White Dew on the Grass
Sept 7–11, Arth-Goldau, Switzerland
Seasonal Memoir Entry #25
These writings are meant to be part of a series, which I’m calling a seasonal memoir in the spirit of the 72 Seasons concept in Asian culture, and Thoreau in the west. The prose is not meant to be profound, or even poignant, but simply a recording of what I was doing and what was on my mind when the 5-day period rolled around. When I’m through, I’ll bind the entries together as a quasi diary. So there’s your warning, reader. (Thanks for continuing, however!)
There is something about scaling a mountain that calls to me. The thought of spending the day at sea fills me with a degree of dread, though that pales to the idea of splunking about a cave. No, thank you! I would rather climb (on a perfectly safe trail, mind you — I am still grappling with whether Alex Honnold’s El Capitan climb deserves celebration or derision as feat or folly). There’s something cathartic about the physical exertion, the fresh air, the time to think, the friendliness of other hikers, and when you reach the top and you can say to the mountain, “Is that all you’ve got?”
Of course, it’s the journey up that leads to the real insights (the walk down always seems to be about how fast you can get back, and how much the knees ache). Walking allows you to see the little worlds that the mountain contains (mushrooms and other flora sprouting on a fallen tree, or an unexpected tiny waterfall), and experience the coolness of a microclimate in a crag’s nook, or the coveted warmth of the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
This week I walked up the Rigi, known locally as the Queen of the Mountains. At nearly 1,800m, it’s not even close to the giants of the Swiss Alps, but it’s geographically convenient, and eminently walkable. I set out taking the train to the Arth-Goldau station, feeling good about the early start, and the uncharacteristically warm weather, but soon realizing that the early hour meant loads of fog. From the station, I found a winding road that took me up to a parking area, where the trail officially started. Several others had already gotten the beat on me.
I entered the all-familiar stage of the hike where I was essentially walking at a constant pace for several kilometers at 5–25% grade, which kept me sweating profusely. I’m sure the people I ran into thought I had come out of a swimming pool, and I don’t know why I’m vain about it. My constant pace would usually result in me passing folks, making me feel good about my fitness now that I’m past the 50 year mark, but invariably, someone would rocket past me on the trail, or be running down it at an alarming pace. I’d eat my humble pie and carry on.
There is a moment in every hike when you realize you are a lot closer to the top than you thought you were. This moment on the Rigi coincided with the fog clearing — I was resigned to hiking to the top and not have any view whatsoever. The mountain was not done with me, as there was still a couple hundred meters to climb, and another kilometer to trek. And I can’t say getting to the top offered a transcendent moment, as I joined throngs of people who took the train to the summit, and were enjoying a bite to eat at the hotel’s cafe. After spooking myself by peering over the edge of the mountain, I resigned myself to grab a coffee and a piece of cake, and enjoy the view of the snow-capped alpine peaks, floating above a sea of clouds.
The walk down was uneventful and pretty quick. The whole experience took just under 5 hours, with the 30 minute break at the top. A Sunday well spent, I must say. And before I descended, as I stared into the nothingness of clouds upon clouds, I spotted a single fleck of contrast: a hot air balloon. How unexpected and joyful! I snapped a photo, smiled inwardly, and took comfort that I could have my cake and eat it too.
