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The Art of the Swiss Alps
Member Ben the Grate is "a travel-thirsty guy . . . [who] tries to leave the country at least once a month and do all of the fun, out-of-the-way things that tourists never do and visit the out-of-the-way places that tourists have never heard of . . . like . . . Ouagadougou?" This is his first feature article for IgoUgo.com.
He wandered from table to table, greeting guests with a belly laugh, and, on arriving where I sat, promptly refilled my bowl with creamy local yogurt and a blend of grains, nuts, and fruits. "Have some more muesli," he said. "We have a long hike today!"
I, along with nine other hardy souls, had signed up to take one of Art's summer hikes along the longest glacier in non-arctic Europe—the mighty Aletsch. The cost was a nominal 50 Swiss francs (about US$40), a fraction of the price charged for similar expeditions in the Canadian Rockies and Alaska. As an extra bonus, the man heading the trek was none other than the father of freestyle skiing.
Indeed, Art's 'invention'—born of the Swiss Alps and brought to the United States—had catapulted him to fame, first as a ski guide and instructor in America (where he made friends with the likes of Leonard Bernstein, Doris Day, and the Kennedy family), and, later, through appearances in various films, including a role as a stunt skier in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, a classic James Bond movie shot just across the mountain from Riederalp, in the Lauterbrunnen valley.
Clearly, this low-fee outing wasn't going to be a mere alpine stroll.
With breakfast over, we took a gondola ride to Moosfluh, a summit 2,000 vertical feet above Riederalp, where we were treated to magnificent views of the vast river of ice far below. We descended a moderately difficult trail for two hours, until we reached ice level, where Art assessed his group's hiking competency and asked two of our party to continue along an easier, groomed trail instead; we would all rendezvous at an alpine hut two-hours later.
The glacier adventure started with a hair-razing leap across a 20ft-deep crack between the rock and the edge of the glacier. From the Moosfluh plateau, the ice surface had appeared flat; once on it, however, it was clear the glacier mimicked the mountains around it, with hills and valleys, cliffs, and deep, man-swallowing canyons called crevasses. Luckily, having been continually thawed and refrozen, the surface of the glacier was rough like sandpaper and provided firm footing.
To my dismay, Art took out a rope and tied us all together. I was quite familiar with the need for this extra protection, but I was none too pleased at being lashed to perfect strangers, never mind ones with unfamiliar trekking abilities. Should they slip and fall into one of the many deep, gaping crevasses, I wasn't sure my measly 120 pounds would be enough to stop their descent and keep me from plunging after them!
"Don't worry," joked Art, "If you fall in, you come out at the bottom in about 63 years!"
Art led us on a winding, treacherous course, avoiding many deep crevasses but climbing down into others. Some cliffs were too steep to negotiate without slipping, so Art cut steps into the ice with his axe. I cringed each time a team member slipped and began sliding into a crevasse—but the rope always stopped their descent and yanked them back into line. We were forced to leap across deep cracks in the ice more than once—an act more terrifying to my mind than it was challenging to my legs. It would invariably require a moment or two of mental preparation, but Art would snap, "Don't think, just jump!" And I would.
Each step became more difficult as we neared a great bend in the glacier, where the crevasses grew more ragged and deep. At one point, I found myself teetering on a pinnacle of ice barely wider than my shoe, with sheer cliffs plunging to unknown depths on either side.
While I consider myself a very hardy hiker, two hours on the glacier had reduced my wilderness ego to shreds. When we finally approached the glacier's edge, we needed to scale a nearly vertical cliff to reach the groomed alpine trail our two colleagues had used, over 200 feet above our heads. I was so exhausted when I finally hit level ground that I turned to Art and barked, "Why didn't you tell us it was going to be like this?"
Art flashed a big toothy grin and said, "If I had told you what it was going to be like, you would not have come!"
I had to admit that he had me there.
I looked at my fellow hikers, aged 23 to 67, who undoubtedly shared similar sentiments but had had enough tact not to challenge the wizened Art. Of the entire group, I probably had the most wilderness experience, and the hike had been difficult for me, both psychologically and physically. Others weren't experienced hikers at all; the trek had been the most challenging thing they had ever undertaken.
Meanwhile, the scenery, while not quite as grand, remote, and wild as that of the Canadian Rockies, surpassed anything I've encountered in the United States. And, while we celebrated our successful trek over sandwiches and wine at a nearby hut, Art told stories of his golden age of skiing with the stars.
Later that evening, I sat with my new friends in a cellar restaurant, partaking of the traditional Swiss social meal of raclette, a melted slice of local cheese served with potatoes, bread, and pickles. Art made his obligatory rounds to ensure that everyone was satisfied, and I found myself unable to contain one last question.
"Art, you're retired, but still obviously an expert at what you do. Why don't you charge more to guide people onto the glacier?"
Art smiled his priceless smile. "I do this to take care of my guests. It's important for you to feel like you are my guest, eh? Like you are in my home. I want to share these things with you, so you will feel like your visit is important to me. That's what hospitality is truly about, no?"
I couldn't have agreed more.
For further information, visit www.riederalp.ch and www.artfurrer.ch.
