Wanderlust: A Mountain Pasture in the Swiss Alps E-Book

Katharina Afflerbach

• Herausgeber: Eden Books - ein Verlag der Edel Verlagsgruppe
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Serie: Wanderlust
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 342

Beschreibung

A young, successful woman wants out - out of her hectic city life and into the quiet life on an alp in the Swiss mountains. Over three summers, Katharina Afflerbach learns what it means to lead a life determined by animals, physical labor and wind and weather: milking goats at half past five in the morning, bringing cattle to pasture, making cheese, mowing hay and felling trees. From sunrise to sunset there is work to do, everyone must be able to rely on each other, and work and life go hand in hand. While the pull of the mountains has Katharina firmly under control, she loses her little brother in a tragic accident three weeks before her third summer in the Alps. Between mountain and valley she seeks and finds comfort in nature, with the animals and the close, cordial alpine community. She comes back strengthened, with a new view of her life and her future. This is a book that encourages you to break new ground and discover exciting sides to yourself.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Waking Up

Before

In Love • Bags Packed

First Mountain Summer

Ascent • The First Day • Uncharted Territory • The Cattle, The Madness! • Free • Moments • The Course of Events • Contacts • Phenomena • Equilibrium • DNA • Wood • Harvest • Mother’s Love and Father’s Pride • Getting By • Descent • Bye Bye

Valley Winter

In Between • Making Decisions • Alp Fever

Second Mountain Summer

There • The Same • Underneath • Sky Blue • Together • Wood Week • Fragile • Gallop • Foothold • No Chance • Stardust • Lunar Eclipse

City Winter

Turntable • Yes • Running • Reset • Underwater

Third Mountain Summer

Steep

For Flo

This story is also their story:

Family Aeby

Markus

Shepherd

Stefanie

Shepherdess

with Yves, Pascal, Livia.

in the first summer nine or ten, eight and five years old respectively

Robert

Markus’ father

Their Friends

Valentin, Peter and Christine, Hanspeter

Their Dogs

Netti and Rex

Their Cows

Belinda, Berna, Lotti, Joia, Wolgi, Sabine, Spiegi, Leila, Amsla, Wendi, Romy and their calves

Their Goats

The chamois, the black, the brown, the old, Schnauf, Caramel and all the others

Their Pigs and Rabbits

The 120 cattles of other farmers who summer on the Salzmatt

Afflerbach Family

Heinrich

My Father

Hannelore

My Mother

Sabine, Claudius, Julian, Florian

My Siblings

Rainer

Sabine's Boyfriend

Tina

Florian's Girlfriend

My Friends

Kathrin and Mareike

On the mountain farm in South Tyrol

Farmer Arnold and Grandpa

So many dear people and animals more make this story, make my story. They shape the land around the Muscherenschlund, and they shape my life no matter where it happens. I thank you all with all my heart.

WAKING UP

It's quarter past five in the morning. I wake up to Markus quietly closing the bedroom door. I count his steps to the floor hatch – there are five – and listen to the familiar melody: the creaking as the hatch opens, the dull blow as it meets the roof beam. The footsteps on the steps down are first clear, then more distant, and finally only a hint. Markus is about to bring the cows into the barn for milking, and I can stay in bed for another ten minutes. Straight away, silence returns, a deep, great silence, to which the bells of the animals on the pastures bring a perpetual serenade. Today there is no rain on my roof window, and the wind is gentle, quiet.

Eight minutes to go. I lie flat on my back. My limbs are heavy and stiff; my last yoga class was many weeks ago. Everything hurts a little, some things hurt a little more. But it's no big deal. The pain satisfies me, reminding me how my body worked yesterday, and the day before yesterday.

Six minutes to go. I'm nice and warm, and I'm not dreaming. The fact that I have to get up right away is a gift. I look forward to Rex, my faithful companion who will visit me while milking in the barn; to the brown goat who seems to love my morning massages; and to the chamois who will stretch out his neck for me to scratch. I'll turn off the alarm before it rings. With half- closed eyes I put on the stable clothes and feel my way down the stairs. My feet know the way and lead me after the last step to the left, through the room into the bathroom. Ice-cold water startles my eyes open. I'm awake.

