A Swissophile is Born

In this world I have discovered two types of mountain lovers.

There may well be more. But in my limited study, only two have
emerged, thus far. There are those who love mountains and those
whose preference is unequivocally Swiss. I join those in the latter
category, the snobbiest of alpine connoisseurs, a proud
Swissophile.
In a letter to a friend, the inimitable Samuel Clemens (aka Mark
Twain), extols the Swiss mountains’ unique ability to captivate the
human spirit:

“O Switzerland! The further it recedes into the enriching

haze of time, the more intolerably delicious the charm of it
and the cheer of it and the glory and majesty and solemnity
and pathos of it grow... there are mountains and mountains
and mountains in this world, but only these take you by the
heartstrings. I wonder what the secret of it is?”
 If I believed in reincarnation, upon reading that quote, I would
swear that I was Mark Twain in a previous life! How on earth could
anyone capture my exact sentiments, if a bit more masterfully?
Though Clemens does not specify the region, I’d wager he was
referring to the Alps of The Berner Oberland. Interlaken’s palatial
Victoria Jungfrau Hotel boasts of Twain’s stays there. I can just see
him sitting on his private balcony overlooking a large expanse of
park and wild flowers, the glorious backdrop of the towering
Jungfrau consuming his vision. At twilight, when shadows blanket
the valley floor, the fiery sun’s setting rays splash the mountain
peaks with such breathtaking hues of roses that they take on a
surreal quality. It is completely mesmerizing.
After beholding this spectacle, I understand why God made
frequent appearances on mountaintops. I also surmised the answer
to Clemens’ question about “what the secret” of those mountains is.
God must be a Swissophile, too. He certainly gave The Alps some
extra-creative attention.
All true Swissophiles are quick to admit the highly addictive
nature of their affliction. Absence from the Alps produces a raging
withdrawal in the senses. Not only does one long for the vistas,
even one’s olfactory sense and gustatory buds feel deprived. There
is nothing quite like the fresh butter that tastes like the scent of high
alpine meadows. My entire being aches to feel those cool morning
breezes kiss my cheeks, while listening to the tinkling chorus of
cowbells, harmonizing with the gravel crunching underfoot.
Reaching the top of a climb, a series of long and short vowels,
spontaneously erupt at the panoramas unfolding in every direction.
The longer the soul remains starved from these objects of its
longing, it plots relentlessly for the next fix. Sadly, the Smokies

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bring no relief, nor do the Rockies, Tetons, or any other such range.
The true Swissophile cries, “Give me the Alps, or give me death!” I
discovered this bitter truth after my husband and I had been there
twice. We first visited Switzerland in 1984, and then again, in
1986. By the summer of 1987, we found ourselves long on desire
for a mountain fix but short on vacation time and funds. We hoped
the Smokies would be the answer. After all, “A mountain’s a
mountain,” so our friends (who had never seen The Alps) told us.
We were skeptical, but desperate.
Driving through the Smokies, we entertained our denial for a
little while, half-heartedly pointing here and there at some scenic
vista. Yet, the most enthusiasm we could muster was, “Oh yes,
that’s nice, “ or, nodding in appreciation. After all, the Smokies are
pretty - but it didn’t take long before our true feelings erupted. “We
aren’t in Switzerland anymore, Toto.” Or is that Dodo?
Our calm pointing and nodding at some view in North Carolina
was in sharp contrast to our ecstatic gushing in Switzerland.
“OOOOOOOOHHH WOOOOOOOOWWW! Have you ever seen
anything so gorgeous in your life?” In the Alps, even my mostly-
reserved husband is given to hyperbole a hundred times a day.
After the trip to the Smokies, whenever we had the urge to
supplant our addiction with anything other than the Alps, we
simply pulled out the slide projector and relived past trips,
reassuring ourselves that the real thing was worth the wait.
Eventually, Switzerland began to feel more like home than home.
Our first time there was an 8-day whirlwind of a camping tour.
At the end of that trip we discovered the Jungfrau region of the
Berner Oberland. Deciding its scenery was the best of all, we

