Trans Swiss Trail – A thousand Steps

You are never more in control of your own time than when hiking.

Nobody and nothing forces you to do anything (except maybe the expected distance or the already booked hotel room). Could it be that this is why you feel so liberated? That a kind of addiction to this develops? That you want to do this again and again?

As always with these philosophical morning thoughts, I don't have an answer (a pattern that consolidates in the course of growing older) or, at best, a half answer. All I know is that I deeply regret not having discovered the blessings of long-distance hiking sooner.

Anyway, with or without addiction, we need to move on, unfortunately already towards the end of the Strada Alta. But subsequently, the road continues for a few days, all the way to the south, almost to Italy.

Today, however, steps are announced, many many steps down into the valley, something that does not match my ideas at all. After all, the travel guide speaks of romantic sections, we let ourselves be surprised:

The most romantic but steepest section of the Strada alta. The old mule track leads over huge rock pulpits and through lonely chestnut forests to the unique open-air staircase above Pollegio. Final spurt to Biasca, in the Leventina valley.

Almost kitschy

The Strada seems to be making fun of us because the sky is painted in the deepest blue ever. As if it wanted to tell us that we can't just leave her for no reason. But we have no choice, blue or not.

While the valley remains in the shade, the mountain peaks protrude into the immaculate azure, not a single cloud, not even the smallest, is visible, simply a picture for artists. Almost kitschy we would say, but of course we love such kitsch.

Picture Book Path

It is not only the blue sky promising an extraordinary day, I know it from my own memories (the last staircase down into the valley is written down as a less good experience). But we are not there yet, we take the path under our feet, not too fast, beauty must be enjoyed.

So we cross tunneled paths, covered like a pergola, enjoying the feeling of being in the right place again. Sometimes a stable along the way, with flags and perhaps no longer a stable but a converted holiday home.

As I said, it can't get more beautiful. The paths lead mostly along the green and yellow slopes, mountains on the left, mountains on the right, in between us hikers on heavenly paths. But you recognize the hand of man, well-kept meadows, orderly stone walls along the way, now and then a house, a stable, a hut.

Nature has long since had to give way, it has been degraded to what man allows it to be. One would wish more often for wilderness, real wilderness, where only nature itself determines what may be and what not.

I remember images from other countries where man has not yet intervened. In Laos or Burma or Cambodia. But there, too, it's only a matter of time before land is cleared, come hell or high water, to make room for the growing population.

It doesn't take long to arrive at one of the oldest treasures in Ticino: the 13th-century Romanesque church of Sant'Ambrogio in Segno. It has a semicircular apse and interior and exterior frescoes from the 14th and 15th centuries.

Of course we miss the treasure, with regrets afterwards.

As I said, enjoying art is also a question of desire. Because occasionally, nature and man unite to form a perfect symbiosis.

And another village with a church

Cavagnano follows after almost an hour. After the small town, the path turns into a beautiful path. If you are quiet, you may hear deer rustling in the leaves. However, they are rarely seen well camouflaged.

Now one village after the other follows, mostly dominated by a church, the center of the Catholic faith towering over everything else. The village features numerous wooden houses, here the old architectural style seems to be still present.

The travel guide mentions that in the area of Cavagnano the fields are cultivated just in the vicinity of the village. So, where the path to the fields has become too arduous, the young forest is already overgrowing again the cultivated land that was previously laboriously wrested from the wilderness.

A classic recapture.

Through heather grass, gorse and ferns

So we just sit down, lulled by the scent of the trees and bushes. There's no rush, we just sit, gaze, eat and drink, no words, just silence and maybe a bird in the bushes.

The path becomes rougher, the steps covered with heavy stone slabs are the worst. Above our heads enormous, tree-covered rocks are towering. The chestnuts become more and more imposing. Under their spreading branches, the path leads sometimes steeply upward, then laboriously downward again, one doesn't know where to.