Barely two minutes later I step into the night- which will be over soon - out and under the full starry canopy. On my right the mountain range stands black, straight ahead the sleeping valley opens. The sun does not yet send its first rays, and I can drink in the stars on the way to the stable. It's a privilege. All by myself I can enjoy this heavenly splendor, look after the animals entrusted to me and contribute to my family's livelihood - and all against this magnificent backdrop, outside in nature and in the freshest air. In my heart I whisper, Thank you.

A few days later. During the night, I wake more than once. Recently, the thunderstorms have made our cabin tremble. From the mountains, the rolls of thunder reverberated twice as violently, echoing. Only the cabin roof separated me from the weather. Now the rain is pelting down my skylight again and again, and I think about how I have to go outside right away. I hear the wind blowing around the house, lashing the beams. There's no avoiding it: I need to do the milking now. In the unheated parlor I put on the rain gear and arm myself internally. I slip into the cold rubber boots only in the stable, where the wind is already whipping towards me. When I set up the milking machines outside the cabin, I lower my head so the rain hat won’t fly away. From the corner of my eye, I can see there's nothing to see anyway. Black fog envelops the Alp. I grab the milking machines and I press on through the rain. Why am I doing this to myself? I wonder on the way to the stable. And who had the stupid idea of coming here in the first place? Other people lie out on the beach, sipping from coconuts, or just twiddle their thumbs at home. What about me? I'll get wet in the mountains somewhere at night sleeping time.

The goats greet my poor dripping form with a loud hello, and being bleating for their breakfast. Lovingly, I greet one after the other and warm myself in the still warm stable. Everything will be okay. Everything's going to be fine now. I’m glad I got up.

BEFORE

In Love

It happened very quickly, falling in love with mountain farming. And it went the way the best things in life always do: unplanned.

In spring 2013 my friend Kathrin and I donated a few vacation days to Bergbauernhilfe Südtirol (a charity to help farmers in the South Tyrol region) and exchanged our office for a stable. I was looking for a way to spend an extended period of time in the mountains, much longer than with a hiking or mountaineering holiday. It was already clear to me that I was the mountain type and not the sea type. Even when I lived for two years in Hamburg with the Baltic and North Seas practically on my doorstep, I didn’t often find myself at Timmendorfer Strand or in Sankt Peter-Ording.

I had two options in mind: I could either go to an Alp for a season and alternate between milking and shovelling dung and being a farmer, or I could hire out a mountain cabin, a kind of Alpine clubhouse. With the excursion to the mountain farm in South Tyrol I wanted to test option A, whereby the mountain farm was not an Alp, but at least a farm and at least in the mountains. How was I supposed to know if I was even made for farming? I had already seen many mountain cabins from the inside on my tours. But a farm, let alone an Alpine one – never. Maybe getting up early would annoy me. Maybe I'd get tired, of constantly cleaning up. Maybe I'd be wondering what cow had ridden me.

Kathrin and I landed on a mountain farm at 1,430 meters below Plose, an organic farm with goats, chickens and a donkey.

"You come from Frankfurt and Cologne," Farmer Arnold greeted us when he picked us up at the train station in Brixen. "And now you're coming to us," he thought out loud.

"Yes, and we can manage it," we tried to convince Arnold on the way up. Half an hour up the mountain we had time to take turns probing with questions and giving proof of our commitment and drive.

" Hopefully we can make hay this week, now that I have two helpers," Arnold told us. "But the weather probably won't play along. Then we'll go into the wood!"

That was our cue. We two native Siegerland women had absorbed the timber industry with our mother's milk. Well, we rarely liked 35 meter high mountain spruces - neither Kathrin, when she helped her father to make firewood, nor I, when I was there, when Dad and my brothers killed little spruces to build a bridge over the pond on our property. But we could tell of the Haubergswirtschaft, the centuries-old cyclical forest management principle from our homeland.

We started work as soon as we arrived at the farm. Farmer Arnold took the scythe out of the shed to mow all around the house.

"I can do that," I shouted to him, a little over zealously.

"Can you handle the scythe?" he asked.

