Where the road runs out.
Bergstill sits above Tauplitz, on the shoulder of the Totes Gebirge. Below, the Salzkammergut folds away in white; above, nothing but the ridge and the weather.
Old larch, taken from a barn a valley over, lines the ceilings and one long wall of every room. Against it the walls are kept white and bare — limewash, not gallery paint — so the wood, the fire, and the snow do the talking.
The kitchen is dark slate and quiet cream, and the fire is laid before you arrive. There is a television — but nothing on it holds up to the window: the grey limestone of the Grimming, whose name means rolling thunder; meadows green in summer, and a winter white that runs on forever.
The house is the last on the road; past it, only the path that climbs to the Tauplitzalm. The piste runs by the door — two hundred metres and your skis are on; coming home, one last left at the hut and you're back at the step. At night the moon does the lighting, and when there is no moon, the Milky Way.
Four rooms, eight beds
Snow to the terrace rail. A week with nowhere to be.
