Lost in the Swiss Alps

On our list of favorite trips was hiking in Switzerland. The mountain views were spectacular, and the air fresh and invigorating. I was especially enamored with the herds of cows meandering through meadows filled with wildflowers, and the accompanying melody of cow bells.

We decided to check out Engstligen Falls, the second highest waterfall in Europe. It was an adventure just getting there. We rode the train to Frutigen, and then transferred to a bus to the mountain town of Adelboden, in the Bernese Highlands . From there, Our Swiss rail passes got us on the Elsigenalp Gondola. The cable car climbed 2,000 feet up a sheer rock face, and we exited in a flat, open area with  breathtaking panoramic views  on all sides.

We’d intended to hike back down on a trail alongside the falls. We soon learned that the trail had washed out during a heavy, early morning thunderstorm. All of the other tourists in the area seemed to be getting back into the cable car for the ride down. We were dead-set on hiking, though, so a friendly waitress in the Alpine restaurant showed us another trail that was “just a little bit longer walk back down.”

The scenery was spectacular as we set out along a narrow path. An hour or so into it, an incredibly dense fog came rolling in, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of us. We inched along. Surely we couldn’t get lost as long as we stayed on the path, right? Turns out we could. We continued along the winding little path, completely missing the turn-off that headed down the mountain.

The fog cleared out as suddenly as it had come, and we continued on, having no idea that we were heading in the wrong direction. Until the grassy meadow trail ended abruptly at the base of a rocky cliff. At times, David and I both have a bit of trouble admitting we are wrong. We gave each aother a sidewise glance but neither one of us wanted to be the first to say we had messed up.  We actually started scrambling up the rock on our hands and knees. It wasn’t until we encountered a sign with a skull and crossbones on it that we got the idea that we had made a serious mistake. We peeked around the sign and sure enough, all that lay in front of of us was a sheer drop-off.

There was a moment where a swear word or two may have been said… Another light bulb moment where it occurred to us that having a map would probably have been a good idea. Finally, we came to the conclusion that we were out of options other than retracing our steps.

So back along the zig-zag path we went. We came to the area that had been shrouded in fog the first time, and now we saw a nondescript little hut that we hadn’t seen before. A sound like a cowbell chimed. Surely that couldn’t be a cow barn? Perhaps a wayward cow had wandered inside and was stuck? There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so David decided to take a look. He was just a few steps away from the door way when a burst of vicious barking exploded, and out hurtled a black dog. Uh-oh. A cattle-dog protecting his herd!

The dog rushed us, gave us both a sniff and wagged his tail, and suddenly we had a new best friend. We were petting him when a man followed the dog outside. He was smoking a cigarette, and it was impossible to get a read on his emotions. He spoke to us in German, of which we understood not a single word.

Finally he said a word that I thought I recognized. “Milk?” I asked. He smiled an motioned us inside. David and I hesitated for an instant. No one had any idea of where we were, after all. As we moved forward, we both eyed the huge ax that was stuck in a log near the entrance…

I stepped inside and just missed planting my hiking boot in a huge pile of cow dung. There were 7 cows in a cramped little room, one or two of which were tied by their tails to the ceiling. Flies were swirling around and the smell was.. let’s just say amazing.

We took one step up and we were in the man’s kitchen! It was as if the cows were hanging out in his living room. There were little streaks of mud and cow poop on the floor that had been tracked in. There, on a rickety table was a bottle of milk. Not cold. Not pasteurized. Not homogenized. Straight from the cow. Our new acquaintance poured a little glass. David wanted nothing to do with it, but I figured we’d already pressed our luck by trespassing. I didn’t want to come across as being rude for refusing it. I downed it as fast as I could. It was warm. And lumpy. I gave the man the best smile that I could manage under the circumstances.

There was a huge black kettle on the stove. I peeked in it and said, “Cheese?” The man nodded, and gave it a quick stir with a whisk. He then pointed to a wooden cheese wheel on the counter. It was covered with a layer of plastic wrap with several huge rocks weighing it down. Not exactly high tech. The man whacked off a wedge of cheese and heated it up in a frying pan. He offered it to us. I thought about the dirt and the dung and the flies and the cigarette ash, and tried to tell myself that exposure to germs would make my immune system stronger.

David and I both took a tiny little taste.

How to describe that cheese? One minute we were trying to figure out how to avoid having to eat it, and the next minute I was frantically dumping out the contents of our lunch while David rifled through his pockets in search of spare change. Anything to trade for more of that incredible cheese. It was as if some primitive part of our brains said, “This is the only type of food that you will want to eat from now on. Ever.” Luckily, our new friend was very excited about the three apples that I offered him, and he cut off a huge wedge of cheese in exchange. I am guessing that he hadn’t seen fresh fruit in a while, and we couldn’t scarf down that cheese fast enough.

Our host was clearly delighted at how we loved his cheese. He mimed having an upset stomach, then went outside and gathered a large assortment of purple clover, grassy greens, and yellow flowers. He pointed to the bowl and then acted out going to the bathroom. We understood that he wanted us to eat the greens so as not to become constipated from the cheese. The “salad” tasted surprisingly good. More Swiss francs exchanged hands, and David and I set out again with a huge hunk of cheese in our backpack.

As it turned out, getting lost in the fog was absolutely one of the highlights of our trip. Something we never would have experienced if we did have a map. We made an unexpected friend, and got a glimpse into everyday life high in the alps, far from a tourist center. It definitely pays to take the road less traveled.

With so many wonderful places to see in the world, David and I rarely feel compelled to return to the same place. Visiting that remote mountain hut, however, could be an exception. That astonishing cheese still calls to me. If we go, I think I’ll haul up a six pack of beer. I have a feeling that our Mountain Man would appreciate that.

 

Go ahead. Get lost in a new adventure.

 

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