Chasing Ghosts in Tyrol: Morning in Rattenberg
Stepping onto the platform sometimes just feels like what it is: public transport, tucked out of the way so as not to disturb the beauty. It takes about half a mile from Freiburg Im Breisgau’s train station to find the cobblestone roads and Bächle. Garmisch-Partenkirchen has a cute station, but you need to walk a bit through relatively ordinary streets before you’re immersed in the mountains and painted buildings of Partenkirchen.
Rattenberg’s ruin doesn’t hide. We see it as soon as we step onto the two-track platform, perched on its hill, watching over the town.
My mom and I are almost giddy at the prospect of seeing it up close, and we surge forward. Following the signs away from the train stop, walking the opposite direction of the river, knowing that the old town and trailhead to the ruin are meant to be right there. Our phones stay in our pockets, and we take the trail labeled Schlossberg.
Traveler’s Tongue
Schloss means castle and berg means mountain. This trail name is the combination of two promising words.
Schlossberg
The path toward Schlossberg is wide, compact, and easy to follow, the surrounding green cleared partially away and leaving only minimal shade. As it begins to steepen, the way curls into a handful of short switchbacks.
Wooden constructs are scattered across the slope, as if someone or something were in the middle of setting a play. The signs requesting they be left alone are paper, tattered, weather-worn, and feel more like afterthoughts than instructions. I get the impression these timber set pieces are simply understood to be left in peace.
We continue along the path, taking the last curve to where the square ruin has been waiting for us all along. Built of uneven stone blocks, the structure is intriguing and when we turn the corner and peer into the doorway, we get a bit of a scare.
The figure in the dungeon is quirky, almost goofy at first glance, and yet it’s tasked with telling the ghost of a story. This tower once stood watch over its trade route, Rattenberg thriving as both transport hub and political stronghold. This statue representing the site of a 16th-century execution where a pardon arrived too late.
When fortifications like Porta Claudia rose to guard the Alpine passes, the tower here became less essential. The ruin remains, half stone, half shadow watching travelers take other routes. Now it’s reduced to curious tourists, deciphering its stories through plaques, statues, and whispers of ghosts.
Turning around, our attention shifts away from the ruin to the patch of Austria it once guarded. The view of the Inn River, the church, Rattenberg, and beyond almost steals the show.
There’s enough to see here, but the promise of more lurks higher up. We take the trail to where it ends. A chasm between us and the higher ruin. We decide to retrace our steps, looking for a fork we might have missed that could lead toward the upper ruin.
We can see the ruin, but it’s clear it won’t be reachable from here.
Whispers of the Burgruine
We search near the base of the trail for a moment before deciding to head into the old town. The sky is clear and the Alpine sun is more prevalent than it had been. We decide to look for a place to buy sparkling water bottles, some directions, and maybe a hat.
I find an awesome hat. It says Tyrol on it, and it reminds me of Rattenberg every time I wear it.
The café is just putting the finishing touches on its patio, tablecloths flung across outdoor tables. It seems the perfect place to ask for local insight.
Inside weathered cafe is a space that speaks of cafe culture with arched ceilings, an expansive display of cakes. More cakes than I can name sit on display before me. For now, all we need is water and directions. We’ll be back for cake after the ruins.
“Do you speak English?” I ask the girl behind the counter.
She nods, tilts her hand: so-so.
Ordering water goes fine. She warns us it’s warm. Warm water still hydrates. We buy it anyway.
Then I ask about the ruin.
She furrows her brow, calls to the back.
A man appears. Turns to us.
“There are ghosts in the mountains.”
“We love ghosts,” my mom says without missing a beat.
She’s so chipper I wonder if she misheard goats.
He nods, gestures us deeper into the café. Another man sits at the bar. Older. Stern.
“It’s hard up there. Long.”
“We hike,” we explain. True enough. Though our mountains at home are drier, less green, and littered with rocks instead of roots.
“You need the right shoes. Let me see.”
We show him. My Alpine approach shoes earn a nod. My mom’s trail runners earn hesitation. He nods again, not quite convinced.
Between them, we’re granted directions.
The trail we want is further back. Past the other trailhead. The sign Burgruine faces the path, not the street. They explain.
We set out, hat purchased, water bottle in hand ready for a hike.
The Mountains Demand Respect
Reaching the trail, we see it’s a three-hour round trip expected. It’s beautiful, narrow, shaded by the trees, damp from the night before, just slightly muddy and much steeper than the walk toward the lower ruin.
More slippery than I realized. Just the sort of occasion my mom had purchased trekking poles for after we landed in Munich. They were at the hotel in Munich.
Her shoes, she told me, were a little too soft for the trail. As she stepped forward, her grounding foot slid back.
I wanted to argue that we should try anyway. I was fairly certain I could override her better judgment with just the reminder that there were ghosts in these mountains. Then I thought about how hard it can be to get back down with an injury ,even a mild one , and how much more bitter our disappointment would be if we ruined plans like cathedral ascents and future Alpine hikes because we had persisted unprepared.
We returned to pavement, not ready for cake yet, but with the sense there was more to see. Some we would see this day, but the ghosts, for now, would have to wait. There was a river view to find.
A Different View of Burgruine
We crossed a bridge, the sidewalk along the road feeling more modern than Rattenberg had until this point. The lilac-scented trail was worth the steps away from old town.
The shaded path offered glimpses of the river, then opened to a view ahead. It felt like we were gifted our own private window onto the Inn.
It was an easy walk, decompressing from the disappointment that we didn’t make it to the upper ruin, and working up enough of an appetite that our next decision was easy. Crossing back toward the bridge, and again under the tunnel, we reached the cobblestone streets and painted buildings of old town. Café Hacker ready to greet us and some important decisions to be made.
Cake Break at Cafe Hacker
The baker behind the counter had the perfect recommendations for us, and my mom and I sat down with each of our favorite styles of cake memorized and ready to order.
I impulsively added the Mozart Melange coffee. Fluffy white froth and chocolate shavings looked delightful. I didn’t pay much heed to the description of the beverage and was pleasantly surprised when the waitress brought out two souvenir cups that apparently came with the 5-euro coffees.
We now had the important duty of safely carrying our ceramic cups back to Germany, into France, and out of Switzerland. It was worth the strategic packing on train days.
I use my cup with cake to this day. My cakes have nothing on Café Hacker’s in beauty or flavor. Still, the ghost of that morning in a cup well worth the tactical packing.
Rattenberg
It’s easy to wander Rattenberg after the cake, immerse ourselves in its casual ancient elegance. It’s a town that is always ready to charm. A place that, if I’m honest, still calls to me.
Painted buildings, hikes left untreaded, and even the prospect of somewhere shaded from sun in the winter.
Arriving, I had pictured this day trip as a one-time visit. There are so many amazing places left to explore, and yet, as I picked up some train snacks from Café Hacker and stole one last glance at the ruin we hadn’t climbed. I had a feeling my mom and I might be back someday. We still have ghosts to chase.
Now, a different kind of adventure awaits. Remember when I said this day trip was ambitious? It’s only noon and Innsbruck is just an hour and a half deeper into Tyrol by train. How can a tourist resist?
