place to stop for a few minutes to watch the people, the women almost theatrical in the gay colors of their dress, the men equally gorgeous with their red neckties, green hats and vests, to say nothing of green leggings which left knee and ankle bare. Every one wore the feather. Garmisch is not far from the Austrian frontier, so we purchased five liters of gasoline, this necessary article being much more expensive in Austria than elsewhere in Europe. Indeed, on reaching the Zoll-amt at Griesen we found that gasoline had jumped from forty-five or fifty pfennigs to a kronen a liter, an increase of about eight cents. The Austrian officials made us pay a duty of ninety heller on the five liters of gasoline which we carried as reserve. They also enriched the treasury of their government by a duty of 3.60 kronen on our twelve liters of oil, and thoughtfully suggested that we purchase five additional liters of gasoline at the Austrian rates. In view of our purchase in Garmisch, this invitation was declined. Had we carried a spare wheel and covers, they would have requested us to remove them and would have weighed them in an outhouse opposite the Zoll-amt. It is customary to charge duty on tires if the equipment be above a certain weight. If one carries the average equipment, there is usually no trouble.
Just across the frontier a sign post, bearing the word "Rechtsfahren," reminded us of the change in the rule of the road. The scenery grew wilder. Nowhere in Europe can be found a more perfect country for the motorist than the Austrian Tyrol, with its splendid roads and incomparable scenery. Steadily the road circled and climbed. It was the sunset hour. Shadows were creeping out of deep valleys; a snowy mountain was turning to a lovely rose color in the crucible of the afterglow. Far down among the shadows we spied a little lake, still and black under the overhanging mountains.
The Post-Hotel in Landeck was surprisingly good. It is located right on the river Inn, which rushes noisily through the middle of the town. After an excellent Abendessen we retired early, and were not long in yielding to the drowsy roar of the waters.
Breakfast was followed by an animated scene in front of our hotel. Amid a medley of motor horns, other cars were also departing. As we ascended beyond Landeck, the road swung with easy grades above the magnificent gorge of the Hoch Finstermünz pass, where we stopped for a picture. The ride from this point over the Reschen-scheideck pass was simply indescribable. In that exhilarating air, one seemed to be flying instead of motoring. We plunged through rocky tunnels, or hesitated as the road appeared to leap off into the abyss or the towering rock masses seemed to sweep forward as if to bar further progress. Then would come a sharp turn, opening up a new sweep of highway. The road was as good as we found anywhere on the trip, and wide enough for the motor cars that occasionally passed us. But accidents could easily have happened at the curves. Sure brakes and a tireless motor horn are invaluable at these critical moments.
It was a pleasant surprise at Reschen to see a cozy villa flying the American flag, and to discover acquaintances in this secluded corner of the Old World. We had forgotten that buckwheat cakes could be so good. Our departure was accompanied with warnings about the difficulties of the Stelvio, which we were to climb the next day.
After being shown the picture of this most formidable of mountain roads, with its serpentine windings, rising mile upon mile, and finally disappearing above the clouds, we wondered if the car could possibly ascend such a barrier, and if it would not be better to reach Italy by some less dangerous route. One motorist had attempted the feat a few weeks before, and after climbing eight thousand feet was forced to turn back on account of deep snowdrifts. Mention was also made of a particularly dangerous curve where there had once been a fatal accident. These reports were not encouraging, but nevertheless we wanted to make the attempt. Every one who motors in the Austrian Tyrol has but one dream, one ambition—to submit his skill and car to the supreme test of scaling the Stelvio.
From Reschen the car ran along a pretty lake, then shot down a long grade to Mals and from there wound along to Neu Spondinig, where we stopped for a few minutes for tea and to exchange motor experiences with other travelers, on their way to Landeck over the same route by which we had come.
Leaving Neu Spondinig, we turned sharply to the right and into the gloom of a deep gorge, crossing the bridges of the impetuous Trafoier Bach and climbing for several kilometers to Trafoi, where a most marvelous view burst upon us. Until this moment the high walls of the gorge had shut us in, but now the road suddenly opened into a view so magnificent as to seem almost unreal. We were directly under the shadow of the Ortler, with its twelve thousand feet of rock and ice. The glittering whiteness of the Madatsch glacier formed with its ice floods a veritable mer de glace. The scene was so wild, the impression so overwhelming, that for some minutes we forgot to order rooms for the night at the fine Trafoi hotel.
CHAPTER III
CROSSING THE STELVIO INTO ITALY
It was before seven that we started on the long climb. An early start is important when the main care is to keep the engine cool. Cloudless skies favored our attempt. Across the gorge we saw the towering Weiskugel, its snows turned to radiant silver while the valley was still in shadow. The Ortler was transfigured, the Madatsch dazzling—almost blinding until our eyes had grown wonted to the brilliant spectacle. Slowly the long grades sank behind us. It seemed better to set a steady, even though slow pace, and maintain it until the summit was reached. So we were forced to use second speed. The sides of the engine bonnet had been tied back to give the engine every possible bit of cool air. From "hairpin" to "hairpin" we went, these curves so sharp that at first it seemed impossible to make them without backing. How they twisted above us like the loops of a gigantic lasso flung far up the mountain, into the region of eternal snow! Imagine it! Forty-six of them! Only on one turn were we forced to back, but with a large, powerful car this record would have been impossible. Any car that cannot turn easily in a fifty-foot circle would better find some other way of reaching Italy. It is not pleasant to back up when the edge of the precipice is a matter of inches.
When the Austrians built this road, a century ago, they were not thinking about motor cars. This masterpiece of road construction was intended for armies, not for automobiles. The makers of those curves, cut through heights of solid rock, never anticipated the luxurious modes of modern travel. If then they had only foreseen the coming of motor warfare, how much inconvenience would have been spared the impetuous motorist who to-day attempts to climb the Stelvio in a long, powerful car which cannot quite make the turns without backing. Surely, a few feet would have been added to those tantalizing, agonizing curves. How little the Austrians realized that their military invasion would be followed by the more peaceful motor invasion of our day.
With every turn, our admiration for this perfect road increased. One marvels at such matchless feats of engineering, at such gigantic obstacles so completely overcome. Here, high retaining walls have been built to keep the road from crumbling away; there, mountain torrents that would have washed it away have been diverted. Turn after turn, and still higher to go! Pine woods gave way to stunted shrubbery, and then vegetation ceased altogether. We were above the clouds. Nothing but the sun above us. Snow banks appeared on either side; we could put out our hands and touch them. Then through Franzenshöhe, formerly the seat of the Austrian customhouse, to Ferdinandshöhe and the summit of Stelvio, 9,041 feet above the sea, the highest point of motor or carriage travel in Europe.
It is impossible to describe the thrill, the intoxication, of the moment as we stood there watching the ice fields roll away in great waves, as if the ocean, in a moment of wild upheaval, had been frozen. Leaving the car near the little Ferdinandshöhe hotel, we climbed an elevation of one hundred and fifty feet to the Hotel Dreisprachenspitze, where one stands at the apex of three countries. We could look down into Italy. The ice floods of Switzerland swept to the horizon; a hundred snow peaks flashed in the morning sun. In the other direction yawned the mighty gorge of the Stelvio, where it had taken us two hours and seven minutes to make eight miles. The wind was of razor keenness.
On