The chocolate pilgrimage

It rained the day we left our beautiful valley and friends at the chalet. The night before, Whitney had climbed up onto the deck of a barn to escape the rain under the eaves. Down in the valley, I had scrunched in with my paraglider under my minimalist rainfly while the torrent let loose. In the morning, Jessie made us coffee, and when we left she gave us a big hug. "You seemed quite happy here," she said, "but next time just stay with me in Mürren." Simon and Andre came out of the kitchen to bid us farewell, and they thanked us for hanging out with them.
 
We took a high trail along the mountain and down to the town of Lauterbrunnen, since there was no other way to get down into the valley again besides with a cable car or paraglider, the latter being impossible due to the thick fog that morning. I picked blueberries and raspberries along the way, which had all been freshly washed by the rain. Friendly cows loitering along the path sniffed and nuzzled us as we passed.

Not long after we started down the steep switchbacks to Lauterbrunnen it really started to pour. I helped Whitney put my rain jacket over her pack to keep her sleeping bag from getting soaked. The cool rain on my shoulders and arms felt nice for a while, but I was drenched when we reached the main road at the bottom of the valley. Ironically, that was the first time we really had trouble hitching a ride.

We waited and waited with our thumbs out, thinking our pitiful state would soften hearts, but cars whooshed on by through the rain for an hour or so. Gstaad, our next destination, was more than an hour and a half driving time away, and we had a couchsurfing host expecting us that afternoon. I’ve noticed that waiting for a ride hitchhiking isn’t so bad if you can walk, because you feel at least like you’re making some progress, like moving from one fishing hole to another. But with all the rain we were stuck in a town of elderly people driving expensive cars who had no time for our riffraff.

I took a lunch break, but Whitney decided to wait just down the road still trying. Finally, a young guy in a little car pulled over for her, and assented when she asked if I could come too. His windows fogged up almost immediately from our wet clothes. Even though he could only give us a short ride back up to Interlaken, it was a much-needed boost of spirits.

Another man picked us up almost immediately from the gas station where we'd been dropped off and told us he would take us to a better place in Interlaken to catch rides--a grungy flea market on the road to Spiez where we waited a long time again. Eventually a nice man in a van with baby car seats took us to Spiez. Whitney apologized in German that we smelled like wet animals, and he laughed. I suppose we usually smelled like dry animals. The road from Spiez to Gstaad was long, small, and full of tiny towns where cars would probably be stopping. With the rain continuing and most of the day gone, we decided to bite the bullet and fork out the 26 francs for a train ticket the rest of the way. Sitting in the warm train bound punctually and immutably for our destination felt like hiring a limousine.

Twilight fell over Gstaad, a town pleasantly nestled in rolling hills, unlike Mürren which leaned precariously against the edge of a spectacular cliff. After seeing the small airport crammed with private jets and the many ski lifts around, I began to think of it as a Swiss version of Jackson Hole. Marco, our host, waved at us from across the train station. He was somewhere in his 40s, with curly hair and glasses and a kind face. By his own admission, he was an introvert and had grown up very shy, but he loved hosting the travelers who poured through his house up to several times a week. When he was a little boy, he wouldn’t even accept candy from his grandparents, because he was too shy to have to say thank you. But he was a wonderful host, and full of surprises.

He set the next day aside to take us on one of his favorite local hikes. When we woke up to rain, I told him I expected better of Switzerland and was inclined to file a complaint. He quickly retorted that the weather came from France. However, it soon let up, and we headed for the hills.

On the way to our hike, we stopped to visit some of Marco’s friends who have a farmhouse up on themountain where they keep cows and pigs and make cheese. We had the good fortune to arrive on the day they were moving the cows down from the high pastures. An older but very strong-looking woman named Christine gave us a quick tour of their cheese-making facilities while her son and daughter-in-law brought in the cows and hung ornately decorated bells the size of small trash cans on the cows’ necks. Christine’s husband and son put on collared shirts and tucked them into their trousers as if they were getting ready to attend the opera. They call this bringing down of the cows the “desalpe,” an age-old tradition that is a really big deal.

Christine, who was a second-generation farmer, saidthat for a while they weren’t sure whether any of their children would get involved and keep the family farm going. But her son and his wife finally decided they would take the torch. Her son, all dressed up for the desalpe, stood on the other side of the trailer which held the calves who were too young to make the journey down. Under the trailer I could see the feet of his wife approach his and lean up on their toes where the two came together. It must be a satisfying life, I thought.

