Soon the explorer and his crew encounter the first serious obstacle: the ancient maps show a crossing of the river Ammer. They had planned to follow the water's lead into the wild from here. But in this desert of stone, no sign of the river's lively waters can be found.

It is Reinhold himself who uncovers the secret, with a laugh and a smile: deep down, in a ravine dug into the solid ground by decades of erosion, the river runs, toward the mountain's treacherous side. Quickly the daring rascal descends, unsecured into the wall. All is well, he signals from below, and soon the gear follows him down. The folding chair, the backpack.

The missing crossing had been a bad omen, but by now it is certain: the old maps are worthless, the land in them looks more like Africa than like the side of the Österberg. Again it is Reinhold who keeps his cool in the ensuing panic, and determines the directions from the colouring of a tree's bark. Downstream, he concludes, is the way up. Paradoxical, but true. As is so much in life.

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