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Hemingway was a young man then. Twenty-six years old and built like one of the Andalucian fighting bulls he admired, he was a man of strong appetites and vast weaknesses when he caught the fourth train from Paris to Bludenz, Austria where he then transferred to the electric spur line which climbed to Schruns in the Montafon Valley. It was early afternoon when the train pulled into the small Austrian village where his wife Hadley and son Bumby were waiting expectantly next to the tracks.
Hemingway had many reasons to celebrate his return to Schruns. Photos of that era show he was tanned and fit but describing himself, he recalled. Perhaps, because of his guilt, he needed to write a good, honest piece of work. He wanted to write simple, strong sentences that spoke of complex things. And when the writing was done for the day and the dinner dishes were cleared away he wanted to drink Enzian schnapps distilled from mountain gentian with Herr Nels who managed the Hotel Taube.
There, while the lantern flickered and the wind howled around the refuge, he would think of men like Dos Pasos and Murphy and Chink Smith and regret they would not be there with him as they had the year before. When the storm cleared and the avalanches quieted, he would skin high into the Silvretta Gruppe below the Piz Buin from where, if the snow was good and stable, he would ski the untracked Jamtal-Ferner down into the Jamtal Valley to Galtur and back to Schruns.
And then he saw his wife and son and his plans disappeared beneath an avalanche of guilt. When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her. She was smiling, the sun on her lovely face tanned by the snow and sun, beautifully built, her hair red gold in the sun, grown out all winter awkwardly and beautifully, and Mr.
Bumby standing with her, blond and chunky with winter cheeks, looking like a good Vorarlberg boy. In Schruns is still very much a small Austrian village set in the shadow of the spectacular Silvretta Gruppe. Tschagguns, its companion village, sits a mile and a half across the Ill River which Hemingway described as a pebbly trout stream but it is Schruns where he spent his time and where Hadley skied on a hill behind the Hotel Taube where the chamois wintered.
If the chamois have been pushed into the high peaks, Schruns is still marked by narrow streets, century old facades, frescoes on white stucco walls, weathered bridges across the Litz River and warmly lit weinstube where locals gather to drink the local white wine and escape the intense snow storm that has settled over Western Austria. Taking the hotels, food and skiing into account, it would be easy to linger in Schruns for a week, or like Hemingway, for three months. Hard as hematite and at least twice as fast.
The Hotel Taube Cost practically nothing—85, crowns a day for full pension and heat 15 or 20 thou extra. Best looking country you ever saw and swell hikes. Arriving in late December, Hemingway rented two rooms.
One in front faced the Kirchplatz and offered views of the mountain and one that faced the garden in back where Bumby would play on sunny afternoons. Three quarters of a century later, the Hotel Taube still faces the Kirchplatz.
At least not intentionally. First I wanted to ski the massive Silvretta Nova—the vast interconnect which fills the high peaks above Schruns, St. Here steep bump runs roll, dive and twist down forested gulleys while perfectly groomed boulevards lead to empty quad lifts.
A deep winter storm, however, has buried the Silvretta Nova beneath two feet of cold powder and only a fool would risk the passes that lead to Switzerland. None of this existed during the winters of Skiing was in its infancy and skiers were forced to hike for their turns. Since no lift existed, Hemingway would first travel by sleigh up the Montafon to Partenen. Herr Lent, his guide, was once partners in a base wax business with Hannes Schneider, the great Arlberg skier, but Lent was a reckless gambler and lost heavily at poker.
To satisfy his gambling debt to Hemingway, he was obliged to lead the writer from Partenen beneath the stars up to the Madlenerhaus. In the early morning they shouldered skis and packs and followed the dark trail up toward the shining snowfields. Part of the climb up to the Madlenerhaus was steep and very tough. But the second time you made that climb it was easier, and finally you made it easily with double the weight you had carried at first. In March a narrow road winds through deep avalanche debris and eliminates the three thousand foot hike from Partenen to the Madlener Haus.
Set on a small plateau beneath the Silvretta reservoir, the two story refuge has also changed. Electric lights, central heating and flush toilets have replaced the original lanterns, wool blankets and outdoor privys.
A superb skier and man of few, but well chosen words, Lorenz inspires unfailing trust. That night an alpinist up from Galtur recalled how Manfred Lorenz once played Hemingway in a film made for Austrian Television.
Outfitted with old equipment and shot from a distance, Lorenz made a series of elegant, lonely turns down the glacier. Like the writer himself, Lorenz has accomplished many things in a brief time.
By nineteen he had climbed both the North Face of the Eiger and North Face of the Matterhorn as well as many of the seventy-four, plus meter peaks in the Silvretta Gruppe. Because he was too young at nineteen to be admitted into the Society of Austrian Bergfuhrers, in his case alone, the other guides simply waved the age requirement.
