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.