A tale from the SOTA universe. Three hams. One unclimbed summit. One agreement. And one man whose word weighs about as much as a worn-out band spring. Your Hansl investigated — uphill, of course.
The Plan: Three Hams, One Summit, One Idea
It was one of those evenings when the bands were dead, the tea was hot and the mood was good. Three OMs sat together on an Echolink voice round — let’s call them Kurt, Berndt and Hauke. Kurt and Berndt are seasoned mountain hams from Carinthia. Hauke, on the other hand, is a newcomer. More precisely: he comes from a region where the highest landscape feature is a motorway exit ramp.
Kurt had an idea: “Lads, I’ve found a summit that has never been activated. Never! That’d be something — let’s hike up together and do the first activation as a team. Joint entry, joint logo, shared joy. That kind of thing binds people together.”
Berndt was in immediately. Hauke hesitated briefly — you could hear it in the audio, that tiny click, like someone doing calculations — and then said: “Very well, we’ll do it together. Saturday at seven o’clock at the parking lot below. Word of honor, noich.”
A word of honor. Among ham radio operators. As rare as a clean signal on 40 metres at half past eight in the evening — but when it’s given, it counts. That’s what Kurt and Berndt thought, anyway.
Saturday, 06:47: The Spot Nobody Expected
Kurt sits in the car at the agreed parking lot. So does Berndt. Both have their coffee, rig in the rucksack, antenna rolled, spirits high. Only Hauke is missing. No problem, Kurt thinks — Hauke will just be stuck in traffic. Even though at 6:47 on a Saturday in Carinthia, usually only deer get stuck in traffic.
Then the phone vibrates. SOTAwatch notification. Kurt taps on it. His expression freezes. He hands the phone to Berndt without a word. Berndt reads. Berndt reads again. Then Berndt utters a word that we will replace here for editorial reasons with “oh goodness”.
OE?XXX/P 7032.0 FIRST ACTIVATION!!! Summit 2XXXm 0642Z
OE?XXX/P 7032.0 NEW ONE — never activated before! 0644Z
OE?XXX/P 7032.0 Congrats on the FIRST! 0646ZHauke. With his callsign. On Kurt’s summit. One hour and 18 minutes before the agreed meeting time was supposed to begin. Solo. With slash-P, because it’s got to be portable.
The first activation. His first activation. All alone. All him. All Hauke.
08:15: The Celebration Begins — on Telegram, on Facebook, on All Channels
While Kurt and Berndt were still standing at the parking lot wondering whether to write to Hauke first or just drive to the next pub, Hauke had already posted his first message. Title: “First activation accomplished! Solo achievement, great joy!” Along with a selfie with summit cross, antenna, and a smile of the sort you only have when you know that 47 OMs are about to comment “Congratulations!”
And so it was. The comments trickled in:
- “Bravo Hauke, great achievement!”
- “Top job Hauke, thanks for the ATNO!”
- “You’re always the fastest, Hauke — respect!”
- “When are you writing the book, Hauke?”
Hauke basked in the praise. For hours. Commented on every bit of flattery with a modest “Thanks, it was nothing special” — the universal signal that one considers it an especially remarkable achievement. Kurt and Berndt were not mentioned. Not a syllable. Not even as “original planners”, not as “dear ham friends”, not even as “the two guys I called first”.
It was as if that conversation on Wednesday evening had never happened. As if the agreement had never existed. As if “Saturday, 7 o’clock, word of honor” had never passed Hauke’s microphone.
Speaking of Hauke: you recognize him on the frequency immediately. He speaks by the book — clinical High German, clean, textbook-correct, not a trace of Carinthian colour, no folksy greetings. Instead, that clinically pure German that’s spoken in instructional videos. And at the end of each sentence, like a little stamp beneath every argument, this one word: “noich”. Nobody knows what it means. No one has ever looked it up. It sounds like “noch” (German for “still”), but it isn’t “noch”. It’s simply — noich. Companion, filler, mark of possession. “I received the signal well, noich.” “That was clean work, noich.” “See you at the next contest, noich.” You get used to it. Or you tune out.
The Theory: Where There Are No Mountains, Humility Doesn’t Grow Either
Now let’s be fair about this. Your Hansl has no intention of judging anyone without context. That’s why he did his research. And lo and behold: Hauke comes from a region where the highest elevation is a compost heap. People there don’t drive up the summit, they drive around it. The horizon is so flat that some children there believe until the age of ten that the sky is a lid.
