We woke early on August 29, made salami and brie sandwiches, filled water bottles, and got in the car. It was the dawn of my final day in Switzerland, and I still had one last urge to satisfy.
They had been waiting at the southern end of Lake Zurich, shrouded in mist, but I had not truly been to the Alps yet. We hiked up Rigi, Queen of the Mountains, yes. But if she was the queen, I wanted to ascend beyond the Primum Mobile. I wanted to see the gods.
It took us a bit less than two hours to get to Lauterbrunnen, and they passed quickly. Anywhere you go in Switzerland takes the scenic route. We drove through signature Swiss tunnels, over the shoulders of lesser mountains, and alongside lakes as blue as sapphires, all to get to a one-road mountain town with a cog railway station.
We had done our research and determined that Lauterbrunnen was the place to go. It costs nearly 200 CHF for a ticket to the "Top of Europe" and the Jungfraujoch, but it's only a quarter of that to get from the valley floor up past Wengen to Kleine Scheidegg, a tiny ski village that sits at the foot of the Eiger glacier. I came looking for a hike, a view, and maybe a photo op. Brady, it turns out, was looking for something a bit more.
The train ride to Kleine Scheidegg took about forty-five minutes, maybe less, so we got there around noon. Nothing about the day was ill-timed. As we got off the train, there was little cloud cover except for a light mist haloing each of the three peaks.
The Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau.
The monk protects the virgin from the ogre. Here was what I had been searching for. Perhaps I sought penance, as well, absolution for abandoning one Alpine experience for an actual Alpine experience. I had made sure to wear my Tower shirt that day such that the Tower gods might recognize my sorrow and understand.
The sun shone directly over the monk, favoring him in his fight against the great beast. Snow covered the peaks, though stone showed through, the mountains having shed their winter coats for the most part, not that they were any less formidable.
We did not linger long in the village, setting out quickly up the Eiger-Jungfrau trail. Brady recalled having been here before in his youth, dragged along on a bike race with his father. He was twelve and new to mountain biking, so he ended up in a ditch, forlorn, until Crazy Dave found him later. They walked their bikes the rest of the route. I don't imagine I would have fared any better.
The path we walked was blazed for tourists and casual visitors, winding through a cow pasture up a gradual incline. Etched marker posts showed the way, thought it would be truly impressive to get lost up there on a summer day, what with all the landmarks and villages nearby.
We came upon the Fallbodensee, a man-made reflecting pool that wasn't quite deep enough to create a clear image. Nearby there was a small spring with three benches set in the water, one facing each peak. Bubbles sprang from concealed jets where a person was meant to put their feet.
Also by the pool was the Chilchli, which houses the Eiger North Wall exhibition, a gruesome testament to the lives claimed by the ogre. The ceiling was lined with cameras of the dead, and peepholes gave a glimpse of all the things that had led to their demise. Frayed ropes. Accidental hanging. Plummeting. In a separate chamber, there was a representation of the wall and a console with buttons that illuminated a selection of routes by which people had scaled the face. Our route was not to be seen here, though, so we pressed on.
Our trail took us to an overlook above where the glacier sits most of the year, though here in August, all we saw was its considerable footprint. The ice had carved out the mountainside, leaving a floor of crushed slate. Further up, what was left of the glacier wept, sending water cascading down the rock, darkening the ledges and crags beneath. We made note of a lesser used foot path leading down to a lower ridge and hastened to leave the herds of tourists behind.
The other ridge was narrow and we had left the grass behind, but the sediment here was tightly packed to let us know that this was a road meant for people, and there were blazes besides. The ridge led up to the back of the north wall. Farther along were drifts of leftover snow, dusted with silt.
Brady asked if I could see where we were going to eat lunch, and I, spying the outcrop to the side of the wall replied yes. On the way, we passed by many a cairn, a whole field of them in fact, laid out like tombstones. As we kept going, the slope steepened and the terrain loosened, a thin layer of scree often covering the path. Even so, there was a clear route embedded in the rocks that we followed up to the ledge.
