I had hoped to walk in a winter wonderland, it being mid-December. What I hiked instead was a watery wander-land, crisscrossed by trails. But even without snow, it fulfilled the sense of mystery and magic inherent in every Christmas season, and ended up being one of the hikes whose sights and sounds I recall most vividly.
The temps hovered just at, and later, a degree or so above, the freezing point, producing a freezing fog, but no snow. All sound was muffled. There were no sleigh bells ringing, only the church bells of Burkheim in the Kaiserstuhl, tolling out each hour, eerily muffled in the fog. Most vistas that day were swaddled in the dense cotton wool of the winter fog. No wintery snow to brighten the fields and meadows.
The results of this weather though, offered a glimpse of the sensual beauties of a water-dominated world along the Rhine River in winter. As the trail passed from hill and dale, the fog would shift, resulting in more, or less, visibility. The vines stood as black, skeletal watchmen over the village. No cheerful snowman here. Occasionally, the weak December sun would shine through, and the scene glistened, saturated by the moisture in the air.
The trail leads past a tower that looks straight out of a magical fairy tale. Its origins are more prosaic: dating to Roman times, and refashioned over the succeeding eras: early and late medieval, through to the early 20th century. Burg Sponeck’s tower sits on a moderate rise, but from its highest point, presents a view of the Rhine, which is not far from its base.
This is where the trail turned from land to water, from ordinary to mysterious, from wander to wonder. Approaching the river, the vegetation thickens, the evergreens looking dark in the wintry light. Fog seeped between the trees, lifting occasionally. Darkness prevailed here. The stillness was broken only by the sound of trickling water, which flowed from every slope and hillock into streams. The bell-tinkling sounds mingled into a whispered chorus.
Darkness lightened at the edges of the ponds revealing stark oaks with branches decked by mistletoe. Ever green, with flashes of white, they formed nearly perfect spheres decorating the trees. In the meantime, swans, not bluebirds, occasionally called to one another. But mostly, they just glided majestically across the calm surface of the hidden ponds. Seven swans a-swimming, or thereabouts. These magnificent birds were truly at home in the open water and reeds of the edge of land.
Finally at river’s edge, standing near a wharf for a handful of boats, abandoned for the winter, I watched a lonely barge chug softly past in the mist. It was time to return to the village, and the human world on land.
Passing a series of whimsical statutes cleverly crafted from bits of scrap metal, these announced the uphill approach to Burkheim from the watery world at its feet. First a castle ruin, then the village square appeared, all silent. The local cooperative was abandoned at that hour, but cheerfully decorated for the holidays. I can’t recall that, but the memories of that soul-stirring day on the trail will stay with me as a gift for many Christmases to come.
