Day 2: Vermigel hütte - San Gottardo, 13 km
The elevation profile of the route is simple today. First a climb of 6.5 km, then a descend of 6.5 km. Fortunately, reality is no less simple. Just after seven in the morning, I am the first to leave the hut. It is nowhere near such a beautiful, clear day as yesterday. The tops of the mountains are cloudy. The wind is blowing hard and I am happy with my windbreaker. The route starts fairly quietly. A piece of gravel road, then a narrow path through rolling alpine meadows with thundering water from a nameless river next to me. The ground is swampy and next to the path there are numerous white cotton balls of wool grass, while a little higher on a mountain there is still a fairly sized snow field. The route soon goes up. Zigzagging through the grass I climb a hill. A fellow walker overtakes me and soon disappears behind the next corner. Deep below me I see the other group of Swiss from the Vermigel hut: two sisters and two couples who only walk part of the Vier Quellen Weg on weekends. Slowly grass gives way to stone, with the occasional sound of splashing water. High above me I see the hiker reaching the top of a mountain, where only a thin layer of green still hides the rocks here and there. Whoops! As I climb, I slowly walk into the clouds and the visibility becomes less and less. The wind is bitterly cold at this altitude and the goose bumps creep from my wrists to my forearms. I can still look at my feet and as I ascend, the beautiful stones stand out. At this kind of moment, I regret that I am not a geologist. What are those beautiful bright white stones? How can some sparkle? Some stones are rusty brown again, or layered like the leaves of a book. According to the guidebook you can find rock crystal here, but you need a permit to dig for it. Crystal? No idea what that should look like. I poke one rock that looks like dirty glass. My mother collects stones and would be able to tell me what this is.Every now and then there are also cairns along the path. Huge structures erected by many hikers, one stone at a time. In addition to showing the way, they are also supposed to summon protective spirits and ward off evil spirits. Admiring them gives me an excuse to pause, because I've never been a mountain goat. Then I notice the silence. Only interrupted by a single bird, a plane gliding past at about eye level and tinkling water. Now I am above the snow line, because the path runs along several snow fields at the top. Stone avalanches also come my way and I cross them carefully. Everywhere the path is well marked with the familiar red and white stripes and with these clouds around me, I understand why there are so many. I can barely see 20 meters ahead and then still have doubts and sometimes search for them. The trail goes higher and higher, almost 800 meters over the Sella pass and the Giübin. The path leads to a snow field again and this time I have to cross it. I carefully step on the snow. The field is not wide, but I wonder what's underneath it. I suspect rocks, but there may be holes in between the rocks. Just as I am almost back to the stones, my right leg drops to the knee. I pull my leg out of the snow and am happy when I can climb the safe rocks.What I was not prepared for, and what also worries me, is the feeling of loneliness that envelops me at this altitude. As a Dutchwoman I know of no danger and I plod on slowly. Completely alone. Both the clouds and the mountains cut me off from other hikers who might be in front of me or behind. I don't meet anyone for hours. No people, no animals, no water, even the plants have left me. Only the red and white markings reassure me somewhat, the only sign of man in this otherwise so desolate area. The clouds completely enclose me and after a while this starts to frighten me. I'm going somewhere, but I can't see my destination. This is supposed to be a family-friendly route, but I wouldn't like to walk here with children. But just as Dutch children learn to swim and cycle, Swiss children will trek into the mountains from an early age. They would laugh at my anxiety. I try not to think too far ahead and just focus on the next step. And the next.You wonder how much higher such a pass can still be, but it always turns out that it can be even higher. And every time it turns out you can do it. You go on and get to the point you so dreaded. And beyond. A second snow field follows. The snow is not crisp white, but brownish from the blown earth and gravel. The snow is also not smooth, but in waves like a quiet lake. Does it follow the contours of the stones underneath or has the wind played games? I find the third snow slope less comfortable, because the it slopes down and twenty meters further down there is only emptiness. I am happy that my trekking poles give that extra bit of grip and stability. This is not a good place to take a selfie. I crawl out of the wind at a stacked wall with a few planks. Short break. Have a drink. The orange juice I have with me is ice cold. My fingers too. I never thought it could be that cold in summer. I should be surrounded by nearly a hundred spectacular peaks, but can't see any of them. The ibex that have to live here also remain hidden in the clouds. On my tongue I taste the iron flavor that I associate with clouds. I pick my thick winter coat from my backpack and prepare to continue. And my hands? I have doubts for a moment. I don't have gloves with me. When I struggle to zip up my coat, reason wins over vanity. The pair of socks I wore yesterday is the only pair I can easily reach, but my tingling fingers are protected from the wind. With a little effort I also have a good grip on my trekking poles and