Mountain Vistas and Butterfly Kiss-tas

No, I just wrote that so it would rhyme. Because as much as I love alliteration, it's getting old.

Wow. So, um, okay. Switzerland, then, eh?

Here's the trouble. As you know, I can write and write about the spectacular mountains and the warm green smell in the air and the impossible snow-whites and azure blues and emerald greens, but none of that will even begin to do it justice. I can try again and show you some pictures, but as pretty as they are, they also won't do it justice. Why? Allow me to explain...

Many of the things I take pictures of are interesting because of what they look like: they're oddly shaped, or famous, or richly ornamented, or my face. Whatever. However, I'm willing to bet that all of you have seen mountains before. They are the really tall pointy things that are green on the bottom, brown in the middle, and white at the top. And no matter how much I describe the Alps or show you pictures of them, they will still just look like the sort of mountains you can see in the distance out your window.

Typical Switzerland!

The problem is that what I have here, shrouded in dark clouds on the other side of the valley just out of reach, are not just mountains. What you have in Washington, for example, are watered-down mountains, mountains where, standing on top with a spectacular view, the next closest peak is miles away in the distance. Here, from the top of the Schilthorn, even the Jungfrau, the towering mountain across the valley, looks close enough to touch if you just stretch a little. The Alps are mountains distilled down to their essence, to the fundamental elements of pure weight and sheer height. And all of the awe and majesty of these peaks lies in the acute and unavoidable sensation of being very, very, very small in comparison, and just feeling the depth and the height and the distance. Unfortunately, it is completely impossible to capture awe in a photograph, no matter how crisp; the perspective, the feeling of meagre smallness in the presence of something incomprehensibly mighty, can only be experienced by standing there and simply looking up.

Add this to the fact that no matter how eloquently I describe our adventures of the past couple days, it will inevitably come out sounding like "Mountains hiking wildflowers cows sunburn blah blah blah," and I've been somewhat unmotivated to actually any of it down. But by golly, I'm going to try.

The Jungfrau at sunset

Our first full day in Gimmelwald (July 30th) began inauspiciously: cloudy, grey, and rain rain rain. We hiked up to Mürren, the next town up, and took shelter in a cafe with some coffee until the sun broke through. After a mildly exciting funicular ride up a hill, we set out on a guided hike along the side of the valley so we could marvel at the views of the mountains whose north faces would've glared down at us, had they not still been wreathed in clouds. We had lunch at a hut in some little valley somewhere, crossed rivers, petted goats, and enjoyed the windchime-like music of cowbells in the valleys. Instead of finishing the hike the easy way, we cut down to walk underneath the Sprutz waterfall and ended up hiking a long way down a very steep hill. We made dinner with some nice people at the hostel and enjoyed the setting sun turning the white mountaintops magenta and gold.

Yesterday dawned (I assume; I was asleep, of course) bright, cloudless, and beautiful, so we rode the cable car up to Mürren, then to Birg atop a cliff, then finally to the top of the Schilthorn, which is an observation platform with spectacular views of basically all of Switzerland. Despite the altitude and the snow underfoot, the sun was bright and wonderfully warm, so we took the cable car one stop back down to Birg and set off to hike back to Gimmelwald. Our first stop was on the shores of a glacial lake near the mountaintop, an astoundingly deep turquoise, whereafter followed a very steep descent down a very steep mountainside covered in wildflowers into the valley below. On the way, we met a Canadian traveling alone named Janet and invited her to share our route with us, which took us across the valley to the ridge separating it from the next one. Instead of going down, we walked along the ridge, navigating around cows and doing our best not to fall to our deaths--which was not always as easy as it sounds. Our reward was a perch on top of the upwards-jutting end of the ridge overlooking Gimmelwald, Mürren, and the whole mountain range all around. At this point, we were getting pretty jealous of the paragliders drifting gracefully through the air, so we took the long way down back to Mürren and then the cable car back to Gimmelwald for wine and cheese for dinner and a relaxing evening.

