A full week of hiking in various magical places
January and February 2025
I love hiking on my own. It is one of the most magical things I know. I never consider myself to be the best companion to myself; I am often judgemental of myself, impatient and I have a hard time trusting myself to do anything right. The only place where I absolutely never feel like this is when I am hiking. I am content with myself, proud and confident. And I think it is because of those aspects, why hiking alone is so important to me.
But this winter I wanted company. More company than usual. Not all at once but everyday, or almost everyday. So I planed a whole week of hiking. It was primarily in preparation for Scotland – because they say it is best to prepare for long distance hiking by simply going hiking. Consistently. Every day. And I thought “why do this all on my own? Why not share this adventure with loved ones?” The adventure of planing a hike got another element this time around as I made it my mission, to adapt every day to the person I was going to hike with.
And this is how I made one of the most touching, joyful, lovely hiking experiences – one that I am now already exited to repeat again. This is going to be a slightly different post and also -not just slightly- longer. And I hope you bear with me as I tell the stories of seven hikes with six fantastic companions – and yes: this is me counting myself as one of them.
Day 1: Leonie – “Experimenting“
From Metzerlen to Grellingen
Day one was originally planned for a hike with my friend Noëmi. But sadly she got very sick before and had to cancel. As I keep noticing throughout my life, I am not someone that does particularly well with unexpected changes, which led to me questioning going out at all on this day. I could feel the frustration creeping up; what an unfortunate way to start this project that I was so exited about. As much as I enjoy going out spontaneously, planning a whole hike in the spur of a moment sometimes feels overwhelming, especially when I had other plans. Since the hike I originally intended to do today was specifically tailored to Noëmi, I didn’t want to do this one but rather save it for a later time. Already halfway deciding to stay home and falling back on the couch, I felt a jolt of energy and decided to give myself one more boost and look for an area relatively close by that I could reach easily by public transportation.
When I was a kid, I used to play this board game called “Sagaland”. I only vaguely remember the game itself but it had to do with collecting fairytales via a map through a magical forest. There were various paths one could take to get to the next fairytale the quickest but sometimes I enjoyed finding the most creative and longest paths to take a lot more than the collecting (which is probably why I very rarely won). At times mapping out a hike feels somehow rather similar to how I used to play this game. Or at least it awakens very alike feelings; a sense of childlike excitement, a tickling in my chest. I would see places I’ve been before but find new routes that lead through them, I could identify places that promise to be magical on a map and recognize an open forest, a bridge over a little river, a viewpoint on a hill, a winding path though a forest. And while the adventure would always stay on the rectangular cardboard disk in front of me when playing Sagaland, now I could explore those very real magical forests outside.
It was a beautiful sunny clear day and as soon as I strapped on my pack and got into the bus, I felt at peace. This feeling that I know nowhere better or stronger than when I have a hike ahead of me. Everything just falls into place.
I got out in Metzerlen, a village on the north side of the Blauen mountain and immediately made my way up on the mountain, originally planning to just cross the ridge and hike down towards Zwingen. But as soon as I reached the top at the Mätzerlechrüz, it somehow pulled me further on the narrow and uneven trail across the wooded ridge. And so I then and there adapted my route, deciding that I will choose at every intersection, which path to take. An experiment – look at me starting this week with doing something new.
Already here the scenery and the view was simply too beautiful to just pass by and I decided to have a little break with some warm tea and a little lunch. It was windstill and quiet. Barely any other people were walking on the trail and I took probably one of the longest hiking breaks on my own so far. It is something that I am still learning to do properly. And as I am training myself to take my time resting along the trail, I come to realize how enjoyable it actually is. I think savoring ones own company doesn’t come easy to some of us and I have learned that little breaks like these in the company of nature are a wonderful way to practice. At least to me.
The light in Winter and early Spring is a different one I keep noticing; it is more ethereal than in Summer or Autumn. On this day, it almost felt, as if everything was wrapped in a thin blue veil. And yet the sun rays warmed my face, while the herbal tea warmed up my body. Eager to continue my hike along the ridge, I packed up my things and started walking with my poles frequently thumping against the many big roots that winded across the path.
At the junction of the Blauenpass I got to make another decision; the many trails on the map spread like long spiderlegs and gave me many options. But I guess in a way I had made my decision rather quickly as I chose to continue this beautiful stroll over the ridge all the way to the Blattenpass. Through a dense forest I reached the clearing at the pass with its picnic area and continued on towards Nenzlingen, from where I originally planned to take a bus back home. But as it goes, I encountered another crossroads and the trail leading up to Eggflue just seemed too intriguing to not take it. And what is another half hour at this point? Reaching the just 688 meter high Eggflue was one of those rewarding moments after a surprisingly exhausting little climb in the warm afternoon sun: The light broke though the thin tall trees, a slight wind gently swept the leaves over the ground as I got to enjoy the vast views all by myself and it felt as if it was all prepared by nature just for my arrival at this moment. As if I got to have an experience that would be completely different than the one of the person before or after me. And effectively that is also true, as none of us focus on exactly the same things or see them the exact same way. I took my time enjoying the solitude up here, the panoramic view over Basel, the rolling green hills and the castle ruin of Pfeffingen in the near distance.
