6' 3", but it’s much harder work if you are 5' 5" — and shrinking.

“When do we get to the hut?”

Actually, there is one good thing about hiking: you can eat as much as you like afterwards and not feel bad about it. Bring on the buttery pancakes with raisins, apples and ice cream!

Tom studied his phone. “According to this, we should be there in two hours, but we get to a river in about 45 minutes. It looks as if it might be a good place for a break.”

Bless him! I had tried not to be bad-tempered, but perhaps the fact that I was stomping rather than walking had given me away.

The spot on the river was lovely. In front of us, the water formed a small pool before crashing over rocks into a ravine. The sky was blue overhead, and there was a scent of pines. I had to admit — only to myself, of course, and only for a moment — that hiking could be OK.

Tom took off his boots, placed them next to his rucksack on the rocks and stepped into the pool.

“I think I need some new boots, Mum,” he said splashing about. “Mine are falling apart.”

I sighed.

“You know, when I was young, we hiked in gumboots.”

Tom rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, Mum! Nobody walks up a mountain in gumboots.”

“We did — and there was snow, too. Look at my profile pic.”

As Tom waded over to his rucksack to get his phone, I lay back in the grass and thought about that photograph. One summer, my father, a passionate hiker, had taken us all to Austria, where we walked non-stop for two weeks. This might just explain my aversion to mountains. It wasn’t an unhappy holiday, just a very tiring one. My mother had also fallen in love with the dirndl look and had dressed me and my sister up in matching versions. For some reason, though, I was attached to the photo of my father, Ava and me out on one of those endless expeditions.

“Oh, my God! You really did wear gumboots. And is Ava wearing a dirndl?”

The next couple of minutes were a blur: Tom laughing hard, then slipping, throwing his arm out to steady himself and falling backwards to the edge of the pool, where he lay stunned. I ran straight into the water and, holding on to a rock, held out a shaking hand to my son.

“Tom!” For a second, he seemed just to lie still and look at my outstretched arm. Then his cold, wet hand grabbed mine, and I pulled him up and away from the edge. Tom staggered to his feet, knocking his boots and rucksack down into the ravine.

Gingerly and shaking, we picked our way to the edge of the pool and looked down. Far, far below, we could see a blue dot that might or might not have been Tom’s rucksack. There were no boots in sight.

We debated back and forth for a few minutes. Tom was all for climbing down into the ravine. I threatened to throw myself to the bottom if he so much as put a foot over the edge. Finally, we agreed to hike on to the hut. Even in our wet clothes, it was our only real option. By this time, clouds had begun to gather on the horizon — and I was definitely back to hating hiking and mountains.

For the next two hours, Tom bravely picked his way barefoot and shivering along the path. A light rain was falling, and as we climbed higher and higher, the raindrops turned to snowflakes.

“Just think of the great dinner we are going to have,” I said. Tom grinned at me, but his lips were a brilliant shade of blue.

“A big bowl of soup and then one of those great Bavarian desserts.”

“Mum, I live here. I eat that stuff all the time. It’s really not so special for me.”

We fell into silence, and I thought about my father and my son, both madly enthusiastic hikers, and me in the middle — an aberration in all things alpine.

When the hut finally came into sight, a rosy square of light in a darkening landscape, Tom punched the air with his fist.

We fell in through the door, and Tom collapsed on a bench. A motherly-looking woman in a spotless dirndl looked us up and down from behind the bar.

“Wir...” before Tom could get out a word in German, the dirndl lady interrupted us. “English?” she asked. Did I hear a little humour — even sarcasm — in that word? Then she added: “I have a box with clothes. Things people have left here. Follow me.”

An hour later, Tom, in an enormous pair of lederhosen, and I — yes, finally back in a dirndl — were eating sweet slices of pancake and talking up our adventure.

“Gumboots are actually quite comfortable,” said Tom looking under the table at our booted feet.