"Yes, I know that from home," I replied, trying to make a good impression.

But frankly, I'd never mowed with a scythe before. Not even with a lawnmower. I had never actually mowed anything before. Together, yeah, loaded and taken away, that sort of thing. Handyman's work. But mowed? Out of fear for the frogs and certainly also for me, Dad, who hates lawn mowers as a matter of principle and who puts his life on the good old scythe, never let me get involved. Well, the story is quickly told. Every few meters a fence post stood in my way and I could have sworn the scythe’s power steering needed maintenance. I failed miserably. Wordlessly, Farmer Arnold took the scythe from me, and the grass was mown faster than Kathrin and I could see. Then we scraped it together into piles.

After that, it was time for the milking.

"As a child I was often on holiday on a nearby farm here," Kathrin told Arnold, while Arnold showed us the goat stable.

"Did you also milk back then?" our boss wanted to know.

"Sure," Kathrin said, "it's just been a few years."

I preferred to not say anything, because I'd never milked anything before. We listened attentively while Arnold explained to us how his stable worked. There were two areas: the large pen for the dairy goats and the kindergarten for the offspring. 24 goat ladies were to be milked, six at a time, practically in the milking parlour, so that we did not even have to bend down. Arnold lured the first six into the milking parlour with concentrated feed. "Before we start the milking machine, we must milk briefly by hand. That's how we clean the udder." The teats looked tiny in Arnold's big worker's hands. Carefully, I touched an udder for the first time. I came very close to the goat from behind, which was preoccupied with its concentrated feed. Warm, a little bit leathery, but somehow familiar. 'Not so much different from my own skin, just a little rougher and a little firmer,' I thought. While my fingers closed around a teat to elicit a few drops of milk from it, I had to swallow. ‘Am I hurting the goat? I wonder what she'll think of me if I steal the milk that's intended for her kids?'

But there wasn't much time to think. Arnold switched on the milking machine and showed us how the milk was led directly from the milking parlour via stainless steel tubes into a cooled tank. From below we were supposed to bring the calyxes up to the teats and then put them over them until they had stuck fast. As soon as our hands were free, we went to the next goat. When we had milked the first six, we opened the exit for them and drove them into a waiting area, brought in the next six, gave them some concentrate as well, and milked them. Kathrin and I grinned at each other. "Cool, right?" I shouted over to her, and we clapped our hands. After half an hour in the stable with the animals, we had forgotten the world around us. Cologne, Frankfurt, the trouble in the office, what did it matter? Now it was all about taking care of the animals and doing our job. And suddenly satisfaction germinated in me. At that moment I knew exactly what I was trying to do here - it made sense! And I was filled with the warmth and love of the animals. Yes, I know it must sound strange, because I had only seen most of the goats from behind, and I had mainly dealt only with their teats. And goats are not dogs, which align themselves almost selflessly to us humans – quite the opposite, in fact. As affectionate as a cat, as stubborn as a toddler and as unsteady as the proverbial bumblebee in the ass. And yet I was already touched somewhere deep inside and was looking forward to the following days. After milking, farmer Arnold showed us the milk tank and his small cheese dairy. "Tomorrow night, you can help me with the cheese," he announced.

We’d been here just a few hours, half a day and a short evening. But my life was about to change. I was about to change. I'd go home as someone else. I was closer to myself here, on this unknown ground, than all throughout the last few years in Cologne, Hamburg or anywhere else. For some things there would be no more room in my life, for other things a whole, sudden world of possibility. I had catapulted myself out of a gruelling office drudgery in the big city and thrown myself into a daily routine that was primarily determined by the animals and the weather. From now on my diary was out of a job, and my iPhone would be useful to me only as an alarm clock. My new colleagues had four legs and were a lot easier to handle. Instead of a suit I wore a blue overcoat, rubber boots and a hat over uncombed hair.