A few moments later an explosion of bells rang out, and an explosion of cows flooded out of the barn. I did my best to film them while at the same time dashing in front of strays to steer them back to the group. It sounded like a wedding and looked like a slow stampede. When the cacophony faded, we waved goodbye to Christine and continued our hike.

Now I’m no wimp when it comes to the outdoors, but what Marco called a hike, I would call a climb. The mountain he led us to was so steep its name means “The Carrot”.

“You tell me if you are not feeling comfortable on the way up,” he said, “Or on the way down.” He said other friends had asked him about the hike and whether it was dangerous. “No, it’s not dangerous,” he said. “But if you fall, you die.” Our climbing route was a type of via ferrata, which means “iron route,” which means that cables and bars have been drilled into the rock to allow passage along otherwise impassible cliffs. Usually people rent a via ferrata kit, which includes a helmet, a harness, and two carabiners so that at least one is attached at all times. Sans kit, I kept one sweaty hand on the cable as much as possible. I let Marco go first to show Whitney the way, and Whitney second so I could watch whatever rocks they might bump come whizzing down past my head and get the full Tolkien experience. (To their credit as experienced mountain climbers, neither ended up dislodging any rocks.)

A stately Ibex stared down at us from the tip top of the carrot, probably laughing at our slow and awkward pace over what he could do just fine without cables. 

My effort was rewarded near the top with a whole patch of snow-white edelweiss—the first I’d seen in the wild. At the top of the carrot was a metal cross, and attached to the cross was a box with a mountain register with one blank page left. We all signed our names, and I included my favorite lines of poetry, “...To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die.”

Clouds swirled around, alternately obscuring and revealing the cliff walls all around us that fell away to semi-cliffs, and then to villages thousands of feet below. Far away, we could even see Eiger and Jungrau freshly dusted with snow from the night before.

On the way back, we stopped to chat with a very friendly cow. She seemed particularly attracted to Marco. He stroked her nose tenderly, but said, “Sorry, I prefer girls without horns.” This, I think was an unfair judgment upon the cow whose horns had nothing to do with diabolical character, but I have to agree with Marco. Thank God for girls without horns.

 
It was good we made it back down alive, because if that view wasn’t to die for, dinner that night was. Marco pulled out a huge block of raclette cheese and fired up the heater that would melt it onto our hot potatoes and pickles and veggies. We each had a beer that his Polish guests from earlier that week had given him as a gift. Oh what a change from the carrots and bread I’d been eating day after day.  

The next couple days with Marco were delightful. We made pancakes with Ovomaltine “Crunchy Cream” on them, and tried the Swiss soda Rivella, 35% of which consists of the clear milk serum left over from cheese-making. I bought a charcoal pencil from a bookstore in town and tried to sketch some scenes from the trip so far. Another Swiss tradition, it seems, is for cats to sit out in the middle of fields, rain or shine, and look for mice. There are so many cats doing this all the time that Whitney and I started a game of calling out “cat-in-a-field!” each time we spotted one. Whoever won at the end of the day, we each had a satisfyingly large tally.

When it came time to leave, Marco printed out a sign for us in about 300-point font that said “Bulle,” our next destination. Somehow we inspired him to start a guestbook, which we got to be the very first to sign. For all its private jets, the people of Gstaad were downright overwhelming when it came to hitchhiking. Whitney and I stood at the local roundabout with our 300-point “Bulle” and watched as driver after driver smiled, waved, or threw up both hands in dramatic apology for not being able to give us a lift. One man screeched to a halt in the middle of the roundabout, rolled down is window, and shouted, “I’m sorry, but I’m only going another hundred meters in this direction, so if I were to pick you up, it wouldn’t do you very much good!” We absolved him frantically, hoping nobody would slam into the back of his car before he got on his way again.

 
Soon a beater Citroën pulled over, and a young guy in a sweatshirt said in broken English through a cigarette that it wasn’t even his car, but to hop in. What, did you steal it? I thought to myself, but hopped in nonetheless. Adrian (“ah-dri-AHN”) was from Romania and was our most friendly ride yet. He was borrowing the car from a friend to go get a passport photo taken in Château-d'Oex, but decided to drive an extra 40 miles out of his way just to drop us off where we were trying to go. He had to put in more gas for the drive, but wouldn’t accept any money for it. Whitney told me later how satisfying it was to hear what his nationality was. Apparently some of her friends had told her not to hitchhike in Switzerland because people would think she was Romanian and not pick her up. 

