A Friend In High Places

I was growing tired of all these complete strangers coming to me in tears. It was January 2010, I was in Berchtesgaden, Germany, at a German Alpine Club conference. I was standing at a desk, in front of a placard with beautiful pictures of New Zealand emblazoned all over it. Stones and driftwood from our wild West Coach beaches and a couple of paua shells completed the aesthetic. A slow procession of mostly over-65, vaguely interested visitors filtered through the buzzing congress hall, weighing up New Zealand vs Nicaragua, Mexico vs Myanmar, China vs Chile. 

My uncle, who’d been helping me set up, had taken off to Salzburg for the day to go sightseeing while I did my job. While I tried to do my Dad’s job. It was the first time someone was back at the New Zealand stand since my father had passed away 18 months earlier. And for many, it was all too poignant to see his daughter here in his now permanent absence. People would see New Zealand, see my name tag, join the dots and start grieving. “I came on a trip ten years ago with your Dad..” they’d begin. “I’m so sorry…”  “He was a wonderful man.” “He took the most amazing photos.” “How are you getting on? How’s your mother?” Et cetera. 

I felt as if my face was being pulled into a constant downward expression by the heaviness that had settled in my chest over the last few days. I couldn’t advertise tours for my parents’ company here with tears rolling down my cheeks. I hadn’t figured out how to respond to the renewed outpouring of pity and grief meeting me each time someone came up to me when all I had inside were my own feelings of loss. I’d only ever been here once before, as an 8-year-old, with my sister, helping Dad out by running to go get lunch for him while he networked and made presentations. I just wanted to be that little kid again. 

Finally, a small and wiry, lively looking man about Dad’s age came to me, knowingly. He put a hand on my shoulder and briefly introduced himself as Klaus, a mountain guide friend of Dad’s. I didn’t have many words left, and it wasn’t a long conversation, but instead of feeling awkward and lost, I felt looked after for a brief moment. He left me his business card. He said if I’m ever back in Germany to give him a call. 

In 2011, I was indeed back, about to plunge into my first proper job as a wildlife film editor in the south of Germany. I decided regardless if it turned out or not, I’d be well-positioned to escape to the Alps in my weekends. My Dad’s third anniversary was coming up on August 14^th. My only plan was to do something in the mountains and remember my Dad for the day. But it was going to be the first anniversary completely away from any of my family. I felt like I should spend it with someone who knew my Dad. Of course, Klaus popped into my head again. 

I dug out the business card from the year before. I was about to call him, but I felt more than a little apprehensive when I picked up the phone. I didn’t know him at all. And now was about to ask him if he would take me up a mountain, any mountain, in order to remember my dearly missed father. A few days later I finally mustered up the courage to at least email him, and he called me right back. 

It was all very uncomplicated. I took the train to Huglfing, the small town where he lived, he picked me up, and we hiked up one of the local peaks near his home, called Heimgarten. We wrote in the summit book. And so began a solid friendship. Years later, I’ve been on many trips with him, he’s lent me skis, invited me to his birthday parties, and he’s also visited my family in New Zealand. Even though I no longer live in Bavaria, we write frequently. 

I know I can always talk to him about all sorts of things. Like my Dad, Klaus is no lover of small talk. He gets straight to the point. He likes a decent piece of cake in the afternoon sun. A real Bavarian wheat beer. He has a peaceful appreciation of the small things in nature. I like listening to his fond memories of their younger days, tales of their pursuits up dramatic peaks. Despite Dad having emigrated to New Zealand in the 1970s, leaving old friends and Germany behind, I still like to believe there is a part of him there alongside Klaus, living peacefully in rural Bavaria. 

by Carla Braun-Elwert

Featured photo by Lu Davidson

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