Adventuring with Tolkien

Stepping outside the paraglider shop into the street in Zermatt took my breath away for just a moment. The wise wizard Gandolf from The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit says, "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." 

The point had come when the only way forward was to rely on the unexpected. Our goal was to hitchhike in the general direction of the Lauterbrunnen valley, but neither of us had ever really hitchhiked before, nor did we know how Swiss viewed the practice or whether we'd get any response at all.

The night before we left, I stood in the window with a glass of wine from our generous hosts and drank in my last look of the Matterhorn all powerful and mysterious against the darkening sky. I noticed a magazine on the windowsill, and, thumbing through it, came across an article about J.R.R. Tolkien's journey across Switzerland as a 19-year-old before going up to Oxford.

"The Hobbit's (Bilbo's) journey from Rivendell to the other side of the Misty Mountains," Tolkien wrote, "...is based on my adventures in 1911." 

To my surprise, Tolkien hiked with a heavy pack from Interlaken to Zermatt, including the Lauterbrunnen valley, which he said inspired his images of Rivendell. He nearly died once when a large rock fell from above him on a mountain crossing and narrowly missed his head on its way down. Suddenly I was following, literally, in the century-old footsteps of a master storyteller, not just enjoying a vacation and looking for inspiration. 

September 2

The road down from Zermatt was one lane most of the way, and we tried to stay out of the way of passing cars who would have nowhere to pull over even if they wanted to pick us up. The forest was thick on either side, so we figured we always had a place to stay if we had zero luck hitching. But not 20 minutes went by from the time we put out thumbs when a big freight truck (by Swiss standards) stopped in the middle of the road. 

We must not have been expecting any luck, because we were each astonished and hardly knew what to do. I heaved our packs up into the back of the truck, and we climbed into the cab with a guy in his mid-20s who spoke hardly a word of English. Whitney let out an impressive stream of German, for which I was as thankful as for the ride. Sven was the name of our hero, and he was going all the way to Gampel where there was a tunnel through the mountains that would save us from having to circle way around them to the east. 

Catching that ride was like catching a wave for the first time. The miles of the road we'd been trudging were suddenly flying by at lightning speed, with no effort of our own. Sven didn't normally drive that route, but he'd been called in by the company to do it that day. He grew up in the area and rode an 800cc Kawasaki dirt bike.

Suddenly we were in Gampel, elated at our luck but staring up at a series of steep switchbacks toward the tunnel. A giant croissant grinned at us from the middle of the parking lot, reaching out his cartoony hand to give Whitney a high-five. Bilbo never had it this good, I thought. We headed up the steep road.

Several cars gave us thumbs up, causing me to question the universality of the hitchhiking sign. But then a young woman pulled over ahead of us and laughingly told us not to worry as we ran awkwardly toward her under our loads. She had backpacked all around New Zealand and knew the value of the kindness of strangers. In fact she was headed a different direction but went out of her way to deliver us to the tunnel through the mountains. We thanked her profusely, and Whitney gave her a chocolate bar.

The light was fading, and we believed there would be good camping near Kandersteg on the other side, so we forked out 10 francs each for passenger tickets on the train rather than waiting longer for a car, which would have to drive onto the train anyway.

Above Kandersteg was Oeschinen Lake, famed to be one of the most beautiful in the world. It was several miles out of town surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs, but we pressed on in the twilight. We could see the cliffs aflame with sunset above where the lake must be nestled. Not far from the lake we found a big retaining wall rising above the trail that created a large flat area concealed from the path. We stashed our things there and ran to catch whatever glimpse of the lake we could in the near-darkness. 

A large dragon slumbered on the side of the path. I held the coins in my pocket still as we tiptoed by so as not to wake him. They can hear and smell treasure and will stop at nothing to get it. To the untrained eye, he looked like a big backhoe in the darkness, but I knew better.

The snow on the canyon ridges still glowed, and the lake was a soft mirror under the gathering stars. Cowbells clinked behind us. All we could do was sit for a long time to let the beauty wash over our senses.

From my camping spot atop the wall I could see the twinkling lights of Kandersteg down below. Over on the other side Whitney sat in her sleeping bag and fiddled with her camera and tripod to get some night shots. Our first day of hitchhiking was an overwhelming success.

September 3

The next morning we took a trail through the canyon cliffs around the lake, which was brilliant blue by day. A rowboat on its surface seemed suspended in the infinite depth of the sky. Everywhere cows and goats chimed in to the mountain chorus of bells it seems one can hear from nearly anywhere in the country. We couldn't leave without jumping into the glacial blue and letting its chilling power soothe our limbs and bones.

Getting out of Kandersteg once again tested our faith that anyone would stop for us. The four-lane highway snaked down a steep mountain north of town, and we had to walk a while on a fenced path before we could even access it by foot. Perched on a tiny underpass turnout, I started scanning satellite photos for a likely camping spot. Whitney kept out a hopeful but not expectant thumb.

