Our camp was pitched very near the boundary line between Baden and
Hohenzollern, and a short distance above Sigmaringen, the residential
town of Prince Hohenzollern. We were prepared to meet a certain degree
of stateliness in the tiny capital, and our anticipations were
strengthened by the sight of a well-kept park on the river-bank long
before the town came in view. There were summer-houses and
pleasure-boats and other indications that the place belonged to somebody
of importance in the neighborhood. Further, the natural scenery was
marred by the conversion of a large overhanging limestone cliff into a
mortuary slab in memory of a princess who died in 1841, and whose
virtues were set forth in metal letters a foot long. We expected, then,
to find the town distinguished by equal pretensions and bad taste,
knowing too well how much destruction can be wrought in these modern
times by the engines at command of every long purse. To our surprise and
delight, however, the panorama which spread out before us as we
approached Sigmaringen was one of great beauty, and the town, imposingly
situated on a high promontory, made an unusually fine focus in the
composition. We found on near acquaintance that the architecture, though
not unpleasing, was by no means particularly interesting, and we did not
delay there longer than was necessary to purchase a few stores.
About forty miles by rail and road to the north of Sigmaringen is the
great castle of Hohenzollern, the seat of the imperial family of
Prussia. The present castle is of modern construction, having been begun
by Frederick William IV. and finally completed in 1867. It is remarkably
bold in situation and commanding in appearance, and, although it has
seldom sheltered any of the imperial family of late years, is kept up
with great care and is garrisoned by quite a large force of troops.
[Illustration: Sigmaringen.]
Sigmaringen marks the lower limit of the series of rocky gorges into
which the river plunges near Friedigen, and soon after leaving the town
we came into a more pastoral region again, similar to that of our first
day’s cruise. The flora changed somewhat, and fewer varieties of plants
were noticeable. Alfred Parsons makes the following remarks in his
botanical note-book: “Below Sigmaringen the meadow flora becomes more
like that of England, but still with campanulas and purple sage; also
occasionally a bright crimson dianthus with clusters of flowers. In an
ash wood beneath which we camped was an undergrowth of _Spiræa aruncus_,
all in bloom, five or six feet in height; in the wood also were
Turk’s-cap lilies, Jacobs-ladder, tall, pale-yellow phyteuma, and
commonly, near the river, gelder-rose bushes and clumps of
forget-me-nots and white water-buttercups. The general impression of the
flora is a greater prevalence of purple and blue flowers.”
[Illustration: _Hohenzollern._]
Frequent villages dot the hill-sides on either side of the broad,
fertile valley, and the river begins to feel a new tyranny of man in the
partial canalization of its channel. The current now increased in speed
between the artificially straightened banks, and, counting the kilometre
marks as we swept along, we found we were making seven and a half
kilometres (nearly five miles) an hour without lifting a paddle. A more
satisfactory mode of progression never fell to the lot of any traveller.
Perfect summer weather, a comfortable canoe to lounge in, beautiful
landscapes on all sides;
[Illustration: NUNS AT RIEDLINGEN]
and a vigorous current under the keel which gave an exhilarating sense
of added strength, much like that felt when riding a spirited horse.
Nothing more could be desired except, perhaps, unlimited time in which
to enjoy such pleasant recreation. Haste was, indeed, a slight drawback
to our enjoyment. We did not dare delay, for the season was already in
its full prime, and we knew that the gales began in the lower river as
early as the first week of September; besides, one of the party had only
a limited number of weeks at his disposal. Under other circumstances we
would have spent a day or more at Riedlingen, where we found most
interesting architecture along the river-front and saw a party of nuns
at work in a hay-field. We had a little more social success with them
than we did with their coreligionists, the monks at Beuron, for they
turned their great, cool, flapping head-dresses in our direction, and
actually seemed temporarily interested in our canoes, and in us as well.
A threatening storm drove us to seek shelter at dinnertime in a rural
gasthaus in a little priest-ridden hamlet where a morose landlady gave
us excellent bread and milk in rude earthen bowls, and was prevailed
upon to part with some of her store of fresh bread and eggs. The
peasants came hurrying into the village to escape the rain, their
creaking carts piled high with hay and the sturdy little horses white
with sweat. It was a ready-made picture from “Hermann and Dorothea.” We
had occasion to regret in the night that we had not brought our tents,
for it rained steadily for hours, and the rubber blankets rigged on the
paddles made an inefficient shelter against the driving storm. But we
were none the worse the next morning, and as soon as the ring of scythes
of the women mowing in the next field woke us from our sound sleep we
were up, cooked breakfast, and were soon off down pleasant reaches with
overhanging rocks and occasional ruins frowning down from the pinnacled
crags.
