Helping the farmers with your eleven-year-old daughter during the traditional sheep drive from the Ötztal to the Schnalstal in South Tyrol? Oh yes, that’s possible, although the daughter will end up being more skilful than the parents.

In Vent I hand Magdalena her poles. “They’re stupid!” complains the daughter. Her look says: If only we had proper Nordic walking poles like the hikers who are now clattering down steep paths to the mountaineering village at the far end of the Ötztal this afternoon. But ordinary ski poles for sheep drives in the autumn? “We have the worst equipment!” protests the eleven-year-old.

Especially compared to the sheep drivers. Weather-beaten, taciturn men who stand around smoking in the parking lot. They are wearing chunky mountain boots and dirty jeans, and blue aprons with the emblem of the Schnalstal sheep breeding association are stretched around their bellies. The drivers are leaning on chin-length wooden sticks with iron tips, greasy hazelnut sticks that, like the men’s outfits, show heavy signs of wear. We have arranged to meet the drivers for the traditional sheep drive from the Ötztal to the Schnalstal. We are allowed to help bring the animals, which in June covered the same distance to their traditional pastures over the Niedertalferner and the Similaunhütte at an altitude of 3017 meters, back to their stables in South Tyrol. “Of course we could drive the animals to the Ötztal and back in trucks, but it’s about the old customs,” says Josef Götsch, chairman of the Niedertal Alpine Pasture Interest Group, who organizes the annual trek. He doesn’t mention that this would be much more expensive.

Götsch has three daughters: Carla, 27, Eva, 17, and Paula, ten years old. Paula is with us for the first time. She excitedly tells Magdalena that they have eleven dairy cows at home on the farm, which she names all by name, chickens, goats and an ancient pony that looks like a cross between a donkey and a St. Bernard dog. There is no sign of the sheep that we are supposed to drive. In the past few days, helpers have been collecting them from the widely scattered pastures in the Vent Valley, where the Schnalstal people have held grazing rights for centuries. Now they are at the meeting point at the Martin Busch Hut, a three-hour walk from Vent. We traipse through the barren Niedertal, where the last pines will soon give way to grass that glows in autumnal red tones. While Paula is thriving in the familiar environment, the new surroundings have intimidated Magdalena. She stumbles along beside Paula with her lips pressed together, her ski poles tucked under her father’s saddlebag. Our task awaits us in front of the Martin Busch Hut: hundreds of sheep huddled together behind a wooden fence. The animals create a deafening cacophony. Mother sheep, called Görren by the drovers, call for their lambs, the lambs bawl for their mothers, mixed with the tinkling of countless pasture bells. It has become cold, the Martin Busch Hut is at an altitude of 2501 meters. Fog is wafting around the hut, sleet is falling from the sky. “It’s possible that there will be ten centimeters of snow tomorrow,” says Josef Götsch and disappears into the warm hut with the drovers. Magdalena and Paula hurry to a pen where they discover half a dozen tiny lambs – their fur still wet from birth, still too weak to stand on their own two feet. “Tomorrow they will be carried piggyback over the mountains in a cage,” says Paula. Her and Magdalena’s job will be to make sure that no sheep gets lost at the end of the long train. It is unimaginable how the clumsy young animals and the round brats, who almost drag their bulging udders on the ground, will be able to cope with the forced march.

The next morning, the balls of wool pour out of the open gate like a torrent. They are spread out on the slopes to the left and right of the path, where the drivers, gesticulating with their sticks, shout “Hopp! Hopp!” and “Hoi! Hoi!” to direct the animals in the desired direction. The herd “drives” uphill, as the farmers say, at a run, towards the Similaun Hut. But what seems like a harmonious flow from a distance is in reality a merciless jostling and shoving. You can also feel how wild this chase is at the end of the giant worm that the flock of sheep has gradually formed into. At one point, a horned 100-kilo billy goat tries to escape to the side, then a mother sheep simply stops or puts the sheep in reverse while the whining lamb escapes between our legs. We adult hobby drivers soon run out of energy and limit ourselves to watching.

But Magdalena perseveres. Together with her new friend Paula, she chases after the runaways, uses the ski poles as artificial arm extensions and directs the escapees back to the herd. The eleven-year-old jumps through swampy grass areas, over sharp stones and glacier streams, her trouser legs and hiking boots smeared with mud like all the drivers. In the cold air, clouds of breath come out of the sheep’s nostrils, and a layer of frost forms on the drivers’ hats and fleece jackets.

The convoy slowly fights its way over the remains of the Niedertalferner and reaches the Similaun Hut on the Niederjoch on the border between North and South Tyrol, the highest point of this ordeal at 3017 meters. Suddenly a bearded vulture hovers over our heads, and the rare bird of prey circles less than 50 meters away. One driver claims that it sometimes knocks lambs off rocks and then eats them. The idea that bearded vultures only feed on carrion is a myth. Magdalena feels sorry for the lambs and would be prepared to fight the bearded vulture, she says. So much sacrifice is not necessary today. The most dangerous stretch of the trail begins behind the Similaun Hut, where the path zigzags downhill through steep, rocky terrain. Maximum concentration is now required; one wrong step and the person or sheep would be food for the bearded vultures. Some lambs that cannot go any further are carried on the shoulders of the drivers. Lower down, where the Vernagt reservoir shimmers, the herd rolls like a broad avalanche over gently sloping slopes. The sheep greedily pluck out tufts of grass.

In a depression we discover a jet-black lamb, still smeared with blood and mucus. Its mother gave birth here; panicked at losing the herd, she abandoned her young. Carla, Paula, Eva and Magdalena become rescuers. Carla takes the pitifully bleating ball in her arms, where it quickly calms down and after a while even begins to suck on the finger she holds out to it. The 27-year-old farmer’s daughter knows what to do in such cases. The three sisters take turns carrying the lamb into the valley, and Magdalena is also allowed to rock her charge like a baby in her arms.

In Vernagt we are greeted by onlookers. “There are more spectators here than sheep,” mocks a drover. This does not stop him and everyone else from demonstratively waving their shepherd’s sticks for the photographers. Magdalena also knows what is expected of her here; that ordinary ski poles are the insignia of her office is no longer important. At the final tent party there is grilled food. We order lamb chops.

Source: diepresse.com
https://www.diepresse.com/3879836/ein-falscher-schritt-und-du-bist-futter-fuer-die-bartgeier