And perhaps, just perhaps, people in such regions learn different values. Values like: “First one wins.” “First come, first served.” “Agreements are agreements, as long as they’re useful.”
In the mountains, you learn different things. Up there, where the weather turns, where the rock crumbles, where you’re sometimes glad the other person is holding the rope — there you learn that you don’t get far alone. That a person’s word holds. That you take the other along, even if you could go faster. That the joy over the shared summit is greater than the medal for going solo.
On the plain, apparently, you learn: if you’re faster than the others, you win. The rest is trimming.
“Hamspirit? Never heard of it.”
Your Hansl tried to reach Hauke. For a statement. For an “I’m sorry”. For anything.
The reply came promptly, by email, in three sentences:
“I carried out the first activation. That is my achievement. I have never heard of hamspirit. Sounds like a cocktail, noich.”
And that’s exactly the point. Hamspirit is not a cocktail. Hamspirit is what distinguishes ham radio operators from people who simply transmit. It’s the willingness to wait for the other person. It’s the promise you keep. It’s the joy you share. It’s the sign-off at the end of the QSO that isn’t just a platitude.
Whoever doesn’t know this, whoever doesn’t live it, may be a radio operator — but is not a ham.
The Race No One Was Asking For
The sad thing about the story: there never was a race. Nobody was competing with Hauke for the first activation. Kurt and Berndt would simply have come along, shared the joy, laughed together. The first activation would still have been Hauke’s — as a team, but with his callsign first in the log.
But the problem is: for some people, “first together” isn’t enough. They have to be “alone first”. They need the stage to themselves. They need the praise undivided, the spots undivided, the likes undivided. Sharing is loss for them.
Such people win a lot. They win medals, first activations, top spots in contest lists. And in doing so they lose exactly what amateur radio is really about: the friends you sit with on the frequency at night, laughing about that tour back then. “Do you remember when we together…” — Hauke will never be able to say that sentence about this summit.
Oh yes, one small detail: Hauke always activates in CW. Why? Because Kurt and Berndt don’t know it. Pretty clever move, hi. That way he’s always up first, always done first — and the others can’t even log along if they wanted to. “With CW I’m always first, noich.” — Hauke’s own words. Kurt and Berndt laughed at the time. They thought he was joking.
The Contest Callsign That Never Came
What Hauke would have loved most, of course, was to pull the whole stunt with a contest callsign. Some snappy 4-character abbreviation you can hammer out in CW faster than “good day”. Something like OE1A, OE2X, OE5P — short, punchy, trophy-worthy. The kind that makes other hams open their eyes wide at the contest and think: “Oh, him again, he’s everywhere.”
Hauke did apply for one. Repeatedly, from what one hears. Nicely worded application, justification citing his “above-average activity on shortwave”, his “services to the Austrian ham radio scene” (he’s been an OM for 14 months), his “international reach” (three QSOs to Italy and two to Slovenia, once during breakfast).
The response from the authorities was unfortunately brief. Polite, but firm: “The requested callsigns are either already assigned or do not meet the current allocation criteria.” Translation: No, Hauke. Not now, not like this, not you.
For people like Hauke, a “no” is of course not an answer but a misunderstanding. He was disappointed, hurt, and — to give him credit — when asked about it in Echolink rounds, he carried it with North-German stoic restraint: “They’ll still need me one day, noich.” And: “I’ll simply carry on activating with my standard callsign. That way people can see exactly who’s doing the work here, noich.”
So Hauke has to carry out his conquests with his long, cumbersome callsign — which in CW does take four seconds longer, but, hand on heart, does the ego just as much good. Perhaps even more. Because every single transmission is now a small demonstration: Look at me — I may not have a contest callsign, but I’m still first to the top.
Kurt’s only comment was: “You know what, maybe that rejection letter was the best thing that ever happened to Hauke. A contest callsign in his hands — that would be a Ferrari for a learner driver.”
Of Course: SOTAwatch. Everything Uploaded. Immediately.
And since Hauke is a man of his calibre — and men of his calibre don’t hold back — of course the full photo bonanza was immediately uploaded to SOTAwatch. Summit cross selfie: uploaded. Antenna setup photo: uploaded. Rig-on-foam-mat photo: uploaded. Backpack-at-trigpoint photo: uploaded. Even the thermos photo with a view of the fog in the valley: uploaded.
