Hiking across an incredible, shrinking Swiss glacier

ALETSCH GLACIER, Switzerland — The mountain guide says something that I can't translate. He stands on one side of a crevasse — a deep crack in the surface of a glacier. I'm on the other.

He urges me to jump across the divide. I take one step through the slushy ice. For the next, I chose an undisturbed patch of snow.

Bad move.

As I drop through a hidden gap in the ice, one thought flashes through my mind: What have I gotten myself into?

Just an hour ago, a glacier hike seemed so easy.

I was exploring an observatory atop the storied Jungfrau mountain. There amid souvenir stands selling painted Swiss cowbells and a Bollywood-themed Indian restaurant, the two-day walk looked quite simple. Just a stroll across some snow. I could even see our day's destination before I started: a rocky plateau with a hut on top.

The Aletsch (aah-LETCH) glacier is continental Europe's largest, nestled among the Swiss Alps' most famous peaks. The 14-mile-long sheet of ice has attracted tourists for more than a century. It has been honored by the United Nations as a place of global natural significance.

Now, it's dying.

The glacier is retreating 100 yards a year. Shrinking ice has left a stain on mountain walls that stands out like a bathtub ring. Some say the glacier could be gone by the end of this century. This adventure may be unavailable to our great-grandkids.

But my adventure is well under way. I scramble for footing and grab for a handhold as I drop three feet through ice. Loose snow flies. My guide pulls on the red rescue rope clipped to my waist. He hauls me back to the surface.

Back on solid ice, it's hard to believe the glacier is anything but permanent — a wilderness outpost in the midst of very-civilized Switzerland.

When clouds clear, the views show why Thomas Cook chose this area more than a century ago to offer some of the world's first package tours. The famous Mont Blanc lords over the craggy skyline.

But there isn't time to admire views. Our group of U.S. and Canadian hikers has our work cut out for us. We need to reach shelter by dark.

The surface, which looks uniform from above, reveals itself as something complex up close. It's an otherworldly landscape where cracks zigzag in all directions. There are hills and gullies. Hiking is a three-dimensional chess game.

Glaciers are nothing more than piles of snow compacted into ice over centuries. They literally plow their own path down a mountain. Medieval villagers believed they harbored evil spirits, and why not? As the ice shifts, glaciers groan. Cracks develop from nowhere, sometimes swallowing inattentive hikers or animals.

We make steady progress across a snowfield, then ice. But when we reach a slope, I discover that my hiking boots' tread is worn slick. Probably 10 times I step, feel my balance shift, try to recover, overcompensate and fall spectacularly on my butt.

Others slip, too, but I am among the worst. For a moment, panic sets in. Am I literally in over my head?

Luckily, it's sunny, and although I am now wet, it isn't terribly uncomfortable. In bad weather, it could have been fatal.

But it's not humans most at risk here; it's the glacier itself. The weather forecast for the next century says it all: warm and getting warmer.

During the last 150 years, the Aletsch has lost two miles in length. Its thickness has shrunk by hundreds of feet. Our guide, Bernhard Stuckey, has seen the changes during his 60 years. "It's very sad to see the glacier without snow on it," he says. "But what can you do?"

Similar changes have been recorded around the world. Glaciers are shrinking from the Peruvian Andes to the Russian Caucasus. They're disappearing in New Zealand and China. The famed snows topping Africa's Mount Kilimanjaro are nearly gone, and Montana's Glacier National Park has lost much of its glaciers in the past century. Climate change is the main culprit, but the underlying cause is debated.

Glacial retreat, scientists note, began when the Industrial Revolution was in its infancy. It's unlikely that human activity was responsible at first. But most researchers now believe the pace of shrinking has accelerated with the buildup of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. When the Aletsch was declared a World Heritage Site in 2001, global warming played a part. The United Nations noted that the trend was "particularly well-illustrated" in the region.

For me, it all comes down to an extension ladder.

After 4 1/2 hours of hiking, our ragtag group makes its first day's goal, the Konkordia hut. The refuge perches on a mountainside, hundreds of feet above the glacier's surface. It's reached by a metal staircase bolted to rock, like a city fire escape transported to the Alps. But over the decades, the shrinking glacier has stranded the staircase. Steps end in air, dozens of feet above the surface. An extension ladder, lashed to the bottom rung, makes up the difference.

Then it's a 500-step climb to the top.

