The Rigi is my white whale. Ever since I’ve visited in Switzerland, this mountain has been ever-present on the horizon and on my mind. I have wanted to climb it for three years.

Armed with optimism and determination, it was finally time to tackle this peak. 

Rigi has an odd shape for a mountain. It juts out of the earth like an isosceles triangle, with a steep west-facing slope, and its back gently slanted towards the sun. On this slope, I can see deep forests that break into a meadow about two-thirds of the way. The crest looks like a wall of rock crowning the top. That was our destination.

Hiking from Küssnacht to Rigi Kulm

Sanna and I set out on Sunday morning with a leisurely summit in mind. The route we would hike is 9 km long and would have us climb 1 200 meters. Our plan was to make good progress early, while it’s still cool, and pause at Seebodenalp to cook our lunch. This would mean that the shorter leg is saved for after we eat. 

The overcast morning offered us enough cool to tackle the lower slopes at a brisk walk. This soon slowed down to a rhythmical pace as we entered the forest. Here, our path knit tightly about itself as it carved up the steep slope. 

I enjoyed being immersed in the forest. The past few weeks’ warmer weather had invited the birds out to sing. We spent the next thirty-minutes being serenaded by all kinds of birds cheering us on our climb.

Passing through a frozen alpine forest

We broke through the trees at Seebodenalp to find that we were in the thick of the cloud. Since we were chasing the sun, we decided to push ahead instead of stopping here for lunch. As we traversed the meadow, dalmatian spots of snow flanked us. Soon our trail was slick with ice, and we fished out our microspikes.

Then we entered the most surreal frozen world.  

It began with a few frozen droplets dangled at the trees’ tips. The ice spread along the branches and the tree trunks, and extended to the mossy floor and the lichen-covered rocks until every bit of the forest floor was iced over. 

I paused to wonder at this weird phenomenon.

Never before had I seen spokes of ice that all faced in the same direction, as though an arctic wind had crept down the mountain during the night and cast everything in stone. 

Nothing moved here or made a sound, except for a troop of eager hikers cracking the ice with their microspikes or stabbing at it with their hiking poles. 

A break in the clouds

Sanna and I were zig-zagging up. On one of the zigs, the sun peered through, extended its slim fingers to stroke the treetops. At its touch, the icy grip seemed to disintegrate and crackle in the air as flakes fell to the ground. 

It was a strange sound.

As we stepped out of the cloud, it began to happen all around us. There was a cacophony of crackling and creaking. Splinters of ice were raining about us, catching our hair, landing on our clothes and on our bags. The sun danced off this summer-like rain and we all paused to soak it in.  

In the distance, I could see the frowning face of Pilatus shouldering the sky. The rest of the mountain was submerged by the thick-bellied clouds we just passed through. Pilatus and the Uri Alps in the distance looked like tall islands bursting from the ocean floor. 

After a long pause, it was time to push the last stretch to the top. My legs were heavy and my knees were shaking, but Sanna’s motto kept ringing in my ears. 

“This is hard, but we can do hard things.”

We were so close. I counted 1 836 steps until we reached the ridge that would lead to Rigi Kulm, and I could go no further.

Cooking in the Great Outdoors

Cooking our own lunch outside has become a ritual both Sanna and I enjoy. In fact, it is almost the highlight of our day.

After climbing Rigi, we hunted for a sun-facing spot to settle down. We picked one not too far away from the passing mountain trains that had just the right slope to support our backs while we lay there soaking up the soft spring sun.

We set to work. Sanna cooked the soy filling and I sliced the rest of the ingredients for our mountain tacos. We are beginning to get the hang of cooking outside.

I love the philosophy of outdoor cooking. It is rewarding to trek through the mountains to sit down and make your own warm meal. Of course, it’s lighter and easier to carry ready-made sandwiches on a hike, but there is something so wholesome about cooking in the outdoors.

It seems so natural and allows us to take pause and just be in this landscape a little longer.

We lingered here, sipping up every bit of this moment before responding to the conductor’s call to catch one of the last trains down to Art Goldau, and back home.