so I continue. It may not look like much, but slowly the warmth returns to my fingers.A little further on I see a building. Here? At this height? From the moment the Gotthard Railway was opened in 1882, the area took on strategic importance and so military defenses were built in the mountains from 1886 onwards. In World War II, the Nazis were to hold out here to the last. That is why there are always small buildings, with sometimes bricked up entrances to caves where camouflaged guns were set up.Finally, finally there is the top. And to my surprise also a yellow signpost, because there is a side path that climbs even higher. On a clear day I might have taken it to see what's on the other side of the mountain. Today I just want to go further, downwards. Descending is faster and the temperature also rises slowly. I hear a strange, high-pitched whistle and see a fat alpine marmot scurrying over the rocks further on. I take off my hand socks and grab the camera, but unfortunately the shy creatures have already disappeared. Two women walk towards me and ask what the weather is like at the top. When I tell them it's clouded with no visibility whatsoever, they return to San Gottardo. I keep getting lower, under the clouds and with that the visibility gets better. Brown grass reappears between the rocks and also a bunch of bright pink flowers. Deep below me lies Lago della Sella, an enormous reservoir in a basin, the walls of which occasionally light up in a ray of sunshine. The Swiss cow bells also ring from that distant bank. I arrive at a private cabin and it appears that we have arrived in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland. The Vier Quellen Weg is suddenly called Sentiero delle quattro sorgenti on the signpost. A little lower I also encounter the first tree in two days, although I have to look closely to recognize it as one. A gray trunk has flattened itself against the rock and ends in a green ball. Fortunately, here also the cheers of running water that dances down across the rocks. The temperature is getting nice and I slow my pace. Around me I hear whistles and it takes a while before I recognize that these are not birds. A long alpine marmot stands on its hind legs and gives a loud warning. The buggers flee, but not far. Their warren is under a nearby hill. I decide now is a good time for a lunch break and get off the trail. Slightly closer to the burrow, but not so close that it is threatening. After a few minutes the marmots reappear and although they keep a close eye on me, they start to scurry around. There are three in total, two of which remain safely at the entrance of the burrow and one of them goes on an adventure and goes a little further into the grass. They have gray-brown fur and cute little heads, with a black nose and tiny ears. I enjoy watching them, but the sun makes me dull and I stretch out lazily in the grass. After the cold at the top, this warmth is wonderful. When after a while a couple of hikers stroll through the grass, straight towards their warren, the alpine marmots flee for good and I think it's time to move on. The path descends and I arrive at the shore of Lago della Sella and the dam that has been holding back all that water since 1947. I cross the dam to the other side and follow the road down. Here civilization imposes itself again. On the other side of the dam is a dry river bed and work is in progress. Vans, tools, a site hut. There is no getting around it. Slowly I leave nature behind. Fortunately, it did not suddenly disappear completely. As the dam is further behind me, the signs of labor disappear and the alpine meadows return. Then, very close by, a sharp whistle sounds and give me a fright. It's an alpine marmot, just below the road on a set of rocks. This is not a cute little creature, like the three just before. This is a whopper of a beast, with front teeth like a beaver. Because he is so close and also remains calm, but vigilant, I can properly admire him. The color shades of its coat, from light brown to dark, ending in a black tail. His long, black nails, with which he digs out his nesting chamber and covers it with grass, deep underground. This is a big, fat specimen, probably around the six kilos that males can weigh at most. When hikers also arrive from the other side, the animal gives another loud warning. A second marmot comes running from the alpine pasture, with slow, undulating movements. Together they disappear under the rocks. Too bad, but very nice that I got to see them.The road continues for a while and descends steadily. Impressively high stones are still on my right. Suddenly I see a square shape protruding from the mountain that is not natural. Shooting holes of a bunker. The concrete has the same gray color as the rocks and is hardly noticeable. Only the straight lines and the open shutters draw my gaze to it immediately. It is the western battery of Sasso San Gottardo, a fortress built in WWII and in use until 1999. It is now a museum. I leave the fortress and around a bend San Gottardo appears, the Gotthard pass. It is a small collection of buildings between two lakes, with a road leading into the valley on one side to Airolo and on the other to Andermatt. Until the construction of the Gotthard tunnel, this was the most important north-south connection across the Alps. Now from a distance it looks quiet. The red and white markings leave the road. Two guys who walk behind me choose the asphalt then simply take them to the hotel. But I cannot help myself. Just a short path, a few more waterfalls, a few more stony slopes. Grass and greenery and flowers. And then there is the inevitable asphalt and the last few meters, the end of this stage.

