As we drove through the Oberalp Pass near Andermatt in Switzerland and circled the beautiful landscape of the valley, sign posts told us we were passing by the source of the Rhine, a small lake up in the Alps called Tomasee.
Called Rhenus, Rein, Rhein, le Rhin and even Rijn (by the Romans who referred to its smaller streams), the Rhine was unknown to Herodotus. It was first mentioned in 1 BC in Roman-era geography. At the end of the last Ice Age, as Northwest Europe began to warm up, much of the discharge of thawing snows was routed to the Rhine and its downstream extension, a system that still feeds it.
We continued on to Furka Pass on which the eye of heaven poured gold and green. We were in gletscher -land: glacier country. A staggering surprise awaited us which we might easily have missed if we hadn’t glanced at the modest shop arranged like an outpost at the side of a switchback on the meandering mountain road. It said, ‘This way to the Rhone glacier: the source of the River Rhone’.
We had driven only 20 minutes after passing the source of the Rhine. That two of the biggest streams in Europe had risen so close to each other was a revelation.
We bought tickets to see the path along which the Rhone glacier had retreated since the Small Ice Age leaving markings over the last century or so. However, we were astounded to learn that there was something else: a glacier grotto. A cave carved into 300 years of ice! A queue of people who didn’t look like climbers were waiting their turn. Unsteady and unready for such exertions, I looked doubtfully at the energetic groups walking down the trail but felt powerfully drawn to the huge mass of ice that had covered the valley in the form of snow three centuries ago. On one side lay the pleated land over which the glacier had retreated. On the other, lay the trail to the glacier gleaming in the near distance. I was sure I couldn’t do it without disgracing myself by slipping sideways or tripping on the trail of rough pebbles and smooth water-worn rock surfaces; but I brightened up at the sight of older visitors setting forth determinedly.
With self-doubt as my companion, I set off taking care to stay close to confident, younger walkers who weren’t even looking at the ground. A seemingly fragile bridge led us over the last bit and into the glacier. As an ethereal blue shone off the walls of the glacier, we stood in a past-continuous ice-box with water dripping here and there. Some of the tourists leaned forward, craned toward the past and tasted it. No one could linger for more than 10 minutes or thereabouts after which we all emerged into the other life-giver: sunlight.
In an environment where strong natural forces prevail, one is temporarily un-handcuffed from the lesser self.
Mini Krishnan is Consultant, Publishing, Oxford University Press, India.