Every mile or two we passed a village, each more picturesque than its
neighbor, and all with sonorous names that suggest places of great
importance--Rechtenstein, Obermarschthal, Munderkingen, Rottenacker.
Each village had its weir and its mill, and sometimes two of them.
Various accidents occurred, none of them of a startling nature, and none
resulting in anything worse than temporary
[Illustration: CROSSING THE WEIR--ROTTENACKER]
[Illustration: PEASANT GIRLS MOWING]
inconvenience. The Admiral of the fleet, trusting too much in his
knowledge of river navigation, swamped his canoe in a weir, and would
have been in a sad strait but for the timely assistance of some mill
hands. The canoes got some heavy bumping at times while we were shooting
rapids below the weirs; but there was little or no injury done to them,
and the only actual loss of property was one favorite brierwood pipe--a
loss which will appeal to the sympathy of every smoker who has tried the
pipes of central Europe. We happened to reach Rottenacker at noon, when
a great procession of rustics, armed with every imaginable kind of
haymaking implements, was crossing the bridge to their labors after the
mid-day meal. They halted on the bridge, looking for all the world like
a detachment from Monmouth’s army, and watched us run the canoes over
the weir. They gave a hoarse shout of approval of our skill, and after
we had dashed down under the great wooden bridge they marched off in
almost martial array, and scattered over the broad meadows like
skirmishers. An hour later we reached the last weir on the river at the
village of Oepfingen, and, confident from the appearance of the water
that the canoes would float on it with our weight, we triumphantly
paddled over the crest and shot safely into the boiling pool below. We
had counted in all only twenty-one weirs and dams, although the
different accounts of expeditions in the upper river give the number as
twenty-five between Donaueschingen and Ulm. In all probability the
unusually high water covered some of the smaller ones, and we
consequently failed to make a record of them.
[Illustration: BRIDGE AT ROTTENACKER]
Below the last weir the river is monotonous and the country not
particularly interesting. Turnip-topped church-spires rise above the
red-tiled roofs of villages clustered on the hill-sides, and but for
these features of the landscape the river might be the Thames or the
Avon. Soon, however, several vigorous streams add their waters to the
main current, its speed and strength rapidly increases, and its course
is regulated into a straight and canal-like channel. Not realizing the
speed of our progress as we floated along, we came in sight of the
village of Erbach on the hills to the left of the river much earlier in
the afternoon than we expected, and at the same moment saw, far beyond
in the blue distance, as faintly outlined as a delicate cloud-form, the
great tower of the Cathedral of Ulm breaking the low horizon line. We at
once took to our paddles and increased our pace, urged on by the sight
of our goal for the night and the beginning of our cruise in the
navigable river. In full sight of the city, some two miles away, we
passed the Iller, rushing in with a broad, pale-green flood and a
strange hissing noise like the escape of gas from soda-water, and then
the Danube, reinforced in strength and in volume, tore along with almost
angry speed, and showed great swirls where the pale waters of the Iller
wrestled with the opaque yellow of the larger stream. We saw by the
white waters at the buttresses of the railway bridge as we dashed past
that we had to deal with a current far more powerful than any we had yet
navigated, and accordingly approached the left shore with some caution,
as there was a high wall along the water’s edge and only an occasional
practicable landing-place. With all our efforts to stop our head-way we
found ourselves obliged to turn the bow up-stream and paddle hard to
keep from being swept past the town. In this way we came alongside the
float of the Donau Ruder Verein (Danube Rowing Club), and landed,
welcomed by a delegation from the committee of the club, who had heard
of our intended visit. They gave us a hand to carry the canoes up to the
boat-house and made room for them on the padded trestles.
The club boat-house is a fair-sized building, well enough constructed
for the purpose, and conveniently fitted up with quarters for the crews
and stowage room for the boats, which number nearly a score, several of
them from famous makers in England, but mostly of German build.
