We moved M in one of our vans, bulletproofed, road bomb resistant, darkened windows, secure comms. Priska and Thomas made perfunctory compliments on how light M traveled. We put her in back with Priska, the rest of us sat in the middle seat and up front. Jurg drove. Highway to Bern, no incidents. Bern to Thun, then up the western shore of the Thunersee. Up twists and turns into Heidi Land, big wooden houses lined with red geraniums, green alps rising to the dark cliffs of the Berner Oberland. I prefer Graubünden.
In Kandersteg we left the highway and took the track up to the Oeschinensee, using their private service road beyond the upper cable car terminal. On the way Priska explained to M why Kandersteg was a backwater, pointing around us; basically because of no skiing, simply because all the town’s surrounding slopes are cliffs. Only way out of the box canyon is through the old train tunnel to the Rhone, one of the oldest tunnels of all. So it’s quiet, like all the alpine canyons too steep to ski. There are far fewer paragliders than skiers.
Drove by sheep on an alp and M said it looks like Ireland, if you don’t look up. Ridge to south very tall.
Arrived at the Oeschinensee, 10:40 AM. Substantial round lake under tall cliff, a curving wall of gray granite at least a thousand meters high, all in a single leap up from the lake, very dramatic. Lake an opaque blue, sign of glaciers somewhere overhead.
Priska told M about the Oeschinensee, explained to her that it was rare to have a lake this big this high, because all the alpine valleys had been so smoothed by the giant glaciers of the ice age that no ribs of rock remained to hold water. So no ponds or lakes until you got down to the giants of the Mitteland. But here a landslide had fallen off the cliff overhanging the valley, creating a blockage that eventually filled with a natural reservoir of melted snow. The lake has no outlet stream, Priska said, because its water seeps through the landslide and comes out in a big spring partway down to Kandersteg. I didn’t know about this either, and found it interesting, but M just nodded, too distracted to be interested.
We drove by the mountain hotel on the lakeshore to its second building, reserved for us. Family owners aware of our situation, helping as they have before.
One of the SAC huts above the lake was being cleared for our use, without a fuss, so that it would take a couple of days. So now we stayed in the lakeside hotel’s second building. Two days were spent walking around the lake with M. She refused to stay in building, and I felt the walks were secure enough, confirmed that with Bern. Paths around the lake partly forested, rising into alps above treeline. M always paused to inspect the wooden statues in forest, carved from tree trunks not cut down. Primeval figures, beast faces, local folklore, the Böögen, etc., all looming in shadows among trees. Higher up the trail runs through a krummholz, trees small and gnarled. Typical Berner Oberland, Priska said. As we walked she told M about the Alps, mostly things we all know, but Priska knows more.
The cliff backing the lake really is very dramatic. Every day scraps of cloud hung partway up the cliff, showing how tall it was. M said the cliff was all by itself taller than the tallest mountain in Ireland. Its height, and the strange pastel cobalt color of the lake, gives the area the look of bad computer imagery or a painted paperback cover, too improbable and fantastic to be real. I definitely prefer Graubünden.
M spoke with the hotel’s owners one evening. They are now middle-aged; I met them once when they were younger, when my parents brought me here. Now their children are grown enough to run the place. The son will be fifth generation to own and run place, they told M. She commented on how unusual that was, and they nodded. They felt lucky, they said. They like it here.
M asked if one could hike all the way around the lake, gesturing at the cliffs. Priska shook her head at this. There’s a crux, the son replied, pointing across the lake. It can be done, but there’s one ledge, pointing at a green line crossing the cliffs about halfway up. It can be done, he said, but I only did it once, and I was young. I wouldn’t do it again. There’s one spot where it’s too narrow for comfort.
As so often, M said.
The son nodded, said There’s always a crux.
Next day we went up to the SAC Fründenhütte, now emptied for us. 5:20 AM departure. A thousand-meter ascent, hard in places. M was tired from the start, and seemed frustrated we hadn’t stayed at lake. Orders from Bern, I told her. Standard procedure. The real safe house here is the SAC hut.
Six hours steep uphill walk, always on trail. Cable handholds lining one steep wall section. M maybe suffering from altitude. She was slow and quiet.
Fründenhütte was imposing, a big stone box faced with red and white chevroned window shutters. Strange to see in such high remote location, as always with SAC huts. Each more unlikely than the next, it’s a game they play to amuse their fellow climbers and hutkeepers. This one located on a rise in the bed of a glacier now gone, the remnant ice still hanging on at the top of the basin. An old terminal moraine extends in low curves to each side of the hut. Photos on the hut’s dining room wall show the Fründengletscher
