For the Price of a Souvenir
Randall Rebman
It was early June, not the time of year that you would normally think of embarking on a snowboarding trip, but then again, there was very little in our vacation plans that indicated any sense of normalcy.
As American GI’s serving in Germany, feeling fed up with the boredom and monotony that tends to accompany barracks life, we’d recently developed a drug-like addiction to the sport of snowboarding. We spent our evenings pouring over Snowboarder Magazine, shopping for the latest bindings on the web, watching videos of sponsored pros huck 1080 gap jumps, or hosting board-waxing parties in our barracks kitchen in preparation of our next big fix out on the mountain.
So when we got word that Spc-55 Camp, one of the largest and most famous of all snowboard camps in Europe, was occurring at the Hintertux Glacier, a Tyrolean resort boasting of over 10,000 ft. mountains, 30 ft. tallA super pipes, and gondolas large enough to host private parties in, we eagerly used up all our accrued leave days to speed down the German Autobahn and join in on the summerB camp boarding festivities.
Hintertux glacier lies about fifty-five miles southeast of the Tyrolean capital of Innsbruck, in the heart of southwestern Austria. The summertime resort draws thousands of European travelers throughout the year to stay in the picturesque town of Maryhofen, which is tucked in between the Ziller and Tuxer mountain ranges and features 400-year-old chalets and cowherds still wearing lederhousen. Here, cultural traditions and present-day tourism dovetail to give this resort town and the surrounding villages an authentically rich alpen vibe as is only possible in Tyrol.
We passed through the quaint cobblestone streets of Maryhofen and arrived at Hintertux resort a few days before the camp was scheduled to start, just so we could hit the slopes ahead of the long lines of campers and pro-boarders from across the globe, who would all soon be jamming the lift lines, clogging the half-pipes, and stealing the spotlight on every rail and kicker.
Having spent the day boarding in the terrain park, trying our hand at a few of the signature boxes and rails, we were eager to celebrate our first trip to one of the few year-round ski resorts in Europe. This celebration was, of course, helped out by the fine variety of stout German beers that we brought along with us.
Across the parking lot from where my friends and I were now tossing back beers and stuffing ourselves with bologna sandwiches were a dozen or so light tan and white cows, lazily grazing in a green meadow near a glacier-fed creek.
Perhaps it was this idyllic setting, the hundreds of small-town rodeos I’d attended in Idaho as a kid, the many beers I had downed after not eating all day, or even a combination of all three that caused me to make the decision I would later come to regret.
Dressed in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, with an apple in hand, I began walking toward the creek that separated me from the herd of feeding cows.
“Where are you off to?” one of my friends asked.
“I’m going to get one of those bells,” I replied.
“What? ...Hey, get over here... You’re crazy!” But, I’d already moved out of earshot. I submerged myself into the creek’s icy glacial waters, which came up to my waist in some places. I took no notice of the temperature though, since adrenaline and alcohol had rendered me impervious to the effects of such hypothermic waters.
Reaching the bank of the creek, I zeroed in on my prey, selecting a cow with her head down and feedining intently upon the shoots of grass, who was not too far away from me; wrapped around her neck was a thick leather belt with a dull brass-colored bell dangling down in front of her, clanking every time she moved her head about—my prize.
I imagined the belt hanging upon my wall someday, inciting countless friends and visitors to my future apartment to ask the inevitable question: “Where did you get that?” Then, I’d launch into the self-glorifying story of how I coaxed the bell off of a cow on an Austrian mountainside.
“Really?” I imagined them saying.
It took a few attempts, but eventually I was able to slip the apple into the mouth of the cow, distracting her while I unbuckled the weighty belt that hung about her neck. I then turned back towards my friends and began making my way across the creek. I gave a victory “Yeah!!” and held the belt high above my head as I neared the other side. Like a newly crowned boxing champion who’d just been handed the title belt, I was ecstatic.
Meanwhile, a local Austrian woman out taking her dog for a walk along the trail next to the creek happened to witness the debacle and was calling the police on her cell phone. My friends were sitting close enough to her that they’d happened to overhear her use the word “Polezei,” and began screaming for me take back the bell.
“No way,” I yelled back, “after what I just went through, I’m taking this thing home!”
When I reached my friends camping spot on the edge of the parking lot, they informed me that they were certain the Austrian police were on their way here this very minute.
Click on the cowbell to continue
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