Old trees and Hobbit ghosts

The old chestnut forests are now the predominant tree species. We seem to be walking through a fairy-tale forest, the Mirkwood Forest from the Hobbit saga comes to mind. But where are the thirteen dwarves, where Thorin Oakenshield, where Bilbo, the hired thief?

No one to be seen, but perhaps they are hiding, wanting to remain what they are - ghosts, brought to life by the immortal J. R. R. Tolkien. But they are felt, they have long been part of our world. If they did not exist, they would have to be invented.

The Saga of the quest for the Lord of the Rings epic

This reminds me of a fantastic story (while walking you have a lot of time to remember things).

Since the middle of the 70s, the epic The Lord of the Rings has been at the top of my personal literary canon. The corresponding story of my quest for the three volumes might have come from a cheesy novel.

The first volume "The Fellowship of the Rings" - an accidental find in a hotel in Kathmandu, probably left by another hippie. The hectic search for the two subsequent volumes in Kathmandu – without result.

And so begins my own fantastic saga of the quest for the Lord of the Rings.

The first big city on the way back – New Delhi. Indian people have always been great readers, so it surely would be out of the question that the two books could not be found. But the expectant question in bookstores and libraries is always answered the same way: "Sorry, sir, no Hobbits!"

But sometimes luck comes beckoning in strange places. Because in the giant city - even then with many millions of inhabitants - the street vendors are omnipresent. And indeed, on top of a pile of pretty fucked up book antiques, "The Two Towers" look me in the eye. Rarely have I pressed a book in such a pitiful condition so intimately to my chest.

The fact that the search for the third volume is a miss seems to be part of the game, which in the meantime has become a daily fun.

Then maybe more luck in the next major city - Kabul. At the beginning, not entirely surprisingly (imagine today in Taliban Afghanistan) no success. But should "The Return of the King" remain a dream that will only come true at home? Shortly before my departure, the heavens have mercy and provide me with a completely unexpected gift: "The Return of the King". Of course, in just as pitiful a condition as volume two, but I don't care. I really would have liked to hug the vendor.

So in summary: Volume 1 – bought in Kathmandu, Volume 2 in New Delhi and Volume 3 in Kabul. Still the most sacred books in my library.

So, let someone claim that fate or coincidence does not play tricks.

But then the endless descent

As expected, after many hours the descent down into the valley begins. It means the end of the Strada Alta, the wistful farewell to a dear friend. We look back once again, at the meadows and woods bathing in the afternoon sunlight. We will miss them, but tomorrow follows a very different stage. Very long and very flat.

After almost two hours, the next mountain village is reached in Sobrio. The Vallone gorge follows shortly after, then the long descent to Pollegio. Over stony paths and huge rock pulpits, the descent is gentle and then ever steeper. Four and a half hours later, the old mule track arrives in Pollegio through lonely chestnut forests and via a unique open-air staircase.

Biasca welcomes us (we hope so), but the route through the city is anything but promising. We inwardly turn up our noses at so much civilization, but that's the way it is. There is a lot to learn about the village, as always we know little about it:

The Church of Saints Peter and Paul sits majestically enthroned slightly above the village center and offers a clear view of the entrances to the three so-called Ambrosian valleys, Blenio, Leventina and Riviera. Built in the 11th century, it is one of the most beautiful Romanesque monuments in Switzerland. Biasca was not spared from natural disasters in 1513 either. In the Middle Ages, the site was the scene of one of the most devastating landslides in Swiss history: when Monte Crenone thundered into the valley, it destroyed many houses, killed 600 people and created a dam. This burst in 1515 under the pressure of the dammed lake and caused severe damage up to the Magadino plain.

The Hotel Della Posta is quite okay, our standards are not high. During dinner, it quickly becomes apparent that the chef is not exactly Gault-Millau. Funny enough, you have to prepare the beds yourself, a rather strange surprise.

But it doesn't matter, we have arrived, once again.

 

Matching song: Lynyrd Skynyrd—Gimme three steps

And tomorrow the trail continues ... along the Ticino to Bellinzona