04.24.19
A few days later the sunburns begin to fade. The joints and rashes and blisters subside. You've got a camera full of data to edit and hundreds of moments in the bag. Is it memory? I remembered times on the PCT where I said "You know, this is really enough. I think I've seen it all." And then I went to Switzerland.
We woke up early on Friday and headed for the train station toward Stans where we'd meet up with the trail and head through the sloping grass off and on trail and pavement, greeting all the other Easter pilgrims on their way. Small farms, yellow daisy green grassy meadows stretching toward the Alps in the distance.
We walk with intent, not that we've got many miles to put in but the air is brisk and the sun is bright. Through stunning hills, perfumed with flowers and livestock. A light breeze. Spring. Stopping by snow-melt creeks to refill silty grey water. Hello. Hi. Gruetsi.
We've actually been on the trail for about an hour before we realize it's part of the Camino de Santiago. An extremely old trail; when St James the Great was reportedly buried in the cathedral of Santiago del Compostela in Galicia, Spain in 812, people began making yearly pilgrimages that have lasted to this day. The route itself is dotted with inscriptions, memorials, small shrines, and the occasional church. We walked up to a small chapel to gaze at reliefs of the Resurrection...bells in towers here and there signaled the lighting of great bonfires that would light up the hills over the next couple days...then we headed into them. Away from the big rectangular meadows. Into the shadows. Over small wooden bridges, over roots, over stones. Stopping for snacks and water and photos here and there. The packs were heavy. Not thru-hike heavy but enough to pull that nerve in the middle of my neck. "Gosh...I haven't felt that one since last April." "Yeah...well, my toes are still numb all the time." "Really?"
Up a great hill. Down into a small town where Catholics were gathering for the goings-on and busloads of Americans came tumbling through, wheeling hard-shell suitcases behind them. It felt good to just be a hiker again. Sweaty. Tired. Too tired to care about anything but a coffee at this little kiosk since we were there...a little shade. An official bathroom. Onward. Back up an insane hill. Leaning into my socks and reaching for an empty old barn next to a few silhouettes. Great old fruit trees stretched out against the sky, holding onto shadows that reached a quarter mile back down into the valley. In the distance the Eiger of the Jungfrau sitting capped in white. We'd get close...but it'd still be a month or two until we could find a solid route up.
Just below here, overlooking Sarnen as it began to glow against the west side of Sarnensee and crept across empty roads and over the horizon in a single line of street lamps all congregating around clusters of other farms, we put up the tent on a tiny flat bluff, raised up against the 40 degree slope and buttressed by old grey stones. The same ones we'd find along the route for miles. Ancient walls, ruins of something that once was...that remained and reminded.
It was ramen again. Now ramen is sacramental. It heralds back to greater things in small steps. Lightweight sodium. Of course we supplemented with eggs and and cheese and crackers and miniature blueberry pies and a dozen other things we didn't get on the trail, but it was delicious. Teatime over-looking the whole thing. Blue and deeper blue and tiny orange and yellow lights far below. What's the difference between here and there? It's so simple...only you have to do it to know. I've discovered a paradigm that has stayed with me since last summer. In the west we're fond of psychoanalyzing everything to death...but the most recent assumptions of what we called 'the human psych' in its perpetual nuances is that it's all based around the modern and post-modern existence. The basis of the vast majority of these conditions simply cease to exist when you're not actively participating in it. Oh, I know it demands participation. I know there are plenty people who are ready and willing to call us out for the crime of distance, but that's what it looks like up here. Healthy distance. If I could walk around in those towns in the myriad of interactions and distractions while retaining the perspective this little bluff offers, I'd do it. We'd all do it. The fact is, I walked around Albuquerque in exactly this state after the PCT. I never officially left. I just bumped into people and talked and nodded a lot and schemed. But I don't really know. I hate blanket statements. Camping in a tent is a nightmare situation for a great many people and when I find myself extolling the virtues of extended jaunts, propane titanium breakfasts, and arbitrary bowel movements I suppose I'm telling myself something. Something that fades all-too easily from my conscious mind when I step through the front door of The City.