Bulle was not actually our destination, but Charmey, and that was only a point of departure, for we were about to begin a pilgrimage of sorts. From Charmey, a trail led down along the Lac de Montsalvens and followed the subsequent for about eight miles river through a deep, winding gorge to the town of Broc, the birthplace of Swiss chocolate. There, we had reason to believe, an enchanted factory churned out the heavenly confection in unlimited quantities for the tasting pleasure of those wanderers lucky enough to reach its gates. My pack felt lighter than ever as we crossed the lake on a bouncy suspension bridge and descended into the deep river gorge full of ferns and dark tunnels. I ate as little lunch as possible to save room for what might be my once-in-a –lifetime chance to eat as much chocolate as I could possibly eat.

Hour after hour slipped by, and the miles stretched on, but the canyon walls eventually fell away, and we emerged at the edge of a modest town of old brick buildings and cow pastures. Then we smelled it—the unmistakable, irresistible aroma of chocolate. At first I couldn’t believe my nose. The idea seemed too perfect. A whole village that smells like chocolate, even from two miles away? But it was true. My next thought was that we ought to take care, lest we find ourselves beckoned into a delicious-looking gingerbread house by a pimply witch never to be seen again. That thought got gradually drowned out by heavenly voices singing the Hallelujah Chorus as we neared the Maison Cailler with its grand fountain, milk-colored buildings, and truffle-shaped gift shop. Successful pilgrims sat outside sipping hot cocoa with oompa loompas dancing in their eyes.

What if they won’t let me store my paraglider somewhere? I thought. What if I need closed-toed shoes?? But the lady behind the desk handed me my ticket and said I could leave my bag in the cinema. Huge display cases housed statues taller than me made entirely of chocolate. Posters on the walls told the story of Cailler, Peter, and Nestlé, the great-grandfathers of milk chocolate and how they turned a curious novelty from South America into a worldwide fact of life. The tour was a multimedia extravaganza on par with a Disneyland ride, walking from the jungle with Quetzalcoatl to the mansions of European aristocracy following the magical trail of cacao as it evolved into its present form.

Finally we came to the actual conveyor belt where real chocolate streaked by in slick, sterile tubes to be packaged for consumption. A man in white stood at the end with a bowl of tiny wrapped chocolates for us to try. Whitney and I exchanged an unspoken wave of disappointment. “I wish I could have a whole bunch,” she said as we each politely took one. The man smiled and nodded his head, clearly not an English speaker. The next hall had a sign asking what we thought the perfect time to enjoy chocolate was, with paper and pens to write our responses and post them on the walls. I felt like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story”. A football? Some tinker toy?! Noooo, a Red Rider BB gun!! I won’t shoot my eye out, I won’t! We had come so far, only to find out it wasn’t true. The endless chocolate wasn’t there. The dream was shattered.

I walked toward the exit of the exhibit in bitter despondence. Everything changed when I opened the door.

Suddenly I found myself in the holy of holies, the mythical tasting room. There before us in the middle of the room was a long table. All around the edges were trays full of chocolate—23 kinds to be exact.

“Just so you know,” Whitney said in a hushed tone, “I might be here for a while.”

“That makes two of us,” I replied.

Tour groups came and went. Whitney and I positioned ourselves strategically and inconspicuously at the back of the room, from which we could reach forward through the crowd and glean from the bountiful harvest largely unnoticed. I kept my eye on the woman stocking the trays to see whether she suspected our designs, but after 20 or 30 minutes she left and we were free to feast unrestrained.

There was a more persistent theme of hazelnut than I would have preferred in the perfect ideal of ideals, but
the chocolate was rich and creamy and ranged from simple lights and darks to fruit- and coffee-filled works of art from the “Noir Ambassador” series. I enjoyed experimenting with creative combinations of different chocolates and often circled back to the simpler chocolates higher up the table for a palate cleanser now and then. I tried each kind at least once, and quite a few three or four times. When I put the last chocolate in my mouth, I knew it was the last one. Not another would fit in my tummy. I wasn’t sick of chocolate, just incapable of one piece more beyond that. We drew a deep, satisfied breath and walked out past a white chocolate model of the factory to the gift shop. I retrieved my paraglider from the cinema and bought a postcard as a souvenir.

Though we had reached the heavenly gates and tasted the food of paradise, our pilgrimage was not over. As the day waned, bright sunbeams pierced the clouds and fell on a majestic castle on a hill some miles down the road. We left the chocolate factory and plodded slowly toward Gruyères, the land of cheese.

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.

