Style of hiking huts varies

LENK, Switzerland – Lights go out at 10 p.m. on the dot, and the following morning breakfast is served from sunrise until 7 a.m.

The red-and-white checkered blankets must be folded according to Swiss military tradition: lengthwise first. The wash room is about 41 degrees and its melted glacial water even colder.

But the “hardships” of hiking from one Alpine hut to another are easily outweighed by the rewards – the shrill cry of marmots, the sharp silhouettes of mountain goats on a narrow ledge, the deep blue of a gentian, awakening to a landscape turned suddenly white with snow, and ending the day playing cards huddled around the oven.

The Swiss Alpine Club lists 153 of these huts on various hiking routes. Including private huts, which are sometimes run by ski clubs and other associations, there are more than 300 mountain lodges ranging from “comfortable” with showers and four-bed rooms to simple unguarded shelters.

The fun begins halfway up the valley. Two-and-a-half hours out of Lenk, an Alpine resort town in the Bernese Oberland, after walking along a stream, past a massive waterfall, grazing cows and tiny villages, you arrive at Iffigenalp, a picturesque Alpine meadow at 5,200 feet. Here you find a cozy, Swiss inn whose roots go back to a turn-of-the century spa for those in need of fresh air.

The crisp autumn air carries appetizing whiffs of regional specialties. The inn’s enthusiastic new owners offer sorbet of Alpine roses, cheese fondue, and heusuppe – literally “hay soup,” made from mountain herbs steeped in bouillon and hay that is removed from the broth before it’s served.

At the annual “chamois evening” in late September, guests dance to music from an oergeli – a miniature Swiss accordion – and eat dishes made with meat from chamois, the small goat antelope of the Alps.

“You can even dance with the local hunters,” says innkeeper Helen Gfeller.

Gfeller’s specialties are cheeses and butter made from unpasteurized milk at a neighboring dairy. “My guests adore this butter,” she says.

Two-and-a-half hours farther up, you reach Wildhornhuette at 7,600 feet. In the foyer there is a pungent smell of dirty socks and wet hiking boots. Hundreds of fur-lined waterproof galoshes and a primitive stove tell of cold winters when the rest of the cabin is closed off and this serves as the day room. Inside, hikers slump over their cards and drink warming cups of tea.

Outside, the snowfall has turned into a full-blown storm. Willy Romang, a mountain guide-turned-lodge keeper from Gstaad, is a bit grumpy.

“I had 80 reservations for tonight, but most have canceled due to the weather,” he says. In the end about 20 hikers show up.

At exactly 6:30 p.m., Romang serves lukewarm lumpy polenta accompanied by meat stew – typical hut fare. Chatter about hiking routes and the weather fills the room before the guests start drifting away to get ready for bed.

Romang’s last check-up just before lights out provokes some mumbling of “stricter than kid’s camp.” There is some quiet giggling on the bunk beds before the snoring sets in. The room sleeps 20.

The next morning, because the snow has covered most of the red-and-white trail markers, hikers are guided by piles of stones known as cairns up a narrow slippery ledge into a moonlike landscape. Once the clouds lift, the panorama is stunning and even the otherwise dangerous crevices of the Chirchli glacier shine in the sun.

Up on the pass, the view is yin and yang – white on one side and gray, rocky landscape on the other. Descending, you jump from rock to rock before the landscape opens up to a wide vista.

Several hours later – and after a last steep ascent – you reach Wildstrubelhuette at 9,200 feet. If the sunset is breathtaking, the hut’s interior is equally so. After serving homemade hazelnut-and-pear pie topped with a thick layer of whipped cream, the guardian fires the ancient stove in the 1927 hut.

Until its renovation and extension last year, this part of the lodge was solely used as winter retreat. The original Alpine flower etchings still decorate the window sills and the old signs on the cupboards read “first-aid pharmacy,” “games,” and “emergency food” – a reminder of when the hut was unguarded and hikers brought their own food and drink.

“The old hut just was not working any longer – to get to the outhouse you had to work your way through 10-foot snowdrifts in the winter,” says lodge keeper Heinz Steiger, who “wanted nothing more than being above ground” after 15 years of working underground as a mining geologist.

He began running the hut last year with his wife. In the winter, it is a key leg on a popular ski touring and snowshoe route.

Later he serves barley soup, green salad and wild mushroom risotto with slivers of Swiss speck (uncooked bacon). In the morning, he serves fresh Birchermuesli cereal, homemade bread and quince and gooseberry jams.

“So far, we have fed 3,000 hikers with our homemade jams,” Steiger says proudly.

“We have seen a real generational change,” said Bruno Luethi, who oversees the huts at the Swiss Alpine Club. “Previously, a lot of guardians had become a bit inflexible and uncooperative after spending 20 years up on the hut. Now we are trying to educate new hut managers to be more of a host with a service-oriented attitude. The whole thing has become more professional.”

The 1911 Swiss Alpine Club “mountain album” stated that “mountain lodges are primarily meant to be functional, to allow the tourist and the adventurer to discover new Alpine regions and to offer shelter to the mountaineer.”

Back then, discussions centered on whether or not modern mattresses should replace sleeping in the hay and whether women and men should be separated. Today, the main issues are the quality of the food, the size of the rooms and whether huts should have showers.

To many, the comfort debate proves that hut-to-hut hiking is becoming more popular.

“We definitely note a renaissance of the traditional mountain holiday,” says Luethi. “Hiking has shed its dusty image. It is fashionable again.”