Day 3: San Gottardo - Piansecco hut, 22 km
The clouds have descended from the mountains and visibility is barely five meters. When I pick up the route again, I pass the driveway to the museum fortress Sasso San Gottardo without seeing anything of it. I am walking on a parallel road and when a truck passes right next to me, I only notice it because of the engine noise. At a parking lot along the road I spot a statue of a sad looking man raising both hands to the sky. Il viandante is written on a plaque, the traveler. I wonder why the man has such a tragic appearance. If I understand Italian correctly, it celebrates the admission of Canton of Ticino into the Swiss Federation 200 years ago. Soon I am allowed to leave the road, through protected marmot area. It is a swampy area, but again a path has been made of stones. I end up on a gravel road that I follow. No wonder this stage can be so long. This makes for easy and nice hiking. According to the map, I am walking along Lago di Lucendro, but I only see the road and the first few rocks next to it. The road rises slightly and every now and then I come across barracks and bunkers, some of them have their entrance bricked up, which makes me even more curious than a simply closed door. Streams rush down the slope. Here too, Swiss bells are ringing, but this time they hang around the necks of goats. Then the sun breaks through somewhat and the gray, depressing twilight suddenly lightens a few lux. Then confusion, I see two red and white markings. An old marking is on the left, on a rocky path on which I will undoubtedly have to climb. Newer brushstrokes are on the rock to the right, which follows the road. I assume that this road will also zigzag up again, that the paths will come together again and follow the asphalt lazily. The road ends at a house, where I cross a brook that we would call a river. Where does all that water come from? I have not come across that many streams and I have not seen snow yet. Would the clouds deposit their moisture straight onto the rocks? Instead of it coming down as rain? The tiny water droplets on my glasses speak for themselves, as do the droplets that cling to the plant stems. A beautiful sight.
Initially, the path climbs steadily. Every now and then the clouds break open and show some of the surrounding hills. Then they close up again and envelop the mountains, showing only their ghostly angles. I come across a snowfield and am afraid that I will have to cross it, but go past it. Then I am faced with a rock, with no idea how to proceed. I don't see a marker or path anywhere. A little lower to the right, a clear path winds and I walk across the rocks to it. However, I don't want to follow the path until I am sure it is also the right one. When I walk back a little bit I see gray paint on a rock, exactly where I expect the way mark. This was the path, but not anymore. While I look around, I suddenly see the familiar red and white stripes a little higher up. No idea where I went wrong. I climb back up and it doesn't seem to end. Again I feel alone in the world and I realize that next time I want to go out with a hiking buddy. On one of the rocks hangs a plaque with a statue of the Virgin Mary and a black and white photo of a smiling young man. There is a name, Willy Bernasconi, and two dates. He probably died here in the mountains, only 16 years old. I wonder what happened and realize he must have loved the mountains immensely, for there to be a memorial here. I slowly climb the Alpe di Lucendro. Finally I come to a flat area, where a thin stream wriggles in between the brown rocks. A little further on I can only recognize the three-sided rock that marks the source, the beginning of the Gotthard-Reuss. A second Reuss starts in the Furka pass and from the Uri-valley they flow together further east to Lucerne. It's so foggy that I can barely see the other side of the lake. A faint streak of green, maybe a mud beach? Some graceful rocks lie in the middle of the lake and are reflected in the windless water. The water doesn't seem to flow and yet it fell over the rocks. Strange. It is wonderful to be here. I take a short break in the shade of a rock. Hammer blows sound from the clouds. I'm not alone after all. After a while I get cold from sitting still and move on. At the lake a few other hikers have arrived, whose vague shapes I can barely see in the fog. However, their voices carry far into the silence and I hear them laugh as they stand around the stone for a photo. Over a mass of stone and past a melting layer of snow I walk up to a building on a hill. Another remnant of the military heyday? In any case, this building is inhabited. At the tip of the terrace, I have a beautiful view of the lake below. It's smaller than I thought. I reach the top of the Lucendro pass and turn around the mountain to the Bedretto Valley. Here I suddenly feel the wind again and it is a lot chillier. This valley is also dotted with silently crawling clouds. I slowly descend the mountain while zigzagging. Suddenly the shrill whistle of an alpine marmot sounds. I am startled. I don't see the animal itself. A Dutch father and son, Cor and Mark, are behind me and because they hike faster than I do, I let them go ahead. A little further on I do see a marmot walking silently over the snow to the rocks, where it has its warren. Another lies lazily on the rocks warming up in the sun. His eyes follow me vigilantly as I walk by, but he doesn't sound the alarm. I notice the cow pats on the trail and make a mental note not to drink anymore from the water that flows down through the alpine pasture. A few steps further I put my shoe in one that turns out to be fresher than can be seen from the outside. I slip and let myself fall to the side in the grass, because I don't want to go down on a path full of cows pies. My shoe is quite dirty. And just when you need one, there is