Backpacking Through The Odenwald

Backpacking through the hills and small villages of the Odenwald (Odin's forest) east of Heidelberg seemed a romantic way to see rural Germany. But with the beauty I was to discover a dark legacy.

Monday - July 7, 1980

The day started with clouded skies, but of a type higher and more airy than the low grey mist which has beshrouded much of this trip. I took the bus from Heidelberg to Ziegelhausen and began to hike the red R trail. But as I ascended into the hill I decided to strike east off of the trail in hopes of making a straighter line to Schoenau. Taking compass readings and logging trails not on my map I was able to come directly to Schoenau, much to my surprise. When I reached this little village, I found a contour map of the area displayed by a store. As I was reading it a big man with a big dog and a 10 year old girl asked me in German if I needed any help. We talked a bit and I asked him if he knew of a cheap eating place in town. He thought a moment then invited me to his home for lunch. He was very kind and of a good spirit and seemed to have a contented life with his wife and 8 children and his job as a printer. The Lord grant him his reward for his kindness.

Taking my leave I continued my journey through Schoenau, passing by the village church. Inside a little tunnel which went between and beneath two church buildings was a bas relief, one of the most poignant sculptures I've ever seen. A mother (or perhaps a wife) was holding a fallen German soldier and crying out to Christ who was crucified above her. Though His left hand and His feet were still nailed to the cross, His right hand caressed the mother's anguished head while He looked on with compassion. The sculpture was dated 1923.

I reached Hirschorn at about 6 pm pretty well worn out. I bought my now traditional afternoon pastry and bread. Then I went to find the campgrounds. It looked disgustingly like a miniature American suburbia. Rows of rows of tents and campers. I must of seen 500 tents in this little valley. So I went further into the valley until I reached its end and saw a rock outcropping on the hill which plugged the valley. Within the rocks was a crevice about 10' long and 4-5' wide with bushes plugging one end and a little tree with rocks at the other. It was wonderful, except that it rained that night and that quaint little crevice funneled water down on my sleeping area.

Tuesday - July 8, 1980

I awoke to another grey shrouded day. My damp sleeping bag and clothes I tried to dry on the rocks, but without much luck. So I broke camp, hiked the an hour, and reached Hirschorn at about 11:00 am only to be greeted by another downpour. A store provided shelter and the chance to replenish my food stores with cheese, bread, chocolate and ½ dozen eggs. But I could only stay in the store so long. Draped in my poncho I decided to start hiking rain or not. But when I reached the church by the castle, I was about ready to quit. It was hungry, the trail was poorly marked and I wasn't even sure I was on it. The drippiness of the day had just about quenched my spirit.
Finding a bench remarkably protected from the rain by a large hardwood tree, I sat down and thought whether I should give up the trek to Beerfelden and train into Eberbach, sit there for a couple of days and wait for Catherine to join me from Mannheim. But I reminded myself I was not a quitter. After devouring two bread and cheese sandwiches and considering the river valley below, beautiful in its own solemn, glum way, I determined to march on. A check with my damp map showed a hut about 2 miles outside of Hirschorn. I figured if I ran out of strength again, I could camp there, maybe even finding some dry wood in the shelter. The march up the mountain on the blue cross hiking path was eerie. The rain had stopped, but there was still a heavy mist and drops from the trees.

As I reached the top I saw a grand panorama of the river and valley with the threatening clouds that raced just over my head. Mist which swirled into wisps and puffs of cloud was blown from the valley floor up the mountain to race and meet the grey swirl above. Sometimes it would blow through the trees and create a heavy, wet, windy fog through which I walked. And the trees looking grey-green and wet would stir with the wind to cast heavy tears on a funeral ground. I walked in a wholly other awe unlike anything I had experienced before, resting sometimes to watch this grey kaleidoscope.
Smoking mountain spews fermenting mist,
Wind whipped, clamoring up trees and hill
Crest vaulting skyward
To join the grey boil overhead.
Who has squeezed this soaked earth
To send water skyward,
Or is the earth satiated
And exiled these tattered refugees?

Finally, I reached the shelter and it was as much as I could want; dry, protected from the wind, with firewood. There were some wooden planks I laid down over the rocky ground as a floor for my sleeping. Leaving my gear behind, I explored the trail ahead that I would take the next morning. The terrain became flat and broad, a plateau that was farmed. For some reason it was a great relief to my spirit to come to a broad level place. On the return trip the sun finally came out and so I was quite cheered. For supper I poached 2 eggs over a very recalcitrant smoky popping fire and put them over bread and cheese. It was very good. Then I made soup with sausage. After hanging up my maps and wet clothes I went to sleep. But the rain started again.