Austria Journal 5- Man vs. Wild, Spelunking, and Other Misadventures

Thursday, August 29, 2013

The day began innocently enough: A blaring alarm and groggy awakening, a hurried breakfast and flurried few minutes of classroom searching. After my introductory lesson in German phonetics in which the professor taught us a lullaby in round, I walked to the St. Therese room for my first class with the Dr. Newton. Though Aquinas is not exactly the lightest reading, Dr. Newton’s classic British accent somehow makes me feel as if I’m in a Pride and Prejudice movie rather than thumbing through pages upon pages of the Summa, so even that more challenging class added very little stress to the day. Mass and lunch were likewise enjoyable and as I ascended the three stone staircases to my room, I contemplated going for a hike to round out another peaceful day in Gaming. But it was not to be.

Our expeditionary force

DYT meets Austrian Alps

          Halfway up the steps I ran into Alex who, upon hearing my plan also suggested we join a group of girls who wanted to explore some well-known, nearby caves. Two-thirds of the way up the stairs, we came upon said girls, who were already dressed in athletic apparel and obviously prepared for a fun, active afternoon. Spurred on by the promise of wine and chocolate which we planned to have when we arrived, Alex and I ran upstairs to change and then spent the next hour waiting for various members of an our group with slowly grew into a large expeditionary force. Once about fifteen or so people were assembled, we began walking through Gaming. We all knew the general direction and one girl even knew that it was supposed to be about a 45 minute hike, but otherwise, we were largely unprepared, simply enjoying the freedom and sunshine of the afternoon. Thankfully, before hitting the line of trees that marks the end of town and beginning of foothill/mini-mountains, we ran into another student who was just returning from the caves and agreed to show us the way. It was somewhat providential (or not) that he did, because the way there turned out to be one of the most difficult, terrifying experiences I have ever endured. No. I’m not being dramatic.

          Mickey (our guide) led us through some trails which led into the woods and quickly began climbing upwards. As people began to breathe heavily, he laughed and said that we weren’t even a third of the way there yet. At this point, he also asked if we wanted to take the more direct route straight up the mountain or the winding path that took an hour and a half. We all chose the more direct path, believing it would take only 45 minutes. That was our first mistake.

          The second was to disbelieve Mickey’s dire warnings and mutterings, which as we continued to climb up increasingly steep hiking trails, seemed not only to multiply in number but also absurdity. In the superior tone of one who has undergone much and wants you to know it, he kept saying things like, “You think this bad? Just wait. We aren’t even close to the hard parts yet.”  At one point, while scrambling over a large pile of sticks on a 45degree incline, I finally snapped, “Oh come on, how much harder could it get?”  I questioned sarcastically. Whether that was the third mistake or merely an ironic prelude to what was yet to come, I’m not entirely sure, but in retrospect, I’m impressed that Mickey didn’t turn on me then and there and wring my ignorant neck for such a foolish question. The first third of the hike was just that, a hike. A rigorous hike with slippery stones and a bit of a drop next to the path, but compared with what came next, it honestly comes close to catching butterflies in a sunny pasture.

My fear of heights shows as we scale the mountain

          Then came the cliffs. When I say cliffs, I don’t mean exactly like the cliffs of Mohr or Dover or anything quiet that impressive. The main differences between those and these lay in the fact that these cliffs did not go below a 90degree angle and that somehow, miraculously, they had substantial amounts of dirt, loam, trees, and rocks lining their floor. The word floor, doesn’t quite cut it, however, as these cliffs were really more like walls that Mickey expected us to scale as easily as a fly, and that’s really what I felt like: a fly, on the wall, fearing for my life as a fly might fear a human with a flyswatter. Except, we humans were the ones at the mercy of the bugs, which we quickly discovered were quite plentiful. Spiders, ticks, fire ants, grasshoppers, and miscellaneous unnamed crawling things, all could be seen scuttling off into the grass and tree roots as we dug our nails into their mossy homes. We couldn’t just let go if a large spider appeared quite suddenly in front of an outstretched hand either, not unless we wanted to fall backwards down the side of a miniature alp, anyway. Trying to ignore the lower forms of life surrounding us, I focused instead on the spiritual and metaphorical significance of the climb. Somehow the thought that this was just like one’s life on a grand scale: an ascent to the glory of the peaks, through trial and muck and filth, up dangerous incline, was comforting only until I registered that at any moment both metaphorical and literal ascent could be cut short in a dramatic but definite tumble downwards. At that point, I stopped thinking of lofty matters and reverted to every part of me that felt even remotely like a mountain goat.

          Unfortunately, I share little with these hardy creatures, and at this inconvenient time, made the discovery that I am completely terrified of heights. As we crawled higher and higher up what now seemed to be sheer cliff, all I could do was pray and test footholds, grasp roots with shaking hands and thank God for fingernails to dig into the earth. After about an hour and a half, we finally reached our destination: a hole disappearing into the earth between two large boulders. Gone was the dream of cheerfully sipping wine and eating milka in a spacious underground cavern. No, this was spelunking. Legit spelunking.