We wake late. Not too late. Climb up the rest of the hill and make our way toward Lungern. Another little lake town with a raw milk dispensary that seems to quite literally save the afternoon as we bounce back just moments later, convinced we could do another "10 km no problem". This raw milk is incredible stuff. But instead we find ourselves distracted by random farm animals. Overly-fluffy chickens and baby cows lounging in front yards of residents. We actually walk off course once until a woman raises her eyebrows and points the other way. "Right. Danke." Up along the train tracks for another few miles, crossing the highway...standing on the side of the road leaning on our poles while Maseratis and Lotuses fly passed. God bless 'em. It's Easter vacation. We trudge over a few more hills and carefully-kept figurines with detailed plaques underneath. Down through the lengthening shadows into hidden farmland with little cottages settled between a few acres of pasture, unused for now until cattle are herded together and driven through the streets and into the hills with flowers on their heads. For now it's silent. Beautiful. A lone pipe spring feeds a trough next to a cabin and we refill, looking around for a decent flat spot. We wander higher and higher around the perimeter until we come to a clearing between a few boulders that looks east directly toward the mountains, which are growing ever-darker shades of orange-pink. We pitch the tent and set things up and eat and talk. It's just 'outside'. I don't know what it is. I wish I didn't have to make comparisons. Wish I didn't have to evaluate the casual occurrences and silent luster that comes after a full day of exposure. The sleepy head. The easy laughter. The bad jokes. The steaming hot food that tastes better than anything you've had in the past week. That night the patches in my sleeping pad give way and I'm waking up every hour to blow it back up. "Son of a..." But I still sleep a little. There's four holes now. I think I just need a new pad. Waking to that view. Good thing we brought the french press. Little luxuries that wouldn't fly on a longer hike. I'm not sure if a glass coffee sludge strainer is a good idea on this trek either but I wrap it in my stocking cap and try to keep it safe. It sure beats the instant coffee we used to carry around...by a long-shot. Sometimes those little things make a big difference. For instance, on the PCT we made sure to have a little Cholula on us at all times. Cholula and chili seeds. Things like that can turn a processed heap of Chana Marsala into a kingly feast.
We keep heading west. Now, we're going to climb all morning until we make it to Brienzersee (Lake Brienz) and sit on a bench eating lunch in the midst of tourists coming off buses and getting back on boats to head to Interlaken or the cliff-side resorts that line the lakes. Big Money. "You know, for some of these people...it's been a life-long dream to get here. And now, they're here." Maybe they're still jet-lagged and clutching that Interlaken post-card that got them through something. Did you know I had a great big vintage tourist poster of Interlaken in my home in New Mexico? I just liked the way it looked. So, there I was...trying to compute the maths and synchronicity that led to the PCT to Switzerland in less than a year. It's been staggering but I've given up trying to apprehend life. We're just two people that like to be outside a lot. The amazing thing to me is that I get to see the Sierra, Cascades, and now the Alps with a year. That's just one of those things that's too great to be anything but humbling and Hanne is exploring parts of her country that she's never seen before. Sometimes outside is just outside. Walk 20km in any direction and you'll have some sort of adventure, but these few days have felt distinctly unique. Distinctly otherly.
We finish up and look for more coffee but we end up a few kilometers further before I end up with something like cottage-cheese-cream-sugar-coffee. Whatever. It's caffeine. We hang out for a few minutes looking at the lake. Little waves rippling back into each other from the shore, barely splashing against the rocks when boats go. Time to go. We keep climbing. Up up up. Into the Red & White zones which denote "Your kids probably won't like this". Higher still. The Swiss love to climb. Sincerely. These grades are casually worn down by chain-smoking pensioners walking tiny dogs every day. Oddly, the Swiss smoke more than Americans and live longer. There are, of course, many peripheral factors to this but I would describe what I've seen of Switzerland as more of a realm than a country.
