The ascent from the town was tougher than expected. It was just a couple of kilometres walk up to the Alm. The road was steep, the going tough. At the start, passing the last houses, it was still tarmac. After that, it gave way to loose gravel. The path zig-zagged up towards the tree line.
Despite it being late September, the air remained warm, with cloudless blue skies. Many of the woman wore classic Dirndls, colourful blouses, an elaborate bodice, and light cotton skirts, with an apron at the front. Others had chosen more contemporary and cooler looking dresses. The men, attired in a mixture of traditional Trachten or modern suits, had their jackets slung over their shoulders.
Stopping to rest and wiping the sweat from their brows, the wedding party gazed back over the red roofs of the buildings below them. It was spectacular, the effort felt worthwhile. The church where they’d stood an hour before visible on its rock promontory. Across the azure expanse of the Schliersee, green hills rose from the far shore. In the field next to the track, a pair of tan cows regarded them mournfully. The smell of cut hay hung in the balmy air.
At the head of the company, Maria, the Brautjungfer, Therese’s best friend and chief bridesmaid, got them moving again.
“Komm schon, this is the final zig we need to zag!”
“It’s well for you!” a guest remarked. “Working as a tour guide in the Alps, this must be child’s play!”
They left the animals contentedly munching grass, the soft, dull clonking of the bells following them. The group pushed on up, drawn by the sure knowledge that a fine spread awaited them, and plenty of cold beers.
*
They rounded the last turn. Leaving the cover of the trees, the shape of the guesthouse rose before them. A traditional Bavarian Gasthaus, with wide eaves and wooden balconies set against whitewashed walls, it presided over a cluster of smaller buildings, timber barns or sheds. This was the Alm, the high pasture, the venue for the wedding festivities. Spread out like an apron in front of the building was a broad esplanade, tables and chairs grouped under coloured sun umbrellas.
Across the property, they could see a group unloading gear from a cable car. Amplifiers, instrument cases, cables. The band for tonight’s celebration.
As the party approached the terrace, they found their way barred by a trestle, upon which lay a birch log. Leaning against this, an old wooden saw. In the shape of an elongated ‘H’, it had a blade at the bottom and a twisted, rusty wire across the top.
The bride’s father, Peter, who had come up in the cable car, walked over to meet them. He clapped his hands and addressed the couple.
“Therese and Luis, you have been close for some time; now you are to continue on your path as a team. And with God’s blessing and all our good wishes, your life together can only be a happy one. But – but, there will also be times where you have to solve problems, where there are difficulties on the way.”
He ushered the pair to stand before the wooden trestle with him,
“See, the road to your future is blocked.” He gestured at the barrier in front of them. “You must overcome this setback.”
“This is the traditional rite, Baumstamm Sägen, long practised here,” he said, naming the Bavarian wedding ritual of tree-trunk sawing. He lifted the bow saw, handing it to them.
“Now, take this Bogensäge, and cut through the obstacle. It is a two-man,” he corrected himself, “or woman, tool, and can only be effective if you use it together.”
He then produced a pair of heavy work gloves and handed them to his daughter. “You should wear these, my dear. Luis, I think, will be fine.”
*
At first, the saw slipped on the shiny bark. Their attempts to cut it came to nothing. The blade was loose and couldn’t hold a single track.
They tried a few more times, but with the same result. A slipping blade and barely a scratch in the surface.
Seeing this, Peter intervened.
“The best way to clear the path is to join forces; this can be done easily if you adjust to each other, if you find a common rhythm. That’s how to address a problem in the middle of your journey.”
They tried again, and the blade caught, carving a narrow trench in the wood.
“You must each pull in turn. Do not push.”
This time, as they started, Luis shouted out, “Oans!” drawing back and down – and at the end of the stroke, he nodded to Therese, who called “Zwoa!” pulling in her turn. A guest, obviously dreaming of refreshment, completed the traditional drinking chorus with a cry of “G’suffa!” “One, Two, Drink!”
“Now you can continue and we’ll be happy to see how you adapt to each other and tackle this big problem.”
They made some progress, cutting perhaps five centimetres into the trunk, when a loud snap rang out. Luis, who was pulling, staggered back, the saw left hanging in the cut.
