The Tour du Mont Blanc 6: Mule in the Mist

The window of our rifugio bedroom looked out on a steeply sloping alpine meadow that rose up towards the Swiss border. Last night we had seen high up above the meadows towards the mountainous border. Today we could barely see the meadow, as thick clouds carrying solid rain had descended.

[Menacing weather over Grand Col Ferret] 

This slightly gloomy start to the morning wasn’t helped when we turned up a few minutes late to breakfast, and found that “seagulls”, in the form of early walkers, had beaten us to the promised cooked breakfast. The prosciutto had all gone, and only scrawny flaps of egg white were left where plump poached eggs had once been. My brother Ian was particularly not-amused. He’d already found Italian breakfasts on the frugal side, and having to again fuel up on crisp breads and jam, amid the fading whiff of cooked meat, seemed a final insult.

Although it was a decidedly first world problem, I felt much the same. But as I had some family business to attend to, I left him to vent his frustration on others. The Rifugio’s name – Elena – happens to be the middle name of my granddaughter Sophy. And as the rifugio was selling T-shirts with “Rifugio Elena” emblazoned across the front, I decided to buy one for Sophy. There was a comical moment when I tried to communicate in mime the size of my 13 year old granddaughter. I ended up choosing “Womens XS” size, and handed over my credit card. (I am glad to report that the T-shirt did fit!)

The rain was steady as we loaded our gear onto Nikita’s saddle. We were all wearing full rain gear, even the mule, although her khaki tarp was more for keeping rain off our bags. The low cloud was probably a blessing in disguise, as we couldn’t see how far we had to climb. Still, we feared that ascending something named the Grand Col Ferret would not be a simple matter, especially in this weather.

[Nikita and friends climb towards the Col] 

The path wound steeply up the alpine meadow towards the col. I’d read in a guide book that “tasty views” were to be had on this section, but the thick clag and constant rain left those to our imagination. There wasn’t much talk either, just a grim head-down-keep-up-with-the-mule determination. At one point I lost sight of the group in the “soup” just where the track braided. It was only the sight of Nikita’s hoof marks that assured me I was still on track.

[She went this-a-way!] 

Sooner than expected, we reached the Col, which was marked with a cairn that acted as a border marker: one side Italy, the other Switzerland. The wind up here was much stronger, and the rain lashed us slantwise. Julie stopped briefly, needing to adjust Nikita’s tarp, which was loose and flapping in the wind. She quickly handed the reins to Ian, who wasn’t quite expecting to have to hold the mule. Nikita chose that moment to pull away and then shift her considerable weight, almost pulling my brother into the mud. This didn’t improve his mood, to say the least, and some choice words tore off into the Swiss air as we started our descent.

[Descending into Switzerland] 

No-one was especially comfortable or happy as sloshed our way down into Switzerland. Wind drove the rain into our faces, and found any gaps in our supposedly waterproof garments. But a hiker’s hope springs eternal: at least we were going down, and surely the weather would be kinder in the valley. Beside, it was hard not to be enchanted by the scenery we could occasionally make out between clouds. We were high on the kind of hill that a lonely goatherd might frequent. And right on cue we began to see goats on the lush green hillsides. And was that yodelling we could hear, or just goat bells tinkling in the wind? I decided that any sensible goatherd would be tucked up inside. As we plodded on, I began to wish I could do the same.

[A brief break in the weather] 

Now the descent steepened, and the track wound down in a series of tight switchbacks. After a wet hour or so, we reached the small Alpage-Auberge de la Peule, a long but narrow building set across a steep meadow. The interior was packed with dripping walkers, their dripping coats draped over anything that might hold them. The few tables and chairs were taken, and there was a long queue at the bar/counter. The good news was that we could eat lunch in one of the yurts set alongside the main building. I bought a drink and a bag of potato crisps, and joined the group in the tardis-like yurt.