A day to remember

Prologue

My original reason for coming to Switzerland was to climb Mt. Blanc and paraglide from the top with a handful of pilots from the Wings of Kilimanjaro expedition that took place last February. During my planning, I found out my college friend Whitney would be WWOOFing around Switzerland at the same time. After buying my tickets, the Mt. Blanc expedition fell through, so I decided to join up with Whitney and make a casual pack-and-fly trip of it. 

One of my favorite new friends from WOK was Phil Glutz, an Aussie now living in Zermatt, Switzerland to run a paragliding operation. 

After the porter mutiny and weather disaster on Kili, I had tried to pull together a low-budget, DIY para-safari in Tanzania with a choice few of the great people I'd met there, hoping to get in a little more flying and African adventure before heading back to our respective countries. Organizing anything in Africa is not easy, let alone on a budget. But Phil was the guy who pulled out his GPS and laptop before I knew it and set right to work helping us geo-tag potential flying sites to hunt down in our Land Cruisers over the next few memorable days. I was so impressed by his energetic, positive attitude, I eagerly looked forward to the day our paths would cross again. So Zermatt was the first place I headed after arriving in Switzerland.

Whitney tried to meet me in Lausanne so we could head up together, but she missed the train by a matter of seconds and had to take a later one. While I was waiting for her to arrive, I walked out of the train station into the tiny village square knowing basically nothing about Zermatt. Clouds trailed from the lee side of the Matterhorn, and the air smelled fresh and sweet.

Nearly adjacent to the train station I found the tiny paraglider shop, which emanated a distinct surfer vibe, sporting bamboo trim and populated by scruffy guys in their 30s and 40s chilling on the couch or fiddling with flying gear. A guy named Ronnie pulled out a map of the town and a blue pen and scribbled out for me the flying pattern, landing zone, and no-fly zone where choppers often fly. 

I thanked him and headed across the tracks to the LZ, a tight grassy spot wedged against the steep valley wall and practically on top of the train station. Before long Phil and a couple other pilots came spiraling down out of the sky and settled gingerly on the short grass. We exchanged a hearty hug, and he welcomed me to Switzerland.

The next two days I logged perhaps the most incredible flights of my life, soaring with Phil and the birds, just walking distance from the Matterhorn (videos to come).

Yesterday, though, was one of those stranger-than-fiction stories I can hardly describe with words.

The Villa

Friday night Phil, Whitney, and I headed to a local hangout with really good live music. Phil, who plays alto sax, said he had played with the drummer of the band we were listening to. 

"He tours with some really big names," Phil said. "A lot of famous artists play here because nobody recognizes them."

A wild-bearded guy came and had an enthusiastic chat with Phil that I couldn't hear, then leaned over to me and shouted over the music with a grin, "Whatever he asks you, just say yes!"

"Yes!" I shouted back to Phil. He smiled and explained, "I've got this friend Vince who's restoring an old villa over in Italy. He's a crazy guy. It's sort of a hippie commune, and there's a music festival going on in the town right now. I'd have to come back early the next morning to fly, but we could go over tomorrow evening and check it out."

While hippie villas aren't the first thing I go looking for when traveling, I smelled a really good story, one way or the other.

The amazing day began with Whitney and me hiking to the foot of the Matterhorn in the morning. We climbed to nearly 10,000 feet just to stare up in disbelief at it's otherworldly cliffs and sculpted point gouging the blue alpine sky above us. A glider swirled up a thermal against the horn, and a helicopter came to hover near enough to the summit to blast billowing clouds of snow down the cliffs. I kept reminding myself I was there, and it was all real.

We had just enough time after arriving back at Phil's top-floor apartment to grab our sleeping bags and head out the door. Phil grabbed his sax too. He'd never been to the villa during the music festival, but like a true musician, he was ready for anything.

We drove to a train, paid a toll, and then drove onto the train, which we rode like a ferry for 20 minutes through a tunnel in the dark bowels of the Alps into Italy. 

We emerged from the tunnel into a canyon punctuated by ancient, roofless ruins growing vines like flower boxes. As we entered the city, peeling paint clung to the scruffy stone buildings, and young punks in tight jeans smoked cigarettes leaning against their street bikes. The graffiti, which would have been obscene in Switzerland, seemed to belong there as much as the tall clock towers ticking away their fourth or fifth centuries. 

Twilight settled as we climbed a winding mountain road to a dirt road, to a grassy footpath that wound along the edge of a small, wild-looking hillside vineyard. There the enchanted white villa stood, tucked back into the trees like the other ruins we'd seen, but alive with an exciting rustic charm. 