not a stream to be had. I descend further, while somewhere to the right the sound of water can be heard. Slowly the path meanders towards the brook, until I only have to cross some grass. I step right into the water, but because my shoe does not rinse by itself, I wipe away the last mess with a tuft of grass. Now I am happy with my high shoes, because although the stream is quite deep, my feet stay dry.A few steps further and I am on a gravel road, along the valley. A yellow signpost announces that it is only one hour to the Piansecco hut, but in the meantime I have learned to take the Swiss times with a large grain of salt. The valley is deep and green, but the high voltage lines that appear on the slope ruin the image of unspoilt nature considerably. I choose to look the other way, to a doll-like village below. A kestrel flies up just below my feet and I enjoy looking down on its reddish brown back from above. It is wonderful to be able to walk normally for a moment, without having to think about every step. The road descends and slowly I come below the tree line. Small pines occasionally appear along the path, too few to count as a real forest. It is noon and because there is no nice picnic spot, I lie in the grass next to the road until the sun disappears. I keep walking and eventually the gravel path turns into grass. Wonderful. At a bend in the valley, I pause to admire the eight waterfalls that cascade down here in unison. Some dance wildly across the rocks, others gently flow down a slope covered with small bushes. It's beautiful. On the other side of the waterfall the path climbs up again. I thought we were done climbing for the day. And this is not just any climb, but quite a steep ascent too. We descend again along the same slope and I end up in a completely different landscape, with blueberries, flowering heather and pine trees. I taste a few blueberries, but find them too sour. The ground is moist here and where a crystal clear stream flows over the path, a few tree trunks have been laid. I splash through the water and walk the last few meters to the hut decorated with Nepalese flags.

Day 4: Piansecco hut - Oberwald, 23 km
After a quick breakfast my feet are itching and I am the first on the trail again. A radiant sun that lights up the mountain tops and a clear blue sky quickly lure me out. The path is fairly level, but slowly I climb above the tree line again. Pale peaks tower above me, a layer of snow here and there. Along the path, the area remains wonderfully green, with small shrubs and blueberries. Many streams flow right by or around my feet. Only those high-voltage lines remain a scar in the otherwise intact landscape. In the Netherlands I don't find them that annoying, but precisely because the landscape is so much more beautiful here, the contrast is that much greater. I pass a few quiet lakes and a bunker, where I curiously look inside. Not much to see except a run-down space. From the mountain I see snowy peaks and a small building on the other side. The restaurant described in the guide or a hydroelectric thingy at the source of the Ticino? I expect and hope that we will go in that direction, despite the enormous height difference. After a while I descend to a road, where I walk underneath through a tunnel. On the other side I walk along the guardrail to a valley full of bumps. How could the landscape have been shaped like this? Stones covered with soil? There is a signpost which confuses me. The highest point today is the Nufenen pass and it is clearly indicated. The sticker of the Vier Quellen Weg has been removed, but it is not difficult to guess which sign it is: the only one without a destination. And yet I wonder. Maybe because I decide too soon to move towards the Nufenen pass. Something is gnawing. Am I going in the right direction? I pick up the guidebook and that only increases the confusion. Both the map and the directions don't seem to match the path I'm taking. I walk parallel to the road, when I should get off it. The description says: "a mountain path turns left up to the Capanna Grono Gries. Take the path to the pass ". Eh… which pass, the Gries pass or the Nufenen pass?I can't wait for someone else to make up my mind. I have to do something, be it right or wrong. I decide to go to the Nufenen pass after all. In the worst case, I skip a piece of the trail. Evenrually, I have to go there, whether or not I pass the source of the Ticino. As the walls of the valley approach and close in, I climb across the bumps. An attractive landscape, with a surprise behind every corner. Marmots scurry among the rocks. Babies, I am guessing, when I compare them to the hefty one at San Gottardo. These are more like an otter (as if I've ever seen an otter!), slimmer than I expected. As I approach they disappear into their burrows under the rocks. Fortunately, I soon receive the confirmation that I was in the right place. At the point where two waterfalls merge into one stream is the stone that marks the source of the Ticino. From here the river flows to Italy and ends in the Adriatic Sea. That's why I had never heard of it.And then you are at the bottom of a hill, as you have often been in recent days. Despite the exercise, your body says: "Not right now." But you continue, step by step. The ground is uneven. There are rocks. Every step is an act. You cannot see the top, the path zigzags and turns and behind each top is a new height that must be climbed. You sweat. Your lungs suck in air, your heart beats. And then it flattens out. You see a lake. A signpost that points to… the bus stop a little further.Fortunately, the road, the bus stop or the restaurant that should be there cannot be seen from here. In this little paradise, I lower myself onto a few rocks and open the can of corn that I've been carrying all week. I really have appetite for it now. Cor and Mark follow me behind, but opt ​​for