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Richie Richter, who grew up in what was then Karl Marx Stadt, East Germany, works as a night clerk in Switzerland and dreams only of getting back to Canada.
Alone each night, he tends the darkened lobby at the Hotel Matterhorn Focus in Zermatt, wearing a cotton shirt with the red maple leaf front and center. Some nights, I come down to join him, and Richter explains how he isn't really a German in spirit but Canadian. He serves me meat, cheese and breadsticks and tells me about Halifax and how, next time over, he is going to travel the route from New Brunswick to Vancouver, and it's going to be fantastic.
Zermatt is a place for dreamers like Richter. It pulls in workers from Portugal, from Germany and beyond, each bringing a longing for Alpine gentility, fresh air and a touch of glamour. They help incubate the dreams of the visitors who come each winter to experience the unique pleasure of skiing in a region too remote even for pollution, anchored by a village where cars are banned and everyone moves on foot, in tin can electric taxis or, weather permitting, on skis.
Each morning, the first golden sunlight reflects from the chiseled east face of the Matterhorn. At some angles and in some lights, the mountain looks like a seated Buddha. At other times, it mimics the Great Sphinx. At night, as the dark Alpine sky becomes a sea of stars, the black, silhouetted mountain seems to nod off, once more a slumbering giant.
It was the allure of the mountains that turned Zermatt from a poor village without regular medical care, cut off in the winter even from the rest of Switzerland, into an international destination. First came the British climbers – for the Matterhorn (first ascended in 1865) and the other major peaks – then those who simply wanted to look at the mountains and take in the healthy Alpine air, and then, starting in earnest in 1960, the skiers.
Add this: Because it sits at 5,346 feet, Zermatt always has snow. Factor this in: Although Zermatt caters to an affluent crowd, it's down to earth and has accommodations almost anyone can afford (such as Sparky's, a popular hostel). This combines for a fascination that is part practical but that borders at times on the mystic. A devotee of Zermatt is committed – a believer.
Ski into neighboring Italy
Daniel Dehling and Bruno Schmid are dreamers with wings. Whenever the winds are right, they unfold their paragliders from backpacks, harness up and fly off the side of a mountain. Nine years ago, I flew from the Rothorn (10,341 feet) hitched to a paraglider with Schmid – an experience so thrilling, yet so obviously treacherous, the first thing I say when I see him this time is, “Bruno, I'm amazed you're still alive.”
Schmid, now 45, smiles and says, “There are no bad old paraglider pilots.”
I decide to test that, but rather than chance fate twice, I volunteer my wife to fly with Schmid. She, in turn, nominates me as her wingman, and one minute after she runs off the mountainside, harnessed to Schmid, I follow, dangling in front of Dehling. We fly in formation and swoop low to amuse the skiers, then we climb to glide by the Matterhorn, glowering in eternal indifference to our left. After 20 minutes, we land in tandem in a garden of fresh snow above the village railroad station.
Nearly everyone who lives in Zermatt, or visits it, takes skiing and the mountains seriously.
Each morning, a great migration takes place. This occurs from even the oldest and most stately hotels – such as the Zermatterhof, which is owned by the community – and the Mont Cervin Palace, which belongs to an old Zermatt family. Masses of visitors and off-duty inhabitants, their ski boots clanking, the snow crunching under their feet, head toward the lifts. As the village empties, the mountains become crisscrossed with their tracks.
Regular upgrades to the lift system have finally linked all the mountains, so it is possible to ski from one end of the Zermatt slopes to the other – straight into neighboring Italy, where you can get a good and relatively inexpensive Italian lunch. It's quite an international adventure, and many of us do it.
As with all Alpine resorts, the bars of Zermatt, positioned just before the final runs end, pick up the skiers on their way home from slopes fallen into blue shadow. A joyful, inebriated noise continues until after dark, but gradually, even the stragglers return to the village.
There is nightlife, but in the main the village goes to bed early. Nighttime is made for dreamers – and here it leaves them in peace until the sun arrives once more to throw its band of gold across the east face of the Matterhorn.