Entering into the abyss

          Still, after enduring the climb of a lifetime, I was not about to chicken out of what could be my one chance to do something this adventurous. I pulled out my tiny green flashlight (providentially stolen from Mei Mei’s backback zipper the day I left home) and entered the abyss. At first it was merely a steep climb downwards between rocks. Alex quickly decided to go back up to the sunlight, a decision I somewhat envied as we descended deeper and deeper into the blackness. After about 5 minutes of this, we all began to slide uncontrollably down the slope of loose rock shards, dislodging some along the way. One such stone bounced down from above and slammed into my lower back, causing me to shout angrily over my shoulder (don’t worry, I apologized later and we all laugh about it now). We continued down until we reached the point where you have to go headfirst on your chest in order to fit. The space between the “ceiling” and the cave bottom was less than a foot and the slope down into the darkness appeared nothing less than terrifying. At this point, I was all for making the 10 people behind me climb back up so I could get out, but Mark promised that the space immediately widened, convincing me to cautiously inch forward on my stomach into the tight space.

The cavern!

          Sure enough, after a few moments of feeling like I was trying to hide under my childhood bed in the dark, I emerged into the cavern below. It too sloped downward, but the ceiling was vaulted and graffiti of past adventurers lined the walls. We explored the room, finding two tiny passages that didn’t seem particularly safe and then decided it was time to begin the trek back. Pushing through the tight spot against gravity was a little harder than the way down, but the promise of light ahead aided our efforts and soon we were emerging, muddy, numb, and half blind into the fading sunlight. We decided to take the actual path downwards, a wise choice which only took about 45 minutes anyway (apparently Mickey mixed up the times?), but the adventure couldn’t end too abruptly, and being covered in mud anyway, we decided to do the traditional Franciscan creek jump across the road from the Kartause. The water was frigid and refreshing and the jump exhilarating (though I don’t think I would do it again.)Finally, the evening ended with Dunkel beer and Kartause burgers in the Keller (the hotel restaurant): a perfect ending to a slightly traumatic, mostly fabulous adventure of a lifetime.

Creek jumping finishes off a day of adventures

          

My Love/Hate Relationship With Track

Well, it's that time of year again...for track training.

Now, let's get one thing straight, right up front: I hate running but love being in shape. (I also love winning, but that is hardly a big enough reason to run track.)

My track career began freshman year. I was thrilled to be trying a new sport, especially one that involved the only aspect of other sports that I was any good at: running. I soon discovered, however, that running against other people that actually trained to run was a lot more stressful and painful than I had expected. While, in basketball, I could sometimes manage to outsprint other players on fast breaks and, in soccer, I could keep up enough endurance to make a decent mid-fielder, but track was different. I had to push myself to run much faster and much longer than I was used to in order to do well against other competitors in a race.

One thing I did not learn freshman year...well, actually, I did learn it, but chose to ignore it, (much to my detriment) was that, to be a good runner, you actually have to work hard. Really hard..and not just at the meets themselves but every single day of the season. Like I said, I chose to ignore that fact all through freshman year, and my final meet had me huffing and puffing (and crying, my mother likes to teasingly remind me) as I desperately scraped a 6th place ribbon in the 800m.

The pain and shame of that last race were probably the sole reason I decided to quit track. Well....at least, for the next two years, but, as people (particularly guys who are annoyed with my persistant efforts to beat them in one thing or another) like to point out, I am extremely competitive. In fact, I'm not sure it's healthy to be as competitive as I am, but anyway, as soon as my best friend Laura beat my PR (personal record) in the 800, I had to give track another try.

So, senior year had me back on the track, this time training like a madwoman to beat the new Dominion Academy 800m record. I was terrified of the thought that Laura might beat me in a race and I relentlessly trained, even traveling down to Kentucky with Laura for a week of two-a-day training sessions and personal instruction from her aunts who had both gone to state in track.

Long story short, I worked pretty hard last season and really did reap the rewards. I was stronger, faster, and healthier than ever before.....But still, every meet had me stressing about the next race and, whether or not my nerves helped me race well, they certainly made me remember why I quit track. I guess I'm just bi-polar when it comes to track. I can't seem to decide if I love it or hate it, whether the benefits outweigh the sacrifice..

But, here I am, beginning my training for the track season at Franciscan. Yes, I'm running intercollegiate track. My mother thinks I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. I know that I'm going to have to train harder than last season in order to even get personal records, let alone prove competition enough to place well, but something in me won't let the sport go. God has given me a small measure of talent but a large amount of determination. What can I do but give my best to His glory?

.....and really, this whole post was a big stalling tactic because I don't want to go outside and run in the rain.

..but it's still raining.

..so I better get out and run.

But at least maybe you all understand my track complex now.