Traffic jam

This morning, the weather was still beautiful, despite forecasts of thunderstorms. Now, since today (August 1st) is the Swiss national holiday, we decided to celebrate by hiking through the Alps some more! After the last two days, we were rather tired, so we decided to take a less strenuous stroll along the bottom of the valley upon the lip of which Gimmelwald is perched to the huge natural amphitheater at the end. We lay out in the sun in the enclosed meadow, playing with the butterflies that came to kiss our fingers and dipping our feet in the ice-cold rivers tumbling down from the snow far above. At the very end, Janna and I even climbed up to one of the waterfalls and got thoroughly drenched by the spray. We took our time coming back, made our last dinner in Gimmelwald, and waited for the festivities to start.

Butterfly kisses

This brings me to this evening. During our lovely dinner outside, we noted that the darkening blue overhead was slowly being clouded over, and there were ominous rumbles in the distance. Nevertheless, today is Swiss National Day, wherein the Swiss celebrate their...Swiss-ness (and independence from, I believe, the Austrian empire in about 1300) with fireworks, candles, flags, and parades. Therefore,as darkness fell, we broke out the lanterns: red, ball-shaped paper lanterns emblazoned with the white Swiss cross. The candles were lit and we all assembled with our glowing Swiss balls (as we affectionately termed them) to parade through Gimmelwald, but the moment the leader stepped out into the street, the first fat raindrops began to fall. We only made it about 50 feet before it was pouring in earnest and we had to take shelter under overhanging roofs. The Swiss balls, being paper, drooped, and the candles within spluttered, although many of them remained defiantly burning much longer than I'd given them credit for.

Swiss balls!

Some halfhearted fireworks were attempted in the rain, with moderate success, but it's hard to get excited about a sputtering firework when God's putting on his own, considerably louder and more flashy light show overhead while dousing you with more rainwater than Seattle gets in a month. The thunder we had heard in the distance was now drawing near, and unseen bolts of lightning lit up the sky that magical shade of amethyst. We decided to go inside.

Eventually I ended up here: alone on an outside porch in the dark. The rain has gradually stopped, which would have left that wonderful freshly-scoured smell in the air, if not for the fact that the (insert appropriate epithet here, I'm too tired) people the next floor down are smoking. The storm, which had passed so close that the thunder followed almost directly on the heels of the lightning's flash and made the whole building shudder, has gone now, but there is no blackness like that in the mountains. Beyond the few lights on the houses surrounding, the night is absolutely black, but rather than being thick, it feels thin and open and fresh. Every once in a while, the fireworks have gone off, but now they've decided to light off all the ones they couldn't before, which means the explosions are echoing in the valleys to mock the departed thunder. I'm going down to watch. G'night.

Adventuring in the Alps, Part I

Sorry, I'm a bit behind. This is primarily because of this. And this. Is anyone surprised? No? Moving on, then.

So, where was I at the conclusion of my last missive? Right, the first night in Innsbruck. I'll do my best to remember and report faithfully, but given the extended interval of time (to wit, about three days), some very minor details may be changed or misrepresented. I take no responsibility for this whatsoever.

 On our hostel host's recommendation, we set out after breakfast and caught the bus up the side of the valley to the gondola station leading up to the very top of the mountain. Now, you would imagine at this point that we paid the 27 euro (EACH!) and wafted up the mountainside suspended from a clothesline in a chairlift on steroids in a gondola, but then you would be silly and wrong and I would have to laugh at you. We are hikers. Technology is for wimps. So we walked up.

Although by "up", I mean "up the mountain", and by that, I mean "halfway up the mountain." Specifically, to a very cute little lodge/restaurant perched on the side of the slope; above, a hideously steep and spleenbreakingly vertical ascent to the top of the ridge (we did not do this), and below, a glorious view of the red-and-white city of Innsbruck nestled in the valley below. The lodge was only accessible, so far as I could see, from three ways: down from the ridge above (best if you had wings), from a windy, steep path from below (best if you're Rambo), and from a nearly level road from the side (best for cows and normal hikers). Since the sun was shining warmly and the view was fantastic, we stayed a while and had a leisurely meal before heading back down the hill.

I don't honestly remember what--oh, wait, yes I do. We changed out our packs in our room, did some laundry, and then went for pizza. There was some laughing at a kid who looked like Justin Bieber and a lot of moaning about sore calves, and then we went to bed. Eventually. I think.