It isn't as though we were totally alone either. The two of us passed other small groups, though they were much better equipped, decked out with proper boots, trekking poles, and even helmets. Brady had on running shoes; I was wearing Nike Frees, which are technically from the training category. Not to say they were made for climbing, they are very light and flexible shoes that actually gave me a remarkable sense of feel for where and what I was stepping on.
Our lunch spot gave us a view of where we had already been, but also a look at Grindelwald, the town on the other side. It was larger than Lauterbrunnen and Wengen, no doubt prospering as a hub for skiing. We ate our sandwiches in the shadow of the wall. Brady was pondering the map again, and between mouthfuls of muesli said, "I think we can go higher."
Now the point where we had turned off the slope for lunch was clearly climbable. There were people making their way down it and ropes had been affixed to rocks at more difficult points. We each considered the ascent. I saw a steeper climb, several places where the rocks were either either slick or damp, and ropes the age and integrity of which I could not verify. I've taught the climbing merit badge enough (read: once) to know that this is probably something to stay away from while wearing sneakers. But what Brady saw was only the top and a chance to touch the clouds. Putting it that way, I couldn't refuse.
Climbing was less treacherous than it looked from the bottom. The glacier had carved out a near perfect natural staircase. About halfway up I decided to dub it the Himmelsleiter. There were moments where I made sure to have four points of contact, but I was never once afraid. A small voice reminded me that a broken ankle up there would be game over, but it wasn't like I was rushing up the slope. It's actually somewhat comforting that the Swiss do not believe in civil suits. Making decisions is much easier when you know you bear full responsibility for the consequences.
"We all make choices, but in the end, our choices make us."
The final push was the most perilous because there was chance for an actual fall rather than a brief tumble.
We made it, though. We took the back road, but we climbed to the top of the Eiger's north wall. Cloud surrounded us, but the height was palpable. A wooden cross was bolted to the top, reading "Rotstock 2663 m." A flock of Alpine choughs was flying around. One of them alighted on the cross and regarded us. There was a book attached to the cross as well. Both of us signed it, somewhat fraudulently; I left my usual reminder, the same that I had put in every guest book I'd encountered this trip. From that precipice, I doubt anyone truly needed it.
We were careful going back down the Himmelsleiter. The ropes we passed on the way up were actually more useful on the descent. Brady picked up a few of the small flowers that grow on the slopes so that he could press them for his mother and girlfriend. I picked a few, too, but they didn't make it home in tact. We got back on the walking trail by way of the Eigergletscher station.
At the Fallbodensee, we stopped to soak our feet in the spring. the icy water quickly numbed my toes, the bubbles whisking away any heat from the sunlight. We got back to Kleine Scheidegg just in time to catch a return train. Brady napped on the ride down.
In Lauterbrunnen, we stopped at a cafe for Brady to get a coffee and me a hot chocolate.
During the drive back, we discussed our most likely end of the world scenarios. We have a consensus that deteriorating environmental conditions will lead to a cataclysm of sorts, forcing society to change, for better or worse. Brady thinks we'll just get bad hurricanes and depleted fossil fuels. I think Vlad Putin will summon Meteor causing the planet to activate Weapon. Either way, change is coming. After witnessing those mountains, feeling their raw, ineluctable power.... I think anyone is a fool that doesn't side with the planet.
Since then, I have had consistent visions of falling. I've worked with heights for a while now, but for some reason.... I saw Dredd recently, which features a very graphic depiction of someone falling two kilometers and splitting their head open. I don't know if that contributes to it, though. I think instead it just helps me visualize it better and that something else is prompting the sensation. I get it in dreams and day dreams, but it just happens that I'm on solid ground, and then falling, headlong. Not even sure if there's a landing, but it's not something I look forward to. Stress is almost certainly the cause, despair a likely second. It's all a matter of finding solid ground.
Brady returned home today. Welcome home, Brady.