The next days on the mountain farm flew by. We collected the chickens' eggs from under them, went into the wood with Arnold, looked over his shoulder while he was making cheese, tore down the old henhouse, and saved the fawns from the motorised mower. We sold the homemade organic products at the weekly market and helped our host family with the bookkeeping. Using South Tyrolean eggs, we cooked Siegerland egg cheese, and stuffed chocolate bars into ourselves because we couldn't keep up with the calorie supply. We got dirty, sweated through all our pores, and slept like stones. We did what we had to do, and when we were done with one job, our boss gave us another one. We moved as much as we’d ever moved before in our lives. We were proud - and happy!

As for me, I had caught fire. Suddenly, everything was different! It was clear to me now that my torments in the office were finally over. It was time for me to set my own sails again! I was shocked that I had forgotten my own sense of independence, but also relieved that I had rediscovered it. During my time at Farmer Arnold’s, it was obviously not just my arms and legs that had become stronger. No, the few days of hard work had sharpened my eyes and energised my will. "This is boring!" my inner child had started to shout more and more often when I was frustrated in the office. "But I know how to pull a tree out of the ground with a winch and climb mountains three and a half thousand meters high on my own! And if I can do that, I can do a lot more. Say no, for example. Or stop. Or yes. Or quit.

So with option A, I had hit the mark. Nevertheless, I wanted to be certain and take a closer look at the second potential solution, a season in a mountain cabin. For the summer I booked a tour through the Ötztal Alps, which took our group to several three-thousand-meter peaks. Surrounded by rock and ice, I was fully in my element. As much as I love the forest, my heart is also drawn to the spaces above the treeline. The clear, cold air, the rich emptiness, and the feeling of having made it up here on my own, made my heart jump. But after the third evening in a mountain cabin I knew it was not the work for me. I could as easily cook, serve, clean and make beds in the city. But being outside every day, in wind, rain, sun and snow, experiencing my beloved mountains with all my senses, losing myself in the fog, sighing at cow bellies and falling asleep in the smell of hay – I could only do that on the Alp.

Back in Cologne, I dreamed big from that point on. I soon realised that I wasn't just interested in spending a summer in the mountains. I wanted to do nothing less than turn my whole life upside down! I wanted to be free. Throw aside the terrible job. Break out. Break it all up. Complete a coaching course. Go to the mountain pasture. Go into business for myself. And maybe, if I really liked the Alpine life, I could stay there on the mountain. Because I would have the freedom to do just that.

I can't exactly explain how it happened that I ended up working for a company that suited me exactly zero percent. Maybe it was because I wanted to get away from the job so much that drive to leave was much stronger than my motivation to remain. True, I’d probably thrown myself into the job too quickly, not giving it enough consideration.

I had financed my studies with a stint as a "racing reporter" for a daily newspaper, with internships at Audi, L'Oréal and the Krombacher Brewery, with summer jobs in Canada, Australia and Switzerland and, and with eleven years as a salaried employee. Fate had it in store for me that after my studies I dropped anchor at a river cruise company. I moved into a small apartment in Cologne and started earning money and paying towards my pension. Quite quickly I found pleasure in my work, in the business trips, in being on the road. I got to know many people on land and on water and became more and more industrious. Soon, I knew no more weekends or free evenings after work. Once even a part of my annual vacation had to be paid out to me, I’d got so settled in my hamster wheel. But I was allowed to call myself "Marketing Manager and Press Spokesperson" and see some of the world, participate in important meetings and represent my company nationally and internationally. That first job, which I’d wanted to try out for two or at most three years, eventually turned into a career ladder that I climbed for over eight years.

Next stop: beautiful Hamburg! Now I was entrusted with overseeing the marketing for ocean cruises, and I sailed around the world for photoshoots and press trips on ships of various sizes. But then, tragedy struck. Nobody could have guessed that the Costa Concordia would sink during my time in Hamburg. Overnight our everyday office life with all its little details and rituals - the corridor radio, the gossip kitchen and the meticulous regulation of the smoking breaks - no longer had any meaning. We closed ranks and together gave our utmost to get through that difficult time. It was a matter of honour for us to assist the affected families as best we could.

