Hiking across a glacier is not something I would normally do. I don't like heights, steep drop-offs, and not knowing what is under my feet. I don't even like to ice skate on ponds and lakes for that reason (besides that I am terrible at it and falling on ice hurts).
But when I received a text from Matin Nellen, an employee and mountain guide at ProNatura, a nature conservancy founded by the famed Art Furrer, I couldn't resist. "Come for a walk on glacier tomorrow morning," he wrote. "Bring warm clothes, 1L water, and pack a lunch."
The following morning, after waking up at 5:45am and taking part in Bern's parade of bike commuters to which I had been oblivious, thanks to my naturally later wake-up time, I stood above Riederalp. By 9 in the morning, there I was, watching the mist clear above the mountains, opening up a sky that transitioned from a mild glow to clear blue.
"You must be Rosalie," said a sturdy man wearing an official red Bergfürer (mountain guide) jacket. I immediately knew I could trust him--the way he rolled the "r" to the extreme when he pronounced my name, the intense gaze that stood out from a tan face, weathered from decades under the mountain sun. Two German men also joined for the day, and when the three of us got off the gondola that takes you above the town of Riederalp, I burst out laughing.
Looking down at the massive white expanse below us--I was in total disbelief. There it was--the Aletsch. The biggest glacier in Europe. I had seen pictures of it online and in textbooks, and thanks to my Earth Science professors could point out some of its features, but I never thought I would have the opportunity to walk across a glacier--and especially not this one.
For at least a half hour, the four of us wound our way down a steep face in order to reach the rock rubble that lines the ice mass. 150 years ago, the glacier, we would soon learn, extended to the top of the cliff--no downhill walking was necessary.
As we approached the ice margin, a background rumble began to increase in intensity until it turned into a deep roar. That was the sound of melting ice rushing beneath the glacier in the form of a river. At this point I noticed my emotions transition. Not only was this experience "cool," "awesome," an "opportunity of a lifetime," and a grand "hello" to Europe's largest glacier, but it was also goodbye. With 25cm/day of melting, if I was ever to come back here, the landscape would look entirely different--unrecognizable even.
When the loose rocks that we carefully traversed transitioned to ice, Martin reached over his shoulder for his ice pick and hacked into the sidewall so that we could more easily climb up it.
Oh my God we were on top of the glacier. What was I doing? What were we doing? There were crevasses everywhere, water rushing in little meandering streams, and that river!--where was it exactly? It was under us somewhere, but the roar had now transitioned back to a distant rumble.
"Just trust this man," I tried to remind myself. Martin had just demonstrated to us how to put on and walk in crampons, and was jollily walking up the glacier whistling Beatles songs as the rest of us struggled to properly attach the spikes to our feet.
Soon enough, I was no longer listening for the distant rumble and envisioning a crevasse splitting apart as I stood on it, resulting in my having to perform a split before deciding which ice block to choose. Or worse--falling to my death in a deep crevasse unless some rope could miraculously pull me out.
No, I sure was no Martin Nellen, but I did begin to relax. I started pointing out and inquiring about geological features that I recognized, and I began to enjoy the Hoch Deutsch my fellow companions spoke--a nice break from all the incomprehensible Swiss German.
Every once in a while, we would stop, analyze a glacial feature, or perform an experiment for the ProNatura foundation. We learned that 3 glaciers above--the Ober Aletsch, the Jungfrau, and the Viktoriaplatz--met up at the Aletsch to form 2 mid-morraines--which are essentially snakes of rocks that the glacier "spits out" when it retreats (since moving glaciers carry rocks with them so when they retreat the rocks are left behind).
At one of our stops, Martin took a water bottle and placed it under some dripping glacier water. "Very special," he said as he handed some to me in a clear plastic ProNatura vessel, so that I could see the sulfury blue hue. Suspicious of its cloudiness, I took the tiniest sip possible and exclaimed, "That's not glacier water! That tastes like licorice."
"Like what?"
"Licorice. Réglise. Anise. Sorry I don't know the word in German."
"Ne, das sind Kräuter."
"What kind of herbs?"
"Absinthe. They grow it in the Jura over there. You shouldn't have too much--it makes your mind go crazy. And I hope you're not pregnant."
Ok. Wow. "No I'm not pregnant. Glad you asked me first."
At this point, the two Germans had already downed a cup full each, so Martin, determined to finish the water bottle's worth, drank twice as much in order to make up for my abstinence. "This not my normal life. I usually climb higher--then I don't drink Absinthe. But this is only easy walk."
"Now we go over there." Martin pointed to a section of deep crevasses. We would climb over them and then down into one and follow it for a while.