Then we're high above the north side of the lake looking east through the thick afternoon air to a hotel mounted high above the shore at least a kilometer away with what looks like a long waterfall coming directly through it and emptying into the blue water below. Sometimes I get that same feeling...some strange feeling as though I've left time altogether and entered a distinct and separate dimension with its own rules and wonders like a Neil Gaiman book. I find myself staring off into the distance shaking my head. I try to take pictures. I've been lugging this old Nikon D7100 which I actually love. Best bang for the buck I've ever owned as far as cameras. Nikon handles light just a little different than Canon, and pretty much every other camera out there is made with Canon parts. I don't know what it is. My favorite images come from older National Geographic photojournalism pieces, probably shot on plenty of Canons. Maybe it was the printing process that makes them stand out to me...I just try to find shots I won't have to edit too much. Same principle with every created thing. Make a good song and it doesn't need need to be mastered at Abbey Road Studios to hold up. Adversely, write a terrible song and no amount of mastering is going to make a difference at the end of the day. Fortunately, it's very difficult to take bad photos in Switzerland. I haven't tried to write any songs as such yet.
The light grows dim and the little houses below light up again. We're beat. Those were some epic straightaway climbs. We debate a place to set up but we're too tired and call it day next to another unused barn. My pad goes flat again but we're on a thick bed of soft vegetation and we both wake up completely refreshed. Ready to head down into Interlaken.
We drop directly through a few old neighborhoods. Kids playing. Wooden sculptures. There's actually wood-sculpturing school of some kind back up the trail. Everything is made of wood. Traditional Swiss houses with dark-stained fronts and flowers and gnomes guarding window sills. All the post-card stuff, but that's not indigenous to the smaller villages. You can walk five minutes toward Uetliberg from downtown Zurich and run into plenty of gnomes. Hanne thinks they're creepy. I don't know. Maybe when you're raised in a culture where gnomes are watching from every corner...
Over silent frozen ex-avalanches that came cascading off the mountains in winter. Now covered in a layer of forest fluff and detritus from all the trees and stones they wrenched and mangled. We walk gingerly but it's clear someone's already made a successful crossing. They're melting too and those streams are headed directly for the lakes on either side of Interlaken, which are actually connected via canals and waterways. A large boat can make its way right through town toward Thunersee this way.
We buy lunch amidst throngs of tourists from all corners of the world and head out of sight to a bench. There's a tram that takes people up to the top of Harder Kulm for a panorama of the Jungfrau with Eiger et al, but we're feeling good. Feeling strong. We finish lunch and walk across a bridge to the base of the mountain where we find another red/white trail. The packs are lighter but it's going to be a sweat-fest. Hanne's got some stomach issues at first but we push on. Mountains and bikes. These are the only places I take the lead. The only time I can take the lead. The rest of the time Hanne's usually leaving me in the dust. Soon we both feel great. The sweat comes pouring. The heart is pounding. Mountain air in. Toxins out. We hold a fantastic pace for 1 1/2 hours and make it 1,470 ft to the top, exhilarated.
And now, at day 4 we're starting to smell. Whatever. One apple cider. One lager. I go to the WC and wash a layer of salt and three days of sunscreen off my face and make my way out to the observation deck to snap a few photos for a pano stitch I want to try. I need more lenses. That felt good. We hang out for a little bit and enjoy the beer. Up top the sweat turns into a light chill. I'm wondering when we'll actually be able to get on the Eiger. Soon. We head down on the western trail in the afternoon sun. First hike since the trail that my knees haven't acted up. Something started feeling off in the Cascades but after an "Ancient Chinese Meridian Activation" (where I actually slap my knees a lot) everything seems to be fine. Huh.
Back in Interlaken we made our way toward the train station. We split a bottle of wine over the ride that took us through Bern and back to Main Station. We talked. Then came the crash and we looked out of windows and fiddled with phones, squinting our eyes in the lowering sunlight. Then we were on the tram headed back home. A girl took offense to our hikelyness and found a safe distance. What can you do? Maybe she'd have a decent story to text someone.