[The yurts at La Peule] 

[The surprisingly roomy yurt interior] 

From La Peule we continued our sodden descent into the valley which held the town of La Fouly. We had hoped that being downvalley would shelter us from the worst of the weather. It didn’t. We’d been a couple of days without mobile coverage, and had missed the forecast severe weather warnings, which included heavy rain, hail and thunder. So now the rain began to be accompanied by hail and thunder. Through the sturm und drang we processed, a soaking company of cowled monks, possibly praying for the lightning to stick to higher ground.

[Like processing monks on the approach to La Fouly] 

The road-side approach to La Fouly was studded with banners announcing the soon-to-be-run ultra marathon, the UTMB. These flapped wetly, but at least gave us hope that we’d soon arrive. And so we did. Even if it hadn’t felt like it, Day 6 had been one of our shorter days: just under 15km, with “only” 484m of altitude gain.

[Hotel L'Edeleweiss, La Fouly, Switzerland] 

Before we unburdened ourselves inside the lovely Hotel L’Edelweiss, we had one special duty. This would be our mule’s final day with us, and we each gave her a hearty pat of thanks. From here we would be using van transport for our bags, and Nikita would be taken back to a lush meadow near Les Houches. 

[Farewell Nikita!] 

Standing in the rain waving her off, a few of our group looked as if they’d like to join her. But once we were inside our first Swiss hotel, with its soft beds, drying room, restaurant, lounge and bar, we were placated. A hot shower and plush towels were icing on the cake.

I Want To See Mountains

[The roots of Rivendell? Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland]

“I want to see mountains again, Gandalf, mountains.”

It is the opening chapter of his monumental trilogy The Lord of the Rings. JRR Tolkien is putting words into the mouth of the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, that undoubtedly reflect his own feelings.

Tolkien fell in love with mountains decades before he came to write about hobbits. In the summer of 1911, just before starting his university studies, the nineteen year old had joined eleven others in a walking journey through the Swiss Alps. Beginning in Interlaken, they had walked first up the Lauterbrunnen valley. Its steep sides, cut by shining waterfalls and clad in deep green forest, are surrounded by some of Switzerland’s highest peaks, including Jungfrau, the Eiger and Mönch.

  

Tolkien was so awestruck by what he saw and experienced in the Alps over those few weeks, that its landscapes, legends and even some of its place names, found their way into his works. In the 1950s he admitted in a letter that "the hobbit Bilbo's journey from Rivendell to the other side of the Misty Mountains... is based on my adventures.”

Even towards the end of his life the memories remained vivid. In 1968 he wrote to his son Michael: "I left the view of Jungfrau with deep regret: eternal snow, etched as it seemed against eternal sunshine, and the Silberhorn sharp against the dark: the Silvertine (Celebdil) of my dreams." (The letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, No 306.)

[The always-snowcapped Silberhorn in Switzerland]

Just over a century after Tolkien’s Swiss sojourn, our own journey finds us intersecting parts of his path. We pause for a picnic lunch near Lauterbrunnen, and we too are awestruck by our surrounds. The deep U-shaped valley is the perfect “riven dell” – as indeed it was in Tolkien’s mind, when he used it as inspiration for the elvish stronghold of Rivendell. Even the name “Lauterbrunnen” seems to reflect the name he gave to Rivendell’s stream, “Loudwater”.

 [One of many waterfalls near Lauterbrunnen]

In The Lord of the Rings Tolkien describes the wider scene.

“Sam walked beside [Frodo]...looking at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks. The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered."

For us summer is more than lingering, it is in full swing. The mountains above Lauterbrunnen glow with the remains of late spring snow, but any clouds are decorative rather than threatening. Everywhere at altitude wildflowers are abundant, and in the lower fields farmers are making hay.

Each town and village we visit in the Alps seems to have its own special mountains. In Chamonix it is Mont Blanc; in Zermatt the Matterhorn. But in Grindelwald, it is the Eiger that dominates. Day and night from our chalet we stare up at the legendary mountain. By night a single light glows from the steep flanks of the monstrous mountain. To me the mountain is legendary in terms of the ferocity for climbers of its north face. (Its name is plausibly translated as “ogre”.) So I am utterly amazed to learn that the light comes from a railway station: the Eigerwand.

