A few years after graduating from college, I took a job writing about the Oregon Coast. I moved to Florence, where the median age was 50 and the mayor was a mortician. I hunted down peers my age wherever I could find them and joined the local gym, where the senior citizens in the locker room spent each morning describing in great detail whatever ailment was bothering them that day. Is this my future, I wondered? Nothing to talk about but an inventory of pain?<\/p>\n
Two decades later, I get it. Despite taking every reasonable measure to avoid the trials of middle age, they have arrived without consent. So as I packed this spring for two hiking trips spread out over three weeks, to the Bavarian Alps and then Norway, I was as focused on how to avoid hurting myself as what to wear.<\/p>\n
This is my own doing. I could have planned a leisurely vacation with trains, planes, boats and automobiles. But I wanted away from the crowds that public transport reliably serves, and the only vehicle for avoiding them was my feet.<\/p>\n
Among the most memorable trips I\u2019d ever taken was a hut-to-hut expedition of the Haute Route in the Swiss and French Alps, with a tour company mapping out the whole journey and shuttling my luggage from one place to the next. It delivered all the scenery without the drudgery of hauling food, camping gear and clothing on my back. But it was up to me to make it from one town to the next. There were no shortcuts, no buses, no bailouts. The thought of repeating a mission like the Haute Route, even eight years later, made my knees wobble.<\/p>\n
Highland cattle bedding down for the night in a Bavarian alpine meadow, a timber gasthof glowing faintly against the treeline above Garmisch-Partenkirchen.<\/p>\n
Winston RossBavaria: rain, cows and some long slogs<\/p>\n
For this trip, I hired Macs Adventure<\/a>, a Glasgow-based, B Corp-certified company founded in 2003 that specializes in self-guided hiking and cycling trips, handling logistics from accommodations to luggage transfers across more than 400 routes worldwide. They loaded an app with train, bus, ferry and hiking routes to get me to the best parts of the Bavarian Alps and the Hardangerfjord, my twin destinations. All I had to do was find Oberammergau, Germany, and then a way home from Bergen, Norway. And bag a few monster treks along the way.<\/p>\n After a night in Oberammergau, I pulled on my boots and set out for the first big hike of the trip, the Panorama Trail, which began with a welcome chairlift boost up to the Kolbensattel. Next came a critical test of the most important piece of gear in my luggage: footwear.<\/p>\n It\u2019s been less than a decade since I hiked the Haute Route in a well-worn pair of Danner boots that fit my feet better than any shoe I\u2019ve owned. I learned in the worst way how important it is to carry properly sized footwear, on my first backpacking trip, through Big Bend National Park, when I borrowed boots from a friend whose feet were easily an inch and a half smaller than mine. After 30 miles, my big toenails were blue, and a week after I returned home, they peeled off. Ever since I broke a small bone in my foot in 2010, then spent a year fighting plantar fasciitis, I haven\u2019t been able to forget how much a pair of healthy feet matters. I should be stretching and strengthening them daily; instead I bang them up a few times a week mountain biking, and I suspect that single-minded obsession is at least partly why I now have arthritis in my right ankle and a bone spur that feels like a paring knife stabbed into my left big toe whenever I slide a shoe on wrong. Still, I hoped my feet would hold.<\/p>\n Linderhof Palace at dusk, King Ludwig II\u2019s smallest and only completed royal residence, its terraced gardens rising toward the hillside temple above.<\/p>\n Winston RossSore feet, giant pork knuckles<\/p>\n For this mission, I\u2019d grabbed the most comfortable hikers I owned, a pair of Vasque boots that had broken in quickly, with no blisters. My feet felt OK, but as the trail thinned and twisted toward a rock spire rising over Linderhof Palace and the Graswang Valley, the world dropped away faster than I liked. I made it as far as I could, then took an alternate route down a broad bluff with plenty of twisting roots but none of the exposure. I reached into my pack for a second piece of gear necessary for a middle-aged descent: foldable Leki hiking poles.<\/p>\n There are plenty of beautiful places to hike in the world. Not many of them lead to a Rococo fantasy palace built for a Bavarian king obsessed with Versailles, complete with a man-made grotto modeled on a scene from Wagner\u2019s Tannh\u00e4user and a fountain that shoots water more than 70 feet into the air. After exploring Linderhof with what energy I had left, a comfortable bus carried me back to Oberammergau. The day offered some foreshadowing. It was all I could do to schlep from hotel to restaurant and back again, and the next day I knew I\u2019d be walking to another town: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, site of the 1936 Winter Olympics.<\/p>\n Schweinshaxe at Zum Wildsch\u00fctz in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, crackling skin, a knife standing at attention, and a beer garden\u2019s worth of Hacker-Pschorr close at hand.<\/p>\n Winston Ross<\/p>\n That hike was a long grind, and as I climbed along a creek bed toward the low-slung pass leading to Garmisch, the rain arrived all at once, exposing the \u201cwaterproof\u201d label on my boots as fraudulent. By the time I reached the hotel, my damp feet felt pulverized. It was time for the third essential piece of middle-aged trekking gear: naproxen sodium. I never take NSAIDs back home, unless I\u2019ve injured myself so badly I can\u2019t move. On this trip, I had a feeling I\u2019d need them. I was right. Drenched, I hobbled toward a shower and Restaurant Zum Wildsch\u00fctz<\/a>, which serves some of the region\u2019s best takes on Bavarian specialties, from stuffed wienerschnitzel to \u201cpork knuckle,\u201d a dish I\u2019d never heard of before this trip: essentially a barbecued pig\u2019s knee, succulent pork hiding beneath crispy, chicharron-style fat.