The staircase leads to a hikers' dormitory, a welcome sight at dusk. I remove my wet boots and socks in a mudroom. Then, stiff and aching, I robot-step to dinner. Although it's not cold, I shiver from exhaustion.

For nearly 150 years, the hut has offered a refuge for glacier hikers. It has thrived because of location, not luxury. A hut stay is glorified camping. Soup, stew, salad and dessert are served family style. Each person gets one bowl for the meal. Supplies are flown in by helicopter, which explains the prices, outrageous even by Swiss standards: about $10 for a 1.5-liter bottle of water.

Hiker huts can be elaborate. This one is. It has varnished pine walls and shelves of browsable books, and sleeps about 100 guests. I am too tired to savor any of it.

After dinner, I forgo a beer with a group of Germans and struggle upstairs to bed. The day's adventures aren't over.

Our group is assigned two rooms with two shelves masquerading as bunks. Roped together all day, we will remain together through the night. We sleep next to each other, lined up under blue and red checked sheets.

The next day draws us even closer.

Instead of using the stairs, we descend a rocky slope to the glacier floor. A woman from Atlanta struggles with footing. She trips several times, sending rocks scattering down the slope. After 20 minutes, she has had enough.

"Call a helicopter," she begs our guide. "I can't make it."

A rescue would cost hundreds of dollars — and delay us for hours. Instead, we slow our pace and companions take the woman by her hand. Together, we inch our way down.

We pause on the edge of the ice to attach spikes to our boots. They'll let us grip the ground like Velcro.

Back on the ice, we hear, but can't see, a roaring waterway. It's the sound of the glacier disappearing. Somewhere beneath our feet, snowmelt flows to the valley.

The ice surface is streaked with grime, like a city sidewalk two days after a snowfall. Researchers study this debris, which runs through the glacier like a ribbon of caramel through a Swiss chocolate bar. By analyzing the dirt, it's possible to determine the glacier's ebb and flow over centuries.

Our two-day hike covers 10 miles, about two-thirds of the glacier's length. But that's as the glacier flows. We constantly double back on ourselves, seeking a path over the cracked surface. My world narrows to the footsteps of the woman in front of me. I follow in her every step because I know that if she hasn't fallen, I won't either. Occasionally, our guide probes the surface with an ice ax, hacking steps that lead us safely over crevasses.

By midday, our destination is in sight. We leave the ice to ascend a hillside. The glacier has shrunk, so the climb is steep. The reward, however, is sweet: a flat gravel road leading to a restaurant. The menu includes hot chocolate and apple-cheese pastry.

In short: civilization.

Now the going is easy. A stroll through a man-made mountain tunnel leads to a cable car station. We descend into an emerald-green valley. Soon, chalets rimmed with red geraniums, postcard shops and hotels surround us.

Settling into a soft bed that night, the glacier seems a world away. It's hard to believe it even exists.

Soon enough, it may not.

IF YOU GO

If you go

Glacier hike

The trip doesn't require technical skills, but it's physically demanding. It descends about 3,000 feet over 10 miles. You must be in shape and have hiking experience. Recommended equipment includes sunglasses, gloves, hats, hiking boots with good tread, day pack, snacks, a walking stick and a flashlight.

Guided walks

Grindelwald Sports runs a two-day hike several times a week between July 1 and Oct. 1, depending on weather. Cost is about $325 for adults, which includes hut accommodations and rail transportation from Interlaken. Children older than 12 can go but must be able to keep up with the group. The company can also arrange for private guides. www.grindelwaldsports.ch

• The local tourist board can also recommend guide firms. Contact: www.wengen-muerren.ch (Click on "e" for English.)

Mountain villages

The region around the glacier is dotted with car-free ski villages, all linked by rail and cable cars. During summer, visitors can choose from hundreds of day hikes that pass green fields, wildflowers and dairy cows. Every several miles is an inn, many offering hearty Swiss dishes such as raclette (potatoes with cheese), rosti (fried potatoes) and sausage.

I spent the night before the glacier trip in Wengen, near the rail line leading to the Jungfrau overlook. Afterward, I stayed in Bettmer, another car-free village served by cable car. Hikes nearby skirt the glacier and pass through a pine and larch forest. A glacier visitors center covers scientific and cultural history. Contact: www.bettmeralp.ch.

Swiss tourist office: 877-794-8037 or www.myswitzerland.com