Great, so you put alcohol in us when we need our senses the most. I couldn't help but think of all the differences that existed between this tour and the equivalent if it were to take place in the U.S. We never filled out a waiver signing our lives away to any liabilities...and we got served Absinthe.
The next section really was worse for me. My initial horror images came back and just before jumping over one crevasse that I should not have looked down, I whined, "I don't like this." Martin stopped, came back, and reached out a hand for me to assist with the jump. A few seconds later he looked back to see if I had recovered. I smiled, then he did too. This routine repeated until we were fished with the crevasses.
"This is a man you can trust," I had told myself. Absinthe and all.
After climbing partway back up the steep face where the glacier once reached, we parted ways. "So nice to meet your Rosalie," he said, giving the "r" a great roll again. We shared 3 bises, my sunburned cheeks meeting his tanned, leathery ones.
"Und vielen Dank! Tschüs, ciao, hoffentlich bis Später." I made sure to give the proper multiple-word goodbye.
For another hour, I followed the lower extent of the glacier's ablation zone until I parted ways with it too, a final goodbye to my reason for this journey. As the distant rumble of the underground river faded into the distance, so did the massive ice that covered it. Europe's largest glacier began to look like yet another ice chunk nestled between rocky alpine slopes, its deep crevasses merely wrinkles weathered from millennia beneath the sun. When its peaks and valleys had caused my heart rate to spike, and its sharp ice granules produced blood on my hands, this white giant of a glacier appeared invincible. But as I stood above it, drenched in beads of sweat and sipping the remains of my water, I wasn't so sure. I couldn't believe that I was the only one looking to escape the sun's relentless rays in hope of finding shade, and better yet, a cold front to stop this wave of heat that seemed to be without end.
******************************************************************************************
Once I returned to Bern and exited the train station, I took part in the evening rush hour. The stereotypically slow Bernese waltzed their way up the station steps and back onto the streets towards their homes, while the fast-paced Zurich dwellers pushed their way frantically onto the train departing for the bustling banking city. "So that's what it's like to get up at Bern time and spend a day at the office," I facetiously thought to myself as I passed professionally-suited workers porting leather briefcases.
And what an office that was. I just hope it's there next time--not just for my sake, but so that anyone can wake up at 5:45, throw on some hiking boots, load up a backpack, and head to "work,"--returning home having learned so much more than if one had remained in their climate-controlled office, its floor standing sturdily beneath their feet, its desk piled high with papers, some being read, some being discarded, many being placed back into a leather briefcase at the end of the day.
But when I received a text from Matin Nellen, an employee and mountain guide at ProNatura, a nature conservancy founded by the famed Art Furrer, I couldn't resist. "Come for a walk on glacier tomorrow morning," he wrote. "Bring warm clothes, 1L water, and pack a lunch."
 |
| Art Furrer is "world famous in Switzerland." He's known for performing crazy ski tricks in a cowboy hat--and for founding Pro Natura |
"You must be Rosalie," said a sturdy man wearing an official red Bergfürer (mountain guide) jacket. I immediately knew I could trust him--the way he rolled the "r" to the extreme when he pronounced my name, the intense gaze that stood out from a tan face, weathered from decades under the mountain sun. Two German men also joined for the day, and when the three of us got off the gondola that takes you above the town of Riederalp, I burst out laughing.
Looking down at the massive white expanse below us--I was in total disbelief. There it was--the Aletsch. The biggest glacier in Europe. I had seen pictures of it online and in textbooks, and thanks to my Earth Science professors could point out some of its features, but I never thought I would have the opportunity to walk across a glacier--and especially not this one.
For at least a half hour, the four of us wound our way down a steep face in order to reach the rock rubble that lines the ice mass. 150 years ago, the glacier, we would soon learn, extended to the top of the cliff--no downhill walking was necessary.
As we approached the ice margin, a background rumble began to increase in intensity until it turned into a deep roar. That was the sound of melting ice rushing beneath the glacier in the form of a river. At this point I noticed my emotions transition. Not only was this experience "cool," "awesome," an "opportunity of a lifetime," and a grand "hello" to Europe's largest glacier, but it was also goodbye. With 25cm/day of melting, if I was ever to come back here, the landscape would look entirely different--unrecognizable even.
 |
| Martin showing the differences in glacial extent over the years |
Oh my God we were on top of the glacier. What was I doing? What were we doing? There were crevasses everywhere, water rushing in little meandering streams, and that river!--where was it exactly? It was under us somewhere, but the roar had now transitioned back to a distant rumble.
