High Flying in Switzerland

I’ve never been much of an “outdoors” person.  Hiking is exhausting, camping is terrifying, and fishing is uneventful.  I have allergies, which means watery eyes and a runny nose whenever I walk outside.  And most irritatingly, mosquitos love sucking on my sweet skin, and I always find the red itchy spot before I find the bug.  I have always preferred the heated indoors, sitting under a warm blanket with green tea in hand.  However, Switzerland might have changed that.   

Interlaken, Switzerland is a place of natural beauty.  Mountains surround the town, so tall that they peak into the clouds.  Dark trees grow up their sides, coated with layers of white snow.  Two rivers run through the town, leading to larger lakes on the outskirts.  The water is neon blue, like the color of artificial mini-golf ponds.  It is blue and clear at the same time, with the rocks and fish visible from above. 

It is a quiet town.  Very quiet.  And empty.  At times, it felt like my friends and I were the only people in town.  Sidewalks are empty, most shops are closed, and cars only occasionally pass by.  It is easy to spot another group of travelers, because their voices carry from streets away.  There are no street performers, no beggars, no waitresses advertising their restaurants at the front door.  It is quiet and empty, always, whether it be a Friday night or Sunday morning. 

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The buildings remind me of gingerbread houses.  They are coated in color with unique shutters, iron balconies, and Christmas decorations (even in February).  Most houses have pipes poking out of their roofs, with smoke puffing out before the sun even comes up.  It is the image of any cheesy Christmas movie – still, serene, untouched.

I planned my trip to Interlaken with a European travel company, Bus2Alps.  It started with an overnight bus ride, leaving at 8 P.M. and arriving at 7 A.M.  I usually dread long car rides like this, but the spacious, lay-down seats were easy to sleep in.  Upon arrival at the hostel, I went back to bed immediately, setting my alarm for 11 A.M.  My first excursion was at noon, meaning before I’d even get a chance to see the town in the daylight, I’d be jumping out of a plane. 

I am a thrill-seeker in some aspects of life, a wimp in others, but I have always wanted to skydive.  For weeks leading up to the jump, I would imagine being at 15,000 feet looking down at the earth.  The thought of it scared me so badly that I’d have to quickly think of something else, but that fear also made it more desirable.  I wanted the thrill of plunging towards the earth, to my unlikely but possible death – a feeling that not much else can conjure up. 

As I walked towards the plane, I noticed the one seat left meant for me.  “Seat” is a strong word, because my “seat” was the ground, leaning on the door.  Immediately, I knew what this meant: I’d be going first.  The plane climbed slowly, a few feet per second, and I saw Interlaken for the first time.  Mountains overran the horizon, for as far as the eye could see.  Some were covered in snow, others completely green.  I kept thinking it couldn’t get more beautiful, and I kept being proven wrong.  It felt like just another plane ride, looking out at the view, so no part of it was scary.  There were no nervous sweats, no butterflies, no churning stomach.  It was only peaceful.

“If you see a white light, go towards it,” said my instructor, “and I’ll meet you there.”  He swung the door open like it was a minivan door he’d opened a hundred times, and the steady hum turned into a violent roar.  My jaw dropped and I began to shake, sitting only inches away from the sky.  The wind rushed by as loud and as fast as a tornado.  For a moment, I didn’t want to do it anymore.  The nerves bubbled up in my stomach and I was about to throw up, and then suddenly, I was falling.

My first thought: cold.  Fifteen thousand feet above Switzerland in February is well below freezing, and I was wearing clothes for a pleasant day in March.  My ears burned within a second, crackling with the pressure and icy air. 

My second thought: violent.  Skydiving isn’t “floating.”  It isn’t “cascading” or “gliding” or even “soaring.”  It is fast and forceful.  It is falling at 120 miles per hour.  That is faster than a hurricane and a major league fastball.  It is falling the height of The Leaning Tower of Pisa every second.  I have never felt wind hit me so fiercely.  It had the power to restrict my arms, to puff up my cheeks and take my breath away.  In that moment, I had no control, but I was a product of how the wind chose to move me.   

