You don't just walk up here – you enter a piece of landscape that cannot be straightened. The roots of the pines, gnarled like old hands, grasp at everything that moves: shoe soles, thoughts, time. The path winds its way up the slope, unhurriedly, but earnestly. No shallow excuses, no light footing – whoever walks here walks with their whole body.
On the left, the railing, constructed from crooked wood, as if carved by the forest itself. On the right, the hint of the abyss – not deep, but just deep enough to force your gaze to pause for a moment.
And then these stairs. Built not by humans, but by roots. They hold together what is about to fall apart. Earth, memory, footsteps. Every step speaks of the patience of the trees, of their desire to ascend and branch out.
Nothing spectacular awaits at the top. No observation tower, no bratwurst snack bar. Only the path that leads onward – and the silence that sounds different up here. Further, clearer.
Anyone who has been here knows: Not everything beautiful has to be comfortable. But everything beautiful is worth the detour.