“Ach, sowas!” he cried. “It looks like we are stumped!” Stepping away, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
Peter came forward to inspect the damage. The wire at the top of the frame, already well used and rusted, had snapped in the middle, depriving the blade of the tension it needed to function.
“We will need another saw!” He looked around, as if expecting a replacement to be lying there. Nothing.
At this, there was an audible sigh from the assembled party. Peter seemed determined that they finish the task, as if it was a case before him in the court back in Munich. The guests were looking longingly at the tables set on the other side of this barrier, the hot sun adding to their impatience.
*
After carrying their equipment into the guest house, members of the band, dressed in traditional leather trousers and chequered shirts, had wandered over to watch the proceedings.
Looking over Peter’s shoulder, one band member called back to Alfons, the bass player. “Fonsi, this looks like a job for you.” He pointed at the broken wire. “Can you fix that?”
The tall man strolled over to look. He seemed an easygoing fellow. Like his colleagues, he was dressed in Bavarian costume, worn leather shorts held up by leather straps over his shoulders, a smart felt Loden jacket, topped off with a huntsman’s cap, with feathers jauntily protruding from one side. “Yes. That looks like my kind of thing,” he agreed. Turning, he walked back across the terrace, skipping up the steps into the house.
*
Shortly after, Fonsi returned holding a brightly-coloured square plastic packet in one hand, and a pair of well-used pliers in the other.
“Yes. These will fit, I am sure,” he declared, looking at the broken bow laid out on the trestles.
Reaching for his bone-handled Trachtenmesser, the picnic knife worn as part of his traditional dress, he slit open the packet, spilling out a handful of envelopes, each marked with a letter.
“This one is in ‘G’, I think.” He said, nodding at the saw. He shook the envelope, releasing a shiny silver coil of thick wire, a bass guitar string, that fell loose in his hand.
Working with the pliers, he removed the old rusted strands. Obviously practised at handling the heavy strings, he looped an end over the first upright of the frame, pulling it through the large metal eyelet, and stretched it to the other support. He coiled the middle of the string around the wooden tension bar – no simple job, given the string’s thickness – and tied it off.
“Now, time to tune up!” He turned the peg over and over, flicking the string with his thumb. It played a dull tone, ascending with each turn. Finally, he seemed satisfied.
“Yes. That’s about right.” He flicked the blade, and it warbled its own note. “Now you can play.”
Luis stepped forward and grasped the handle. On her side, Therese pulled her gloves back on and took the other end. With another “Oans! Zwoa!” they resumed their labours.
Counting out time, they made steady progress. The blade bit steadily, with a satisfying hum. The smell of fresh cut wood wafted across to the onlookers.
After a couple of minutes, the blade snagged as the trunk bent, but then they were through. The severed stub of the log fell to the ground, to a round of applause and cheers from the waiting guests.
The father of the bride strode over and embraced them as Therese pulled her gloves back off.
“So you have worked together, but you have also accepted assistance. And with that help, you have broken through to the other side.”
“Come, now we drink to your success,” Peter declared. Louder cheering from the thirsty onlookers greeted this announcement.
They made their way to the tables and happily took the offered refreshments.
*
Inside, the band had finished tuning, testing levels and fixing their dress.
The room was large, but the small windows and low ceiling made it feel dark after the bright sunshine. Numerous antelope horns on plaques hung on the wall, adding to the rustic ambience. An undefinable odour permeated the air, not unpleasant but hinting at winter fires and cooking. Guests filed in, resting beer glasses on the bar in anticipation. Therese and Luis stood at the front.
“This song is for the happy couple,” announced Fonsi. “It describes that mythical woodcutter, whose spirit lives on still, as we have today seen. Der Holzmichl!”
With that, the music started up, Fonsi’s bass leading a lively folk tune in 2/4 time.
Is old Holzmichl still alive, Holzmichl still, Holzmichl still?
Is old Holzmichl still alive, Holzmichl still?
Yes, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, he’s still alive
Yes, he is still alive, he is still alive, not dying
The band played on. The guests clapped and danced, and drank.
As the sun set in the west, an orange glow spread behind the distant hills.
Scrivini 
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