I will admit I drove the Grossglockner High Alpine Road for the wrong reason. Lia wanted to see marmots; I wanted to see whether our rented diesel hatchback could survive 36 hairpin bends without the smell of cooked brakes. We both got what we came for. The marmots were everywhere, fat and unbothered. The brakes complained loudly. And somewhere around the third hour, Austria’s tallest mountain — 3,798 metres of it — simply appeared above a ridge like it had been waiting for us to stop pretending we were in charge.
The road that earns the mountain
You do not just arrive at the Grossglockner. You climb toward it on a toll road built in the 1930s, a feat of engineering that still feels slightly insane in the best way. The asphalt loops up through pasture, then past the treeline, then into a world of bare rock and lingering snow even in July. We paid at the gate — it is not cheap, and I muttered about it, and then I shut up entirely once the views started.
The genius of the road is that it makes you slow down. Every lay-by is an excuse to stop, and we stopped at all of them. At the Edelweissspitze, the highest point you can drive to, the wind tried to remove Lia’s hat and nearly succeeded. We could see ranges in three directions, peaks I could not name stacked like a frozen sea. A cyclist ground past us, scarlet-faced, and I felt a deep and uncomplicated respect for a man suffering that much by choice.
Kaiser-Franz-Josefs-Höhe and the shrinking glacier
The road’s grand finale is the spur to Kaiser-Franz-Josefs-Höhe, a viewing terrace staring straight at the Pasterze, Austria’s longest glacier. Here is the part nobody puts on the postcards: there are markers down the slope showing where the ice reached in past decades. The walk down to the current edge is longer every year. We followed the path, and the further we descended, the quieter we both got. It is one thing to read about glaciers retreating; it is another to walk across the dull grey moraine they leave behind, an entire valley floor scraped raw.
Still, the Grossglockner itself stood there, sharp and indifferent, a clean white pyramid above the wreckage. I am not a religious man, but I understand why people once decided mountains like this were where gods lived.
We ate terrible, wonderful Kaiserschmarrn at the top — shredded sweet pancake the size of Lia’s head — and watched a pair of ibex pick their way across rock that should not hold a goat. Then we drove back down, slower than we came up, both of us silent in that good way you only get after a day that was bigger than you expected.
Practical notes from a flustered driver
The road is seasonal — roughly May to October, weather permitting — and closes overnight. Go early; the light is better and the tour buses are still in bed. Bring a jacket no matter what the valley thermometer says. And if you, like me, are precious about your car, let the engine brake on the descent. Your nostrils will thank you.