the luxury of the restaurant and disappear over the hill again. As it should be, I squash the can with my shoe against a rock and put it back in my backpack, to leave the landscape as pure as I found it. I leave my shelter and look out over a deep valley surrounded by green mountains. Without snow I would almost call them hills. What a crazy tourist I am. It shows how quickly you can get used to the most impressive splendor around you, always hungry for more, more beautiful, higher.I descend, past the plants covered with a thin layer of ice. Eventually I end up at a hairpin bend in a road, which I can follow with my eyes through the whole valley. A side road leads to the Griessdam and although it is only intended for local traffic, there is a small parking lot with a dozen cars of hikers and mountain bikers who started their tour here. After a bend I have to swerve: part of the left rock face has come down. Huge chunks of stone lie up to the center line, clumps of snowy grass underneath. Just before the dam is the next signpost and here I hesitate again. This time not because I have doubts about which way to go. There is a large group of people and donkeys on the road and from the valley more come up on the narrow path. The donkeys are covered with bells that tinkle happily and carry a barrel on their backs. The group will undoubtedly walk the Sbrinz Trail, a route that has been transporting Sbrinz, a hard cheese, over the Griess pass to Domodossola since the late Middle Ages. I wait for the largest group to reach the top and then descend to where they came from. For the latecomers I happily step aside. After all, going up is more difficult than going down and if they came from the village of Ulrichen they have already climbed more than a kilometer. The disadvantage for me is that I now have to watch out for the fresh pies dropped by the donkeys. I end up at the road that I cross, only to get back on it a few turns later. I'm really out of the wilderness now. The sound of cars mingles with that of splashing water. A regular bus triggers an air raid alarm at every turn to warn oncoming traffic of its wide turning circle. Eventually I arrive at the reddish brown Ladstafel bridge from 1761 over the Ägenerivier. This was a stopping place for the donkey drivers and also the place where they paid taxes. Ladstafel has its origins in the German words for loading and unloading. As I descend along the shrubby bank, I ponder the difference between historic and old. When I reach an alpine meadow where the bushes give way, I walk to the river for a rest. Sitting on a rock I take off my shoes and socks and dip my feet in the mountain water. I can only hold them in for a few seconds at a time because the water is so cold it hurts. At the same time, I apply a good layer of sunscreen to other parts of my body, because the sun is burning hot. When I walk back to the path, I see marmot burrows, but the animals do not show themselves. I cross another road and then get grass underneath my feet, wonderful. There are a lot of grasshoppers, in all colors and sizes. They jump away from my feet, but sometimes in the wrong direction and then tumble back into the grass after a head butt against my pant legs. Countless butterflies flutter around my feet, blue and purple. After an unexpected climb I arrive at a wobbly bridge across the river that sways happily when I stamp over it. I enter a lovely pine forest and hardly notice the road that is now somewhere above me. Great, I haven't seen any real trees for so long, not smelled that wonderful pine scent. After a wooden bridge where the river and I say goodbye, I reach the edge of the village of Ulrich. It is not entirely clear to me how to proceed. The route description is not clear and the signpost is missing path 49, the Vier Quellen Weg. Eventually I pass the signpost a little and I see that there is a sticker 49 on the back.It still does not provide any clarity, because it points towards the gorge in which the river flows and I cannot discover a path there. I follow the road down and arrive at the edge of the village. There are three typical houses, or at least the guide claims that they are houses of the Walser, an ethnic group that once settled here. The dark wood huts look more like storehouses, with perhaps a cattle shed on the ground floor and steps to the first floor to store the hay. A house has windows and these wooden buildings don't, or there must be windows hidden behind those shutters. I can imagine that the closed plank exterior hides a comfortable interior. Although there is a gas station, Ulrichen is still a hamlet and after passing a few more Walser houses, I walk right out again. A gravel path takes me to the Rhône, which is called Rotten in this valley. Until now, the mountain water was crystal clear, I recognize this stream immediately as glacier water due to its milky white color. The road is now completely flat and I keep walking smoothly. At a signpost I can choose between the forest road to Oberwald and the river, but since I'm already starting to feel my feet, I lazily choose the flat path along the water. Fortunately, Obergesteln soon appears in sight. This is one of the few Swiss villages with virtually no wooden houses. The reason is two fires in 1806 and 1868, in which all houses except the bakery went up in flames. Then the villagers were ordered to rebuild their houses in stone. I admire the village from afar and follow the river along the golf course. Across the street, the Glacier Express chugs past, a red diesel train with 1st class windows that extend to the roof. Just before Oberwald the path leaves the Rotten and a little later I turn again to change course towards the village. I walk straight to the houses and through the open field the road seems longer than I expected. Fortunately, the village has only two streets and I immediately run into my hotel.

