At night - no wonder that the rain once again gallops over the roof as if on horses' hooves - I finally decide on an alternative route via the Sattelegg.
So I am going to take the Postauto to the turnoff for the Sattelegg pass and then hopefully find a suitable hiking trail.
The original route for today's stage would have been a little different. So one more day with a route that is somehow strangely laid out. I would have liked to pass the Stöcklichrüz, but before that many kilometers straight ahead to Lachen? Ridiculous.
Length: 23 km, Ascent | Descent: 1100 m | 680 m, Hiking time: 6 h 50 min
The alternative route to Einsiedeln looks a little different, but is no less attractive:
And a hiking trail indeed
After a breakfast in the village bakery (my host did not offer such), the Postauto leaves on time at 9.34. The chauffeur promised to let me know when the road to the Sattelegg pass branches off.
He's a very nice guy inquiring about my route and assures that there is indeed a hiking trail over the pass. That' s some positive news. The ride through the many narrow curves is familiar to me, not long since my last snowshoe hike up there.
Not long after leaving the Autobus, my feet sink into the mud. The thunderstorms of the last days have left traces. But after not even 5 minutes I am standing on a hiking trail, but this is more like a washed out creek bed than a path.
No matter.
At least I am greeted by a couple of goats, they are apparently very happy to meet a visitor.
Suspicious looks and nasty remarks
The road is strangely quiet, I cannot hear any engine noise, only from further up the sound of construction machinery penetrating the morning. It seems as if the road is closed for vehicles. Fine with me.
Further up, the sounds get louder, and sure enough, a group of burly men are busy resurfacing the road. I, friendly as ever, nod at them and greet, and receive a few rare dumb looks in return.
They cast glances at each other, I can almost make out what's going on in their small brains. I suspect about the same as yesterday, also at a construction site, as they told each other: "Now these people are crawling out of the holes again, the rain has stopped."
Somehow comforting that in this SVP canton apparently not only the foreigners are despised and hated, but in general anyone who does not belong to them. Not surprisingly, no foreigners are to be discovered in the bunch of workers.
But let's leave that alone, if I want to get angry, I'll stick to Trump's rednecks (who apparently exist in our latitudes as well).
But I need to think about that later.
Lucky
The further up the boggy path I go, the more the effects of the thunderstorms become visible. I feel like I'm in a jungle in Central America, a green hell where everything lives and grows and sprouts, where everything is damp and slippery and somehow eerie.
Everything smells of moisture, of mold and decay, not as it normally does, of dry leaves and pine needles, of grass and wood. A strangely repulsive forest, in which the rain has torn deep trenches. Sometimes the path is missing, has been washed away, I have to climb over torn planks, have to be hellishly careful not to slide down the slope.
If I had passed through here during the precipitation, I surely would have faced problems. Perhaps, in spite of everything, luck has remained faithful to me and mercifully ordered me to the Linth plain during the worst thunderstorms.
But eventually the forest stays behind, the countryside opens up, the top of the pass no longer seems far away. And there are my more or less constant companions again, a herd of cows grazing peacefully in the meadow, sitting on the ground, chewing their cud and recud with relish until the grass finally has the required quality.
The Sattelegg Pass summit
Thanks to the non-existent traffic, I don't mind walking the last kilometers to the top of the pass on the road. At least my feet stay dry then.
There is a lot going on up there. The restaurant is open, many tourists have driven up from the other side of the pass. Some are standing in front of the barrier on the road, obviously angry that a warning about the closure had not been displayed earlier, i.e. in Willerzell at the Sihlsee.
Now the motorcyclists are standing there, annoyed and outraged, and have to ride back the same way. I explain to them the reason for the closure, but this does not reduce their frustration. We agree that it is another one of those Schwyzer foolish acts. How funny it must be to show a few out-of-towners who's boss in the house.
If anyone now gets the impression that this canton is not one of my favorites, he is right. But I will come back to that. The coffee, however, and the almond croissant in the restaurant are first class. Nevertheless.
Towards the Sihlsee
Shortly after the top of the pass, a path branches off that leads down to Willerzell. It is in fact a path for mountain bikers, but I don't care. Apparently we have special trails for mountain bikers, but no such trails for hikers. Strange times.
A few minutes later, a few violently puffing bikers cross my path or overtake me at a rapid pace. I have long since gotten out of being annoyed by bikers on the hiker trails (others are not so gracious, preferring to swear off hiking in general), they are simply there now and will not go away. So it's better to put up with it.
