Winter Hike in the Dunkelsteinerwald

It has become a tradition—the kind that forms quietly and then, without warning, feels non-negotiable. Every Christmas I spend in Austria, when the days are short and the air is sharp, we decide—perhaps a little too readily—that a long winter hike through the Dunkelsteinerwald is exactly what we should be doing. Specifically, the walk between the monastery of Göttweig and the pilgrimage church of Maria Langegg.

The Benediktine monastery Goettweig in the background.

The route itself carries a certain spiritual confidence. Parts of the path are marked as the Camino de Santiago. The reassuring shell symbol suggests purpose and direction. It overlaps with the World Heritage Trail through the Wachau. This overlap adds a layer of cultural importance. It makes you feel slightly more justified about being exhausted later.

At the beginning of our hike, we passed many vinyards. This is a typical tool shed used by farmers.

We did not start from Goettweig but from the house of my cousin in the valley.The path was icy from the beginning. Not dramatically dangerous, but just slippery enough to demand attention and dignity at the same time. Snow lay quietly on the ground. The branches were dusted with glittering ice. They caught the winter light like decorations put up by nature with far better taste than most humans. The forest was peaceful in that deep, winter way. There was no wind and no noise. There was just the crunch of boots and the occasional careful comment about “that was close.”

A Hunter’s look out beside a birch tree with the start of the Dunkelsteinerwald (dark stone forest) in the background

Between wooded areas in the beginning, there were wide snow covered fields

What made the day extraordinary was the sun. December along the Danube had been swallowed by fog. It was thick and unmoving. A gray ceiling pressed down on towns, villages, and days alike. There had been no real light all month. And then, on December 27, the sky was cloudless, bright and blue!

We all knew the way approximately, which is a dangerous level of knowledge. No one was officially in charge of navigation, which meant everyone was equally confident and equally wrong. The shell markers appeared reassuringly… and then disappeared. The World Heritage signs offered guidance until they didn’t. At some point, we were clearly not lost, but not exactly found either. The path took us where it wanted. We followed it willingly.

The lack of mobile reception added to the sense of adventure. Most of the time, there was no connection at all. This meant no maps, no quick checks, and no external reassurance. At one point, we realized something important. The snow covered peak of the Oetscher, the highest mountain in Lower Austria, was to the right of us. It should have been left. Also, the sun was behind us, but it should have been in front of us. We realized that we had lost our way. It also meant something significant. Somewhere ahead of us, my sister and cousin were waiting patiently in a restaurant in Maria Langegg.

Icy ground beside snow covered firs

By the time we realized our mistake, we had no other choice than to hike back to the car of my sister. She has met us halfway the path. In order to find our way back, we sometimes had to track our footprints left in the snow before. But the landscape was simply too beautiful. It was one of those days when winter feels less like an inconvenience. It feels more like a privilege. And in addition, we had enough hot tea, Schnaps and Christmas cookies with us to keep us going.

A bottle of apricot Schnaps with a container of Christmas cookies

My sister, my cousin and I to the left in front of the “Red Cross”. It was our anchor when we walked back. We knew that we had passed this cross before.

Luck intervened just in time. We managed to reach my sister before she walked too far toward us from Maria Langegg. This decision prevented one slightly chaotic hike from becoming two. This small success felt monumental and was a big relief.

Eventually, we arrived in Maria Langegg, tired, cold, slightly sore, and deeply satisfied. The pilgrimage church stood there calmly and relaxed. It was as if 26 kilometers in icy conditions were the most reasonable way to approach it. This time, we did not walk up to the church to light a candle. Instead, we went straight into the restaurant to meet my sister and cousin and eat a hot soup.

Looking back, the hike had everything. There were constant changes of plan and mild disorientation. It offered winter beauty, missing people, and waiting people. There was a path that refused to be fully controlled. It was peaceful and exhausting, chaotic and familiar, and undeniably beautiful. Just like a good tradition should be—and exactly why we’ll do it again.