[The North Face of the Eiger from Grindelwald] 

In the late 19^th century, industrialist Adolf Guyer-Zeller had begun work on an ambitious rack railway up and eventually through the Eiger. Today’s Jungfraubahn is the highest railway in Europe, taking you via the Eiger onto the glaciers just below Jungfrau and Mönch.

During Tolkien’s 1911 visit the railway had already been cut through the Eiger, and would be fully opened the year after his visit. That incredible engineering feat must have impressed the young student, and is likely to be the inspiration behind the Mines of Moria that the dwarves tunnelled beneath the Misty Mountains.

[Workers digging the Eiger tunnel, early 1900s]

Yet I'd be willing to wager that it was the ferocious beauty of the mountains that impressed the young Tolkien more than any human endeavour. That was certainly the case for us. 

The Gravity Defiers

[A gondola near the Matterhorn, Switzerland]

Chocolate notwithstanding, the Swiss are more famous for precision and neatness than they are for play. Yet all over the Alps, from Zermatt to Grindelwald, and Fiesch to any of a hundred other towns and villages, the Swiss work hard at play. 

Summer or winter, or any season in between, their chief game seems to be defying gravity. In winter, of course, it's about skiing. And knowing that what skis down will want to come up again, they have worked hard at a range of anti-gravity devices. Any skiable mountain usually has a complex of gondolas, chairlifts or cable cars criss-crossing its slopes. In summer, even though the upper slopes have enough snow to make a Tasmanian skier salivate, the Swiss prefer taking to the air. 

On a good day, a day when the sun soaks the slopes and thermals spiral heavenward, the skies fill with gliders, predominantly paragliders, but also hang-gliders and just plain gliders. We go exploring the Fiescheralp on such a day. From early morning onwards there are hundreds of coloured, curved sails propping up the sky. 

Some swirl and swing with a slow haste, as if their operators crave the solidity of earth once more. But others are more at peace with the air. They hold back time with nylon wings; ease skyward on invisible plumes, descend languidly. There is something feminine in the recurve of their sails. It is the hover of a mother hen gathering her chicks, of God brooding above the waters of creation.

[Paraglider coming in to land near Lauterbrunnen]

It has been a late spring in the Alps, and snow drifts have lingered longer than normal at lower altitudes. We had planned a traverse of the slopes above mainland Europe's longest glacier, the Aletsch, but snow has kept the track closed. We look longingly across the wide, sinuous glacier; consider stepping over the barrier and walking anyway. But this is Switzerland: civil disobedience isn't part of their graffiti-free, litter-free ethos. Besides there is always another path.

[Chris on the flanks of the Bettmerhorn, above the Aletsch Glacier]

Chris and I take out our frustration by pounding up the nearest peak, the relatively easy Bettmerhorn. But towards the top that track too is closed by snow, so we settle for a lower summit, perched above the Aletsch. Once it would have bothered me not to have "topped out" on the actual peak. But the others are waiting below, and right now it feels wonderful just to be high in the Alps with an old friend.

While we ponder this, the sky grows busy with paragliders. Occasionally something larger and noisier swishes over: a full sized glider. I had always thought gliders were noiseless, but these make a whirring, mechanical buzz, neither loud nor noiseless. Unlike the paragliders, there is no chance of eye contact with these "drones".

[A glider over the Fiescheralp, Switzerland]

We return to the others, choose our alternative path, and wander downwards. The alpine meadows are full of wildflowers: purple gentians, deep pink alpenrose, bright gold buttercups. Birds and marmots chip and chatter. Granite outcrops are splodged with almost luminous lime-coloured lichen, set against a blue sky and snowy peaks. The colours and sounds seem all the sharper for this being a short, late summer.

[Alpenrose and lichen-encrusted granite, Bettmeralp]

Our now-shorter walk gives us the luxury of a long picnic lunch. We spread out on the grass, relaxing under the occasional envious gaze of a paraglider. I suppose you can work up quite an appetite defying gravity. 

[Idyllic picnic, Bettmeralp, Switzerland]