Despite this rather rude winter intrusion I found the silence it brought with it comforting. No one else had ventured up here yet, so each stride was on a pristine covering, each footstep imprinted with a muted squeak. At first we barely spoke, overcome with the drama of a mountain winter. But as we lost height en route to Kapall, a food-only hut, the snow gave way to more grass, and finally we gained views down the ridgeline and over into St Anton’s neighbouring villages. “We may get good weather yet,” Naggi said hopefully as we looked out over the sun-dappled peaks. We continued, climbing high towards the peak of Bacherspitze. The views had gone, stolen by the cloud again. The path narrowed to a stony ledge, our way marked by the red-and-white stripes of the Austrian flag.

This region may have been where skiing was born. In walking terms, however, its claim to fame is the Adlerweg, aka the Eagle’s Way. Linking St Anton and St Johann, the route comprises 1,480km of pathways that, when plotted on a map, look like an eagle’s outstretched wings. We were treading a section of that trail now, following it as it cut under rocky flanks. Every now and again we spotted chamois droppings, and Naggi would talk about the animals’ endless pursuit of food on the mountain tops. Rain began to fall harder and faster, and my tummy rumbled in anticipation of lunch.

The terrain flattened to a kind of plateau and, sure enough, the roof of Lcutkirchcr Hutte came into view, its white walls and wooden shutters looking particularly inviting in the hail. According to Naggi, the first mountain hut in this range was built around 1912 by the Alpine Club of Germany, who own most of the huts here today. They bought land from Austria and built hikers’ huts all over the mountains. Now, most of the huts are still German-owned but employ local managers to run them in the summertime.

The manager at Lcutkirchcr was Meinhard Egger, who greeted us with a big smile and a schnaps. We headed to the main room and began peeling off our wet jackets while Meinhard lit the stove. His family were gathered in the kitchen; the hut’s been in their care for over 70 years. “When we first arrive for the season we get a helicopter to bring in supplies,’’ explained Meinhard as he lavished the table with steaming soup and dumplings, hot chocolate and shots of rum. “It takes six flights to start the season then we have two more over the summer for gas, wood, food and of course beer.’’

I felt the burn of the alcohol heat my chest as Meinhard talked about some of his mountain escapades and leafed through old books showing me photographs of the areas in which he’d climbed. Then he left the room, returning with an accordion to treat us to a traditional Tirolean tune. We left hours later than we’d planned, fuelled by food, some good conversation and just a little rum. It was starting to snow heavily; the only colour came from the odd posy of wildflowers, bright against the white. “Schnaps,” said Naggi as we passed a cluster of blue. They were enzian (trumpet gentian), which are used to make the alcoholic drink; their petals – Naggi was quick to show me – are shaped like shot glasses.

We ploughed on over snow-plastered rocks and ice-encrusted mud banks for several hours. Despite my earlier hearty lunch I began to dream about my hot evening meal. I felt crazier than the chamois, our bitterly cold pursuit of food taking us higher into the storm. By the time we reached Kaiserjochhaus, the hut where we were to spend the night, the grass was frozen in a pallid coat. Relief swept over me as we first passed the satellite winter hut -ironically closed for the summer. By now the thought of a warm fire had me practically running to the main building. Inside, our hosts let us hang our kit around the stove as we sat and feasted on a hearty pan-fried mix of potatoes, onions and eggs.