The gravel path led me down towards Grellingen in a big zickzack line beneath mighty Scots pines and all the way to the illustrious Glögglifels, a historic pass crossing. It is a natural rock, not a broken block or boulder and is located at an old pass road. It is said that the pass road could possibly already have been built by the Romans, although there is no actual proof of that.The rocks name comes most likely from the little bell that wagoners had to ring for the customs officer to open the passage.
When I know and can maybe even already see my end destination of a hike, I sometimes – primarily when its all downhill – get this feeling that the only right way to finish the trail is by hopping the rest of it. I guess it is my inner child reminding me that I am sometimes allowed to just have fun. Not everything has to be analyzed or turned into a deeper philosophical thought process, although I truly love doing that. But sometimes all it needs is just a final boost of energy at the end of a day and an amazed gasp and giggles at how high one can actually leap.
Sam came from work and waited for me in Grellingen to drive us home and I am so glad, I didn’t spend the day at home on the couch but took that adventurous leap to go find the most creative and magical path.
Day 2: Eva – Perspective
From Hauenstein to Langenbruck
Despite the weather report promising sunshine and blue skies for the whole week, my second day started grey and windy. And something I would come to learn to accept over the following day: the weather report is not always right and there is nothing else to do but to just accept it and have fun no matter the weather.
Eva and me met in Basel to take the train to Olten and from there reach the village of Hauenstein on the southern slope of the Solothurn Jura. Eva is a big fan of the mountains (who can blame her) and I wanted to find something with a view. To actually drive to the mountains was sadly out of reach for that day for various reasons and so an alpine panorama in the distance was the next best thing.
We got our first glimpse of our towering impressive friends on the winding drive up from Olten and I felt relief – somehow I set my own expectations high to leave all of my hiking companions satisfied and happy at the end of the adventure I planned for us. And so for Eva to see snow covered peaks, if only in the distance was something that mattered greatly to me today.
The sky was cloudy with the occasional speck of blue revealing itself behind them and we made our way out of the quiet village. A 4×4 path, gently winding its way around the south slope of the Ifleter Berg, ever so slightly climbing towards the mountain pass Challhöchi. The first gentle raindrops started to fall on our heads, rhythmic trickling sounds on our rain jackets. While it was a stark and unexpected contrast to yesterdays sun soaked hike, I always do appreciate the nuance in a rainy, grey landscape. There is so much depth in the views around and I feel a lot of appreciation when the clouds start moving and reveal a whole new scene behind them; like this gentle stroke of pale yellow light behind a rocky mountain range. It teaches me a lot about perspective and how we perceive things one way and sometimes forget, that they might look very different when we change our position, our focus or just give it a little time. A little time for the clouds to move.
Eva and me know each other since her birth and I consider her family. We were pen pals when she still lived in Berlin with her mom and we wouldn’t see each other so frequently. She would write me letters with scented pens, always reminding me to smell the paper to get a whiff of that super sweet blueberry scent. Christmas was our holiday as kids and teenagers – we would celebrate it together when her and her mom came to Basel, always choosing our outfits carefully and coordinated to one another and with great importance made sure that we uphold our hallow traditions every year. A ritual of stability in lives that were not always shaped by a more traditional kind of stability. Insight into each others lives didn’t just change when Eva moved to Basel over ten years ago, giving us the chance to meet up spontaneously over a glass of lavender-syrup infused Prosecco on a warm summer evening but maybe also when we grew up and sometimes topics were not about neon colored scented pens but questions of relationships, hardship, career pathways, application declines and family history or which nail polish to choose for a hysterectomy.
Growing up alongside one another is a beautiful privilege, a figurative and literal path walked next to familiar faces. And one thing I came to learn over the many many years thanks to my longtime friendships is, that they are forcing you to see and at times change perspective in the best way possible. Utilizing their in-depth knowledge of you, pointing at those landmarks, those unchartered paths in the distance as a new point of view for you to consider. Eva, with her firm but gracious honesty, has been doing this for many years.
And there, on this quiet secluded trail, we continued to uphold this friendship tradition, this practice of changing perspective; talking about newfound courage after the end of a relationship, pointing out how much we have grown and how much taller we still get to grow. With Eva being like a sister to me, it fills me with so much pride to see her reach her roots deep into the ground and her branches far into the sky, learning to allow herself to take up space.
The path guided us through the forest towards the 1099 meter high Belchenflueh, the highest point of our hike and an area known to have attributes of a place of power. The name of this mountain peak could come from the Celtic language and be attributed to the sun god “Belenus” and be part of the “Belchen system”, which is a group of mountains that all carry the name “Belchen” and which may have been used by the Celtics as a sun calendar. Though there seem some contradicting assumptions about the origin of the name, I couldn’t help but feel that this would be a fitting place to name after a sun god, even though we didn’t get to experience a sun soaked view over the valleys, meadows and mountains.
We made our way down to the Chalchzimmersattel and encountered another reminder of World War I, the fortification Hauenstein at Spitzenflüeli. Relics of war are always something that gives me an uneasy feeling – the contrast between wholesome and peaceful nature and manmade structures that tell of a violent history is a difficult one to witness. And so we swiftly moved on, reaching the vast rolling meadow Schattenbergweid, where we got to witness a large herd of peacefully grazing chamois. I was amazed at how unbothered they were by us, just going about their day. I was so distracted and delighted that I even forgot to take a picture, which honestly happens way to rarely.
