September 10, 2008

Traveling Companions

2008 1525 page16 caps soon as I saw it, I wanted to go hiking. How could I not? Untersberg was an alluring triangle of granite and snow. I was teaching in Salzburg for a semester, and each day, as I stepped out of my apartment, my eyes shot up, taking in the mountain. Still I did not climb.
 
First it was too cold, then too wet. I was too busy teaching, then traveling. My excuses were logical—except for this: I was an avid hiker. In South Korea I spent my vacations on mountains. I might have been the anchor—the last in a line of climbers—but I was passionate about placing one foot in front of the other. I loved walking into a fog, loved the taste of cucumbers on a mountain ridge.
 
But I might not have climbed Untersberg, were it not for Manuel. On the last day of class, he stayed after and invited me to go hiking. “Yes, yes, yes!” I said.
 
Two days later, I was nearly skipping in the parking lot. It was late spring, and I was going to climb a small corner of the Alps. The path began as a dirt road, and there we came upon a convoy of Austrian soldiers. They would be hiking the same peak as we—though for them it was a training mission. After we passed, Manuel and his friend Wolfgang dissolved into giggles. They had recently finished their own military services and apparently were filled with
 
2008 1525 page16“Schadenfreude.”1
 
“We’ve got to beat the army,” said Wolfgang.
 
“Ha-ha,” I said.
 
“I’m serious,” said Wolfgang, still chuckling.
 
It was a lovely morning, and as we climbed, we moved beyond the tree line and zigzagged up a thin path. We hiked at a brisk pace, impressive by my low standards. Each time I paused to catch my breath, Wolfgang glanced nervously behind us. Eventually, we fell into a rhythm I would later think of as a gallop. We beat the Austrian army by 30 minutes, nearly throwing ourselves at the summit.
 
The view from Untersberg was stunning. On one side of the mountain was Germany, on the other, Austria. It was the kind of spectacle that inspired yodeling. I was most taken with the wildflowers, scrappy blossoms clinging to a steep slope.
 
The hike down was, if anything, even brisker. This time we were competing with afternoon storms. We arrived at the parking lot just as fat drops began to hit the ground. I returned to my apartment, pleased and exhausted.2 The rain was violent now, wind whipping the trees in the backyard, while claps of thunder shook the building.
 
Manuel and Wolfgang’s idea of mountain climbing was more extreme than my own. Yet I was glad for their companionship. Without them, I probably wouldn’t have climbed. But if by some strange chance I had found myself on the mountain, I would certainly have turned back as the path sharpened and the clouds blew in.
 
Companionship is an interesting concept for hiking, as well as for faith. Both are solitary endeavors. No one can climb for you. No one can believe for you. And yet we seek out companions, even imperfect ones. We attend church, and then later we talk about everyone’s flaws.
 
In Salzburg, I had stopped attending church. Since the service was in German, I stayed home and read my Bible. But that last Sabbath, I went. I counted hats. I read the book of Ruth. Afterward, I went on a picnic with some young adults. We ate sandwiches and then ambled. When we came to a cathedral, we slipped inside. The walls were stone, and the only light came from the stained glass. “Let’s sing,” someone said. We were from all over, but we knew the same songs: “Alleluia,” “Nearer, Still Nearer,” “Abide With Me.”
 
 “Do you know ‘You Are My Hiding Place’?” I asked. They did. The melody was haunting, and as we sang, the notes were made sweeter by the stone walls. We sang the chorus several times, a slow and steady singing.
 
When I think about my last week in Salzburg, I remember two things: sitting at the top of a mountain, sharing a sandwich with Manuel and Wolfgang; and singing songs with strangers who were not strangers after all, but traveling companions.
 
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1Merriam Webster’s online dictionary defines “Schadenfreude” as: “Enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.”
2And it must be said, for a week afterward, I could barely walk.
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Sari Fordham is an assistant professor at La Sierra University in Riverside, California. She teaches in the Department of English and Communication.

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