Notwithstanding the disadvantages of rowing in so rapid a current, and
the difficulties of launching and landing the boats, the members
practise with great enthusiasm, and the club has a remarkably good
record in the boating annals of Germany. The committee placed all the
resources of the institution at our command, and not only gave us every
assistance in repairing the slight damages which our canoes had suffered
in the rough treatment they had received at the weirs, but made other
generous offers of hospitality. The president, who is a mechanical
genius of considerable fame as well as an enthusiastic sportsman and a
traveller, was devoted to our interests, and made every moment of our
stay agreeable. Before we departed our ex-cook presented the club with
his famous coffee machine as a slight acknowledgment of their kindness
to us. We have never learned how much the ranks of the Donau Ruder
Verein have been decimated by the use of this dangerous invention.
Ulm, whether it be approached by land or by water, has the uninteresting
external appearance of any modern military stronghold, for it is
surrounded by great fortifications, and an elaborately constructed
citadel occupies the whole of a flat point opposite the town on the
right bank of the river. The old town itself, once the military barrier
is passed, is a marvel of architecture and a maze of narrow, crooked
thoroughfares, many of them scarcely worthy to be dignified by the name
of streets. The wonderful cathedral, next in size to that at Cologne,
with the loftiest stone tower in the world, is not to be adequately
described within the limits of this narrative, nor was it, indeed,
thoroughly examined by us on this hasty visit. The town offered so much
to occupy our attention and command our admiration that we could only
pause to study briefly each superb monument of ancient art and hurry on
to the next. The restless river with its rushing current had
communicated its nervous haste to our spirits, and within twenty-four
hours we had seen the town, repaired and repacked our canoes, adjusted
the appliances intended for use in the large river below, and were
waiting only for the farewell festivities in the boat club to come to an
end in order to launch our canoes to the “Hip! hip!” of our sporting
friends.
The president of the rowing club, with an enthusiastic young friend,
accompanied us in our start from Ulm, in one tiny, home-made canoe which
floated scarcely an inch above the water. Their scorn of the dangers of
the curling flood filled us with admiration, but we could not affect the
indifference which is born only of long familiarity with the Danube, and
proceeded with our usual care. Great yellow billows surged against the
stone piers of the old bridge as we shot with dizzy speed through the
shadow of the arch out into the broad stream below. It began to rain,
but we paddled all the harder in order to reach the village of Günzburg
as early as possible, so that we might have time to dine and afterwards
make camp before dark. The rain did not in anywise diminish our ardor
for sleeping in the canoes, for we had passed a feverish night in a
stuffy hotel bedroom and longed for the air and freedom of our camp.
[Illustration: WOOD-SAWYER AT ULM]
The stork’s nest on the highest gable of the interesting old town was
scarcely visible in the twilight when we paddled away after a jovial
dinner with our friends, who were to ship themselves and their canoe
back to Ulm by train. As we pushed out into the stream the distances
were so exaggerated by the dim light that the Danube now looked like a
broad lake or an arm of the sea, and the strongly eddying current
twisted our paddles with a vicious persistence that warned us to be
circumspect in choosing a landing-place in the uncertain light. Luck
more than judgment directed us to a pretty little secluded meadow where,
for the first time, we made camp in regular order, tents and all.
[Illustration: FROM STRASBURG TO ULM]
The question of choosing camp was, as we now fully understood, a more or
less difficult one, for, as the three canoes were seldom very near
together on the river, it would be practically impossible to fix on a
desirable place by common agreement at the time of camping. We therefore
appointed the most experienced camper a committee of one to choose the
camp in the future, and agreed to abide by his decision. A special
instinct, or at least an accurate and ready judgment, must be the
absolute qualification of the one who chooses halting-places along a
river like the Danube, for the current, running as it does from three
to six miles an hour, makes it impossible to make the selection at
leisure. Before there is time to weigh the reasons for and against the
spot the stream has carried the canoe past the landing-place, and return
is practically out of the question. We demanded of our camp grounds more
and at the same time less than the ordinary cruiser. First, they must be
in as agreeable a landscape as possible, for as we spent several hours
of daylight there we wanted to sketch and to enjoy the scenery. Then
they must be so situated that the canoes could be drawn up readily and
prepared for the night without carrying the traps too far. On the other
hand, sand, turf, or smooth surface of the ground, though desirable,
was, fortunately, not an absolute necessity, as they would have been if
we had not slept in our canoes. Further, as we used spirits for cooking,
we did not have to consider the question of wood, and the absence of
fire made our camps very little objectionable to the farmers. Indeed, we
were made welcome to temporary occupation in every instance but one, and
on that occasion the farmer evidently thought we intended to remain all
summer long, for he began to talk about the second crop of grass. A
largess of German coin of the value of ten cents made him waive all
objections and give us the freedom of his meadow.