Along the Waldbach we reached the former Kloster Schönthal; with smoke rising from the chimney, a rooster crowing and cows mooing in the stable it painted a very serene picture. Were it not for the slowly increasing rain, it would have made for a very nice picnic spot. But as we started to feel ourselves getting slightly cold from the wet wetaher, we hurried up to reach the village of Langenbruck in the hopes of immediately catching a bus back down to the train.
So we had our little long overdue picnic in the warm dry bus, our spirits still high, which again confirmed: rain is no problem if you brought the right clothes and more importantly the right company that has learned to laugh with you at everything life has to offer – good or bad. And ultimately it is just another way to learn to occasionally simply shift your perspective.
Day 3: Leonie – Shelter
From Nunningen to Breitenbach
After having arrived the previous day completely soaked and cold, I held out hope that the next day would be more dry. But this time the weather report didn’t lie, when it announced a full day of rain. “It’s alright”, I thought, “I know I can adapt”. And as much as the rule no bad weather, just bad clothing upholds in my opinion – for today I chose to find shelter. Shelter under the tall trees of my neighborhood, so to speak.
I decided to take the bus to Nunningen and from there make my way back down to Breitenbach. The dark green colored map promised lots of forest for me to pass though.
A couple of years back, I usually tried to avoid forested hiking trails as much as I could. I often experienced them to be boring and slightly monotonous; at least the ones in the area of Basel. But over the last years I came to find a deep appreciation for them. What I used to find repetitive now presented as a world in itself that I loved to roam through. An own ecosystem with a multitude of plants growing next to each other, within each other, around each other. And no other place shows the change of seasons as clearly as a forest. And today it would offer me my desired shelter. My sanctuary from the rain, within the rain.
I got out of the bus and immediately made my way out of the village towards the Chilchberg. As soon as I entered the forest, I felt safe and at home. I think I’ve rarely had such a clear feeling of knowing where I need and want to be. Everything just felt in its right place. The air smelled earthy and damp, the light mist and clouds seemed to swallow all sounds except for the trickle of raindrops gently hitting the leaf-covered ground.
When I was younger, I always had the feeling one could just disappear in a forest. As if it could swallow me whole and I would never reappear. They were an endless vault. I was a teenager that didn’t mind the idea of disappearing; at least not when I was in school. Sometimes when we went on class trips, I imagined to just slip away and start my life in a tiny house in the woods. Realistically I knew that this wouldn’t work for several reasons as I am also easily scared in the dark alone. But I think it was more about the safety I felt that I didn’t always experience out in the “real world”. The trees wouldn’t judge or reject me. I guess part of me is still looking for that protection and that acceptance when I go out to hike. But at the same time I have also learned how much shelter I can already provide myself if I truly accept myself. In the end the saying “home is where you are” feels very true, as much as it sounds like something you’d find on a fridge magnet. Maybe that is why I always admired the shell snails, carrying their shelter with them, slowly making their way through the grass.
After passing a narrow meadow, I slowly made my way up around the Eichlenberg under the watchful eyes of squirrels and birds that call this peaceful forest their home. The trail unexpectedly and almost unnoticed branched off the main path and I found myself wading through an ocean of wet foliage through the trees. The bed of leaves had an almost boggy feel to it and I pulled my feet through them to create a rhythmic swishing sound in the otherwise still forest. After another couple of meters the forest gave way to a pasture overlooking the little hamlet of Roderis, which I have passed many times in the car. Nestled in the lush Jura hills, it only consists of a couple of houses and on this day I didn’t see another living being besides a couple of cows, loudly announcing my arrival to others that might be interested.
Crossing the vast open gently curved meadow of Eichlenbergfeld, I was granted a view back towards home, the Lingenberg and even the Stürmechopf in its impressive almost perfectly symmetrical shape in the far distance. The hills stood halfway hidden within the blueish gray clouds, almost as if they were carrying them on their backs.
Via a narrow trail I descended into the picturesque Chaltbrunnental, a place I love to visit since I am a kid – especially in the summer months when its rich Flora offers many beautiful shady spots and the possibility to refresh tired feet in the river Ibach. But today I only got small a glimpse of it in passing before continuing on the broad forest path, slowly entering into a very familiar area close to home, walked many a times on calm Sunday afternoons. I enjoyed the solitude, knowing that I would soon enter a more populated area again and started to notice, how much art there is to encounter in the woods. From the bright yellow lichen spreading over the branches of a barren tree, almost looking a bit like tiny fireworks, to the exuberant green of the tree sponges that seamlessly amalgamates with the dripping wet moss covering the tree trunks. The countless shades of brown that create abstract paintings on a piece of bark to tiny scratches from animals on the wood of the tree stems.
The Sangfels at the edge of the village Breitenbach marked my gateway, my end to the hike as I learned that Sam was on his way home from work and could pick me up in the village center.
As I left the shelter of the forest, I couldn’t help but feel a bit exposed at least for a moment. It is always stunning to me, how nature can evoke such a strong sense of protection. Especially in somewhat more vulnerable times. But I took a moment to conjure my inner snail I notice how content and purified I felt – body and mind. I strolled down the road towards Sam and the comforting warmth of both the car and my husband, who curiously listend to my tales of todays short section that left me deeply in awe of our native forests.
