A Waldfest in Germany

If you Oompah, they will come.

The best days are almost always the ones you didn’t plan for, grabbing hold of your day in a way you least expected. Then again, in Germany –– a land of beers, resplendent nature, robust cuisine, and more smiles than it gets credit –– everything that happened should’ve been expected.

The morning in Kornau, the quietest of villages in southern Bavaria near the Austrian border, begins with an early bus ride to Obertsdorf. Two friends (Danielle and Will, who asked without reason to be referred to as Sir William, and this is the only time I’ll be honoring that request) and I are meeting with the Vogelfrei Gleitschirm Piloten. That is, our paragliding pilots. Melanie opts to stay on the ground, which I presume many would consider a completely rational choice. But I’m very much in the mood to say “yes” to just about everything and face my fears, of which heights are one of them. So off I go, boarding an expensive cable car to the top of a mountain just to promptly jump off of it.

There’s a lot more “wait and see” to paragliding than I anticipated. But in retrospect, it makes sense. Jumping off of a mountain without wind probably isn’t a great idea. Seeing as I don’t want the morning to end with a splat, I’m happy to wait and enjoy the view.

Eventually, we give up on our first location. Reports indicate we could just hike 15 minutes around the bend to another spot and pick up some wind. So we pack back up and schlep along the gravel trail to another slope. The wind hits as soon as we drop our packs. The pilots waste no time in unleashing our parachutes, especially my no-nonsense local pilot who grew up in the Allgäu region of Bavaria. With minimal instruction, I suddenly find myself hoisted into the sky and sitting back in the makeshift seat that pops out in flight. We follow the mountain ridge, a mix of grassy and rocky peaks, for the first half of the 20-minute flight. I hate to admit it, but they’re the kind of views ruined by the accessibility of drone footage. Nonetheless, it checks the box for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

What you can’t get in drone footage are the tricks.

“Do you like some tricks?” my pilot asks me once we’ve passed the mountain ride, hovering above Obertsdorf.

“Uh, we can try it!” I say, mentally cursing myself for this yes to everything attitude. Moments later, we’re swinging in every direction. I have footage of the experience and still can’t confirm what we did. It feels like a rollercoaster ride that lasts for several minutes, my stomach and equilibrium suddenly at odds. In reality, we’re flying steady less than a minute later.

“Has that ever made somebody puke?” I ask once I’m certain I’m not going to puke.

“Yeah,” he chuckles.

Later, back at the Kornau apartment, I’m waiting for an afternoon rain shower to pass and start a trail run. The plan is to run for an hour and end at the entrance of Breitachklamm –– a 2.5-kilometer-long gorge.

From Kornau, it’s not long before the concrete village roads turn into a packed gravel trail that stretches alongside the Breitach River. Early on in the run, something that sounds like yodeling echoes through the forest. Without slowing my step, I can see a stage and some red Biergarten-esque picnic tables through the trees as the Bavarian oompah music intensifies.

"Duly noted,” I think to myself.

My run takes me further north into the village of Tiefenbach for an occasionally marked climb up an adjacent forest. I lose the path on the descent, finding myself on the edge of an electric fence meant to keep cattle at bay. My route continues on the road just on the other side of the field with only a few cows munching away on their afternoon grass. It’s happened before that farmers, presumably disinterested in the hiking trails, have blocked off fields for grazing that can send a hiker (or a trail runner, in this case) on an unintended mini-adventure.

This is not the case, though I thought so at first.

I roll underneath the electric fence, leaving the edge of the forest and standing up onto the hillside full of ankle-high grass. I shuffle down the slope, locking eyes with a suspicious cow that stops eating once it becomes aware of my presence. Then, another fence I hadn’t seen through the blur of my shoddy distance vision. But it’s not just any fence, it’s a barbed-wire fence. Fortunately, all I have to do is remove my runner’s vest, throw it over the side, and carefully slide through the middle between wires. I run away with only a minor scratch that I don’t even notice until dinner.

