IT WAS AROUND 4PM when I returned to Lungern
station. Rasputin was waiting for me, with news and solutions.
The news was not good. At the landslide, the
railway was more than cut. A new geography existed there. The land that the railway had
been built across had blown outwards—not unlike the north face of Mount St. Helens
when it erupted laterally in 1980—and the land above it dropped vertically like
someone whose chair has been pulled out from beneath him. The forest that had been above
slip was still standing, but now 100-200 meters lower than where is had been only seconds
before. The tracks, the catenary, the signals, and the right-of-way of the railway was
nowhere visible—it had been blasted out sideways and now lay entombed in the deep
tangled mass that covered what had been the roadway another 200 meters below.
More bad news. A car had made it through the
drop zone with the ground buckling around him. The shaken driver reported that another car
had been following him at that moment and had disappeared from his rear view mirror, and
that he had just passed two other cars moving in the other direction and did not know
whether they had gotten through.
And a solution. Although diesel train service would
not operate after Tuesday on the line, it was expected that electric train
service would be restored at least as far north as Lungern. Trains would run south via
Brünig Pass and Meiringen and then west to Interlaken in time to make the tight
connection with the IC express in Bern. American guests in the north side villages of
Kaiserstuhl and Lungern could take the first morning (6:30AM) train and
arrive in Zurich Airport on time. Rasputin had it all arranged. Providing all the
connecting trains were punctual—and Swiss trains pride themselves on
punctuality—we could expect to be in Bern two minutes before the InterCity
express departed for Zurich Airport.
Part two of the solution: the Swiss Federal
Railways agreed to meet our train in Bern and expedite our group’s transfer to the
waiting IC express. Yes—if necessary—they might even hold the
"unholdable" express a couple of minutes so 80 Americans with luggage could
clamber aboard.
Rasputin had done well. I thanked him and told
him I would be back at the crack of dawn Wednesday to guide the group the
long way round to Zurich Airport. I hopped on my bike and dropped down the hill to the
Landeshaus. Then, with my bike on my back, I climbed back down the old goat path in the
fading light. I reached my Sachseln apartment as darkness fell.
Swiss TV was all about the landslide that
night. Calling the hill "The Mountain of Death", the news reported that three
persons in three private cars were missing and presumed buried under the mass of debris
that had shot out from above. There were few eye-witnesses: the lucky driver who had
stepped on the gas and just made it through, and a farmer cutting hay in the bottom lands
of Giswil who watched the side of the mountain knock over his barn placed just a little
too near the hillside.
* * *
TUESDAY’s news wasn’t very reassuring.
Early assessments found no apparent cause of the slide. The weather had been warm and dry
for some time. In spite of its steepness, there had been little erosion on the heavily
planted hillside. The railroad would be out for weeks, perhaps months.
The road was another matter. It’s being
out meant a torturous sixty-mile detour on mountain roads for traffic traveling between
Sachseln and Meiringen. People who, for instance, lived in Lungern and worked north of the
slide couldn’t get to work. The hundreds of tour buses and private cars bringing
paying visitors into the heart of Switzerland might go elsewhere. Loss of the road meant a
real threat to the region’s economy. Switzerland mobilized its troops.
I spent Tuesday being reassuring. Staff
meetings in person and by telephone arranged all the group movements Wednesday. While I
would shepherd the 80 guests from the south side of the slide the long way round to the
airport, other staff from the north side would lead north side guests to Zurich and pick
up the next 130 arrivals. I saw my greatest challenge as getting from the north side
around the landslide and up to Lungern train station by 6:15AM.
* * *
WEDNESDAY at 5AM I slung my knapsack into the
back seat of my colleague’s little car. In full darkness not yet hinting at dawn she
drove me south from Sachseln into Giswil and then, following my directions, along narrow
farm roads across the flats. There at the base of the hill the Wanderweg sign
reflected her car’s headlights. Laughing heartily, she wished me good luck and
watched me turn my flashlight on and disappear up the old goat path.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER I emerged from the woods
and started across the field leading to the Landeshaus. My plan was to hitch a ride from
somebody from the country motel up to Lungern.
Coming toward me was a
Swiss man about my age. He was surprised to see me emerge from the forest. I knew where he
was going: he lived south of the slide, but his employment was on the north side. We
greeted each other and he asked me about the trail conditions. I asked him where he was
coming from. He explained he lived in Lungern and his wife had just dropped him in front
of the Landeshaus, and, if I hurried, I could catch a ride back to Lungern with her. I
hurried.
MY WATCH SAID IT WAS 5:45AM. The sun was coming up when she dropped me at
the Lungern train station. It had taken me 30 minutes to get from Giswil
to Lungern, only 15 minutes longer than if trains had been able to get
through. The clock on the Lungern station platform still said 10:13. The
station was still dark. No trains were waiting. But I was early—fully 30
minutes earlier than I expected. I imagined that during the next
half-hour Rasputin, several guests, and our train would all show up at the
station.