Caption on every picture, naturally: “My summit. My first activation. My moment.” One image actually read: “Finally on top — the mountain is now part of my collection album.” As if one could own a mountain like a Panini album. As if Kurt and Berndt, who’ve been on the air in this region for 20 years, were suddenly guests on Hauke’s mountain.
The summit — which has stood there for millennia, long before Hauke even knew how to spell a callsign — now belonged to him. Declared by caption under a slightly blurred phone photo. That’s apparently how it works in the House of Hauke: whoever posts first owns the mountain. Whoever uploads first writes history.
An older OM from the neighbouring valley, let’s call him Sepp, commented drily beneath the most beautiful summit photo: “Lovely view. Did you build it yourself?” Hauke didn’t get the irony and replied with a thank-you smiley. Because men of his calibre don’t understand irony. Irony is for people who wait for others.
And since that’s not enough, Hauke also turns the SOTLAS database into his personal photo album. For those who don’t know it: SOTLAS is a free, community-maintained directory of all SOTA summits. Any hiker can contribute photos, approach descriptions, and activation tips — for the community. So the next person has it easier. So someone knows where to park. So the antenna doesn’t get stuck in the same dwarf pine field for the tenth time.
For Hauke, however, SOTLAS is not a community database. For Hauke, SOTLAS is his private Instagram profile with coordinates. No sooner had he come off the mountain than the five prettiest summit photos were uploaded to SOTLAS. All with his callsign in the caption. All with the addition: “First activation by me — Solo, CW. Photos © Hauke, all rights reserved, noich.”
A free, community-based directory — and Hauke slaps “all rights reserved” on it. As if he had formed the mountain himself. As if he had personally stacked the rocks, planted the dwarf pines by hand and aligned the panoramic view with a spirit level. Other users may now look at the pictures — but not reuse them, not share them, and certainly not upload their own alongside, which might perhaps be better.
An OM from Salzburg then tried to upload his own summit photo (from the day before, happening to have better weather, neatly framed summit cross) onto the same SOTLAS entry. It was removed within 20 minutes — because Hauke had entered himself as “primary author” of the entry and wanted to “approve” every further change first. The OM from Salzburg tried three times, then gave up. Since then, only Hauke’s blurred phone photo remains on the entry. Caption: “Morning atmosphere, first light, solo activation, noich.” In the background, you can just about make out a dwarf pine.
Epilogue: Kurt and Berndt Hike Up Anyway
On Sunday, Kurt and Berndt hiked up anyway. Not for the first activation — that was gone. But simply because it was a beautiful mountain. They spent six hours on the air, made 82 QSOs, ate three sausages, drank two half-litres (shandy, mountain-compatible) and laughed until their bellies hurt.
In the evening they sat down in the valley, and Kurt said: “You know what, Berndt? I had more fun today than any first activation could ever bring.”
And Berndt nodded. And both knew: that’s the difference. Some people collect summits. Others collect memories. Some want to be the first. Others want to be there. Some chase after fame — and others after the next QSO.
And who drives home happier in the end, everyone can figure out for themselves.
The Moral of the Story
- Whoever gives their word should keep it. Even at 7 o’clock on a Saturday. Even when no one is watching.
- First activations are nice. Friends are nicer.
- Whoever storms up the summit alone also comes down alone. Sometimes longer than he thinks.
- And: hamspirit can be learned. You just have to be willing, as the second one, to wait for the first.
Your Hansl will keep at it. And if you have similar stories — first activations that went somehow sideways, words of honor that blew away like morning dew on the summit — then write. The Hansl has time. And cigars. And a memory like an old logbook: very well preserved.
73 and stay decent,
your Hansl Hohlleiter
Author’s note: Any resemblance to actual first activations, to living or QRT ham radio operators, is purely coincidental. The characters are fictional, the plot is fictional, the flatlander hypothesis is scientifically unproven. Anyone who feels addressed nonetheless — perhaps just climb the next mountain. With someone. To whom you gave your word first.
Transparency Notice
This article was researched and written with AI support (Claude, Anthropic). Editorial responsibility lies with the oeradio.at editorial team. All persons, events, and coordinates are fictional.