Long showers. Clothes in the laundry. Too tired to eat again. Deep sleep. In the morning I try to remember how to import RAW photos. I stab eggs. I put dishes away...and I look out the window. There's more trail out there...
We woke up early on Friday and headed for the train station toward Stans where we'd meet up with the trail and head through the sloping grass off and on trail and pavement, greeting all the other Easter pilgrims on their way. Small farms, yellow daisy green grassy meadows stretching toward the Alps in the distance.
We walk with intent, not that we've got many miles to put in but the air is brisk and the sun is bright. Through stunning hills, perfumed with flowers and livestock. A light breeze. Spring. Stopping by snow-melt creeks to refill silty grey water. Hello. Hi. Gruetsi.
We've actually been on the trail for about an hour before we realize it's part of the Camino de Santiago. An extremely old trail; when St James the Great was reportedly buried in the cathedral of Santiago del Compostela in Galicia, Spain in 812, people began making yearly pilgrimages that have lasted to this day. The route itself is dotted with inscriptions, memorials, small shrines, and the occasional church. We walked up to a small chapel to gaze at reliefs of the Resurrection...bells in towers here and there signaled the lighting of great bonfires that would light up the hills over the next couple days...then we headed into them. Away from the big rectangular meadows. Into the shadows. Over small wooden bridges, over roots, over stones. Stopping for snacks and water and photos here and there. The packs were heavy. Not thru-hike heavy but enough to pull that nerve in the middle of my neck. "Gosh...I haven't felt that one since last April." "Yeah...well, my toes are still numb all the time." "Really?"
Up a great hill. Down into a small town where Catholics were gathering for the goings-on and busloads of Americans came tumbling through, wheeling hard-shell suitcases behind them. It felt good to just be a hiker again. Sweaty. Tired. Too tired to care about anything but a coffee at this little kiosk since we were there...a little shade. An official bathroom. Onward. Back up an insane hill. Leaning into my socks and reaching for an empty old barn next to a few silhouettes. Great old fruit trees stretched out against the sky, holding onto shadows that reached a quarter mile back down into the valley. In the distance the Eiger of the Jungfrau sitting capped in white. We'd get close...but it'd still be a month or two until we could find a solid route up.
Just below here, overlooking Sarnen as it began to glow against the west side of Sarnensee and crept across empty roads and over the horizon in a single line of street lamps all congregating around clusters of other farms, we put up the tent on a tiny flat bluff, raised up against the 40 degree slope and buttressed by old grey stones. The same ones we'd find along the route for miles. Ancient walls, ruins of something that once was...that remained and reminded.
It was ramen again. Now ramen is sacramental. It heralds back to greater things in small steps. Lightweight sodium. Of course we supplemented with eggs and and cheese and crackers and miniature blueberry pies and a dozen other things we didn't get on the trail, but it was delicious. Teatime over-looking the whole thing. Blue and deeper blue and tiny orange and yellow lights far below. What's the difference between here and there? It's so simple...only you have to do it to know. I've discovered a paradigm that has stayed with me since last summer. In the west we're fond of psychoanalyzing everything to death...but the most recent assumptions of what we called 'the human psych' in its perpetual nuances is that it's all based around the modern and post-modern existence. The basis of the vast majority of these conditions simply cease to exist when you're not actively participating in it. Oh, I know it demands participation. I know there are plenty people who are ready and willing to call us out for the crime of distance, but that's what it looks like up here. Healthy distance. If I could walk around in those towns in the myriad of interactions and distractions while retaining the perspective this little bluff offers, I'd do it. We'd all do it. The fact is, I walked around Albuquerque in exactly this state after the PCT. I never officially left. I just bumped into people and talked and nodded a lot and schemed. But I don't really know. I hate blanket statements. Camping in a tent is a nightmare situation for a great many people and when I find myself extolling the virtues of extended jaunts, propane titanium breakfasts, and arbitrary bowel movements I suppose I'm telling myself something. Something that fades all-too easily from my conscious mind when I step through the front door of The City.