A few minutes later a car braked hard into our little turnoff. It was a young mother with her baby in a carseat in the back. We were amazed she would stop for us, but we weren't about to complain. I crept slowly into the back seat with my paraglider pack on my lap, careful not to bump the carseat. Her baby's name was Timo, and he was three months old. 

On the way down the mountain, I noticed a lot of paragliders soaring whatever evening thermals were left in the valley. I wished I could join them, but journeying on was our first priority. 

The woman let us out in Frutigen, a rather quiet and pretty town. The day was nearly spent, but camping spots looked hard to find with all the farmland and houses around us. I was wondering whether we would have been better off back up the mountain. But just as we were walking back to the highway contemplating another hitch, I noticed the paragliders we'd seen earlier circling down to land next to an old WWII-era hangar. 

"Why don't we just chat with the pilots and see what's up?" I suggested. We approached the landing zone and introduced ourselves to the first pilot we saw, whose name was Andrew. He was a friendly looking heavy-set man in bright orange work pants. Whitney started in German, but he courteously switched to pretty good English. After hearing what we were up to, he said there was camping in town, but that we could camp out in his yard if we liked. He said there was fresh water for us, and if I wanted to fly he'd introduce me to "Schmatz" the local instructor. We happily accepted, and I helped him fold up his glider.

Andrew's home was a five-minute walk from the landing zone, and it overlooked a beautiful courtyard and garden with a traditional Swiss log-fountain trickling 24/7 with cold, pure drinking water. His wife Vera came down and introduced herself. She too was a paraglider pilot. She and Andrew had met through the local club, and she was expecting twins in November. She said if we wanted showers or anything to just ring the doorbell and come on upstairs. 

Unloading our gear, Whitney and I exchanged a high five, surprised again by the kindness and hospitality to which we'd been led. Another flaming sunset over the Alps, another night under the Milky Way.

September 4

I woke up to another beautiful sunrise and heard Vera's melodic voice above me on the balcony. She
leaned over her geraniums and asked if I we wanted tea or coffee, and if we liked cream and sugar. "Seriously!?" I thought to myself, but answered "Yes, please." She delivered two large cups of coffee and a cup of steaming hot milk, laying the tray on the fountain.

Feeling very refreshed, I headed to the hangar for a 9:45 rendezvous with Schmatz to fly over in the next valley with some of his students. Andrew had to leave early to work on the railroad, which explained the bright orange work pants. We all loaded in Schmatz's van and drove, then took a bus, then a gondola up to the top of a tall mountain that served as a ski hill in the winter. I had a rather short flight down over the village, but I got to soar with a couple hawks, and I certainly couldn't complain. Another day flying in the Alps.

Whitney was getting a lot of work done on her blog back in Frutigen, so we decided to stay till the next morning. That would let me get in an evening flight, which was way up at the valley rim where I'd seen the gliders the night before. I soared low over high alpine farms. The cowbells echoed loud and clear below me through the silky-smooth air. Tolkien never got to fly like that during his journey, but I'm sure that he imagined what it would be like as he looked up at the towering mountain peaks. Bilbo and his friends got to.

After Whitney and I got back to Andrew and Vera's, we each took a shower. She went first, and told me it was "fun". Andrew laughed, but neither would tell me why. When I turned on the shower, the shower head lit up all different colors, and flashed in different patterns for the duration. Andrew said they sell those shower heads at the post office for about 40 francs. He likes to turn off the lights in the room and enjoy all the color.

We talked with him about hitchhiking and travel while red sunlight streaked up the peaks like the last lick of an ice cream cone. Whitney and I decided to go check out the Tellenburg castle nearby even though it was already dark. It was all lit up from outside, and we found it open for unrestrained wandering. We climbed up through the inside and enjoyed a nighttime view of the valley I just can't describe. It was warm, and the cicadas sang in the giant oaks that hung over the ruins. I imagined what the valley looked like a hundred years ago, or a thousand, and I stared up the valley where we'd be heading the next morning. Over and over again, I found myself thinking, "If we hadn't X, we would never have gotten to Y." In retrospect, we always seemed a hair's breadth from missing some amazing opportunity, like meeting Andrew and Vera. But the amazing opportunities never stopped as long as we entrusted ourselves to that "orchestrated chance," embracing the road and the wind and the people we met along the way.

September 5

Vera greeted us the next morning again with coffee and steaming hot milk. We had a nice breakfast in the yard and filled up our water bottles with the cold, fresh water from the fountain. Looking up at the castle gave me that special feeling of ownership and belonging. I had a story to tell from Frutigen, and I had friends there who would welcome me any time.

We said goodbye to Vera, who wouldn't even accept our chocolate bars as thanks for the accommodations and hospitality. Back at the highway near the hangar we proceeded to hitchhike at the on-ramp. Two minutes and 37 seconds after we stuck out our thumbs a rental car with a young couple in it pulled over and offered us a ride all the way past Interlaken to the road that goes down the Lauterbrunnen valley. They were from Bavaria, and the guy was a pro cross-country skier.