<\/p>\n Hiking into Austria, with a little help from Aleve<\/p>\n The nice thing about a self-guided tour is the absence of peer pressure, of a fitter companion goading you into an adventure you\u2019ve outgrown. With three nights in the same hotel, the next two hikes were day trips: a panorama trail around Wank Mountain, and a traverse through the 500-foot-deep gorge known as Hell\u2019s Valley, or H\u00f6llentalklamm. It was dumping rain and I was wiped from the first big hiking day, grateful for the cable car that carried me to the top of Wank, where clouds obscured much of the view and provided an easy excuse to skip the hike back down. The next day, still aching, I wandered the town instead of Hell\u2019s Valley, finding a lovely art-filled park that inspired a nap in the sun and a bit of impromptu yoga.<\/p>\n Eibsee\u2019s scattered islets floating in glacial-blue water, storm clouds pressing low over the Wetterstein range and the Zugspitze cable car just visible on the ridge.<\/p>\n Winston Ross<\/p>\n From Garmisch I hiked to the last stop on the Bavarian itinerary, the Austrian alpine town of Ehrwald, just over the border in Tyrol. After a loop around the clear waters of the Eibsee, the trail climbed steeply into Austria, where I got another soaking on the way into town. I found a surprisingly good pizza place, wolfed down a pie and an Aleve, then headed back for a sauna session in the basement of the Hotel Stern<\/a>.<\/p>\n A rain-fed stream cutting through the rock near Ehrwald, Sonnenspitze rising through the clouds above the valley.<\/p>\n Winston Ross<\/p>\n The next hike was another grueling climb through the high pastures around Ehrwald, but the views never showed themselves through the fog, so the hotel\u2019s front-desk clerk suggested a different route: up the Ehrwalder Almbahn cable car, then a steady climb to Seebensee, a glacial lake framed by the limestone spires of the Sonnenspitze and the Drachenkopf. Because I had two nights in the same hotel, I had the flexibility to change plans without unraveling the logistics. The hike to Seebensee was still tough, but at least the lake and its mountains stayed in view the whole way. After another sauna and a salty ribeye at a restaurant attached to an indoor climbing gym, I was off to Norway.<\/p>\n Norway: fjords and full stomachs<\/p>\n The quickest route to my next adventure would have been a direct flight to Bergen, once Norway\u2019s largest city and still the headquarters of much of the country\u2019s outdoor tourism. Instead, I flew from Munich to Oslo for a night at The Thief<\/a>, a stylish boutique hotel on Tjuvholmen, a former shipyard turned art-filled peninsula. I checked in just in time for a quick visit to the ground-level spa, with its indoor pool and Turkish hammam, and a dinner at Fru K, overlooking Oslo\u2019s harbor.<\/p>\n The bar at Charmante Skostredet H\u00f4tel in Bergen, a slice of Parisian brasserie tucked into the heart of a Norwegian fjord city.<\/p>\n Winston Ross<\/p>\n The next day\u2019s journey was a six-hour train ride to Bergen, through forested valleys and the wind-scoured Hardangervidda, Northern Europe\u2019s highest and largest mountain plateau, on a route often called one of the world\u2019s most beautiful train rides. I was grateful for a day without hiking, more so when I stumbled upon what might be Norway\u2019s most vibrant single street: Skostredet. Much of Bergen is beautiful, from the old wooden buildings at Bryggen to the fish market at Fisketorget to the candy-colored houses on the steep bluffs above Nordnes, but Skostredet packed in a little of everything: a popular gelato spot, covered outdoor patios filled with a lively crowd, excellent Italian food at Villani, and, best of all, Charmante Skostredet<\/a>, a French-inspired maximalist\u2019s dream of a hotel. The staff greeted me with a welcome drink of fragrant, locally made cider.<\/p>\n Each room is decorated differently, a wash of velvet, gilt mirrors and jewel-toned wallpaper that channels Belle \u00c9poque Paris. I spent an entire afternoon in the bathroom\u2019s elegant clawfoot tub, before dinner at the restaurant, Brasserie Ch\u00e9rie, which serves a seven-course tasting menu with a well-balanced wine pairing. Then there\u2019s breakfast, \u00e0 la carte and included with the room, lavish from croissant sandwiches to crepes.<\/p>\n A trio of local shellfish at MOON by Amateur in Bergen, each dressed differently, a small tasting menu unto itself.<\/p>\n Winston RossThe art of seafood and seven peaks<\/p>\n For the next four nights, as my muscles and ankles healed, I wandered Bergen\u2019s cobblestone streets, exploring Norwegian food. At MOON by Amateur<\/a>, chef Nikolas Carlsen told me he arrived in Bergen in 2019, when the dining scene still felt like it was playing catch-up to Oslo and Stavanger; these days, he says, that\u2019s no longer true. He said he\u2019s after a different kind of fine dining: relaxed, unpretentious, no white tablecloths. His focus is seafood, with Norwegian langoustine and scallops among the best in the world, but there\u2019s also plenty of delicious local lamb and beef to source. His tasting menu included reindeer dressed in juniper ash with a foam made from fresh peppers.<\/p>\n Bryggen at dusk, Bergen\u2019s UNESCO-listed wharf, its gabled timber facades leaning against nine centuries of Hanseatic trade.<\/p>\n Winston Ross<\/p>\n