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In 2008, I set out on my own on a journey across Europe with nothing but a backpack on my back and a rail pass in hand. Along my journey I met an older gentlemen in his late 70s named Peter at a small neighborhood pub in Salzburg. Over several pints of Steigl, Peter, a Halstatt native, began telling me of his hometown and the oddities that it contains. From an ancient salt mine to a church filled with bones - his stories were both whimsical and wonderful. I left the pub with a strong case of wanderlust for a new adventure and a new town.

The next morning I packed my backup, went to the local bookstore to purchase a novel for the train, grabbed some coffee at the market and then boarded a train towards Halstatt. The ride was beautiful, the train was surrounded by alps and cloud covered hills. However, I was beginning to feel anxious that I had missed the stop - then suddenly the train came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the woods. The conductor’s voice came over the crackly speaker, “HALSTATT” he announced loudly. My excitement was uncontainable. I swung my backpack over my shoulder, put my book under my arm and quickly stepped off the train onto the tracks. The train began to chug away as I looked around and came to the realization that I was the only one as far as the eye could see. There were no signs, no paths, no roads - just tracks and the beautiful Austrian wilderness.

Then I saw it - a thin opening of the woods that looked worn and walked upon. I began to follow the path which led me to steep stone steps leading down towards the water. As I got to the base of the steps and to the water’s edge I saw it - Halstatt. I was awe-struck, the town was covered in whisps of clouds, mountain peaks soared above the homes and surrounded the village like guards. The water was so still and serene that the town was reflected perfectly in the water. It was stunning. I unpacked my bag, took out my pocket knife and began slicing an apple and baguette as I pondered my next steps on how to get from the train side of the lake to the village. The sign for the ferry posted that the hours were already passed and that the next train was not due until the morning. I began to unpack my tent but just then a ferry began to sound it’s horn in the distance. The driver said someone had seen me across the river so he decided to make one more trip before he shut down for the night.

When we got across to the town I came to the realization that I had left my notebook with the Guesthouse information on the train. A bit panicked I began to tell the ferry driver of my dilemma. He kindly walked me into the main square and pointed towards a tiny cottage built into the mountain with it’s chimney stack billowing grey fluffs of smoke. The shutters were lined with vines and flowers and the warn brick was lined with ferns. It was rudely late but I was desperate for a place to stay - I knocked upon the large wooden doors and a husband and wife and their dog came rushing to the door. They ushered me in, and although they couldn’t speak a lick of english they stayed up with me for several hours after I arrived - making food, serving wine and playing a charade-like game of trying to discover details about each other. My room overlooked the town and the lake. There was a small iron-railed balcony from my room and in the morning whisps of clouds would sift through the rails as I’d sip my coffee and read.

After several weeks of living in wonder, camping in the mountains, hiking all day, adventuring through the salt mines, exploring the bone church and spending mornings in the market - I finally said goodbye and went on to my next adventure. Here are some pictures from my time there.

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