Day 4: Becca – Effortlessness
From Gempen to Seewen
Day four. Another day that was shrouded in fog and clouds and all possible shades of grey. More so than yesterday, I hoped for the weather to clear in the next couple of hours and I realized that it had a lot to do with having company. While I did’t (always) mind the rain when on my own, I very much didn’t want my hiking buddy to feel any kind of discomfort. Something I really didn’t need to worry about, as I came to learn again on this day.
Becca and me met in Dornach at the train station. I was a bit earlier than her and treated myself to a coffee in the bakery, my headphones in, so as to not get distracted from my sense of hiking adventure by current pop songs and announcements about traffic on the A1 blasting on the radio.
As soon as Becca arrived, we made our way to the bus and drove through the foggy woods to the little village of Gempen. I chose a relatively short section for today and one that avoided big ups and downs or uneven paths, as Becca was still recovering from an accident that left her a bit more careful while walking. But the wonderful thing about even trails is, that they can lead you to places with fantastic vast views and give your walk a sense of effortlessness. An energy I am often longing for in my life, which has -especially in the past years- been anything but effortless.
It seemed that the weather gods were also on this day not listening to me. The foggy conditions remained and the views that I was excited to share with Becca were something left to our imagination. However we both noted how much we enjoyed the mythical atmosphere that the weather provided for us and how happy we were for warm coffee and tea in our thermoses as well as our trusted puffer jackets.
The comfortable 4×4 gravel path lead us over what’s known as the Gempen Plateau. First walking over meadows, we soon entered the forest. Tall slender trees surrounding us, their brown trunks and branches against the grey backdrop looking like stately serious forest creatures.
Becca and me have known each other since Kindergarten, where we started a friendship. Naturally, as it most likely often goes after that many years have past, I have no clear memory on how we started to be friends. I have a couple of memories of my Kindergarten years. Some good, some a bit less pleasant. Like when I fell off a little built in balcony and injured my teeth which prevented me from eating solid food for a couple of weeks and left my denture slightly deformed to this day. Others were more empowering, like that time I got a group of boys to make a fire in the basement (not that I would in any way recommend that to someone today but it felt pretty badass back then). Probably Becca and me just decided to be friends at one point. Easy, uncomplicated – as it often is at that very young and still mostly uninfluenced age. And just like that we spent week ends in the vacation home up in the Franches Montagnes, collecting snails in the garden, building a home for them in a carton box and giving them names. And somehow that is how our friendship stayed to this day. No snails but a reliable, easy friendship. Trusted, still, effortless. Becca is and has always been this calm presence, a kind smile that immediately reassures you, that you are doing ok. That you are good. Like a warm hug that I am grateful to receive since so many years. Figuratively and literally.
Sometimes when I go on Social Media, I get unsure if I have everything I need – Social Media tends to have that effect in many areas. But I do see those people meeting tons of friends and going to countless events. Having huge birthday parties with so many friends that they sometimes don’t even all fit in one picture. And sometimes I catch myself wondering if I have to enlarge my friend pool. But it is friendships like the one I have with Becca that remind me, how the magic lays in “quality over quantity”. The few friendships that I have are unique and nurtured by everyone involved. They remain a source of safety and acceptance and understanding.
At the edge of the village of Hochwald we decided to sit down and have something to eat and a warm beverage on a bench overlooking what would otherwise be a wide view over the fields. A lady walking her dog stopped and we got to talking about the weather, dogs and her time living in Basel before moving to Hochwald. I am not always happy about interactions with strangers when I am out hiking but sometimes it is exactly those unexpected encounters that make a hiking day complete. We did however agree, to let a group of five elderly hikers pass a bit ahead before continuing our hike as to not having to “share” the trail.
Our forest section was over and we now followed the small asphalt road to Seewen, which would be the end of our hike. The village lay peaceful nestled within the rolling hills, wrapped in soft bluish clouds. Our hopes for a restaurant and another hot coffee were sadly crushed, when we realized that surprisingly everything was closed. We did however find a small butchery that allowed us to use their toilet and in return we bought some little “hiking souvenirs”; local meat and a special artisanal herb salt. Perfect ingredients for a rewarding warm meal in the evening.
Becca and me said our goodbyes as she took the bus direction Basel while I waited for Sam to come pick me up a bit further down the road (I do recognize a pattern to how I finish my hiking days). We shared pictures of our hot chocolates and coffees from back home. Dry and warm. And I again realized how good we are at enjoying things together even if we are not in the same place.
While we didn’t get to enjoy the views along the way as hoped, we did get our aspired effortlessness. And maybe the intimate setting of paths surrounded by misty forests was the perfect place for us to reminisce and share while still frequently aweing at the trees older than even our friendship.
Day 5: Sam – Trust
From Balsthal to Roggenflue and back
By today I had almost fully embraced the weather forecast not aligning with the actual weather conditions. It at this point did really feel as if I was meant to make this experience under different circumstances than promised and truly learn to “go with the flow”. My plan for today was another section with epic views and I was prepared to not have a lot or any of that. But what I would actually come to find out is, that sometimes only the seemingly most wrong weather conditions can provide the greatest sense of magic and adventure. Trust the process even if that means that the process is a different one than the one you imagined.