Day 5: Oberwald - Rhône glacier, 14 km
Today I have a choice: take a rest day as planned and climb with a full load from Oberwald at 1,355 meters to the Furka Pass at 2,429 meters tomorrow. Or skip the rest day and go up with just a daypack today. Since I have little trouble with my sporting injury thanks to my trekking poles, I choose the second option. I feel wonderfully free with just a few kilos on my back. Moreover, today is wonderfully sunny, clear weather and I want to take advantage of that. I take the forest path that I have been looking at from my hotel room window. The grass bounces underneath my feet, while the river next to me drowns out any birdsong. The amount of water amazes me. How can anything be left of the glacier at all? A little later I come to a bridge, where clear mountain water joins the milky white glacier water. So not all the water that flows down so fast comes from the receding ice. It's a little consolation. In addition to the main river, small streams also squeeze through the trees. The path climbs slowly. Every now and then there is a holiday home or one of those wooden sheds. I ascend and the river disappears from view. I can still hear it. Roaring, the water squeezes through the gorge, as if it were a thunderstorm. Only this goes on and on. There is something awesome about this water. When I stand on a bridge and see how it throws itself against the rocks, I am deeply impressed. Rocks that are smooth round. After my foot bath yesterday I realize once again that this water has a deadly power.On the other side of the bridge, I enter a swampy meadow. Horses graze high above me without a bell. I crawl up the wall of the valley, slow streams trickle down under my feet. Here you can forget for a moment how close civilization is. Until a plane turns annoyingly in circles exactly above the valley where I am walking. Finally the thing disappears and the sounds of nature are again predominant. With the mountainslope I turn towards Gletsch. You might think that the village gave its name to glaciers, but it turns out to be the exact opposite. Glacier comes from the Latin glaciarium, which means ice plain. In 1818 the Rhône glacier still reached into the village, now you can no longer even see the glacier from the village.The path descends and I did not expect that. Ropes have been installed at some points, although after the paths of the last few days I am no longer impressed by these steps. I ignore the ropes and my eyes feast when they see the river again, as fierce and untamable as before. On the other side of the gorge is the road where a cyclist struggling up is overtaken by cars and motorcyclists. Parallel to the road is the railway line of the historic steam train Oberwald - Gletsch. After regular trains have been running through the Furka tunnel since 1982, volunteers reopened the route to the Furka Pass for the steam train in 1987. A little further on, the track disappears into a tunnel with invitingly open wooden doors. It reminds me of a theme park ride. Still, I prefer to walk. The wind on my skin and the sun on my face. You see so much more. Like a brown rock over which a thin layer of water flows, full of dots and dents. Up close it looks like an abstract, living work of art. I am overtaken by Cor and Mark, the father and son who also hike this trail. We talk for a moment, but because we hike a different pace, we keep passing each other during the day.An iron staircase leads to the road that winds through the valley and on the other side of a bridge we are allowed to head back into the hills. This path does not climb so hard anymore and we arrive at a parking lot on the edge of Gletsch. First I pass a wooden shed in which some museum is located, but I am not tempted. The next building claims to be a hotel with fading letters on the wall and only reminds me of a bygone era, when the glacier was still in the valley. Next-door is a more modern, still functioning hotel with colorful flower boxes and next door the well-known information sign about the Vier Quellen Weg. On the other side of the small village, I have my first view of the Rhône valley and the mountain where the river originates. The glacier is hidden from view by the rocks. Tiny is Hotel Belvedère, where the trail will lead me. So insignificant compared to those awe-inspiring mountains. I cross the rapidly flowing river for the last time past a hydropower museum. A grassy path leads to the edge of the valley and then the climbing starts again in earnest. Flanked by low bushes, the path climbs and I climb along. At a point where the bushes diverge, I have a fantastic view of the valley. The green banks of the Rhône, gray rocks over which the glacier has moved: a bare funnel, cleared of soil and greenery. A few sharp peaks with snow and clouds above. When I zoom in on the source of the river, I see a special spectacle of shapes and lines, smooth rocks over which the water finds its way down. This is so beautiful. A highlight of five days of hiking. And I'm not even there yet!I cross the railway and walk between the railway and the road for a while. Neither intrudes. The first steam train is still steaming ahead and the traffic is still quiet. Again I cross the railway and later the road. Here, a gentle ascent through an alpine meadow starts to Muttbach station, the point where the steam train returns to Oberwald. There is a loud whistle. An Alpine marmot raises the alarm, standing on its hind legs. While the patriarch keeps a close eye on me, his smaller congeners hurry to the warren. Only when they are safely underground does the old boss lower himself as well and disappears underground without giving us a second glance. As I slowly walk on, the steam train also makes itself heard. Just over the edge of the hill I see white clouds appear and as I climb a little higher the steam train appears with its iconic silhouette and historic wagons against a backdrop