We wake late. Not too late. Climb up the rest of the hill and make our way toward Lungern. Another little lake town with a raw milk dispensary that seems to quite literally save the afternoon as we bounce back just moments later, convinced we could do another "10 km no problem". This raw milk is incredible stuff. But instead we find ourselves distracted by random farm animals. Overly-fluffy chickens and baby cows lounging in front yards of residents. We actually walk off course once until a woman raises her eyebrows and points the other way. "Right. Danke." Up along the train tracks for another few miles, crossing the highway...standing on the side of the road leaning on our poles while Maseratis and Lotuses fly passed. God bless 'em. It's Easter vacation. We trudge over a few more hills and carefully-kept figurines with detailed plaques underneath. Down through the lengthening shadows into hidden farmland with little cottages settled between a few acres of pasture, unused for now until cattle are herded together and driven through the streets and into the hills with flowers on their heads. For now it's silent. Beautiful. A lone pipe spring feeds a trough next to a cabin and we refill, looking around for a decent flat spot. We wander higher and higher around the perimeter until we come to a clearing between a few boulders that looks east directly toward the mountains, which are growing ever-darker shades of orange-pink. We pitch the tent and set things up and eat and talk. It's just 'outside'. I don't know what it is. I wish I didn't have to make comparisons. Wish I didn't have to evaluate the casual occurrences and silent luster that comes after a full day of exposure. The sleepy head. The easy laughter. The bad jokes. The steaming hot food that tastes better than anything you've had in the past week. That night the patches in my sleeping pad give way and I'm waking up every hour to blow it back up. "Son of a..." But I still sleep a little. There's four holes now. I think I just need a new pad. Waking to that view. Good thing we brought the french press. Little luxuries that wouldn't fly on a longer hike. I'm not sure if a glass coffee sludge strainer is a good idea on this trek either but I wrap it in my stocking cap and try to keep it safe. It sure beats the instant coffee we used to carry around...by a long-shot. Sometimes those little things make a big difference. For instance, on the PCT we made sure to have a little Cholula on us at all times. Cholula and chili seeds. Things like that can turn a processed heap of Chana Marsala into a kingly feast.
We keep heading west. Now, we're going to climb all morning until we make it to Brienzersee (Lake Brienz) and sit on a bench eating lunch in the midst of tourists coming off buses and getting back on boats to head to Interlaken or the cliff-side resorts that line the lakes. Big Money. "You know, for some of these people...it's been a life-long dream to get here. And now, they're here." Maybe they're still jet-lagged and clutching that Interlaken post-card that got them through something. Did you know I had a great big vintage tourist poster of Interlaken in my home in New Mexico? I just liked the way it looked. So, there I was...trying to compute the maths and synchronicity that led to the PCT to Switzerland in less than a year. It's been staggering but I've given up trying to apprehend life. We're just two people that like to be outside a lot. The amazing thing to me is that I get to see the Sierra, Cascades, and now the Alps with a year. That's just one of those things that's too great to be anything but humbling and Hanne is exploring parts of her country that she's never seen before. Sometimes outside is just outside. Walk 20km in any direction and you'll have some sort of adventure, but these few days have felt distinctly unique. Distinctly otherly.
We finish up and look for more coffee but we end up a few kilometers further before I end up with something like cottage-cheese-cream-sugar-coffee. Whatever. It's caffeine. We hang out for a few minutes looking at the lake. Little waves rippling back into each other from the shore, barely splashing against the rocks when boats go. Time to go. We keep climbing. Up up up. Into the Red & White zones which denote "Your kids probably won't like this". Higher still. The Swiss love to climb. Sincerely. These grades are casually worn down by chain-smoking pensioners walking tiny dogs every day. Oddly, the Swiss smoke more than Americans and live longer. There are, of course, many peripheral factors to this but I would describe what I've seen of Switzerland as more of a realm than a country.