Anyway, next day! (This would be the 27th). Again on Thomas' (the reception's!) recommendation, we'd booked a one-night stay in a hut on the mountain opposite the one we'd been on the day before. The hike began somewhat inauspiciously: despite the fitful but warm sunshine, we could not find any signs pointing us towards our destination, and the people we asked for directions tended to look at us incredulously and say, "You're going to hike? Well, okay..." (Or, y'know, the equivalent German.) By the time we'd slogged our way up ridiculously steep paved roads to the little chapel/restaurant combo known as Heiligwasser, we figured out that this hut that Thomas had booked for us was not, as he had said, three hours up moderately challenging hiking trails, but at the end of these 60-degree-angle roads on top of the frickin' mountain. We pondered, looked up the imposing slope before us, considered that it was already 4pm, said "Sod it" (or thereabouts), and headed for the gondola.

Turns out that Heiligwasser is positioned right near the Mittelstation (halfway station) of the gondola lift going up to Schutzhaus, where we were staying. We caught the last cable car up of the day with 12 minutes to spare to talk to Ahmed, the wonderfully friendly operator from Egypt, and so finally made it up to the top much more quickly than we'd anticipated.

The "hut" turned out to be a very-nice full-blown lodge, where we dumped our stuff before (since we hadn't had enough yet) hiking on up to the very top of the mountain, another hour or so up. At the top, it was bitingly cold and windy, but the view, even despite the low-hanging clouds, was astounding. The mountain stood right over Innsbruck, which sits just at the intersection of three valleys into one; from the top, you can see down all of them until the green valley floor and the dark blue-green peaks meld into a dark haze in the distance. The bellies of the low-hanging clouds were just brushing the peaks of the mountains, and every so often a shaft of light would pierce through the grey and illuminate a patch of the valley in brilliant gold.

We didn't stay up there long because it was too cold, so we headed back down to have a delicious dinner instead. After coffee and admiring the view of the valleys lit up in the darkness, we retreated to our room to sleep.

The next day dawned bright and clear, so we packed up and set off on the longest, most roundabout way possible back to Innsbruck. No, really, but we did this on purpose: hiking down from the top, we descended through the forests from one little Alpine hut to the next: having drinks at one, then lunch at the next, and so on. We had great opportunities to see the smaller towns in the valley as we went down, finally ending up in the town of Rinn, where we caught the bus back to Innsbruck. This expedition took us all day, at which point we returned to our previous hotel for the night.

Which brings us to today, which is mostly boring, since it involved a lot of sitting in trains, staring out the windows at the waterlogged green countryside. The journey from Innsbruck to our next destination, Gimmelwald, only got interesting once we arrived in Interlaken, our first destination in Switzerland. For a brief spell, the sun broke through the clouds, so we took a train break to walk through the town and get groceries before the sky opened up again. Once the rain'd kicked up again, we got back on another train and headed deeper up into the valley.

Since it's getting late and I'm tired, I cannot do Switzerland justice. Words can't and pictures can't; you have to go there and see it, but even then you won't believe it, because it's simply too magnificent to be real. The Interlaken/Lauterbrunnen valley is carpeted in green and dotted with elegantly decorated little huts, with the pale grey-brown river tumbling and foaming its way down towards the lakes. But above and on either side, the mountains rise almost straight out of the ground; you have to crane your neck to see the top of the sheer sides, where the dark green fuzz of pine trees mark the edge of the level ground. Streams hurl themselves off the mountaintops with wild abandon, plunging in a fine mist down the rocks to join the river below. It is altogether magical.

We took a bus through this wonderland of misty grey and impossible green until the valley simply came to a very steep dead end, at which point we caught the cable car up the cliff face--looking down at the suicidal waterfalls from above--to a group of houses just close enough to be called a town and bear a name. Gimmelwald is a haven for backpackers, free spirits, and lone wolves to hike and breathe in the wild air of the mountains, which is what we're hoping to do. If we can get some good weather.

It's nearing midnight and I'm short on sleep as it is, so here in the common room of the Mountain Hostel, listening to the obnoxious American in overalls play the guitar and the Irish guys talking about the lack of interdental fricatives in their dialect (though not, of course, in those words), I will leave you. Welcome to the mountains. Enjoy.