And adventure was something I intended for today anyway. Today was Sams day with me. That’s how he called it with an excited shimmer in his eyes. “Today is my day with you.” As if this was a great privilege to be part of this group of selected people that hiked with me this week. Which is funny – because I myself felt so deeply honored to have those selected people near and dear to me join me on those adventurous days.
We took the car to the edge of the village Balsthal located in the Naturpark Thal. The plan was to do a looptrail that would take us past two castle ruins and over the “Jura Höhenweg”. Knowing how much Sam likes castles, this was one of my main focuses when choosing todays hike.
We started at the hamlet St. Wolfgang and immediately began to climb up to the first castle ruin, Neu Falkenstein. We couldn’t resist to have a closer look at the impressive site and explore the various former rooms and areas. Probably built in the 12 century, the castle has been a ruin since the french revolution, when an angry mob marched to the castle and set it on fire. The only part surviving the fire was the castles tower, still standing today.
Shrouded in mist, the grey stone walls had something almost ghostly about them. We looked though the former windows overlooking the valley Hinter Schloss and Hinterflue and a behind them the perfectly round mountain cirque that apparently used to be a lake back in the day, the Lobisee. Now this area is shrouded in the Legend of Lobisei.
After we explored every corner of the ruins and stood on top of the tower, we continued our hike. The trail ahead provided us with something I experienced to be quite magical; an art installation of various pieces by the artist Sammy Deichmann, made fully out of wood and incorporated into nature in a way that feels very organic and yet stunns the visitors with the unexpected. The pops of color, especially the red wooden arches reminiscent of the Japanese holy gate “Torii”, in the still barren winter landscapes were very special. The “Wood path Thal” leads from the castle to Holderbank, which we would be passing as well but we decided to abandon the installations and follow the more elevated route to reach the little village.
The trail started to go steeply upwards into the woods and we gained a lot of elevation in a short amount of time before heading back down over the foggy meadow at Warmboden and through the forest Fridethag with its tall scot pines reaching into the low hanging clouds.
Sam and me met in a time that I to this day call one of the clearest “a chapter closes and a new one opens” times of my life. He was a volunteer that I heard a lot of great stories about from my mother coming to live and work on her farm in the Spring and Summer of 2017. I had just recently gotten out of a long relationship of nine years and was in the process of completely recalibrating my life. I took on new hobbies and rediscovered old ones. One of them becoming one of my most precious passions in life – hiking. I dared, did stupid things, dared again. I got to get to know myself again and find the courage to grow and develop in this time that was also very much marked by hardship and grief. I knew that this was a time for myself and I was looking forward to it. But from the first instance that Sam and me saw each other I knew I had found a friend. Someone I can trust. I can not really explain it. I just knew. We bonded over music and film, dreams for future travels, our cats, the simple things and the personal ones and became each others dedicated Sous-Chefs when trying to cook elaborate Tanja Grandits recipes. And while I was changing and evolving, I have not felt so much like myself in a long time.
From Holderbank we began to climb back up towards the first of the Jura Chains. Passing the castle ruin Alt-Bechburg we took a moment to decide if we want to climb up but ultimately chose to move on. The crumbling walls of the ruins rose out of the fog up on the rocks and with most of the structure being hidden behind the grey curtain of mist it left us with an intrigued feeling about what we would have found up there.
The trail led us over a steep meadow up to Schlosshöchi. What would normally be a vantage point was now just a broad ridge surrounded by thick white fog swallowing all sounds except our own muffled voices. I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed; I had seen pictures of the area before. A green meadow against a dark blue sky, wildflowers growing a dozen on the lush green grass… This was very different. But as much as this wasn’t what we expected or counted on, the mystical mood soon captivated us and we found a nice little spot to take rest and eat our cup noodles and have a coffee before moving on.
The path followed along the ridge over pastures covered with a thin layer of frost, crackling beneath our feet. After passing by the sadly closed restaurant Tiefmatt and passing the Rinderweidgraben, we started the climb up to the Roggenschnarz. Stairs lead up through the forest over rocks, a short but sweat inducing climb before we ended up under a roof of ice covered tree branches. Almost reminiscent of strokes of white paintbrushes, it felt as if we entered a painting of a serene winter landscape. It was one of those sceneries I had a tough time believing is real.
When Sam still lived in Creux-des-Biches on my moms farm, before we were a couple, I spent a lot of time up there. I needed time away from the city, where so much reminded me of my past life – or at least a part of my past life – that I tried to say goodbye to. And somehow it was not easy to do that in the middle of things, surrounded by all the memories. Driving up to the Franches Montagnes felt like a relief, a sanctuary. Creux-des-Biches always felt a bit like falling out of time for me, as if the clocks stopped moving or move a lot slower; a weekend could feel like a week and I would go home recovered and inspired. Being with Sam felt the same and I think I couldn’t see for a while that it was no longer just the place but also the inhabitant that made me feel safe and at home. I admired him for his kindness, his steadiness and what to me felt like an almost unwavering trust in things and processes; much like a river simply flows and forges its way through the landscape. It is a confidence that feels both sturdy and flexible at the same time, a quiet resilience, a reassurance that has calmed my nerves and alleviated my fears many a times.
