The Furka Pass

I thought that, once I had gone through the San Gotthardo tunnel, it would be clear sailing west on the other side. Boy, was I wrong about that! The tunnel, about 15 miles long, is a major feat of engineering. Amazing. After I found the turn-off to the fabled town of Andermatt (known for high altitude skiing), I headed west again. The next surprise was having to cross the Furka Pass. If I had examined the map a little more carefully, it wouldn’t have been a surprise. The narrow road, sometimes one lane in width, ascends from a flat valley, snow-covered peaks on all sides, to an altitude of 2,400 meters. That is not only over the tree line, it’s in the range of eternal snows and glaciers. The scenery was breath-taking, but it was a harrowing experience. There was plenty of traffic going both ways: cars, busses, camping trailers and lots of motorcycles and bicycles. (Those poor guys, huffing and puffing for hours on end up those mountains! You couldn’t pay me enough to do that.) There were countless hairpin turns and blind corners. One had to be alert every second to avoid colliding with a passing motorcycle, running down a bicyclist (puff, puff), or careening off the mountain. With all this mountain driving, I am now the master of the stick shift! The drive was so nerve-wracking that I felt sick by the end of it and nearly lost my breakfast.
The descent on the other side eventually became more gradual, passing through a number of charming alpine villages, then a few larger towns like Brig. One also crosses the linguistic boundary, where French predominates. This is the valley of the Rhone, which flows west into Lake Geneva, then south, eventually emptying into the Mediterranean. This route has been the way of counquerors; Hannibal (with his elephants), Julius Caesar, Charlemange and Napolean all passed through this valley. After Sion the valley broadens and the road became a freeway again. In the mid 1980’s I taught in a summer program in the alps above Lake Geneva and I know this area very well. Soon I saw the names of the places that were familiar to me: Martigny, Les Diablerets, Aigle, Leysin. At Villeneuve the lake comes into view -- and a spectacular sight it is, dominated on the eastern end by the massive Dents du Midi and the Alpes Vallaisiens. The northern shore, the Lavaux, is covered with vineyards. Fine wines are produced here, but not enough to export, so everything is consummed locally. The landscape has a grandeur and a sweetness to it. Soon I drove passed the Chateau de Chillon, the famous lake-side castle visited by Byron and Shelley in 1816, Montreux, Vevey, and finally Lausanne, the capital of the canton of the Vaud. The city is built on the mountainside and is one of the most confusing places to get around in. Even though I know Lausanne fairly well, it took me a long time to find the Gare Centrale (the central train station). My friend, Dr. James Gordon, lives near the station. It was so good to finally arrive at my destination and greet my old friend. We hadn’t seen each other for six and a half years. It was a very warm day. In the evening thunder storms rolled in. The crash of thunder is dramatic in the mountains, but a more cacaphonous event was yet to come: this was the day of the European soccer tournament final, taking place in Vienna. It was Spain vs. Germany. Spain must have won because evey Spaniard in Lausanne came down to the Centre Ville about 10 PM, blowing horns, screaming, waving flags and making a god-awful racket. They take their football (=soccer) very serious here. It went on until midnight, then finally died down.