In the Heart of the Mountains. 133 



is three hours away, and there is not a single outlying 

 homestead on the road to it. 



Indeed, as we stood under the broad eaves of the 

 forester's house in Grainau, saying ' Good-bye ' to the 

 assembled household, our little party had quite the 

 air of travellers setting off for some unexplored region, 

 whose safe return was a matter of uncertainty. 



The path lay for some distance through the forest, 

 in which a few beech-trees made a pleasant relief 

 among the sombre ranks of red and white pines. 

 Some of the latter were giants indeed. We counted 

 228 rings in a fresh stump, and there were other trees, 

 even larger, still standing in their prime. 



Emerging from the forest, w r e followed a narrow 

 path cut in the sides of the Wachsenstein, whose 

 steep flank towered 4,000 feet above us, while beneath 

 lay the magnificent gorge of the Max Klamm — 500 

 feet sheer down. 



Although an Alpine climber would make light of it, 

 it is not altogether a path to be recommended for 

 those with a tendency to dizziness. On the day we 

 left the valley ten people who had started together for 

 the Hollenthal were so infected by the nervousness and 

 final collapse of one of the party that they all turned 

 back before reaching the most ticklish point. 



Crossing a wooden bridge to the farther side of the 

 Klamm, we could see far below us the boiling waters 

 of a torrent on its headlong way to join the Isar. 



Deep into the rock the stream had worn its way, 