of glittering mountains. This is the kind of image that train enthusiasts make posters of. Although I don't have a penchant for steam it still evokes a warm feeling that makes you long for earlier times. With a final step, I hoist myself to the concrete platform of ‘station’ Muttbach-Belvedère. It is not a real railway station. There is nothing here except for a view. Anyone who travels up to here, will travel back just as eagerly. I step over some building materials and rails and spot the Mutt Glacier high up in the mountains on my right: a thin strip of ice no more than a few hundred meters. In front of the glacier, the ground is black, lifeless. Where the glacier has disappeared for some time, a gloomy layer of green appears. A thin stream follows the slope down the ‘river’ Muttbach. This is the fate that awaits the Rhône glacier, perhaps fifty years from now. It's not a pretty sight. Here is no doubt about global warming, just the reality of dying beauty.A few steps further I am at the foot of the next mountain. The climb to the Furka Pass begins with this path, which, according to the guide, will cost us more than a few drops of sweat. That is actually not that bad. Although the path rises, it is a grassy path where you can walk without risk of sprained ankles. You can build a rhythm of thoughtful but persistent steps along the burrows of alpine marmots, each time at the edge of the path. Now and then I rest on a piece of false flat, then I continue, zigzagging up the mountain. There is no more water. The last streams have dried up, just now that I'm thirsty. You can get a drink on the pass and I promise myself a delicious, super unhealthy cola. A hill looks promising, but it is not the end yet. For a moment I get a respite with a drop of a few meters. Grass gives way to rock. Then there is a new mound of black gravel. And steep! I hoist myself up on my trekking poles, step by step. Every ten steps I stop for a moment to catch my breath. I don't count them, but my heart knows exactly how many there are. The road sounds closer now, but it doesn't bother me. If only they knew what they are missing out on here! Then there is the last step. The top. A parking lot with a snack car unfolds before my eye. Traditional cheeses in a basket, a whole row of Coke bottles against the back wall. Unfortunately. The seller is nowhere to be seen. Irritated I use a porta-potty without paying for it. When the man hasn't returned after that, I hike on. I cross the road, where a stone marks the pass and the border between two cantons. On the one hand, the black bull of the canton of Uri is looking at me seriously. The other side is simpler with the red and white stars of the canton of Valais. According to the map the last part is barely two kilometers, but because of my impatience it feels longer. I now want to go to the end, to my prize, the Rhône glacier. The path climbs and I hear cow bells. Four gray beasts lie on a hill, their pointed horns jutting out against the blue sky. Their comrades are in the middle of the path and I walk around them. Just give me an abyss, I'd rather have that than having to walk between the cows. In July, a German woman died when attacked by a herd in Austria and in August a 68-year-old hiker was badly injured. These beasts are bigger than me and I don't feel comfortable at all. However, they are young adults without calves and they don't move when I pass them suspiciously.The green mountain flank stretches out in front of me and the path undulates up and down and slowly but surely descends to a gravel road. Then I arrive at a well-camouflaged bunker. Although I want to get to the end, I pause here to explore the bunker. Where most bunkers are bare concrete carcasses, this one almost looks like part of the adjacent rock. The crisp concrete edge is covered with rusty iron mesh. Angular so that it takes on the contours of the rocks. Around the bunker is a trench of stacked stones, with a dot of cement here and there to keep it together. The trench has survived fairly well over the years, although some parts have partially collapsed. Thistles grow knee high, protected from the wind. I descend into it, because how often do you get the chance to stand in a real WWII trench? From the bunker you have an excellent view of the Rhône valley and I am glad that nature is slowly reclaiming these war machines into the landscape. I climb out of the trench and descend the steps to the gravel road. This leads to a second, much more impressive bunker that hardly seems to have been affected by the passage of time at all. Leaning against the rocks with pale stone in sleek, rounded shapes, this is a building that, by its size and smooth efficiency alone, conveys danger. The narrow windows in the bastion and the two elongated grooves from which cannon barrels undoubtedly once protruded are like a landmine that can kill long after the war. Untouched, the building looks out over the valley, as if it could be put back into use tomorrow. Iron plates in the shooting holes protect the structure from the elements. Now here's something I would like to know the history of, but the guide only mentions the importance of the Alps in the war in general terms. I leave the nameless fortress behind. One last hill, one last climb and then I have my first view of the Rhône glacier. An azure blue lake in which some ice floes float. A clean line in the landscape where the earth and greenery has been scraped off the rocks, indicating exactly how high the glacier once reached, like the shore of a lake where the water has suddenly subsided. And then the ice, from here I can only see a bit, lying against the mountains where gray peaks emerge above the snow. The top of the glacier is a dirty gray, not the pristine white I expected, and that certainly won't do the ice any good. A small corner of the glacier is covered with white sheets to keep it from melting. It looks ridiculous.