And that unwavering trust shimmered through so clearly today. Sam was in no way worried that the cloudy grey weather conditions will give us anything less than an amazing hiking day. And as we wandered though this quiet frozen forest, so very reminiscent of Narnia, it became abundantly clear that he was right.
After we reached the Roggenflue, todays highest point, we started to descend back down towards Balsthal. After a passage though the woods and over rolling meadows, the last section lead though the village before we reached the car, happy to rest our feet in the car.
As we drove direction home, the clouds slowly started moving and lifting, revealing a bright pink late afternoon sky. And I felt the trust, the ease, the reassurance. The mist can always lift and shift. And if it doesn’t, then the adventure lies in everything that we find within the fog around us.
Day 6: Leonie – Elation
From Le Bémont to Glovelier
Despite having had some wonderfully magical days in the grey landscapes, I felt a deep desire and need for sunshine on this sixth day. And I was very hopeful that I would get it; as if I could’ve predicted this desire, I planned my last solo hike in the Franches-Montagnes.
I took the train to Glovelier and from there the bus to Le Bémont. As soon as we got out of the valley at about 800 meters, we broke through the clouds and the fog and found ourselves under a clear blue sky. Sunshine flooded the bus and warmed my face and I knew I made the right decision.
The air was cold when I got out at the busstop; it was clear that the day has not yet been long enough to warm up despite the sunshine. The little trail led almost along the main road but shielded by the big Jura firs on soft meadows I barely noticed it. The birds sang their gentle morning song and I heard woodcutting machines in the distance. Arriving at the Reka Village in Montfaucon, I decided to have my breakfast on a bench with a view over Jura hills and the Chasseral in the far distance.
I started to feel a rhythm to my days by now; getting up in the morning, putting on my hiking clothes, tying the shoelaces of my gradually more muddy hiking boots and strapping on my backpack, which on one hand weighed heavy and slightly pinched in certain places and on the other hand started to feel like a part of my body without which I felt incomplete. In my current phase of life I often feel like I am lacking a rhythm and sometimes I dare say a purpose even. The days have no clear pattern and I am struggling to flow. It reminds me of my time in Byron Bay, Australia where I took it upon myself to learn how to bodysurf. Much like with surfing it is crucial to find the wave and to ride the wave and for me that always just meant to stay on it. I failed so many times. Swirling underwater, saltwater in my eyes and mouth and occasionally, for good measure, my bodyboard hitting me on the head, I would get out of the water and sit on the beach, not understanding what I did wrong and starting to question how anyone can find this a nice hobby. But then, shortly before throwing my bodyboard in the water and never looking back, I gave it one last shot. I do that, I came to realize over time. I am a lot more tenacious than I give myself credit for or care to admit. It sometimes is a grudgingly at times even resentful last try. “Argh, fine. One goddamn last time”. And more often than not, this is when it becomes wort it. When I understand why. I got the wave and I rode it. All the way to the beach. It felt like flying. So easy. The feeling of elation I felt is what I guess you could call a “natural high”. I just was, just existed. I didn’t think about it and why and where it would go. I just let it happen. I had found the flow and I went with it.
After leaving the village of Montfaucon behind me, I headed down to Les Enfers, a little village whose name always stood out to me – the underworld. It comes from the latin word “infernu”, which means deeper located and refers to the rocky valley flank of the Doubs. Over the pastures of Fond des Rondez I headed to the next little hamlet Les Sarains. The puddles on the gravel path were frozen over and, with the sunlight shining on them, revealed unique patterns. Curved lines, asymmetrical shapes and tiny cracks in the ice made it look like a piece of modern art.
I continued on, gently uphill to reach the wind turbines of Le Plain. All on my own I got to enjoy the silence and the magnitude of the landscape around me. And the knowledge, that just a couple of meters below me the world was wrapped in gray while I got to soak in bright sunlight filled me with a sense of privilege. Despite passing by a beautiful little picnic table, I didn’t stop for another break yet. I decided shortly before, that today I wanted to tackle Les Rochers de St. Brais that have called on me for a long time already. A short steep decent that challenged my fear of heights for a little moment brought me down to the village St. Brais and along the main road I reached the junction of the trail up to the rocks. It was a clearly less maintained trail, not belonging to the official Swiss hiking trail network but little carefully made signs by a group of volunteers reassured me that I am still on the right path. I knew that this could be a potentially demanding experience for me and test my limits and I think that is exactly why I wanted to do it today. Alone. The trail was at times narrow and barely visible. The countless needle leaves gave off a warm sweet scent, the foliage rustled gently in the wind.
I reached the first rocky vantage point and chose a nice tree to have my lunch under, feeling very happy and proud to have made it up here.
While I have not been body boarding since Australia in 2010, I have kept the feeling of riding that wave with me. And going with the flow and feeling that sense of elation is something I do still experience today. But I have come to learn that too many times it seems I don’t allow myself to fully live that experience. I think I gravitate towards hesitation and to question the flow, doubt the process I am in. When there is flow does that mean I am not anchored? Am I not steady in my life, as one should be at my age? Isn’t a steady rhythm the only right way for an adult? And don’t I want a steady rhythm? These days hiking taught me that steadiness and flow aren’t mutually exclusive. Anchors can be lowered into the water and pulled up and at this moment of my life I am somewhere in between those two stages. Hiking so consistently and regularly gave me the sense of rhythm and allowed me to flow and find exhilaration in the unexpected.
