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?
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.
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.
Among the most memorable trips I’d 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.
Highland cattle bedding down for the night in a Bavarian alpine meadow, a timber gasthof glowing faintly against the treeline above Garmisch-Partenkirchen.
Winston Ross
Bavaria: rain, cows and some long slogs
For this trip, I hired Macs Adventure, 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.
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.
It’s 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’ve 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’t 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.
Linderhof Palace at dusk, King Ludwig II’s smallest and only completed royal residence, its terraced gardens rising toward the hillside temple above.
Winston Ross
Sore feet, giant pork knuckles
For this mission, I’d 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.
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’s Tannhäuser 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’d be walking to another town: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, site of the 1936 Winter Olympics.
Schweinshaxe at Zum Wildschütz in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, crackling skin, a knife standing at attention, and a beer garden’s worth of Hacker-Pschorr close at hand.
Winston Ross
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 “waterproof” 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’ve injured myself so badly I can’t move. On this trip, I had a feeling I’d need them. I was right. Drenched, I hobbled toward a shower and Restaurant Zum Wildschütz, which serves some of the region’s best takes on Bavarian specialties, from stuffed wienerschnitzel to “pork knuckle,” a dish I’d never heard of before this trip: essentially a barbecued pig’s knee, succulent pork hiding beneath crispy, chicharron-style fat.
Hiking into Austria, with a little help from Aleve
The nice thing about a self-guided tour is the absence of peer pressure, of a fitter companion goading you into an adventure you’ve 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’s Valley, or Höllentalklamm. 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’s Valley, finding a lovely art-filled park that inspired a nap in the sun and a bit of impromptu yoga.
Eibsee’s 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.
Winston Ross
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 rain-fed stream cutting through the rock near Ehrwald, Sonnenspitze rising through the clouds above the valley.
Winston Ross
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’s 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.
Norway: fjords and full stomachs
The quickest route to my next adventure would have been a direct flight to Bergen, once Norway’s largest city and still the headquarters of much of the country’s outdoor tourism. Instead, I flew from Munich to Oslo for a night at The Thief, 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’s harbor.
The bar at Charmante Skostredet Hôtel in Bergen, a slice of Parisian brasserie tucked into the heart of a Norwegian fjord city.
Winston Ross
The next day’s journey was a six-hour train ride to Bergen, through forested valleys and the wind-scoured Hardangervidda, Northern Europe’s highest and largest mountain plateau, on a route often called one of the world’s most beautiful train rides. I was grateful for a day without hiking, more so when I stumbled upon what might be Norway’s 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 French-inspired maximalist’s dream of a hotel. The staff greeted me with a welcome drink of fragrant, locally made cider.
Each room is decorated differently, a wash of velvet, gilt mirrors and jewel-toned wallpaper that channels Belle Époque Paris. I spent an entire afternoon in the bathroom’s elegant clawfoot tub, before dinner at the restaurant, Brasserie Chérie, which serves a seven-course tasting menu with a well-balanced wine pairing. Then there’s breakfast, à la carte and included with the room, lavish from croissant sandwiches to crepes.
A trio of local shellfish at MOON by Amateur in Bergen, each dressed differently, a small tasting menu unto itself.
Winston Ross
The art of seafood and seven peaks
For the next four nights, as my muscles and ankles healed, I wandered Bergen’s cobblestone streets, exploring Norwegian food. At MOON by Amateur, 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’s no longer true. He said he’s 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’s 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.
Bryggen at dusk, Bergen’s UNESCO-listed wharf, its gabled timber facades leaning against nine centuries of Hanseatic trade.
Winston Ross
The next day, I joined a food and culture tour with Bergen Basecamp, our guide tracing that same outward-looking streak back to the Hanseatic trading era and Bergen’s relentlessly bad weather. I learned the city has burned nearly to the ground dozens of times since it was first chartered around 1070, and I sampled local delicacies, from fish cakes to skillingsboller, Norway’s cardamom-spiced cinnamon buns; named for the skilling, the old coin they used to cost.
I enjoyed the more leisurely pace wandering Bergen, but I’d have felt guilty lounging around without at least one good hike. It’s known as the City of Seven Mountains, and Macs recommended a funicular ride up the closest one, Fløyen. Ready for a bit more adventure, I took the city’s light rail to the Haukeland University Hospital stop and climbed hundreds of stone steps toward the peak of Ulriken, where a roughly seven-mile ridgeline trail called Vidden winds around through a series of deep blue lakes and back to Fløyen, where I rode the funicular back down to the hotel. By the end, I was tired, but my NSAID regimen had kept my feet and ankles from complaining too loudly. Maybe the Norway leg of this trip would be a breeze. How tough could a few fjords be?