From this point I can only see a small portion of the glacier and the path curves to the left, away from the glacier. I didn't think so. I leave the trail and follow a path to the right until I have a view of the entire glacier around a bend, as far as the eye can see. A frozen river which flows slowly upwards. I enjoy the sight. As with water, you do not suspect the force at first glance, but a glacier is one of those great creational forces on earth that fundamentally changes the landscape. In the distance I see a number of black dots. People are walking on the glacier. As much as I like it here, I wouldn’t dare. Back to the path, I descend and make a few turns, until a little way above Lake Rhône I come to the stone that marks the source of the river. The lake is not large, but appears to be deep and the Swiss are concerned about what will happen to the water if the natural dam wall ever gives way. A huge tidal wave would flood the valley and wreak havoc as far as Oberwald. Tongues of the glacier lie in the lake and there are large cracks in the ice. The top layer looks like packed snow, not quite like the hard ice created by centuries of pressure. The many fractures and lines are very graceful. No painter can match that. I see people walking near the glacier. I want to go there too! After a wonderful half hour in this special place, I turn away and follow the path further down. It takes a while, but I put my shoe soles back on the asphalt and walk to the kiosk to finally get that Coke I promised myself so long ago. The parking lot at the hotel is busy. Motorcyclists with a camera on their helmets, children in flip-flops, girls playing with their cell phones in the backseat of their car. This is a real tourist attraction, the only glacier that you can reach practically by car. It is strange to suddenly have so many people around me again, not hikers but tourists. Via the souvenir shop above the kiosk you can go to the ice cave, which has been advertised often. It only costs a few francs and that fortunate. Because it is disappointing! The place looks like a construction site. Everywhere between the rocks is wood, building materials, a pickaxe. Steel pins protrude from the rocks like reinforced concrete and a yellow pipe is draped over the stone. A wide path leads the tourists to the glacier. Still quite early on there’s a wooden frame with a photo on a rock. The glacier reached all the way here in 1996 and the glacier cave was reached via a wooden bridge. It feels like a roadside monument for a deceased loved one. The glacier is now about 30 meters lower. The glacier cave is in the part covered with white cloths. Of course. The result is that you have the feeling that you have ended up in a bad play, instead of an impressive natural phenomenon. The canvases obscure any view of the glacier. Touching it is not wise, but here you wouldn't even be able to. I reach the glacier cave via a wooden plank and that is the second disappointment. It is not a natural cave, as it was in 1830, but a 100-meter-long corridor that is carved out every spring with great effort. Holes have been cut in the wall filled with a fluorescent tube. The famous blue ice is mercilessly killed by the electric light. The hallway opens to a square room with the Swiss flag and a beer barrel. You hear dripping water all around you, even running. It does not seem as if the cloths have the desired effect. I don't feel comfortable at all and quickly walk out of the hall. Is this all?And then I take another good look around me. To the rocks that shine in the sun. Polished by the abrasive ice. They stretch above me like gray dunes and give an impression of how immense and powerful this glacier once was. I see beautiful lines in the landscape. Signs advise us to stay on the path. Of course I just have to discover a path that leads down, between the rocks that I want to see up close. Although the path disappears between the stones after a few meters, I did climb more difficult paths in this past week. And there’s a cairn, so I'm not the only adventurer to get off the beaten track. Soon I am at the edge of Lake Rhône and at eye level with the glacier. Again it is mainly the rocks that attract my attention and I turn my back on the water. Seas of stone surround me, smoothly undulating lines, with only a few grit here and there and then, quite contradictingly, a fragile plant that blooms white. I drink in the landscape, feel the smoothness of the rocks with my hands and sigh. Still a worthy end to my journey. Now it is really over.