Rasputin showed first, appearing starched and
proper and punctual. He greeted me—but was not surprised to see me so early, despite
knowing the unusual route I had to take. He explained to me that the Swiss army was
putting through an emergency steep dirt road bypass around the landslide between the
Landeshaus and Giswil. It would be available for use to those on official business
only—people who absolutely needed to travel from one side to the other. The army
would use its four-wheel-drive Pinzgauer troop transporters as emergency buses to
carry people across the detour until the road was improved enough that regular buses could
run between Giswil and Kaiserstuhl.
While Rasputin talked, my guests began
filtering in to the station, dragging their luggage. But so far, there was no sign of our
train. It was 6:15 and I began to get nervous.
AT 6:25AM the phone rang in Rasputin’s office. A wave of his hand
called me to join him. The plan had changed. Trains would not be coming north of Brünig
Pass. Stations north of Brünig-Hasliberg would be served by railway operated buses, which
would take their passengers to meet the trains at Brünig. This service would start
immediately. The buses were underway.
6:30 came and went. 6:35. We were officially running
late. 6:40. Still no buses. 6:45. My guests were pacing
nervously. 6:50. Rasputin was on the phone. 6:55.
Nothing. 7:00. A bus! But 30 minutes late. We’d
never make our train.
Our guests clambered aboard. Rasputin waved at
me again. He understood the gravity—these people don’t go home today if they
don’t make these connections. We’re a half-hour late and the
railroad won’t hold that IC Express in Bern. That will cost us another
half-hour. We’ll arrive at Zurich Airport just as our flights home are
departing. The guests also know what this means—they’ll be staying in hotels in
Zurich tonight instead of sleeping in their own beds. This landslide and the
railway’s inability to get them to Zurich Airport will cost them an average of
$130-$150 per couple. Some tempers are rising. Some want somebody else to pay.
Everybody’s fidgety. Me, too.
Rasputin, too. But—and he promised
me—he will phone each station where we must make rail connections: Brünig-Hasliberg,
Meiringen, Interlaken Ost, Spiez, and Bern. He will explain our emergency and will appeal
to the railway to hold our connections for us. He will do his utmost for us. But we must
hurry. Then he pushed me on the bus.
TEN MINUTES LATER, at Brünig, we made our first change to a waiting
train. It pulled out at 7:15AM for the descent of the Brünig hill south
into Meiringen. Arrival: 7:28AM. Change to a waiting train. Departure:
7:31AM. Next stop: Interlaken Ost. Arrival: 8:03AM. Cross-platform change
to waiting train. Departure: 8:08AM. Arrival Spiez: 8:28AM.
Change platforms to catch the waiting express to Bern. Departure: 8:33AM.
We’re still late. It takes 30 minutes to get to Bern. Our IC Express
for the airport leaves at 8:45AM. This train dare not be held.
Swiss railways pride themselves on punctuality.
On time means not late. It also means not early. Our train would not be on time. But our
engineer would make up as much time as he could. I looked at my watch as we pulled out of
Thun: 8:45 AM, and we were still 20 minutes south of
Bern, and our IC Express should be right now pulling out of Bern. I knew it. Our guests
knew it, too.
AT 8:55AM the conductor found me. I should have everybody ready for a
quick change in Bern.
* * *
Acrid smoke and harsh squealing told us our
train was braking hard into Bern station. It came smoothly and abruptly to a stop at 9:00AM.
Half-a-dozen uniformed platform personnel took position at the four doors of our two cars.
Across the platform from us—panting impatiently, imperiously—was our IC Express,
now 15 minutes late, waiting for foreigners, waiting for tourists,
disrupting the system, making Swiss late for work, challenging the railway, testing the
nation.
The run to Zurich Airport normally takes 91
minutes from Bern. Our IC Express—20 minutes late out of
Bern—arrived at the airport on time. All guests made their flights.
The system had held.
Vetter Family Photo by Lisbeth
Vetter, May 1992
On the IC Express, the conductor showed me his
written order commanding him to hold his train for us. The exceptional directive had come
from the railway’s head offices in Bern, but—the order showed—the original
request had come from a sleepy station on a secondary line in the Alps from a minor
railway employee—Vetter, Hans, stationmaster at Lungern.
* * *
Hans Vetter helped me
and 80 other Americans when we were running out of time in 1987. Now Hans is running out
of time on his back in a nursing home in Switzerland and I wish to God I could help him.
BACK TO PART ONE—
EDITOR'S NOTE: Hans Vetter died December 5, 2002, in the Lungern nursing
home, with his family at his side. His relationship with the author is proof that travel
brings people together who would otherwise never meet, and that travel enables human
understanding to cross oceans and cultural boundaries. It can also lead to broken hearts.
