Driving past Geneva and its neighboring villages, one spots two glimmering white globes and tower at 1,677 meters above sea level, serving as both a weather observatory and protector of the radar antenna of the Swiss air navigation service.
“That’s where we will go tomorrow,” my husband said the other day, as we drove through the Jura mountains, the white globes reflecting the setting sun. “We will hike up to the two white balls and big d***.”
With our mission to La Dôle in mind, we zig-zagged up a steep alpine road to the Cuvaloup de Crans restaurant. A pitched sign at the foot of the mountain warned hikers to not approach herds of cattle too closely, as nearby wolves cause unusually aggressive behavior. A gentle reminder that we were only visitors within nature’s vast pastures.
“Madame,” my husband asked one of the Cuvaloup’s employees as she served the first batch of clientele, “This hike up la Dôle…is it very steep?”
“Ca va,” she replied, brushing her hand through her short white hair, “It goes up, then down, then up again, then down.” Her analysis seemed reasonable.
Once upon time when I lived in France’s Savoie region, I told myself that I would use the opportunity to become a real mountain woman. I admired those who could hike for hours on end, those savoyards who learned to ski at age three, and swam in the glacial lakes during the coldest winter months to improve circulation. I was faced with only one minor problem: a gut-wrenching fear of heights.
I tried skiing three times, once accompanied by a guide, and soon realized that the time spent putting on ski boots and the subsequent pain of walking in them, coupled with the thrill of hurtling down a mountain without being able to comfortably grip the wooden poles beneath my feet, while three- and four-year-olds sped past me left and right, was not something I particularly enjoyed.
“It’s like checking yourself into a slaughterhouse,” my former Kenyan colleague once said. We bonded over our distaste in skiing in a country where the activity often sparked office small talk.
“How was the snow last weekend?”
“Fan-tastic! Fresh- not too firm.”
I simply did not understand ski culture. Nevertheless, I yearned to explore the mountains in my surroundings. Hiking seemed less daunting.
We were not alone in our journey to the top of la Dôle mountain. Families with small children as well as experienced hikers equipped with trekking poles and moisture-wicking fabrics stood far ahead of us and closely behind. The farther we hiked from the world below, the more frequent were our “bonjours” to the few and far between. Isn’t it funny how we avoid one another on our daily subway commutes or weekly errand runs, yet hiking uphill on loose gravel somehow brings us closer together?
Forty-five minutes into our walk, we had yet to find the “down” bit of the trail the woman shared with us earlier. “Was that woman a viking?” I thought to myself, huffing and puffing my words over the sounds of Swiss cow bells. Gazing up, I saw what appeared to be enormous soccer balls, ready to be struck with a powerful kick off the mountain top and into the sky. We skidded our way along the dusty path, passing fellow hikers beginning to turn around and visualize the progress made from the steep trail below.As we climbed over the final rocks to the summit of la Dôle, we were greeted by a herd of cattle, grazing in front of the view of Lake Geneva from above. Their eyes seemed to scan us as if they knew we were hiking novices from out of town.
“On l’a fait! We did it!” This hike lasting shortly over an hour left me feeling as if we had climbed Everest. Working towards a goal, no matter how small, feels invigorating. As we stood overlooking the panoramic views of Lake Geneva, we felt that we could accomplish anything. Our hike at la Dôle sparked an interest in discovering more adventures. Could I one day master the art of the Swiss mountain woman? If I were her, what would I do?
First and foremost, I would probably eat cheese. Which is exactly what we did following our descent down at the Cuvaloup de Crans restaurant, sharing a long table made of tree logs with fellow hikers. I ordered in true Swiss fashion malakoffs, a dome of fried goodness filled with oozing cheese, named after the Battle of Malakoff during the Crimean War in 1855. The story goes that following the war, Napoleon III asked his cook to feed his troops, famished after 14 months of siege. The cook, perhaps a Swiss mountain man himself, fried cheese, and the dish was bestowed the title of Malakoff in honor of the battle.