A glacial river running fast through the valley below Flåm, deep green forest closing in on both banks.
Winston Ross
Pounding knees and gushing waterfalls
The first trek lived up to every photo I’d seen from the states: after a quick train ride from Bergen to Myrdal, a wide path descends nearly 3,000 feet along the Flåm River, passing waterfall after waterfall. The descent to Flåm earned its reputation, but by the end my feet, knees and hips were aflame, and I was grateful to see a hotel come into view.
Flåm itself turned out to be a reminder of what happens when you only travel to places that don’t require much effort: a hulking, multistory cruise ship was parked five minutes’ walk from the hotel, and hundreds of its passengers were milling around the small collection of souvenir shops and restaurants near the dock. So when a booking mixup meant leaving the village for the next port on the Nærøyfjord, I was a little relieved, even though it made the next recommended hike impossible.
If I’ve learned anything about travel in the past 30 years, it’s that the fear of missing out should never influence an itinerary. Some of my best experiences in the world have come from either deliberately or accidentally skipping a country’s best-known landmarks. Greece without the Acropolis, Spain without Sagrada Família, Italy without the Colosseum: they’ll be waiting for you next time. I’d foregone the Aurlandsdalen Valley, what’s known as Norway’s Grand Canyon. All the more reason to come back.
The Nærøyfjord at dusk near the start of the Rimstigen trail, sheer rock walls narrowing the water to a slate-blue channel below snow still clinging to the peaks.
Winston Ross
Instead, I spent two nights in a Viking-themed hotel a short walk from another cruise ship terminal in Gudvangen, a village at the head of the Nærøyfjord best known for its open-air Viking village, which meant another town with not much to do but get outside. I tackled a nearly vertical hike above the town, toward a mountain called Rimstigen, that opened up wide views of the fjord. I had no idea how it compared to the hike I’d missed in the app, and I didn’t care much. I was just grateful to have a body that could make that climb, and hiking poles that let me get back down it without battering my knees.
A retreat from the crowds
Eager for somewhere with fewer tourists, I boarded a ferry the next morning for Balestrand, a town on the Sognefjord that has been a hospitality destination for nearly 150 years, the general manager of the Kviknes Hotel, Sigurd Kvikne, told me. A handful of Norwegian painters trained in Germany were the first to capture Balestrand’s beauty. One of them, Hans Dahl, became close friends with Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II, who started summering in Norway in 1889 and, drawn by that friendship, returned to Balestrand nearly every July until 1914, each time aboard his yacht, the Hohenzollern, staffed by hundreds of crew and trailed by an escort of warships.
Balestrand is full of old stories and not nearly as many tourists as Bergen or Flåm, since no cruise ships dock there. On the last big hike of the trip, a roughly 3,200-foot climb to the top of Raudmelen, sheep outnumbered my fellow trekkers, maybe because the humans were smart enough to get out and back before the rain. But it was still a welcome, if wet, change after days of dodging cruise crowds in port towns.
Undredal, a fjord village of fewer than 100 people reachable only by boat or a single narrow mountain road, its brightly painted houses tucked below the peaks of the Aurlandsfjord.
Winston Ross
The ferry back to Bergen for my final night gave me one last excuse to wander before the flight home, and I ended up in Dyvekes Vinkjeller, a candlelit cellar bar on the city’s oldest street that’s been pouring drinks since 1305. The guide told me where the name came from: Dyveke was a merchant’s daughter from Bergen who caught the eye of a young Danish viceroy named Christian, around 1507. He kept her as his mistress for a decade despite his Habsburg marriage, until Dyveke died suddenly at 27 from poisoned cherries. Christian, convinced a nobleman had done it, had the man executed without much proof, a grudge that helped cost him his crown a few years later.
I should be grateful to have lived twice as long as the merchant’s daughter, I thought. “I’m not afraid of dying,” a friend told me a few years back, when the subject came up after he lost one of his oldest buddies to cancer that summer. “I’m afraid of suffering.” I have no idea what happens after we pass, but I have every reason to believe that my last couple decades as a human will be more painful than the first ones. But sometimes that suffering is worth it.