The farmer’s detour slows me down, so I scratch an extra climb and make my way for the Breitachklamm entrance to meet with Melanie, Danielle, and Will. The Breitachklamm Gorge is a stunning example of what nature can do when we humans leave it the hell alone. The river thunders over boulders as the ravine narrows and the air cools. I have to consciously stop myself from constantly taking photos, to enjoy the view and the thrilling sensation through my own two eyes instead of a screen.

Rather than double back, we connect the Breitachklamm trail with another route. This one leads us up through yet another forest and high onto the hillside where the Alpe Dornach restaurant is waiting to throw copious amounts of delicious Allgäu eats our way while overlooking the forest with cows grazing just below, the bells around their necks ringing like church bells that don’t know what time it is.

This is when a plan starts to form.

“Achtung, Achtung!” I say, mimicking Danielle’s brilliantly devised warning of a good idea in store. “What if we do dinner here, then Kuchen, and then head back down to see what’s going on with that oompah band?”

Deal.

Stuffed to the gills on creamy Käsespatzle and Apfelstrudel, we begin the descent back down towards the Breitach River. The sun has dropped behind the mountains, bringing about a welcomed cool summer chill in the forest. Nearing the bridge crossing back to Kornau, we hear the oompah music in full Bavarian swing. It’s the kind of stuff that you can’t help but bounce up and down to like a human accordion.

It’s been an incredibly active handful of days filled with trail running, hiking, paddling, and paragliding. I very easily could’ve headed back to the holiday apartment, showered up, and spent the waning hours of this mini-vacation relaxing in bed.

But where’s the fun in that? I can always sleep on the train.

It’s a no-brainer to me. We have to go check this out, though Melanie opts to head back and check in on Moses.

The rest of us follow the gravel trail over to the venue entrance, which is essentially a Biergarten nestled in the woods with a covered stage. The Oompah band is bouncing away in their checkered Krüger shirts with overalls and Lederhosen. The tables are about half full. A handful of youngsters are playing Kegelbahn (a kind of German bowling) and others are crowded at the bar, especially a pack of teenagers all dressed in traditional Bavarian clothing, carrying on with the sort of blind gaiety only those without the responsibility of adulthood (bills, jobs, repeat) are capable of.

The beer menu is simple. If you want a beer, you can get a beer. What kind of beer? Who cares. Just get the beer.

With our cold mugs of Hirschbräu in hand, we station ourselves at a wobbly standing table. It feels like two eras of time collided with the blend of old world, regional traditions, and the modern world with the smartphones out collecting memories. We watch and take in the scene, timing our sips of beer together to keep the table balanced. Older couples trot out onto the side of the stage to dance. Stage fright apparently doesn’t apply. One can only hope to be in their 70s or 80s, swaying from side to side with a partner, as these dancers were.

We’re nearing the last drops of suds. The unspoken assumption is that after one glass, we’d head back to the apartment. After all, it’s been a long day of paragliding, running, and hiking. Our bodies could do with the rest.

“Is that Cleveland?” someone asks from behind me as if sensing that we were about to leave, and giving us a reason to stay.

I turn around and there’s a bald man in his early 50s shuffling over, pointing to the tattoo on my left shoulder of a train with the letters “CLE” on the front. I’ve had this tattoo for several years now. Not once has someone, least of all in Germany, spotted it and asked if it referred to Cleveland.

“Yeah,” I answer, taken aback. “How do you know Cleveland?”

“I’ve never been,” he answers, slightly misunderstanding my question. “It’s too far. One flight and then another… Like 12 hours. It’s too much for me.”

Whether this gentleman is earnestly interested in learning about some sweaty American strangers drinking in a Bavarian forest or simply sees us as an opportunity to practice his English in a part of the country with few Anglophones is hard to say. Chances are, it’s a bit of both. Nonetheless, we find ourselves in a delightfully Denglish conversation for the next hour (and next beer) with, apparently, a former triathlete from the city of Koblenz on the Rhine River named Stefan.