Well, my time at Farmer Arnold’s came to an end. And then I was back in Cologne , which welcomed me with a cheerful and colourful spirit. In my Veedel (neighborhood), the Eigelstein, I got hooked on the multicultural hustle and bustle and became a regular customer in the Moroccan copy shop, the Vietnamese restaurant and the Turkish green grocer’s. My building’s courtyard terrace developed into a sociable hotspot on warm summer evenings, and I began to build up my new life: the more tenacious my hours in the office, the closer I felt to the heart of the mountains. When my employer refused my statutory educational leave for coaching training, it was not an obstacle, but more fuel on my fire.

Of course I stuck to my plans and completed my training during quiet moments and on bank holidays. In winter I applied to the Aeby family in Switzerland. In spring 2014 I passed the final exam of my coaching education and quit my job, apartment and yoga course. And then I went to the mountain pasture.

Bags Packed

"You definitely need a good hat," Stefanie advises me on the phone just before we start. "You can't hear a thing with a hat. You must have your ears clear. And you'll need rain clothes!"

Fortunately, I don't know yet how right my new boss is with her last hint, otherwise I might have surrendered before I even start. I sit on the movers’ boxes in my apartment at the Eigelstein near Cologne Central Station. The day before yesterday I gave a little farewell party, and tomorrow I vacate the apartment.

It got full, the overnight bag, although I only packed the essentials. But because I don't know how often I'll come down to the valley to run errands, I take with me all the necessities of life such as cotton swabs, contact lenses and sun cream, enough for four months. I have packed in three batches: besides the bag for the Alp, there is a backpack ready for the hiking tour that I would like to do with Kathrin; the rest is mothballed.

This move is only one of several in my life, but a very special one. Because I have no idea what the Alpine summer will do to me. My rough goal for afterwards is – to become self-employed, but where, I dare not yet commit myself. Will I be in the mood for the city again after four months in nature? Will I still be city-compatible at all? Am I going to stay in the mountains? No, leaving the apartment seems like the right decision all round. So I'm free to make my own choices. Right now, I’m open to accepting whatever inspiration the Alpine summer will bring. I don’t have an apartment lease hanging around my neck, pulling me back to my old life. I've sold or given away much of the little I own, and what's left will hopefully fit into the empty nursery at my parents’ - that'll become clear tomorrow.

During her lunch break a friend comes by and we drink the last carton of juice on the sofa. Excitedly we imagine aloud what it will be like on the Alp, and we chat about my plans for afterwards. "After the Alp, I'll definitely start my own business. And if that doesn't work out, then I can take a job again," I summarize. I don't have any doubts or fears at this moment. Since my training as a coach, I regularly ask myself what the worst thing is that can happen. And, with regard to my planned business start-up, that really isn't much.

However, I don’t ask myself this same question about the Alp. I will go through the four months, come what may, even if, to be honest, I’m going to the mountains with rather little preparation and previous knowledge. During the interview in the winter the children of my Alpine family showed me photos and told me a lot about the mountain, Salzmatt. But I don't have a clear picture of life and work up there, and Farmer Arnold’s farm in South Tyrol was a year-round operation, not an Alp that is grazed only during the summer. But I've decided it's good the way it is. The four months are manageable. When the going gets tough, I'll be able to grit my teeth, I know that. I want to go to the mountain pasture, and I will. I want the Alp to serve as a transition from my old life to my new one. "I think it's so great that you're doing this," my girlfriend encourages me once again as we say goodbye. "This is gonna be great!"

The next morning at seven o'clock I take up position on the windowsill, from where I keep an eye on the parking space reserved for the move.

When I moved in a year and a half ago, what happened was exactly I didn’t need on a day like this: first, an illegally parked car in the narrow one-way street blocked the parking space ordered from the public order office, and then the moving truck blocked the whole street until the authorities had located the owner. That wasn't funny back then, especially since I had already experienced this game on the same day when I moved out of the Hamburg apartment in the morning.

I quickly abandon my observation post, jump down the stairs and place myself in the parking lot as a human bollard, just to be safe . I patrol up and down. Look up to my old home on the first floor. Sprint to the bakery on the corner to get rations for the moving team. And that's when it happens: in my brief absence, a fat limousine has made itself comfortable in the middle of my parking space. I'm looking at the clock. In seven minutes, the truck will be arriving. Jesus Christ! And heaven actually sends them just at this moment, the black angels from the public order office of the city of Cologne, to whom I promptly complain of my predicament. They clatter away through the little kiosks and bakeries in the neighborhood and finally bring the parking sinner to the space, who drives off with his tail between his legs. He will never know that my helpers came by sheer fortune, not with the truck but with the van, and that the space for manoeuvring and loading would have been enough despite the offending limo. "Oh, we must have caught the wrong one," the driver greets me as I approach him about his small vehicle in the large parking space. "But you don't have that much, do you?"

