Sept 26th, 2024: Don’t Go to Switzerland
Romansh Country
“Why are you going through Switzerland? Worst place to ride through!”
“Avoid Switzerland at all costs!”
“We hated it and gave up.”
This was the advice we received from other horse travellers when they heard we’d be riding through Switzerland. Too much administration and not a good welcome were the main complaints — thank God we didn’t listen! After a few emails with the customs office in Chur, and hitchhiking up to the border to test-run where and how we’d cross the road border with the horses, the day came. The customs agents were expecting us, and the whole process took five minutes; they didn’t even leave the bureau to look at the horses.
One problem down, what about that cold welcome? It’s true our first night in Switzerland, we slept at the foot of a glacier. The grass already beginning to turn yellow, a huge plateau stretched out before us. Certainly, it was chilly, but a mountain fever dream nonetheless.
Our second night, we slept at a farm, and learned about the original ethnic group of Engadine: the Romansh. A language that is certainly of latin origin, but unrecognizable to our ears trained for Italian, Spanish or French, only 50,000 native speakers remain, all of them in this region. Hiking up to the Alp Timun - an alpine pasture used by summer shepherds for more than 400 years, we met Ried and Gian, two Romansh-speaking shepherds.
“For three summer months we live in paradise,” said Ried.
Completing his thought, Gian says, “And then when we go back down to the valley, we begin the nine-month wait to come back!”
The horses never want to leave either, quickly establishing their territory in the alpine realm, and developing their own routine of napping, grazing, going down to the river for a drink, or playing, at full gallop on the hillside.
What’s the profile of a Swiss-Romansh shepherd? Ried is a hometown boy: part of several generations of farmers, he also spent his working years as a teacher. But getting up at 5:30am and going for a 4-hour hike up to the 2900m pass, in order to count the cows is how his version of a perfect retirement. Sharing this “keep fit,” philosophy, his colleague Gian previously worked as an organizer for several Winter Olympic Games and sports championships. More than a little energetic, Gian says, “I’m just lucky my wife lets me run around up here all summer!”
Outside the cabin at night tinkle cowbells, strung around the necks of the 300 cows who come from small farmers all over Switzerland to pass their summers in these high pastures. And inside the warm living area, the chords of Gian’s accordion and the melody of Ried’s flute. The friends picked up folk music to pass the long evenings, and in winter headline local events with two other musicians. When we finally leave, we learn that Ried’s son is waiting for us at the farm in the valley, with a park ready for the horses to spend the night. So much for a cold Swiss welcome!
The Montesplugen Cliff
The next day, on a train straight from a fairy-tale, Boris arrives, in a t-shirt and surprisingly light backpack. He’ll be hiking with us for the next week, helping film group shots for the film. That night, in an alpine pasture surrounded by rocky peaks, we learn why his backpack is so light: he forgot a cold-weather sleeping bag and any camping kitchen gear. Passing him one of our summer sleeping bags to layer up, he assures us he won’t be cold. But to make certain he won’t feel the nighttime temperatures that are rapidly getting cooler, we all work together to drink a bottle of vodka before bed.
Feeling confident from our successful series of mountain passes in Italy, we drag Boris along to cross Fuorcla de la Vallette. It’s one of those passes you do in one direction, and wish you’d done it the opposite. After a windy night, we climb up past two alpine lakes their emerald blue waters draining down little currents that weave through the toasted grasses. The pass itself is simple, but the descent is full of steep switchbacks. Brando insists that the easiest place for him to walk is on the absolute edge of path. He looses his footing once or twice, leaving us wondering how he’ll do when the terrain gets rockier.
At the next pass though, we cannot take any risks.
“Be really careful, the passage between Ermet Lake and Montespluga is not possible in bad weather.” I’d forgotten about this message from Paola until the moment when the refuge guardian warns us, “Be careful with the mule path. A few years back a man died there.” We push for more details and he reassures us, slightly. “Look, it’s the muleteer’s way for decades. But the colonel didn’t want to get off his horse and walk and -” making a tumbling motion with his hands - “they both went down.”