As I dared to climb a bit higher on the rocks and enjoyed the sunbeams, I realized that I would ultimately have to get back down to Glovelier which meant to leave the blue sky and warmth behind. I chose to delay this by as much as I could and took my time as I crossed the tree alley at Ban-Dessus. As I began descending, I started to smell the scent of the fog rising from below – that musty scent, similar to how it smells in a ghost train. While I originally planned on heading down to the Doubs and make my way to St. Ursanne, I decided against it due to the distance and thick mist I suddenly found myself in. Instead I did something even less responsible (or courageous?) and went off trail onto an unmarked path, intending to reach the train stop of Combe Tabeillon, a very familiar area that I figured I can also tackle with zero visibility. But as it often is with unmarked country- and forest paths: they suddenly disappear. And that is how I, with 16% battery, loudly singing “Last train home” by John Mayer made my way down to that train station over muddy grassland and thick undergrowth on partially very steep slopes. Following the peaceful stream of the brook Le Tabeillon, I ultimately reached Glovelier, dirt on my face and hands, a ripped pant leg and branches in my hair but with a feeling of deep satisfaction.
As I drove towards home, I thought about a book by Angaangaq, a shaman and healer from Greenland who bears a great engagement to the environment. In one of the chapters he talks about climate change and the melting of the ice in his country. He speaks to the ability of nature to adapt to new conditions; even if it might take a long while. Nature will always be able to take care of itself in the end, he writes. And if nature can, then maybe we can learn to too. And not in an egoistical, myself above everything and everyone else kind of way but rather in a way that helps us to accept and allow the flow and how to best ride the wave.
Day 7: Sibylle & Markus – History
From Les Genevez to Saulcy
Day seven, the final day had arrived. As much as my body slowly started communicating that it wouldn’t mind a break, I felt sad to have this project come to an end. I’d gotten used to this way of life at this point and enjoyed the excitement I felt every morning to get out and challenge myself, learn new things and spend times with my loved ones. But this was a worthy finish because today I would take my parents with me on a walk over the meadows of the Franches Montagnes; this time on the other side of the Combe Tabeillon.
We met in the Tea Room “Roelli” in Glovelier, with my mom coming from a different direction than my dad and me who met in the train direction Glovelier. A coffee and a croissant later, the bus took us and a troupe of loudly chattering and laughing kids up to the high plateau and the little village of Les Genevez, whose name is derived from the latin word “Juniperus” for the plant Juniper, “genévrier” in french.
We made our way out of the village and crossed the large meadow of Pré Piat. It was another sunny day up here. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue and in the distance I could see the sickle of the crescent moon. Trees many times my age stood in line left and right, as if they were the welcome comity. We took a moment to admire them, before descending through the Forêt de Montbautier via a steep and icy little incline, that finally convinced my dad to try one of my hiking poles for more stability and, when safely arriving on even ground, let him admit that it maybe was time for new hiking boots. “They are ancient”, he said, lifting up one of his feet to show the shoe sole, whose profile had completely disappeared. And I once again remembered that my parents had been on this earth a whole lot longer than me. Not that I wasn’t aware of our age difference – they are my parents after all – but sometimes, now that I am also a self sufficient adult (or so I say), I sometimes briefly forget about it. While I will always consider them first and foremost my mother and my father, they are also life companions, and over the years became friends in a way. As a kid we rely greatly on our parents, or other parental figures to explain the world to us; answering our 1’000 questions a day and indulging our every thought. As we get older that naturally starts to change and we indulge each others thoughts and philosophize about the world. And that’s how I suddenly am walking along a very icy path with the two of them, hoping they don’t slip away from me, explaining to them what a “Tradwife” is.
After having crossed the moor of La Sagne we could already see the monastery village of Bellelay. When choosing the hike for my parents, I knew I wanted to find a tour that connects to history. Both my parents love places filled with a rich and intriguing history; be it buildings, castles, monasteries, medieval villages, archaeological sites, places of power or old trees tied to an ancient legend. Bellelay was our first stop today, where such history was visible with the impressive building of the former abbey. According to a legend, the monastery was founded in 1136 by a Provost of the Moutier-Grandval Abbey who, while hunting a boar got injured and lost in the woods of the Franches Montagnes. He vowed to found a monastery there if he should ever find his way back home. After he returned home after four days in the wilderness, he made good on his promise and founded the monastery and gave it the name “Bellelay” which derives from “belle laie” and translates to “beautiful pig”. This is in all likelihood is not the most realistic scenario on how the abbey came to be but I liked it the best. Today the former abbey has found a new purpose and is a cultural center which hosts various concerts and art exhibitions throughout the year.
Bellelay is also known as the place of origin of the Tête de Moîne cheese and the location of one of their show dairies, which is another reason why I wanted to visit this region. I have loved this cheese since I am a kid not only because of its taste but first and foremost because of how it is traditionally eaten. Unlike with other cheeses, Tête de Moîne is finely shaved using a special tool, the “Girolle” which makes the cheese look like little rosebuds and as a little girl this was truly one of the most fantastic snacks for me. Sadly the museum was closed on this day but they do have a vending machine and I bought a package of special Tête de Moîne Fondue cheese for dinner.