Then we're high above the north side of the lake looking east through the thick afternoon air to a hotel mounted high above the shore at least a kilometer away with what looks like a long waterfall coming directly through it and emptying into the blue water below. Sometimes I get that same feeling...some strange feeling as though I've left time altogether and entered a distinct and separate dimension with its own rules and wonders like a Neil Gaiman book. I find myself staring off into the distance shaking my head. I try to take pictures. I've been lugging this old Nikon D7100 which I actually love. Best bang for the buck I've ever owned as far as cameras. Nikon handles light just a little different than Canon, and pretty much every other camera out there is made with Canon parts. I don't know what it is. My favorite images come from older National Geographic photojournalism pieces, probably shot on plenty of Canons. Maybe it was the printing process that makes them stand out to me...I just try to find shots I won't have to edit too much. Same principle with every created thing. Make a good song and it doesn't need need to be mastered at Abbey Road Studios to hold up. Adversely, write a terrible song and no amount of mastering is going to make a difference at the end of the day. Fortunately, it's very difficult to take bad photos in Switzerland. I haven't tried to write any songs as such yet.
The light grows dim and the little houses below light up again. We're beat. Those were some epic straightaway climbs. We debate a place to set up but we're too tired and call it day next to another unused barn. My pad goes flat again but we're on a thick bed of soft vegetation and we both wake up completely refreshed. Ready to head down into Interlaken.
We drop directly through a few old neighborhoods. Kids playing. Wooden sculptures. There's actually wood-sculpturing school of some kind back up the trail. Everything is made of wood. Traditional Swiss houses with dark-stained fronts and flowers and gnomes guarding window sills. All the post-card stuff, but that's not indigenous to the smaller villages. You can walk five minutes toward Uetliberg from downtown Zurich and run into plenty of gnomes. Hanne thinks they're creepy. I don't know. Maybe when you're raised in a culture where gnomes are watching from every corner...
Over silent frozen ex-avalanches that came cascading off the mountains in winter. Now covered in a layer of forest fluff and detritus from all the trees and stones they wrenched and mangled. We walk gingerly but it's clear someone's already made a successful crossing. They're melting too and those streams are headed directly for the lakes on either side of Interlaken, which are actually connected via canals and waterways. A large boat can make its way right through town toward Thunersee this way.
We buy lunch amidst throngs of tourists from all corners of the world and head out of sight to a bench. There's a tram that takes people up to the top of Harder Kulm for a panorama of the Jungfrau with Eiger et al, but we're feeling good. Feeling strong. We finish lunch and walk across a bridge to the base of the mountain where we find another red/white trail. The packs are lighter but it's going to be a sweat-fest. Hanne's got some stomach issues at first but we push on. Mountains and bikes. These are the only places I take the lead. The only time I can take the lead. The rest of the time Hanne's usually leaving me in the dust. Soon we both feel great. The sweat comes pouring. The heart is pounding. Mountain air in. Toxins out. We hold a fantastic pace for 1 1/2 hours and make it 1,470 ft to the top, exhilarated.
And now, at day 4 we're starting to smell. Whatever. One apple cider. One lager. I go to the WC and wash a layer of salt and three days of sunscreen off my face and make my way out to the observation deck to snap a few photos for a pano stitch I want to try. I need more lenses. That felt good. We hang out for a little bit and enjoy the beer. Up top the sweat turns into a light chill. I'm wondering when we'll actually be able to get on the Eiger. Soon. We head down on the western trail in the afternoon sun. First hike since the trail that my knees haven't acted up. Something started feeling off in the Cascades but after an "Ancient Chinese Meridian Activation" (where I actually slap my knees a lot) everything seems to be fine. Huh.
Back in Interlaken we made our way toward the train station. We split a bottle of wine over the ride that took us through Bern and back to Main Station. We talked. Then came the crash and we looked out of windows and fiddled with phones, squinting our eyes in the lowering sunlight. Then we were on the tram headed back home. A girl took offense to our hikelyness and found a safe distance. What can you do? Maybe she'd have a decent story to text someone.
Long showers. Clothes in the laundry. Too tired to eat again. Deep sleep. In the morning I try to remember how to import RAW photos. I stab eggs. I put dishes away...and I look out the window. There's more trail out there...
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