My third thought: wow.  My body had finally turned from facing the sun to facing the ground, and I’ll never forget what I saw.  I couldn’t scream and I couldn’t smile; I just lied on the wind, in complete awe of the earth below me.  From the ground, it seemed like there were 10 mountains surrounding me.  From the sky, hundreds.  Snow engulfed the mountains with thin lines of the land exposed, like veins pumping the blood of the earth.  Rivers intertwined with each other in a tango.  From the ground, everything was so big.  Trees, valleys, rivers, mountains.  It was impossible to take it all in.  From the sky, everything was connected.  It was an image that I’ve never seen before, like looking at the earth in an IMAX theatre when I had only seen it on polaroid film.

In my free time, I visited both of the lakes surrounding Interlaken.  The walk to Lake Thunersee (Lake Thun) was about two miles from our hostel.  It started through the town, by the shops and restaurants.  Then, the pavement turned into a dirt pathway through trees.  The closer we got to the lake, the denser the trees were packed in.  Roots started to overtake the path, and the skinny, tall, leafless trees turned into spruce conifers, so thick that they were difficult to see past.  The rain came in waves and the bottom of my pants were soaked, but it didn’t bother me.  There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

The water was glass, completely still except for the few swans that left a trail of ripples as they swam by.  The cloudy sky and blue mountains were reflected perfectly, like another world was captured in the water.  Small sailboats lined the shore, so still that the water didn’t even recognize their presence.  A sliver of sun peaked through the sky like the clouds captured a lightning bolt and wouldn’t let it go. 

It was completely silent, and we were alone.  I took a deep breath.  Something about Interlaken air seemed fresher, cleaner, purer.  There was no smoking or car exhaust. It didn’t even feel like a town, but a piece of God’s creation, too pristine to be touched by human hands. 

Lake Brienzersee (Lake Brienz) was a mile and a half from our hostel, in the opposite direction.  “Interlaken” means “between lakes,” and the whole town is placed between these two landmarks.  Interlaken is only 2.6 miles long, an easy hike to do in a day.  The walk to Lake Brienz was very different than that of Lake Thun.  We walked through a different part of town, with mostly hotels.  When we reached the river, we saw houses lined on the hills for a mile.  They were all small and colorful, but very separate from each other.  While the boats at Lake Thun were small and family-owned, the boats parked in the river leading to Brienz were huge.  They were fishing boats and commercially used boats, meant to fit over 20 people. 

We stood on a cement dock that protruded into the lake.  It was cloudier than Thun, so the views were more hidden.  The water was aquamarine, and the swans were replaced by kayakers in the distance.  The water was as cold as ice, burning my fingers at the touch.  The mountains at Thun were separate from each other and came to a point, while at Brienz, they were connected.  It looked like one extremely long mountain that stretched across the landscape. 

It was a different kind of beautiful.  Thun seemed to open you up to the world while Brienz closed you off from it.  The mountains at Thun were spread apart, and it was easy to see past them.  The world unfolded, both upwards and outwards.  Contrastingly, Brienz was laid out like an ocean sound.  The mountains in the distance enclosed the part of the lake I was at, making a small gate for the water to flow in and out.  While I knew there was endless lake past those mountains, it was so cloudy that I couldn’t see it.  The mountains were hugging our little part of the lake, holding us in tightly.

In Switzerland, I changed.  I discovered a version of myself that I’ve never seen, one that finds solace in nature.  I didn’t want to be comfortable; I didn’t want to be warm or dry inside a hostel room.  I wanted my allergies to act up, to hike through mud, and to get bitten up by mosquitos.  All because what I was experiencing was greater than the few unpleasantries.  The beauty of Switzerland is unparalleled — a timeless and awe-inspiring gift from God.