Vince, Phil told us, crushed his own grapes there and made his own wine. He'd been "hired" to restore the villa for an absentee landlord, but Phil said it was probably more something done out of charity for Vince than for investment.

A lithe border collie bounded to meet us, and half a dozen guys milled around in the half-light by the giant, metal-studded wooden doors. They all began shaking our hands with happy Italian gusto, though accents and languages spoken spanned the globe. An older, wrinkled man stood shirtless in the evening cool with a long gold chain hanging from his neck. A very young guy with a strong Italian accent shook my hand and translated for the older man. 

Vince was a short character, with super curly hair and leathery hands that flew about with energy. Luna, the border collie followed us into the villa for a tour. Phil led the way with a headlamp since there was no electricity. 

It felt like a glorious museum someone had moved into--an odd mixture of architectural opulence wrapped around humble means but warmed by thriving creative energy. Someone told me Vince could hardly read and write, but nobody could do what he could do with wood. The floors and ceilings were newly restored, but still felt centuries old. We climbed the stone stairs to find rooms furnished with large cabinets and even wooden sculptures. My inner photographer screamed that I was experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but my camera was locked away back in the car, and the light was of that sparseness that scorns cameras and sets fire to the imagination. 

Vince took a candle and took us all down another stone staircase, beneath the earth to the cellar. He hung it from an iron ring on the wall to flood an arched alcove with sepia glow, then opened another pair of wooden doors to reveal an even smaller room with a gravel floor. The other guys crowded in and seated themselves on derelict wine barrels next to a photograph of Vince's 13-year-old daughter Olivia. 

"This is my club!" Vince proclaimed with satisfaction. Soon guitars, drums, and cigarettes were being passed around, along with a cracked ceramic bowl that Vince repeatedly filled with his homemade wine. It tasted delicious and totally uncouth, a perfect liquid leitmotif of the house he was nursing back to life.

Luna lay at our feet while songs echoed off the walls and flooded the smoky cavern like the candlelight. After a long time of singing and playing, they decided to start the night and head to the festival. 

The Shaman

We ambled through the forest in a trail of lights toward a cacophony of much louder music. Those of us there for the first time were surprised to discover a huge festival going on, complete with tent city, generators, and three separate stages. 

Another one of our companions told us that Vince was the mascot of the music festival, which was called "Il Clan dello Sciamano" (The Clan of the Shaman). He would dress up and dance around with a big, crazy bow and arrow. 

We joined the hundreds of people crowding around the main stage to hear an African band singing in Italian and playing totally unrecognizable instruments with admirable virtuosity. 

I'll admit that shaman clans are not exactly my usual scene, as much as I love music, but there's something really wonderful about being able to fling oneself so far out of the normal and predictable that it's almost like walking on another planet. Hours before, I wasn't even planning on being in that county, let alone crashing a music fest with everyone's favorite shaman.

My favorite moment of the night came in the wee hours of the morning down at the "jam" stage, a little hut in the trees next to a campfire where musicians passed the mic around and handled their own sound board. 

We stood listening to a long, minor-key reggae jam between some pretty talented musicians. One of our group had tipped them off that there was a sax player in the crowd, and they began urging him up to the stage, still weaving out their mellow groove. After some prodding, Phil finally succumbed and took his sax up to the mic. The whole place came to new life when he crooned out the first few notes.  He danced in and out of the rhythm and fanned the song into something fantastic it hadn't even approached. The guitar player and vocalists took interludes, but for the next 45 minutes or an hour Phil's sax carried the mood away into a place only he could take it. 

When sleep finally hung heavily on us, we wandered back through the forest to the villa. All around us the Italian Alps jutted up into the starry sky to frame the Milky Way between layers of dark forest and white strata, and the night was warm.

Phil and I slept in a tent on top of the grassy hill next to the villa, and Whitney slept on the folded down seats of Phil's Subaru. Four hours later, we packed up and started back toward Zermatt so Phil could make his 9:00 tandem flight. I had wanted to get a good picture of the villa in the morning, but we left in the same dim half-light in which we'd arrived. I guess it will forever remain a magical memory shrouded in shadow and lit from within. 

Back in Zermatt, I walked blearily through the streets with my camping stuff into the grocery store where a woman was just pulling the bread and pastries out of the oven to put in their bakery bins. I took a hot pastry and loaf of bread and warmed my hands with them on the way back to Phil's apartment, where I hoped to get a little more sleep before starting the day. The smell of the pastry engulfed me with the same warmth and richness as my sleeping bag when I drifted off into strange and wonderful dreams.