Traversing the Alps, realm of the gods by Christopher Solomon
IT is a rare but real phenomenon that mountaineers can sunburn the roofs of their mouths. I know this because I think I have just done it, standing atop the 14,019-foot Finsteraarhorn, crown of the Swiss Alps region known as the Bernese Oberland.
My jaw has been unhinged long enough for the snow glare to singe my palate because (a) I have been gasping desperately for oxygen in the stingy air since our group left at dawn to ski-climb 4,000 feet toward the summit; (b) for the last hour, I've been slack-jawed, walking within one misstep of a void that would make a mountain goat queasy; and (c) all week I've been aaahing my way through a Switzerland that few tourists ever see — skiing past prickly peaks with slopes smothered by ancient snows, and without a single twee cowbell in sight. Only in Europe, birthplace of the grand hotels, would a skier in the middle of an ice-smothered nowhere find a lodge that could sleep 100-plus people, with electricity, full kitchen and beer on tap. When I crest the last flight, I find a giant sundeck filled with Germans playing cards and drinking radler, a mix of beer and lemon-lime soda. That night, the large dining room is a babel: English, Spanish, French, German, Dutch. Each ski group eats family-style at long tables. The food is simple but hearty, and after a hard day it tastes as if it deserves a Michelin star. Helicopters drop deliveries by giant cargo net a few times a week.
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