"Just trust this man," I tried to remind myself. Martin had just demonstrated to us how to put on and walk in crampons, and was jollily walking up the glacier whistling Beatles songs as the rest of us struggled to properly attach the spikes to our feet.
Soon enough, I was no longer listening for the distant rumble and envisioning a crevasse splitting apart as I stood on it, resulting in my having to perform a split before deciding which ice block to choose. Or worse--falling to my death in a deep crevasse unless some rope could miraculously pull me out.
No, I sure was no Martin Nellen, but I did begin to relax. I started pointing out and inquiring about geological features that I recognized, and I began to enjoy the Hoch Deutsch my fellow companions spoke--a nice break from all the incomprehensible Swiss German.
Every once in a while, we would stop, analyze a glacial feature, or perform an experiment for the ProNatura foundation. We learned that 3 glaciers above--the Ober Aletsch, the Jungfrau, and the Viktoriaplatz--met up at the Aletsch to form 2 mid-morraines--which are essentially snakes of rocks that the glacier "spits out" when it retreats (since moving glaciers carry rocks with them so when they retreat the rocks are left behind).
 |
| Collecting bug samples |
 |
| Checking the temperature |
 |
| One of the mid-morraines |
 |
| A "mushroom rock." Martin says that within 10 days the snow beneath it will have melted and the rock will topple over. |
"Like what?"
"Licorice. Réglise. Anise. Sorry I don't know the word in German."
"Ne, das sind Kräuter."
"What kind of herbs?"
"Absinthe. They grow it in the Jura over there. You shouldn't have too much--it makes your mind go crazy. And I hope you're not pregnant."
Ok. Wow. "No I'm not pregnant. Glad you asked me first."
At this point, the two Germans had already downed a cup full each, so Martin, determined to finish the water bottle's worth, drank twice as much in order to make up for my abstinence. "This not my normal life. I usually climb higher--then I don't drink Absinthe. But this is only easy walk."
"Now we go over there." Martin pointed to a section of deep crevasses. We would climb over them and then down into one and follow it for a while.
Great, so you put alcohol in us when we need our senses the most. I couldn't help but think of all the differences that existed between this tour and the equivalent if it were to take place in the U.S. We never filled out a waiver signing our lives away to any liabilities...and we got served Absinthe.
 |
| Martin pourring "glacial water" |
The next section really was worse for me. My initial horror images came back and just before jumping over one crevasse that I should not have looked down, I whined, "I don't like this." Martin stopped, came back, and reached out a hand for me to assist with the jump. A few seconds later he looked back to see if I had recovered. I smiled, then he did too. This routine repeated until we were fished with the crevasses.
"This is a man you can trust," I had told myself. Absinthe and all.
After climbing partway back up the steep face where the glacier once reached, we parted ways. "So nice to meet your Rosalie," he said, giving the "r" a great roll again. We shared 3 bises, my sunburned cheeks meeting his tanned, leathery ones.
"Und vielen Dank! Tschüs, ciao, hoffentlich bis Später." I made sure to give the proper multiple-word goodbye.
For another hour, I followed the lower extent of the glacier's ablation zone until I parted ways with it too, a final goodbye to my reason for this journey. As the distant rumble of the underground river faded into the distance, so did the massive ice that covered it. Europe's largest glacier began to look like yet another ice chunk nestled between rocky alpine slopes, its deep crevasses merely wrinkles weathered from millennia beneath the sun. When its peaks and valleys had caused my heart rate to spike, and its sharp ice granules produced blood on my hands, this white giant of a glacier appeared invincible. But as I stood above it, drenched in beads of sweat and sipping the remains of my water, I wasn't so sure. I couldn't believe that I was the only one looking to escape the sun's relentless rays in hope of finding shade, and better yet, a cold front to stop this wave of heat that seemed to be without end.
******************************************************************************************
Once I returned to Bern and exited the train station, I took part in the evening rush hour. The stereotypically slow Bernese waltzed their way up the station steps and back onto the streets towards their homes, while the fast-paced Zurich dwellers pushed their way frantically onto the train departing for the bustling banking city. "So that's what it's like to get up at Bern time and spend a day at the office," I facetiously thought to myself as I passed professionally-suited workers porting leather briefcases.
And what an office that was. I just hope it's there next time--not just for my sake, but so that anyone can wake up at 5:45, throw on some hiking boots, load up a backpack, and head to "work,"--returning home having learned so much more than if one had remained in their climate-controlled office, its floor standing sturdily beneath their feet, its desk piled high with papers, some being read, some being discarded, many being placed back into a leather briefcase at the end of the day.
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