At some point, the path begins to tell its own story. Perhaps after the third hill, when your view has become accustomed to the expanse, or after the sixth, when your legs feel heavier but your heart lighter. The Seven Hills Trail isn't one of those marked triumphal paths, not a summit selfie spot with guaranteed mountain hut fun. It's a quiet, wild, almost wise-looking ridge path – one that promises nothing but delivers everything.
In the golden light of late summer, the grass looks like time turned inside out. Dry, rough, scoured by the wind. The path winds over boggy hilltops and rugged ridges, past gnarled spruce trees that stand like silent border posts between valleys and heavens. Those who walk here leave the familiar behind for a few hours. On the left, the view down into the Damüls basin, on the right, wanderlust as far as the Arlberg, and somewhere in between, the inner compass readjusts.
The wind carries stories—from the Portlahorn, perhaps, or the Elsenkopf. Old stones don't talk much, but they remember who's been here. Some hikers walk with dogs, others with hats. Some talk, others are silent. Everyone becomes quieter the further they go. And that's a good thing.
In the evening, when the shadows of the hills fall over the last few meters of the path, you know you haven't just been for a stroll. You've been on the move—outside and within yourself. Anyone who has climbed all seven hills has found more than just the way back.