“What’s this event for?” Danielle asks. A banner hangs over the stage celebrating 50 years of the local Arbeitsgemeinschaft, which roughly translates to a kind of workers’ consortium. But the years spelled out on the banner are from 1972 - 2022.

“It’s just a Waldfest,” he shrugs. A party in the forest.

“Oh, of course!” I say, acknowledging the obvious. “It’s a Fest in the Wald. A Waldfest.”

Say what you want about the German language, and I’ve said plenty about this supposedly awful Sprache, but it’s definitely direct.

The three of us agree that we need more Waldfest in our lives. How is this not a thing we do more regularly? I can think of few better ways to end a hike or trail run than cheerful music and beer in a forest.

Our new friend is quick to talk up his buddy as well, a gentleman with a lovely Mr. Magoo grin donning a black tee shirt and short jeans. Apparently, he’s a former taekwondo champion.

At first, he hangs back with the kind of dazed and confused smile I’ve worn plenty of times when feeling linguistically challenged. But once he learns that some of us speak German, he’s a chatterbox sharing travel stories and asking about our lives in Germany.

“Once in Mexico, I had to keep my hands behind my back and take a shot of tequila with just my mouth!” he shares with proud laughter.

Then he talks about his love of the Mosel region in western Germany where he grew up with its vineyards, hills, and castles.

“And Burg Eltz!” I say, mentioning the famous castle featured prominently on many a German Instagram grids. I then point to the tattoo on my right shoulder, a collage of photos I took throughout the Rhine and Mosel countryside, including Burg Eltz.

“Yeah! Burg Eltz…” he says before inspecting my shoulder closely, realizing I have it tattooed on my shoulder. Had there been a roof, he would’ve been through it.

“I have to take a picture!” he says, before stepping back and blinding me with the light from his smartphone.

Stefan asks about exchanging numbers. He’d love to show us around the Mosel if we’re ever out there, he says. I hand him my phone to enter in his contact details and things take an unexpected turn.

“I am not a Nazi,” he says with an outstretched finger. I look down at his contact details on my phone. The iPhone had turned his image into “SS” based on his initials.

Stefan proceeds to talk about how during a visit to London, some locals put their fingers up to their upper lip to imitate the Hitler mustache when they found out he was German. This seemed to cause him a great amount of anguish. Indeed, it’s generally not the thing to joke about around here.

“Have you been to Auschwitz?” he asks, not necessarily waiting for an answer. (I had after visited learning some relatives were murdered there.) “It’s terrible… People can be so… Böse?”

“Evil.”

“Yes… Evil.”

The festivities start to wane as a storm rolls in, forcing us all to crowd underneath the bar awning. Our new friends offer to buy a drink, but we have to pass. It’s dark and I already know Melanie will be worried about us getting back with thunderbolts of lightning (not the fun “Bohemian Rhapsody” kind) inching closer. But the Oompah band plays on as people crowd underneath picnic umbrellas and run to the stage for a final dance.

Will’s been monitoring the forecast and spots a window between storms. With a final “Prost!” I down the last of my beer and we make way for the forest. It’s a 20-minute uphill walk through the dark on a gravel trail to Kornau. About halfway through, my eyes finally adjust so I can see the path in front of me without the flashlight from Will’s phone.

At the edge of the forest with Kornau just over the hill, we wait, watching the lightning and counting the seconds in between the thunder. There’s a good 14-second gap when we finally decide to make a quick walk for Kornau. The rain starts to let up as we march ahead. It’s practically stopped by the time we reach the apartment building, though the next storm is just behind us judging by the narrowing gap between lightning and thunder.

Covered in dry, salty sweat, a bit of mud on my ankles and calves, wet all over, and the smell of a few beers on my breath, I’m a disgusting individual. But it’s nothing a quick shower can’t fix.

The point of all of this is to say… If you’re a Veranstalter in Germany, please invite me to your next Waldfest.

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