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returned there on our next trip, exploring much of the area by car
and train. We took several day-trips to the Italian and French Alps,
but each time came back more convinced, that nothing surpassed
the beauty of the Jungfrau region. Hiking was not our passion at
that point.
Before our third trip, we decided it was high time to explore the
mountains on foot. Coming from Florida, it was impossible to
simulate any sort of climbing that could help us acclimate to the
terrain we would face in the Alps. Sometimes we went to our local
Florida mountains. Well, okay, they were actually trash dumps
covered in sod and called parks. I feared the off-gassing, so most
often, we walked to a local office building and trudged up and
down the stairs, trying to build a bit of stamina along with muscle.
Alas, we failed miserably in our training. Our first real hike in
Switzerland was a humiliating failure. We planned to go for a four
hour hike and quit at 45 minutes! We had not yet learned that past
the burn is a second wind and a third and a fourth. Perseverance is
the key. However, by the end of that trip, we managed to figure out
the mind-over-muscle secret. You couldn’t quite classify us as
“mountain men” but we were on our way.
By our fourth trip we were a bit more prepared physically. We
conquered the trail we wimped-out on the year before, hiking up a
5833 foot mountain in the trail marker’s allotted time. Mind you, I
think those times are set by 80-year-old Swiss hikers, but still…
Some of those old geezers could put people a quarter their age to
shame. Totally spent by the time we reached the top of the
mountain, other than being medevacked off, there was no
transportation down.
Several times we observed cows in giant slings, winging their
way to the valley floor, underneath a helicopter. One can’t help but

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wonder what the poor thing is thinking! And while tempted to join
them in the easy way down, being forced to hike when we thought
there was no way, taught us that we could do much more than we
imagined.
By the end of that fourth trip to Switzerland we graduated from
mountain wimps to full fledged mountain men, conquering the
10,000 ft. Shilthorn on our last day of hiking. Although we did get
lost on the way up, costing ourselves an extra hour of hiking time,
we decided that made us even more worthy of the title.
Over the years, we returned to Switzerland many times. So
many, we lost count… It never ceases to thrill us and fill us with
awe. Since 1990, we hiked the Shilthorn several more times and
rode the cable car up one day when I had the flu. We did the seven
hour trek from Schynigge Platte to First, both forward and
backward – we prefer backward! We have done Wengen –
Trummelbach – Lauterbrunnen also forward and backward. But the
hardest hike we ever did was Bietenlücke!
One day, on the train down from Schynigge Platte, we met a
couple from Scotland. They were about our age and probably a bit
more mountainous than we. Feeling a bit frisky after that trek, we
craved a new challenge. The couple suggested Bietenlücke
(pronounced Beat-ten-look-ah) – a blue trail. We had never dared
try one of those. They assured us we could do it.
Trails are well-marked in Switzerland. The yellow trails are the
easy climbs; you will find Indian tourists in Saris and sandals
pushing baby buggies up and down them. It always amazes me, as I
find any mountain trail difficult without proper hiking boots, but
never mind. I am the proverbial Princess and the Pea.

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 The trails marked with red and white (either by signpost or
paint on rocks) are the next most difficult. One should don proper
footwear and perhaps take a hiking stick. But the blue trails are for
mountain men only. The blue trails of almost pure scree, like
Bietenlucke, are not well-marked, mostly due to the fact that it
would be a total waste of paint. A few minutes after it was painted,
the majority of color would be found at the bottom of the path as
the shale slithered down the slippery slope.
On our last full day of vacation; we had conquered all the
mountains that we had on our itinerary. So for the final adventure,
we could walk something we had already done or be audacious and
choose the blue trail of Bietenlucke. We chose the latter. Afterall, it
wasn’t nearly as tall as the Shilthorn, how hard could it be? Famous
last words.
As we set out on the trail, it began to drizzle. Trudging along
the same path, an old man ambled slowly, his back slightly stooped.
With arms bent behind him, white hair, and a face wizened with
wrinkles, he appeared to be out for a leisurely stroll. As we stopped
to don our rain gear, the hearty old soul said hello and kept on
going, his lederhosen and tee shirt speckled with raindrops.
When it began to rain harder, we debated whether to turn back.
The Scots had warned us the trail was almost pure scree, tiny
fragments of slippery, splintered shale that breaks into smaller
pieces each time your foot lands on it. We knew from experience
that scree is hard enough to climb when dry, but wet scree can be
insanely problematic.
For those of you who have never had the joy of climbing a scree
field at 7500 feet, take my word for it, skip it. Turn back! Of
course, we did not turn back. We never turn back unless the trail is

