Let’s build a mountain
The mountain
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The mountain

I drive up the Furka Pass, looking for traces of the Rhône Glacier. Didn't it start here in the past? I remember it well from my childhood: magical blue ice, endlessly glistening in the sun. 'His Majesty,' my father would always say whenever he spotted the glacier.

I continue driving, but still no glimpse of the glacier. Only traces of what was once a glacier: weathered stones, dull and grey. Where is that grand blue ice mass? So majestic and reflecting such resilience and strength.

I’m almost there. I reach the last hairpin bend before Hotel Belvédère, a once-vibrant hotel, now hauntingly empty. 

As I direct my gaze to look beyond this sad sight, to catch a glimpse of the gracious glacier, I'm startled when I see only white cloths. Wrapped ice. Like a bandaged wound. It appears to me a final, desperate attempt to hold on to the past. To preserve what once seemed so timeless.

10 years later, I drive up the Furka Pass again. Further, and further, and further. Against my better judgment.





© Frederike Kijftenbelt