After that we took our time to stroll through the front part of the monastery garden and admired the impressive baroque architecture of the building, the white stone walls gleaming in the bright sunlight.
Our trail led out of Bellelay and up though the Forêt de Béroye, a slightly unexpected tiring ascent in the equally unexpectedly warm midday sun. The climb was worth it though, as we found ourselves on a beautiful vast plane meadow surrounded by tall fir trees, a perfectly straight path ahead of us and a gentle wind blowing ever so slightly over my warmed up face. It somehow felt as if we were walking under a giant blue dome, the hue of the sky was almost surreal and we encountered no other people and marveled at the absolute stillness; the only sound came from our footsteps on the backroad. Our shadows stretched out almost comically long on the floor and the golden afternoon light enveloped everything in a warm glow. This fast became my favorite part of todays section; I relished the effortless path with no uphill and very little downhill and hearing my parents reminisce about the good old days next to me. I always chuckle about how they tell each other the same stories from time to time but keep finding new details and marvel with such genuineness at each others life achievements.
My mom and dad separated early in my life. I think I was about three years old and I remember very little about their time together as a couple. I don’t remember them ever really being apart either. They were just always this unit with a shared task, which was taking care of me, even if I don’t remember us living together but rather my two bedrooms that I decorated very differently; one in all shades of blue and one in bright red and orange. As I grew up, I started to understand and appreciate what a safe homely world my parents created for us as a little family despite the two of them being no longer together and being two fairly different individuals. In many ways our shared world was like the model island that they crafted together out of a wooden plate and paper mache for one of my birthdays; it had a cave, a castle, sandy beaches, a little lake and rolling hills and everything was sprinkled lightly with a hint of glitter. I adored it and could get lost in my little island world and its own history that grew with every new story.
Over a vast and very muddy pasture of whose slippery nature we were still warned about by two young farmers, we arrived in Lajoux, where the “Girolle” was invented in 1982. The village was peacefully quiet. Little ponies were grazing on the meadows and a small herd of chicken were contently clucking in someones backyard. The last stop of our hike before reaching Saulcy was the Etang de Beusses and the subsequent valley Combe des Beusses. Partially in the shadow, the little lake lay still, frozen in certain places and reflecting the afternoon sun, fractured sunbeams moving over the ice like tiny pieces of ember. There were no sounds and no movement beyond that; it was almost as if time had stopped running.
In the valley we got to discover another piece of geological history in the form of big evorsion potholes in the riverbed. Almost a perfectly circular shape, those potholes are result of the mechanical erosion of the rock by small stones or gravel carried along by the whirlwind of water at the base of a waterfall or rapids. Those potholes are created over decades, centuries or even millennia and can over that time change in both size and number; in this case however they most likely reached their final form as the river carries only little water. I was once again fascinated by how nature leaves records of those ongoing geological processes. A part of history indeed. Both my parents and me were instantly enamoured by the magic of this little valley. “Like straight out of Lord of the rings”, my dad said and my mom added that fairies might come out from behind those trees any moment.
It always feels like there is not enough time when I am in a place like this. Part of me instantly felt home. However I was reminded by an already setting sun, that we had to move on towards Saulcy and the busstop. We climbed back out of the valley and were offered a spectacular view over the mountains stretching all the way into the distance in the east. I imagined a little house on this meadow overlooking the hills and valleys. Crickets chirping in the summer, pink, blue and purple evening light spreading in the sky above me and the hooting chant of an owl telling me it’s time for bed. I could live here…
A short walk downhill and we reached the village and our busstop just in time for the departure back down to Glovelier.
History is something that grounds; the worlds history is a guide through our past, that we can look back on and (hopefully) learn from and makes us aware how ultimately everything and everyone is in some way connected. History can be touching, sentimental, scary, painful, infuriating and deeply fascinating. It is a red thread, a memory of all that was before and led to the present. It comes in the form of written words, photographs, paintings, music, artifacts, buildings, fossils, bones and the stories that are being passed down over generations.
My own lived history started with two humans that chose to create memories and make a history together. They were and in many ways still are a red thread, a constant, for me. And with every year, with every birthday I got to celebrate, I learned more about their history, their experiences, their fears, joys, fondnesses, love, hopes and dreams and how it was all interwoven to my history and the person I grew up to be. I am touched by my parents love and respect for one another which helped to make our history a happy one. One that I will gratefully pass on and tell stories about.
Day 8
Wednesday morning – my legs felt heavy, my feet sore and I had red-ish imprints on my shoulders from the backpack. I lay on the couch and examined the red polish on my toenails that had started to splinter off bit by bit over the last days. Yuki had settled down at my feet and was busy cleaning her belly.
Somehow the last days felt a bit like a dream. But I had the pictures that I proudly scrolled through on my phone while sipping my tea to proof that it did indeed all happen. Seven days, six companions later I got both reminded why I love hiking on my own and why it is such a wonderful and uniquely intimate experience with other people. And I had it brought to my mind again, that hiking is never just walking from A to B. It is not about the amounts of kilometers, the altitude meters, the speed of walking. To me it is an immersion. It is joyful experimenting along the way and a possibility to gain new perspective, it provides a safe shelter when I need it and makes everything feel effortless – even the tough climbs. It is where I trust in my own abilities and experience and where I feel true unconditional elation. It is where we create parts of our own history.
The Confident Hiker 
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