In life-before-our-Gap-Year,
there were weeks of days that passed by and I can’t recall the particulars of
even a single one – not one tiny detail, not one single image. But the memory
of the day I hiked from Grindelwald, Switzerland to the Kleine Scheidegg pass as
a solo backpacker in July 1977 is as crystal clear as the blue sky under which
I made the 14-mile round-trip trek. It was my first real hike ever and I can conjure
up every detail. I remember what I wore (clumsy shoes that stood in for hiking
boots, blue knee socks, cotton navy shorts and a flowered blouse I’d made),
what I ate (yogurt, cheese and a hunk of bread), what I heard (the bleating of
goats and the clanking of cowbells), what I saw (the most beautiful valley and
dramatic snow-covered peaks) and most of all, how I felt (exhilarated). I’d spent a mere ten
hours in the Grindelwald valley 35 years ago, yet the memory was indelibly vivid
for each and every one of my senses. When Joe and I undertook the very same
hike as a duo, I was elated to find that the often-distorting lens of nostalgia
had neither magnified the location’s beauty nor exaggerated the thrill of
accomplishment.
What a difference a day makes. Sweltering in the upper
80s heat when we left chaotic Turkey, we were soon shivering in the cold
drizzle of pastoral Switzerland with temperatures in the 50s. The blistering sun of the Mediterranean and the recurring
calls to prayer were now behind us -- no more olives, no more eggplant and
no more southern warmth. We were in the land of bread, cheese, muesli and brisk but polite demeanors -- talk about
contrasts! Flying from and to
countries not part of the European Union meant suffering through interminable
lines after arriving in Basel and the dour officials at passport control. Is a
genetic inability to smile a job requirement for becoming a border control
officer – especially in Switzerland? (Although we encountered them just once,
the passport officials in Turkey managed to sneak in an unsanctioned grin as
they inspected our paperwork.) After an uneventful train ride to Interlaken
where we transferred to the red, wooden-benched cog railway that carried us well
up into the valley, we arrived in Grindelwald in thick fog and mood-dampening
rain. I saw a pair of 20-something backpackers arrive on the train with us and
wondered if their soon-to-be-made memories of the village and the surrounding
mountains would be as indelible as mine. Would they return some years in the
distant future, as I have, to relive them?
Beni, extreme sports aficionado and owner, with his
equally enthusiastic about the outdoors wife Connie, of the Hotel Lauberhorn, picked
us up at the tourist office and drove us in his van about a mile out of town to
our home for the next eight days. The conditions were so dismal and the cloud
cover so thick, that we could have been in Kentucky for all we knew with nary
an Alp in sight. We were so thoroughly exhausted after our long day of traveling
and temporarily dismayed by the weather that we just crashed and slept like
babies under our fluffy Swiss duvets.
The sun woke us up the next morning and we nearly fell
out of our platform bed when we turned and saw the spectacular north face of
the Eiger staring in at us through the sliding glass doors of our room. This
magnificent peak had been hiding behind the clouds on our arrival but now
filled the view from our little chalet dorm. Until that startling morning
moment, the sightlines from our room in the Hotel Bel Soggiorno Taormina,
Sicily over Mount Etna in the distance had topped our list of most beautiful
views, but the snow-topped Eiger peering into our bedroom immediately bumped
the Hotel Lauberhorn up into the top slot. The mountain’s rugged magnitude was not
only magnificent but humbling as well as we sat in awe on our little balcony.
There was little time for relaxation in Grindelwald. Our
hotel owners were off to hang glide and mountain bike for the day and we were determined
to start hiking in earnest to prepare for the six-day Tour du Mont Blanc we
would undertake the following week. My reconstituted Kleine Scheidegg hike of 1977, the centerpiece of our visit to Switzerland
and this time to be experienced with Joe, was a perfect replica of what I’d remembered
for oh-so-many years. We first made our way down to the base of the valley in
Grund, crossed the bridge over the pale green chalky river that thundered down towards
Interlaken and then started the 4,000-foot relentless climb up, up and then further
up to the pass (the Swiss don’t believe in switchbacks, preferring to head
straight up to the destination at hand).
There’s hiking and
then there’s “wow” hiking, where each and every view is followed by an
exclamation of awe. From the tiniest little flower to the rugged vistas of the
encircling mountains, our ascent to the Kleine Scheidegg was without a doubt, “wow”
hiking at its best and I had to remind myself to breathe and to just put one
foot in front of the other as we took in the scenery. An
abundance
of Alpine wildflower fields filled with a riot of colors -- yellow buttercups,
purple asters, pink campions and blue gentians –
embellished the way. How does nature manage to paint the landscape so
perfectly, I though, with just the right mix of delicate and vivid colors? As
we followed the trail across farm after farm, the only sounds on the winds were
the deep clangs from the huge Swiss bells hung on the necks of munching cows (it’s
astounding how much racket they make when all they’re doing is eating) and the wind
chime tinkles of the little bells dangling from bearded goats. Unlike being taken
through a perfectly orchestrated pastiche of a distant paradise at
Disneyworld’s Epcot, this mountain paradise was very real with all the sights,
sounds and smells that go along with the reality of Switzerland. We were in an
Alpine wonderland and it was glorious. At long last and when my lungs were just
about to give up on working so hard, patches of snow and fields of ice from
which ice-cold streams sprouted crossed our path, signaling our final approach
to the crest. The hike was billed as a four-hour trek, but we’d made it to the Kleine Scheidegg ridge about a half hour earlier
than we’d expected. There we were at the snow line, looking straight up at the
big boy triumvirate, all commanding attention in an imposing row: the Eiger (13,025 feet), the Mönch (13,448 feet)
and the Jungfrau (13,642 feet). Wow!
After devouring some wursts on the terrace looking over the western-facing
side of the pass across the chasm to the village of Mürren suspended
precipitously on a mountain terrace, we started our three-hour descent down to
Grindelwald. Practically crawling by the time we arrived back at the Hotel
Lauberhorn, we had yet to resolve the debate about which had been more
difficult: going up or coming down. The ascent was a killer for our aerobic
capacity but the descent wreaked havoc on our knees and our thighs. While I’d hardly been in great hiking shape at 21
in 1977, I was, after all, just a kid with 21-year-old lungs and 21-year-old
muscles and no matter what shape I was in at 56, my body parts were 56-years-old
with plenty of years of wear and tear. At the end of our trek, we were feeling
every single step we’d taken and were so exhausted and sore that we couldn’t imagine
why anyone would ever want to do anything but sleep. I lay in bed unable to
move as the result of having realized a dream that had lain dormant for 35 years;
I fell asleep immediately and slept about as soundly as I ever had.
There are no words to describe the
reality of reanimating a place that existed for so long as a cherished memory,
having it come alive once again, and sharing it with my beloved. Yes, time can so
often warp
memory but in the case of my Grindelwald hike, it certainly had not. I had fallen in love with the valley on my very first
date 35 years ago and now that I had returned, I loved her all the more. Yes, I
had gone back and yes, it was better than ever.
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