25/09/25 I Heard The Mountain Roar

The sun came out at Eigergletscher, half way up Jungfrau, with blinding sunlight on snow and the tourist building visible on Jungfrau's shoulder 2000m above us.  There I was, slithering about on the snow and taking photos, and the mountain roared.  Somewhere up in the blue and white, snow cracked and rumbled and moved to somewhere else.  I didn't see it, but I heard the voice of the mountain and was mightily thrilled.

Let's start with the mundane and work up to the magnificent, shall we?

The day started at 3am with a complimentary live show (vocals only) of argy-bargy in the room next door. By the time that reached its anticlimactic end the night was over for those of us who couldn't get back to sleep, which made it easier to get up bright and early for our assault on Europe's highest mountain, Jungfrau, which we planned to conquer in the time honoured Swiss manner of trains, gondolas, and a cog railway. It's perilous work, following engineering excellence to the top of a mountain.

At Grindelwald we departed from yesterday's route, catching the cable car up to Eigergletscher. It was all usual to start with: the widening view of the valley below with autumn colours just touching the trees, the cute little mountain cottages, the fat cattle with bells, the ascent into the cotton-wool cloudland...

and then the clouds dissolved and there was the mountain right beside us, the slopes below sprinkled with snow. 

The gondola continued its steady upward climb while inside tourists, me among them, bounced around like ping pong balls, furiously working cameras and shouting intelligent comments like "Look! There's the mountain!"  In case anyone had missed it.

Up at Eisergletscher we were outside as quick as it took to don a puffer jacket and slap on a beanie. Behind the mountain the rising sun halo-ed the peak in light and shadow. Experimental fingers of cloud curled up from the valley, suggesting that the view wouldn't last for long, and ice crystals clustered delicately on the railings. And then the mountain roared.

"Did you hear that?"

Finally, driven by a desire to beat the cloud to the top, we hopped back on the cog railway up to Jungfraujoch. Actually no hopping was involved: it was more a tedious wait in the queue of the lower classes as whole tour groups and persons with reserved seating preceded us, but eventually we were in the train and straight into the bowels of the mountain we went.

Let's take a moment here to appreciate the ride up the 7km of tunnel while we trust our lives to Swiss cog railway construction. Construction of the line to Jungfrau started in 1896 and in 1912 the first load of tourists arrived at Jungfraujoch aboard a festively decorated train. Along the way a whole power station was built at Kleine Scheidegg and at Eiser glacier a whole community developed to support construction. For some time a colony of huskies was kept at the Eiger glacier to ensure supplies when the steam railway at Lauterbrunnen didn't operate in winter. There were hiccups along the way: six workers' strikes, eight changes of management, 30 lives lost primarily in blasting incidents. In order to improve morale workers were guaranteed one bottle of red wine per worker per day. Come to think of it, maybe that had something to do with the lives lost?

We emerged from the tunnels into highly organised tourist chaos. There were numerous opportunities to spend money on fine dining, high altitude chocolates, Swiss watches, and all manner of expensive items all the while casting an occasional glance outside and taking a selfie in front of the triple glazed windows to prove that the shopping was done at the highest point in Europe.

Not being a recreational shopper at the best of times, I bypassed all that and followed green arrows on the discovery walk. Back in the 1980s, when Roger was a baby tourist, he wandered out onto the glacier unsupervised but there was none of that relaxed attitude now: we had green arrows to follow and follow them we did. The arrows took us first to the Sphinx lookout where hordes of tourists lined up to take a picture in front of a "Top of Europe" sign. By now the clouds were rapidly closing in and the view was disappearing but it was an exhilarating place to be nonetheless. We drank our flask coffee. I took enough photos to risk frostbite, and then took some more. 

Alpine choughs hopped and fluttered over our heads, not the slightest bit bothered by the apparent temperature of -17C, which was a bit cool for my thin Australian blood.

The green arrows lead next to an ice tunnel through the insides of the glacier, decorated with all manner of ice sculptures on ice-related themes.  I could have spent forever in there had I been dressed for extended lfe in a deep freeze.  The ice-blue (literally) walls revealed layers of colours that, had I known how to read them, told stories of what had happened as the glacier was formed.

And more recent promotional events as well.

A well known classical pianist immortalised in ice after giving a concert at Eigergletscher. 

And then came the best moment of all, setting foot out on the glacier itself, even if the moment was highly curated and shared with umpteen dozen tour groups all taking selfies; innumerable influencers pretending not to feel the cold when the camera was on; honeymooning couples trying to make snow angels in snow trodden by a thousand feet; and random tourists like me galumphing round taking a thousand photos on variations of snow and ice.

Madness. Cold. Fun.

In short order the mountain declared show's end, took a bow, and disappead behind a cloud curtain.  Roger professed frostbite and took himself indoors.  I stayed out there until I couldn't feel my fingers any more, and then I stayed a little bit longer because it was worth risking frostbite for something I will probably never get to do again.*

Back in triple-glazed, heated, expensive-shopping fairyland we ate a picnic cheapskate's lunch and caught the cog railway back down the tunnel to Eisergletscher where we went out to the start of the walking trails.  From here I could have walked back up to Jungfraujoch (madness) or down to Wengen which would at least have been gravity-assisted.  Not being remotely ready for alpine hiking, we just walked along the edge of the cliff for a little bit and pretended we were off on an epic hike.

and then caught the train all the way back down to Kleine Scheidegg where lo and behold, the clouds parted and the mountain popped out to say goodbye again.

You know those movies where aliens come through a portal from another world?  Well here is a mountain popping out to say hello. Or in my case, goodbye.

Back on the train to Lauterbrunnen and then Interlaken, I relaxed with all the other tired tourists keen to get back to their warm hotel rooms.  

The mountains, however, wweren'tquite finished with us yet.  We cog-wheeled down steep valley hillsides into Lauterbrunnen where Stabbachfall, at 297m the highest free-falling waterfall in Switzerland, wowed me all over again.  In fact, we got off the train just to walk up the main street to get closer to Stabbachfall.  In a master stroke of Swiss stereotyping the waterfall provided a backdrop to more pretty Swiss houses and, of course, fat Swiss cattle with tinkling cowbells.

I promise the cowbell had a head.

Waterfalls, once looked for, were visible on both sides of the valley, causing an overload of postcard moments. Swiss national pride was also evident in the Swiss flags that appeared in impossible places on cliffs near waterfalls.

What could I say after that?  We went home, foraged for discounted dinner at the local Coop, had a hot shower, and went to bed.  While I slept the world turned, water continued to leap from the high cliffs of Lauterbrunnen to start a long journey to the sea, and the mountains danced with clouds and roared whether anyone was there to hear or not.

*Unless I come back. Which is on the cards.