In the end, everything actually fits somehow, both in the Sprinter and in my parents' house in Siegerland. I use the last three days in my home country to visit friends and the hairdresser. And of course, on the last night before my departure there is a full moon and no chance of sleep. Saturday morning, just after five, it's time: I tiptoe into my mother's bedroom, let her take me once more in her arms, and wake Dad, who takes me to the train station. As I get on the train at 5.54 am with bag and baggage, the sun rises like a white fireball.

Sometimes you have a hunch that a little thing's going to turn out big. Then you get the butterflies in your stomach and the rustle of a notion in your head. I felt the same way when I had the idea, not just to travel to the Alp by bus and train, but to walk the last part of the way. When I discovered the Via Alpina during my online research , my heart jumped and I knew I had to do it. The long-distance hiking trail leads over five thousand kilometers through eight Alpine countries and over 14 passes. I figured out how to start in Meiringen in the eastern Bernese Oberland and walk west as far as Gstaad, which is about twenty kilometers south of the Salzmatt as the crow flies. And as luck would have it,my friend Kathrin wanted to accompany me.

In Frankfurt we get on the same ICE train and race along to Bern, where I deposit my Alpine luggage and get a Swiss SIM card in the Swisscom shop. In the late afternoon we reach Meiringen and march to our accommodation: we secure accomodationin the attic of a stable and are thrilled by this romantic start into the adventure. Fascinated, we inspect old milk cans and dusty tools piled up in front of our room door. "Look at this!" we call to each other in turns, showing each other articles from farming times past.

But now, after the long journey, we are wracked by hunger. The only thing we can afford is a kebab in the Istanbul Snack Bar at the train station – for a double-digit amount. Per serving, of course. Yes, we’ve really arrived in Switzerland. A drink of radler, here called Panasch, and Pringles for dessert, don’t come cheap either, but they’re essential. On the way back to our hostel the evening sun bathes the Haslital in a golden glow, so that the ears of the cows on the pastures shine. Full of excitement and confidence in what is to come, I go to bed.

Seven days of hiking lie ahead of us. We will overnight in Grindelwald, Lauterbrunnen, Griesalp, Kandersteg, Adelboden, Lenk and finally in Gstaad. On the very first day we have 1,350 meters of ascent, 23 kilometers and eight hours of walking on our schedule. Sunshine and the last meters of fresh snow accompany us on our way over the Große Scheidegg. Our foreheads burn, our knees ache. In the evening, a few Swabians serve us local apple juice on the balcony of our six-bed dorm in the youth hostel.

The next day we have 20 kilometers, seven and a half hours walking time and 1,100 meters of ascent ahead of us. We start climbing Kleine Scheidegg early in the morning in the shade of the Eiger’s north face. However, the higher we get, the more we are plagued by snow. We sink partly up to our knees and need double and triple the effort for the last passage. Kathrin arrives at the top first, and involuntarily becomes a celebrity. When some Japanese tourists see her coming out of nowhere, they think she is the next Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner and pull out their mobile phones. I'm also allowed into the photoshoot, before we reward ourselves with Coke and Mars bars. But gradually, we begin to feel uneasy in the face of all the snow. On the descent to Lauterbrunnen we think back and forth about how far we to continue. The next stage would lead us across the mountains and over a spectacular pass, the Sefinenfurgge, and we would not sleep in a village in the valley, but in a camp in the mountains. So in the evening we rent snowshoes in Lauterbrunnen to be at least a little better prepared. But the reasonable and urgent advice of the experienced tourist information staff in Lauterbrunnen and Mürren win out. In our hostel too we are strongly discouraged.