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closed. And even that has not always stopped us… But it probably
should have, more than once.
Arriving at the turnoff for Bietenlucke, we caught a glimpse of
the old man. Appearances can be deceiving! Way ahead of us now,
he scrambled up the same mountain that we faced with great
apprehension. Making little progress, we watched in horror as he
hoisted a leg up a good 18 inches, planted it firmly and then slid
down about most of what he gained. Again, we questioned turning
back. But surely, if he could do it, we could do it.
Thinking that we could find a better way up, we opted for a
different route. For sure, we would have failed a course called
Mountain Hiking for Dummies. Following a local, no matter how
little progress he seems to be making, is far preferable to the straits
we have managed to get ourselves into over the years.
In my chapter Hiking the Shilthorn, thinking we could find a
short cut, we got lost and missed the trail. Soon we found ourselves
stuck in such thick bramble that our only salvation was Jeff
grabbing a cow’s tail and following it up the mountain! Thankfully
there was a cow and he knew enough to grab its tail. But by now,
the old man was way too far ahead of us to grab his suspenders…
Worst of all, we hadn’t learned from that mistake. We actually
believed we could find a short cut!
Shaking from the cold and the rain, we began taking our own
18-inch steps and sliding back down 17. This went on virtually for-
freaking-ever. I was afraid we wouldn’t get over the top and back
down to Lauterbrunnen before dark. Reaching a particularly
impassable spot, it dawned on us that we would never get up the
mountain unless we made it over to the place the old man had gone
up. That was well over a hundred yards away. It seemed like a

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mile. We reasoned that our legs would get a little break from the
vertical ascent. But again, we were woefully uninformed.
We quickly discovered that moving horizontally over scree is
every bit as tricky. There was no place to stop and rest your legs. If
you didn’t keep your feet moving, you would be on your rear end. I
think we invented a new sport. I called it scrambling – it certainly
was not hiking or climbing.
There were no beautiful vistas here. No ooooohing or aaaahing.
Just two stupid Gringos standing in a field of wet scree, scratching
our heads at the absurdity of this crazy climb. Deep divides that we
didn’t see from below had to be traversed. I looked at the first one
and nearly had a heart attack. Jeff and his long legs went first.
Landing on a rock no bigger than six inches across, there wasn’t
much space for his size 12 hiking boot. After steadying himself,
Jeff had to brace and catch me as I flew through the air in a suicidal
attempt to land on the same perch! It was sheer madness. What
looked so easy from the bottom of that mountain was really quite
treacherous. But there was no turning back.
Just sure that the other side must be easier, we needed to think
again, again. I began to feel like George Costanza on the Seinfeld
episode where he decided he had made so many wrong decisions in
life that he needed to do everything the exact opposite of what he
felt. Had we followed George’s flash of brilliance, we would have
turned around when it started raining.
Arriving at the summit of the mountain we now dubbed Beat-
your-butt-ah, we looked down, horrified at what we saw. The other
side appeared every bit as hard as what we had come up. Our legs
were shot, and we were much worse at descending. I’ve heard it
said, “Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t.” But

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knowing that devil we just scaled was one scary monster, we chose
the devil that we didn’t know, all but crawling down the other side
of the mountain. We slipped and slid and almost fell so many times
it was a sheer miracle that we lived through it.
As we were a few feet from the safety of the regular trail to
Murren, at the bottom of the mountain, I breathed a sigh of relief
and let down my guard. Slipping in the scree, I fell, splat into the
muddy rubble. It was actually quite humorous. Of all the dangerous
climbs we have done, neither of us have ever fallen in the spots
where we could have done damage, or in our case, probably killed
ourselves. We always managed to fall when we were nearly on flat
ground. And some spectacular dives we have taken! For posterity,
we took a moon shot of my wet shorts and congratulated ourselves
on ending the hike - alive.
Looking back on that trek, we laugh at our stupidity. We thank
our Guardian Angels for keeping us upright through the most
dangerous parts of the journey. Old Beat-your-butt-ah very nearly
did just that. So, I’m going to pull a George Costanza, and if
tempted, I swear to never do Beat-your-butt-ah again.
At least we could say that we conquered our first blue trail. In
the rain, no less. Finally, we had become true mountain men, and
mountain men peak just at the right time.
Whatever the secret of The Swiss Alps is, its waves of
magnetism have drawn a bead on our hearts and imaginations. The
mystery of this longing is something that we are impelled to study,
and hopefully, will never fully unravel.