The rules are simple. Roll two dice then pass, raise or call. The winners brand the losers with a blackened wine cork while the losers pay for rounds of apricot, blackberry and plum Schnaps.
After the sixth round we stopped congratulating ourselves on the benefits of the fruit juice that tainted the pure alcohol. Observing that the schnapps had obliterated our inhibitions, Reinhard Zangerl, the hut manager, brought a tray of the local mountain cheese, that was strong and good and left a suspicious smell on our hands.
The cheese and schnapps made us forget about our blackened faces and we crowded onto the dance floor and polkaed to taped Austrian folk songs. Perhaps it is a tradition to gamble and drink at the Madlener house. That night he won , kronen. He is impossibly young, thin and tanned and projects power and selfconfidence.
And such a blizzard my genital organ to wit, penis, pecker, cock or tool froze or damn near froze and had to be rubbed with snow. Jesus it was cold. Then ran 5 miles down the face of the glacier in under 12 minutes.
I remember every minute of those dark early morning hours. He too was awake, leaning on one elbow and staring out his open window at the heavy flakes which spiraled onto the polished floor. It took a full day for Hemingway to skin along the east shore of the frozen Silvretta Stausee and up to the Wiesbadener Hutte where he then turned down the Vermunt Gletscher back to the Madlener Haus.
That morning, seven of us stepped into the cold, hard white out. In places the snow was fifty centimeters deep and Reinhard Zangerl offered to pull us behind a Skidoo to the Wiesbadener Hutte.
When a few of us protested that the writer had not, and would not now, allow himself to be dragged by a snowmobile our guide explained. We must take the pass today, before the snow gets too deep. It was the end we worked for all winter, and all the winter built to make it possible. That year Herr Lent wired a group of German clients that the avalanche danger was too high and not to come. When they came anyway he refused to take them out.
He crossed it himself and then they followed and the whole hillside came down in a rush rising over them as a tidal wave rises.
Thirteen were dug out and nine of them were dead. The Alpine Ski School had not prospered before this and afterwards we were almost the only members. Sliding one foot in front of the other and listening to the hiss of the skins beneath the snow while the heat and sweat filled our jackets, we climbed the steep faces into the rolling clouds. It was past noon when the grade slackened and we broke out on the pass between the Ochsen and Jam Valleys. Manfred had carried a thermos of tea in his pack which offered hints of rose hips, oranges and pico as we drank from a communal cup and stripped the skins off our skis.
A short steep drop opened onto the upper neve and avoiding the sheer rock faces, we pointed our skis into the fall line, and dropped through the clouds where the visibility suffered and time stood still.
It was better than anything else. And the deep snow climbing up our thighs and spilling over our shoulders was truly better than anything else and as our skis floated from turn to turn, we broke out beneath the clouds as a shaft of sunlight appeared far down the Jamtal. Locals have long memories about avalanches that explode out of the towering peaks and crush houses the owners were warned not to build in the first place.
Served in a room that dated back to , it was a superb dinner, graced by fine wines and rich desserts which mirrored his love of food. We would drink red wine with these even though it was more expensive than white wine.
Lift lines are virtually nonexistent and between the marked pistes, are hundreds of acres of trackless tree skiing. With visibility down to twenty feet and skiing limited to feel as much as sight, we followed Manfred through the forest and across the Kopsee Dam.
A harsh wind ia blowing up the valley and we slipped into the woods below the dam that led to Partenen. Here, in the foothills of the Silvretta, Hemingway would have rejoiced in the deep powder between the trees, the short steep drops and the narrow road which snaked toward the village. Though Hemingway only spent two winters in the Vorarlberg, it was not the skiing, or the food, or hotels that finally made him abandon the Montafon Valley.
Meeting Hadley at the train station, he lifted Bumby into the crook of one arm and studied the surrounding sunlit peaks. Winter lay hard on the Hochjoch, Schwarzhorn and Tilisuna Seehorn.
He was pleased to see the Hotel Taube had sent a porter to carry his bags, and he put his free arm around his wife and walked slowly up the hill to the corner room with the big stove, big windows and big beds with good blankets. Decades later, he wrote about those final days in Schruns. Ernest Hemingway in Schruns. Austrian fraulein tree skiing.
Lovely Fraulein Winning At Maximum./p>
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The Sun Also Rises is a novel written by American author Ernest Hemingway, about a group of American and British expatriates who travel from Paris to the Festival of San Fermín in Pamplona to watch the running of the bulls and the jti-innovation.com early and enduring modernist novel, it received mixed reviews upon publication. However, Hemingway biographer Jeffrey Meyers writes that it is.