Knowing that Paola had successfully taken the route, and that the guardian didn’t seem too worried about us, we decided to try; we also had no choice - it was the only horse-friendly way down. From far away, the path was vertiginous. Carved into the rock, it runs mostly flat along the flank of the cliff. The first sheer set up irregular steps, we see a metal plaque with a date on the wall. “Ciao, Mario.” So here is where Mario met his end.
But our herd is luckier, or we are more prudent. Ashley checks each technical passage before we take the horses through. The path is about a meter wide, and there is ample space for the horses. Only one spot with a metal step gives us worry, so we try it with the mountain-experienced Kyrgyz horses first. Fidel, in his style, barrels down the step and catches his balance afterwards. Chai tiptoes from rock to rock without slowing down, having been a goat in his last life. And Brando, who had a suicide wish on the last pass, takes his time, hoof by hoof, with total confidence down the stairs. He looks at us after, like we’re stupid, seeming to say, “I know when to take things serious.”
From Valley to Valley
Boris leaves on a train in one direction, and us by horse in the other. We begin the climb for San Bernardino. Here, we’re expecting a vast plateau with plenty of grass and nice pastures, surrounded by glaciers. We might be surrounded by glaciers but we’ll never know; a heavy gray blanket covers the blue sky. There is certainly grass, we are whipped by a wind that never stops, and so we also don’t stop. The weather forecast in two days time is abismal, so we decided to make haste for Passo di Passit. Here we can enter the Val Calenca, enjoy a few days off while the bad weather passes and go on our way.
The locals are not in agreement if the pass is ok for horses. But one rider tells us she did it before, and the descent is smoother than the climb. This idea of a smoother descent kept our moral up while battling steep forest paths with slippery tree roots to reach the alpine pasture where we’d spend the night. A rundown cabin and a dirty stables were unlocked, and we opted to set up the tent in the stables. Almost giddily, we saw on the weather app that the rain was delayed another 24-hours.
But we didn’t check the wind, which began howling at midnight. In the morning it continued it’s moaning, and we prepared the horses with smooth, efficient movements. The hike to the pass went smoothly, and relieved, we began the climb down. Only, it was not as expected. Rocky with big steps down on the edge of the cliff, this path was no place for horses. Averaging 500m per hour, we built steps for the horses to ease the difficulty, lugging rocks to the trail to make them a passable route. But, 50m above the river, we were met with a section of trail too steep and rocky to take horses down. For twenty minutes, we tried to find a path through a huge rocky scree. The risks were: the horses put a hoof in between rocks and it gets stuck, they trip and fall, they dislodge a rock and loose their balance. Finally we call it: we’ll turn around and take the 60km detour around these mountains. In reality we didn’t need to call it, as the horses have already called it for us. While we were hemming and hawing about a passable way through, they hightailed it all the way back to the pass. All those steps we built them came in handy as they made a decision for the team: u-turn.
With no transition, our time in Switzerland switches from seeking out alpine pastures where we can spend the night to crossing the passes and sleeping closer to the valley floor. Snow has dusted the peaks around us, and we can feel that the summer season is finished. We put the Swiss hospitality to the test, as now we have to ask farmers and shepherds if they have a field we might sleep in. In the Tessins region, like in the Grisons before, not a single farmer tells us no. If they don’t have a park fenced in already, they help us set one up. They give us good advice, share with us stories of their region and their life. In one special alpine pasture, we share a wild-boar stew in the cabin of a nomadic shepherd, who travels from village to village in winter with his sheep. And on our last night in Switzerland, we sleep at Michaelanglo’s farm, and he surprises us with a huge chunk of alpine cheese.
It’s under a grey sky that we leave this alpine country that, despite the warning label it came with, became our favorite place to ride in the Alps. We can’t wax nostalgic too long, because the race home before the passes close over with snow has begun. 350km until home — but can we get there?
