Our AirBNB, tucked under a canopy of mountain and mist, stood like the final frame of a postcard. Caffeine was clawing at our veins, and the air was humming with tourist energy. The main drag through Hallstatt was alive, too alive, almost comically photogenic. Cobblestones underfoot, cameras clicking in every direction, and wedding couples from a dozen countries posing in front of swan-shaped paddle boats. Every building looked like it had been painted yesterday, designed by elves with a deep commitment to pastel.
We followed the signs toward the Salzbergbahn, which, for the uninitiated, is a funicular railway — a cable-pulled contraption that drags little glass boxes up a 51% incline, letting you cheat death via gears and glass. It’s part elevator, part rollercoaster, and part slow-moving anxiety attack. The thing is built on tracks that hug the side of the mountain like a drunk clinging to a barstool. It’s also the only reasonable way to reach the Hallstatt Salt Mine unless you’re into alpine hiking in jeans with a hangover.
We bought our tickets and boarded the carriage — a tilted rectangle of panic and panoramic views. As it ascended, the entire village dropped away behind us, replaced by cliffside trees and the constant, heart-squeezing awareness that one faulty cable could turn the whole car into a glass-and-tourist avalanche. Still, the view was worth it: a full sweep of the lake, rooftops arranged like chess pieces, and tourists below moving like glitchy pixels in a screensaver.
At the top, the funicular vomited us out onto a landing that offered us a choice: head straight to the mine, or wander toward the Skywalk — a steel viewing platform jutting out over the abyss like the tongue of some concrete god. We went to the overlook, obviously. Because when you’re standing on a mountain and there’s a plank daring you to look down like some architectural double-dog-dare, you do it. We stepped out. The wind slapped our faces like a disappointed ancestor. The view? Unreal. You could see the entire lake, framed by mountains that wouldn’t let go of your eyes. Lukas tried to take a panoramic photo but gave up halfway when a wasp got too familiar with his ear canal.
And then it was time.
We joined our tour group outside the mine entrance, which looked less like a historic industrial site and more like a bank vault — a steel door embedded in the mountainside. Our guide appeared: mid-40s, slicked-back ponytail, dressed in black like she just came from a goth fencing tournament. She launched straight into instructions, toggling between German and British English.
“Please,” she said in a crisp, exaggerated accent, “listen to me, because I will only say zis vonce — and not because I like you. But because I haff to.”
We loved her instantly.
She walked us through the rules with the energy of someone who had absolutely had it. You could tell she used to be enthusiastic — probably had dreams of being a historian or maybe a radio DJ — but spent her days yelling at families from Florida who refused to listen to instruction.
This post has been syndicated from Closer to the Edge, where it was published under this address.