After we got out, we began crossing the road to be in the right lane again. Whitney was just taking a sip from her water bottle, and I just put out my thumb as we stepped onto the curb when a huge freight truck came barreling toward us with its blinker on and stopped just feet from where we were standing, so that we actually went scrambling trying to get out of the way. I had to walk away from the front of the truck to see up into the cab so I could confirm he actually pulled over to pick us up. He nodded his head.

Whitney climbed the three ladder-like stairs up into the cab, which was like a roomy plane cockpit on top of a tower. The driver was a friendly-looking guy probably in his early 30s. We helped each other hoist our luggage in behind the seats, over which hung a huge Canadian flag (I don't know why--the driver was Swiss). His name was Philip. He told us about his favorite music and showed us how easy the truck was to drive with its auto-manual shifting on the column. He was delivering

lumber to Lauterbrunnen, where he let us off. It was less than an hour from when we'd stuck out our thumbs in Frutigen, and we were already at our destination hitching-wise. I was still having a hard time believing it.

It was fitting that we followed a river into the adolescent Tolkien's "Rivendell." The river runs through the bottom of the valley, and as we hiked further up and further in, waterfalls and awesome cliffs towered higher and higher. Paragliders and speedgliders dove in acrobatic spirals from the sheer cliffs above us.

We stopped at a shady place by the river and opened our little food bags to have a hobbit-like lunch before finding some way up the side. The gondola was much cheaper than we'd expected, so we took a ride from Stechelberg up to Mürren, a little village that hangs precariously on the cliff's edge. Since we were looking for a place to camp, we kept climbing the steep valley slope above Mürren, thinking maybe the trees would suffice. However, sleeping in any of the trees we saw, as Whitney pointed out, would be sleeping standing up, which would not be sleeping at all. We hiked on and on, growing more exhausted and less hopeful. Finally, we thought we'd take our chances asking farmers or chalets about camping nearby. Since the Lauterbrunnen Valley is one of the most touristy places in Switzerland, I wasn't expecting people to look too positively on our plans. We came to one restaurant/hotel, where the waiter told us kindly that camping wasn't allowed there, so we kept walking.

Off across the bowl we had climbed into was another large building that looked like it might be
abandoned. I wasn't planning on breaking and entering, we were just looking for people to ask about camping. As we rounded the corner, we met a friendly girl about our age sitting on the patio who greeted us in very good English. Again, we asked about camping, and she poked her head into the kitchen to ask Andre the cook. He said there was no problem, and we could do whatever we wanted. Jessie, the girl, also offered to let us leave our stuff there during the day if we wanted to hike. She seemed impressed that we'd lugged it all the way up from Mürren, and she tried to lift my paraglider just to see how heavy it was.

We found a nice, flat spot behind the chalet and collapsed on the grass, as happy as could be. The rest of Schilthorn stretched up above us, and across the valley Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau peeked periodically out of the clouds. After setting up camp, we returned to the chalet to get to know our benefactors. I ordered a hot ginger and rum beverage and watched a fox slink up the hillside just feet away. I awoke sometime in the middle of the night to see all three famous peaks in cloudless glory against the stars. It felt like a dream.

September 6

We dropped off our packs at the chalet and headed up the
mountain fairly early. It was cloudy, but the clouds receded above us for most of the hike. Once we were in them, the climb felt mysterious and exciting. The trail was well-marked, but we could never tell what was coming next. After climbing over one ridge, we came upon two wild mountain goats. I just had time to snap a picture before they withdrew into the vast whiteness.

Just before reaching the top, there was a steep, narrow ridge we had to cross. It almost felt like walking on clouds. "Mordor!" I cried. But we were so happy to get inside Piz Gloria, t
he lodge atop Schilthorn, which was featured in the 1969 Bond film "On Her Majesty's Secret Service." The gondola trip alone would have been 98 francs. There was a whole Bond museum on the bottom floor, where Whitney piloted a helicopter and I a bobsled with deft special-agent prowess.

Back at our own chalet, we decided to splurge and have fondu for dinner, which Whitney had never had. I'd heard Jessie humming in the kitchen and could tell she was a real singer. The chalet had a Washburn guitar lying around just for guests to play, so the three of us took it outside after dinner and played songs for each other. Jessie's songs were so good Whitney asked if we could record them the next day and feature them on her blog. 

September 7

It must be sounding repetitive by now, but we've been blown away time and again by the kindness and interesting stories of those we keep meeting. I had an awesome conversation this morning with Jessie about life and philosophy and God. It will be sad to leave. But we get to keep the friends we make. I'd love to come back someday and work here. Mixed in with the books on local flora and geography are yearbooks the staff make of their memories each year. It's a warm place, in every sense.