"The danger of avalanches is simply too great. You really shouldn't cross the Sefinenfurgge with all the fresh snow now," warns our hostel mother. So we simply replan our route, book a second night in Lauterbrunnen, and climb the Schilthorn with our snowshoes the next morning.

We have the mountain all to ourselves. Everything around us glitters and sparkles in virgin white. There are no traces left from the Inferno ski race in winter except for a few orange fences, as we force ourselves up the steep race track. I can hardly believe that I'm really doing this right now: spontaneously climbing the 2,970 meter high Schilthorn under winter conditions, when just a few days before I was in Cologne with my lawyer at my ear. Yes, I would have walked alone to the Alp. But without Kathrin at my side I would never have reached those two peaks.

The snow will bring further changes to our plans in the next few days. Instead of crossing the mountains, we have to make our way around them. We cover the additional kilometers by train and bus until we rejoin our original route in Adelboden. In between, we even have time for a stroll through Interlaken, a visit to a café and a spell in a sauna.

Ultimately, the last 21 kilometers from Lenk bring us to our destination of Gstaad. We check our budget and the menu and decide that we have truly earned a Swiss cheese fondue.

Now I have to get used to being alone. I have to say goodbye to Kathrin, who was there when I fell in love with mountain farming and who accompanied me on foot to Gstaad. Until Bern we're still on the same train, then I get off and get my various belongings from the depot. I'll sleep in Bern before going on to the Aebys’ tomorrow. When I take the skilift down to the youth hostel on the Aare, my knees tremble.

In the last hours before the Alpine adventure really begins, I want to clear my head once more. It's pushing me out, out of the dormitory, away from the fidgety backpackers. The Aare is only a few meters away. The famous outdoor swimming pool directly at the river is full to the last place. Young and old enjoy the sun and water and simply let themselves drift in their pleasure. 'I don't think I'll get to see an outdoor pool this summer,' I think, imagining the four months of Alpine pastures ahead of me. And since I’m warm-blooded, probably no mountain lakes either. I'm drawn to the wall on the bank, from where I can watch the slackliners balancing across the Aare. A few onlookers marvel at their daring. One of them actually makes it all the way from the entrance on the bridge to me on the wall by the shore without falling, even though the River Aare surges and rushes under him. I am happy for the rope walker, I feel the pride and the fulfilment that I read in his face.

Now's a good time. I'll open the diary Kathrin gave me. 'This book will accompany you through your new life on the Alp. Fill it for us with wonderful stories,' is the dedication from my friend. There's tears already. I must think of my mother, who always said goodbye to me on my many journeys with the words: "Travel for me! See the world for me!" I do, I will, and I will try to share my adventure with all those who have supported me.

Two more stages, then I'm with the Aeby family. 'Fribourg,' I think on the train, 'I'll be in Fribourg soon! Remember 1998, 16 years ago, when we studied there, two friends and I? 'Memories come up, memories of another life, so easy, so happy, so carefree!

What fun we had! USA or Australia, we didn't care where our fellow students spent their semester abroad. And it was certainly a coincidence that in Bourguillon we were put up in the dormitory of the Baldegg Sisters, the "Sisters of Divine Providence", outside the town, on the other side of the Fribourg gorge, which the post bus is racing along.

A moment of goosebumps. I’m making a perfect circle. The bus stops in front of "our" confectionery from that time. The displays in the shop window still look as tempting as ever. Unfortunately our money wasn't usually enough for the éclairs and millefeuilles, and I see myself ogling the windows and calculating my funds. Then we drive more leisurely, because it is quite narrow here, past "our" dormitory and "our" chapel, further through the rest of the village, and as behind it the meadows and pastures begin, the circle is closed, and I have the feeling of entering a new orbit.

At the bus stop two villages away, Stefanie, Yves (nine), Pascal (eight) and Livia (five), a four-person reception committee from my summer family, await me. They welcome me warmly and they all try to speak High German so that I can understand them. We load my luggage into the trunk and get in. The children crawl onto the back seat and listen eagerly to what we adults have to say in front. Before we move to the Alp the day after tomorrow, there is work to be done on the valley farm.

"You'll get to know everything," Stefanie encourages me as we drive along the gravel road.

