A Mountain Love Story (written August 8, 2011)

When I first saw Annette from behind the crawfish pot at my house, I was mesmerized. I wanted to get closer. When my mom first met Annette on the beach in Florida ten months later, she knew I was in love and I would marry her. When Annette first watched me glimpse the Alps with our toes in the Sternberger See, she could see it. I was safely married, but she knew I was in love.

We spent the evening drinking beer on a dock overlooking the water, the white cliffs of the Bavarian Alps captivating me while Annette participated in conversation with our new friends. We hiked in the Bavarian Alps, but it always felt like we were still in the top layers of skin while the limestone bones and craggy cliffs called me deeper. We mostly drove through the Austrian Alps and Italian Dolomites, my neck craned to peer out the window and up at the waterfalls, to see the cliffs meet the clouds.

One day we drove ten turns and thirty minutes from Caltrano to the Grenadier's Trail. Here carved in the cliffs of the Dolomites are miles of hidden trails and intricate caves. Here is where more than 12,000 soldiers attempted to defend the fertile fields below in World War I – le gran guerra. When it was clear they were losing, Italians grabbed their enemies and lept to their deaths by the thousands, bringing their opponents with them.

Mountains back home contain miners' remains. Mountains here hold the blood of the deadliest war in the history of Europe.

Mountains here also have gondolas. Thanks to companies like Siemens, you can forgo five hours of hiking for a dramatic ten minute ride to the top. This makes the mountains particularly accessible. Back home, I scoff at mountains with roads to the top. I seek the mountains for the crisp air, the solitude, the beauty, the adventure. The gondola seems to be an interruption in that, but it isn't. These mountains have happy cows with bells around their necks in what seem to be the most remote of places. They have for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Nearby the end of any climb seems to be a guest house serving cold beer on tap and delicious food to people as they admire the views. These places don't boast. They operate as if they are on the old square of some small European town. Simple. Affordable. Convenient. Historic. Hard to imagine those words together in one place, much less half way up the highest mountain in Germany.

The Alps beg for lifetimes of play and exploration. For now, it will be a few days. Italy and the beaches of Croatia and eternal sunshine await on the other side.