The e-mountain bikers, however, are a different chapter. Also on that later ...
And surprise, surprise, the sky finally seems to have mercy on me, showing me its blue face. The valley approaches, slowly but surely. My left knee wishes to go home now. A church tower appears, with red roof, so it seems from afar
Coffee chat with locals
Perhaps the small café on the main street in Willerzell offers the opportunity to get rid of a few nasty thoughts about this bloody canton. I plop down on the first available chair under a parasol (it's indeed needed for the first time in days) and order coffee and cake (and thus the Corona belly will never disappear, but never mind).
I offer my parasol to an elderly lady, apparently looking for a shady place, and a long and amusing discussion develops. She, however, comes from the canton of Zurich as well, but lives in this area, so she is competent to judge her guest canton.
The waitress is obviously bored, so she sits down with us, a genuine citizen of Schwyz. And immediately there is no more anger, I am happy about the openness and the natural wit of the girl.
We bypass - as it is done nowadays among friends and relatives - the difficult topics of the pandemic and discuss instead the various suppliers of Einsiedeln Schafböcke (for strangers: a famous pastry that is only offered in Einsiedeln) and their different qualities. It is pressed upon me that there is only one really good supplier, and that is apparently the bakery "Goldapfel".
Okay, I'll have to remember.
Across the lake - in flight
I spend far too long sitting with my new friends, not noticing that the sky has turned dark again. Damn! In order to reach Einsiedeln before the big splash, I have to hurry. However, this means that I have to cross the endlessly long bridge over the Sihlsee. No words about my knees for a change.
I don't know exactly when that darn bridge was built, probably at a time when the automobile represented the only and ultimate means of getting around, in any case one forgot that occasionally there's the odd weirdo who wants to cross it on foot.
So there is no sidewalk, you have to press close to the fence, especially when larger vehicles pass at the same time, you pray to God that all drivers are sober or not blinded by the sun.
The Black Madonna
The effort was worth it, panting heavily and a little cursing at the folly of the bridge builders, I reach the other end of the bridge. Now only the last hill is missing and the church towers of the monastery appear in the distance Einsiedeln .
First, I pass through a long building belonging to the horse stables. The monastery is famous for its horse breeding.
I quote: In the stables of the Einsiedeln Monastery, the oldest stud farm in Europe, Einsiedeln horses have been bred for over 1000 years. The "Cavalli della Madonna" were appreciated for their elegance, good character, swinging gait and robust health.
The three remaining mother mare lines (Quarta/Klima/Sella) belong to a cultural and historical heritage of national, even international importance.
It's not the first time I've been here, so I stride with quick steps, though once again admiring, past the beautiful horses and arrive at the long staircase that leads up to the monastery entrance.
And surprise, my hotel is across the street, a stone's throw, I have arrived. And again, my heart rate monitor shows 17 kilometers and 6.5 hours, despite the abbreviated route. Also no wonder with these many café and other rest breaks.
The Einsiedeln Monastery
My time as a devout Catholic lies a few decades back, but that doesn't mean that a monastery like Einsiedeln's can't still leave an impression.
After visiting the Goldapfel bakery and buying additional weight of all kinds of pastries, I make a detour to the church. A mass is in progress, as always I am impressed and also a bit touched by the compassion of the faithful. They hang on the priest's lips, some give the impression that prayer is their last hope.
For many visitors, the Black Madonna the real goal of their journey. I quote:
The now black face and the black hands of the Madonna, as well as the baby Jesus, were originally colored. Over the decades, the smoke and soot from the many candles and oil lamps constantly burning in the narrow and dark Holy Chapel darkened them, finally turning them silver-black. Back in the 17th century people simply referred to it as the "Black Madonna from Einsiedeln".
I am quiet as a mouse while walking with measured steps to the altar (not like once in the Milan Cathedral, when in the middle of the reverent silence my cell phone blared off, of all things with Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix). The furnishings are of unearthly beauty, as in most Catholic churches.
Even if one is aware of the dubious display of divine splendor (just think of the financing, which was largely provided by the faithful), even as a non-believer one sees the art in it. That is enough to feel a certain emotion again and again.
I am less moved later at dinner, pizza and red wine, in front of me on the wall one of the most terrible paintings in a long time. As if I had to be punished for my utterly unchristian thoughts in the monastery ...
Matching Song: Jimi Hendrix - Purple Haze
And here the march continues ... to Unterägeri