Arriving at the farm, the children take me and drag me into the stable. It's milking time. Yves and Pascal already know that I will be responsible for the goats on the Alp, and explain to me, outdoing each other, what to do, that their cheeks only glow: where the concentrate is, how much hay the goats get, where I replace the milking machine, where the milk goes. I have to learn all this in a hurry, but up on the Alp things will be different than down here: the stables, the procedures, the ropes.

When we walk over to the house after milking, I also greet the four-legged family members, Rex and Netti.

"Rex has been sitting in the trunk of the cheese van for a few days now because he's afraid that we'll forget him while we’re moving," Yves explains to me.

'So another one ready for the Alp,' I think.

While I stroke Rex so that he gets to know me better, his mother Netti pushes herself from the side to my legs. For me the two are at first glance two black, medium-sized dogs with a few spots of paint here and there in their fur.

"How can I tell them apart?" I ask Yves, who looks perplexed and can't answer the question at all.

'My goodness,' he must think, these are two completely different characters, not to mention the obvious differences in gender, height, weight and facial features. Only a city slicker could ask such a stupid question. Or a German. Or someone who won't survive the Alpine summer.'

I will be able to answer my thoughtless question myself the very next day. Netti is the loving, gentle soul, and Rex is the king. The king of the mountains! And my faithful companions, my best friends on the Alp, angels in my heart.

At dinner the boys continue to outdo each other with their reports of the mountains. "It’s good you've already caught Alpine fever because it's about to start again," laughs Stefanie. "We've been up there many times in the last few weeks to fence and prepare, and now it can't go fast enough for everyone." The boys, who are already of schooling age, can come to the Salzmatt prior to the summer holidays only on the weekends and one night during the week, otherwise they stay with the grandparents on the yard. But we'd better not bring that up right now. Their euphoria is simply too beautiful to look at! Just after the kids go, I go to bed too. Tomorrow I'll start work at half past five.

Carefully, so as not to wake the children, I tiptoe through the dark house next morning. I want to be sure to be on time! When I enter the stable, Stefanie and Markus are already there.

Stefanie would like to take the opportunity today to show me goat milking and the morning washing of the milking equipment before we move up to the Alp tomorrow. I try not to be too slow, but here in the stalls everything is so completely different to the milking parlour, which I got to know at Farmer Arnold’s in South Tyrol. It's especially tight, and before we can start milking, we first have to clear away the dung from the last twelve hours among the animals. I'm always stumbling over myself or getting in the way of myself. After only a few minutes I'm damp with sweat. And then of course I want to do everything right, because my boss is watching me. She is not even strict with me, but on the contrary, she is full of understanding and is used to training a new employee every year. But I am annoyed with myself, because I know that every beginning is difficult, and I still put myself under pressure.

When the milking is done and Markus brings the milk to the cheesery, Stefanie shows me how to wash the milking dishes. To top it all off, there is a vinegar wash today, which is brushed and scrubbed even more extensively than before, and during the entire process the engine of the cow milking machine runs in the tiled and concreted room in which we are working.

It all just comes at once. I can hardly understand Stefanie and what she is telling me. With this brush you clean this hose, with the other one you clean that hose. There seems to be a separate brush for each hose. And everything looks the same to me! It would also be nice if the milking equipment of cows and goats could somehow be cleaned identically. But no, of course not, of course the cow stuff is disassembled and cleaned differently than the goat stuff. And then one has to be rinsed for ten minutes and the other for five minutes at the milking machine. I surrender, and Stefanie comforts me with the fact that she will explain everything to me again on the Alp. I'm just going to watch. Silently Stefanie finishes the complex washing. Every movement of hers is perfect. Will I be able to do that one day? I don't believe it. We haven't even arrived at breakfast yet, and we’re already finished. And I'm still not on the Alp!

I'm sure this venture will be anything but easy. The term "polepole" comes to mind, which means slowly. It’s what the mountain guides said to Kathrin when she climbed the Kilimanjaro a few years ago, it’s what she said to me when we were on the Schilthorn a few days ago, and it’s what life is all about. In peace lies strength. One step at a time. Seven at a jump – that only seems to be for the professionals.