I embarked on a hastily planned bucket-list trip to cover the Interlaken area, the Matterhorn vicinity, and a short excursion to Lucerne. The heavy-duty to-do list was hiking-intensive, with a generous helping of sightseeing.

The flight landed in Zurich at 3:30 pm on September 11. The train took me to Interlaken Ost, and then on to Wengen via Lauterbrunnen. It was a quick primer on the Swiss rails, a user-friendly system. Wengen was the preferred base because of its easy access to hiking trails.

Day 1  ·  Jungfraujoch and Lauterbrunnen

On my first full day, my first order of business was to check the most touristy box: the trip to the Jungfraujoch. It is heavily promoted, and despite the over-commercialization, it is worth it. The cogwheel train climbs from Kleine Scheidegg to the highest railway station in Europe, at 3,454 meters. There is plenty to do and see, including a walk outside, mighty glaciers, a tunnel inside the glacier, and every wallet-reaching Swiss excellence, in the form of shopping and restaurants. Fortunately, the day was bright, and you could see forever. Sometimes, fog and low clouds can totally obliterate the view.

Next up was a gondola to Männlichen, then a short hike to a viewpoint that opened vistas of the mighty triumvirate: Jungfrau, Mönch, and Eiger. The Jungfraujoch is the saddle between the Jungfrau and the Mönch, and it hosts a mighty glacier. These three peaks — Jungfrau at 4,158 meters, Mönch at 4,107, Eiger at 3,967 — are the slow-motion consequence of the African plate ramming into Eurasia, a collision that began some 35 to 65 million years ago and that the Alps are technically still finishing. The names carry their own folklore: legend has it that a monastery for women once stood on the Jungfrau (“the virgin”) and a monastery for men on the Eiger (“the ogre”), with the Mönch (“the monk”) planted between them to keep the two camps apart. More sober etymologists trace “Jungfrau” instead to the nuns of Interlaken Monastery, who once owned the alpine meadow facing the peak — a less romantic but probably more accurate story. Either way, after the first ascent in 1811 by the Meyer brothers, the summit was jokingly nicknamed “Mme Meyer.”

Several peaks in the area have glaciers, and I chose not to memorize the names; instead, I soaked in the spectacle.

Then I took a short hike to see the famous waterfall in Lauterbrunnen. It lacked the raucous thunder of its bloom days; by mid-September, the snowmelt seemed to have reduced it to a trickle. On a good day, Staubbach Falls drops 297 meters in a single, near-freefall plunge — one of the highest single-drop falls in the Alps, and the signature waterfall of a valley that holds 72 of them. The name comes from “Staub,” German for dust or spray, since the water atomizes into mist well before it reaches the valley floor. Goethe was apparently moved enough by it to write about it.

Day 2  ·  Schynige Platte to First

The next day was reserved for the hike from Schynige Platte to First, allegedly the holy grail of day hikes in Switzerland. It is a little over ten miles long, with more than 3,200 feet of elevation gain, which puts it in the hard category. The trail boasts some of the most stunning views, with Lake Brienz on the left and the mighty triumvirate, with an impressive supporting cast, on the right, instilling a constant FOMO in me. My head was on a swivel, trying to soak up every visual delight. As I neared the end, Bachalpsee, a glacially carved basin bordered by multiple peaks and fed by snowmelt, was an absolute doozy. I was exhausted but accomplished.

On the way back, I took the gondola down to Grindelwald, a drop of well over 3,000 feet, and then headed back to Wengen. I happened to chat briefly with a group of college students on the ride; it was their second visit from Zurich in two years.

Like me, they were disappointed by the noticeable glacier shrinkage. During my stay in Interlaken and subsequently in Zermatt, the daily temperature exceeded the average by 20 degrees. The small sample precludes generalizations, but the trend is unquestionable: Swiss glaciers have lost roughly a quarter of their volume since 2015, and 2022 alone erased 6% in a single melt season — the worst on record. Research out of ETH Zurich projects that Alpine glaciers will lose about half their volume by 2050 regardless of what we do, and more than 90% by 2100 if emissions go unchecked. Even the storied Aletsch Glacier — the largest in the Alps — is projected to lose half its volume by century’s end in the best case, and nearly all of it in the worst. The consequences run well past scenery: these glaciers are the Alps’ water towers, feeding rivers, hydropower, and agriculture through the dry summer months, and their retreat is already destabilizing slopes — the May 2025 collapse that buried the village of Blatten was linked to exactly this.

Bears in Switzerland were hunted to extinction by 1904; only since 2005 have a few wandered back in from Italy. The warming planet risks doing to the glaciers what the rifle did to the bears — only this time, there is no adjacent population to repopulate from.

Not everyone in the valleys is cheering the bears’ return, though: the same corridor that brought wolves back into Switzerland has already cost sheep farmers a good many animals, and the herders bracing for bears figure the predators’ comeback is easier to romanticize from a hiking trail than from a pasture.

Day 3  ·  Lake Brienz and Interlaken

The next day, I decided to go easy on myself and planned to explore the Interlaken area with a boat cruise on Lake Brienz. Wengen to Lauterbrunnen to Interlaken Ost, the scenery is relentlessly stunning.

I bought a ticket and boarded the boat to enjoy the storied Lake Brienz. “It is a small world, after all,” I thought as I stepped aboard and ran into a young couple and their daughter, who have been like family to me since childhood. We chatted and enjoyed a short ride to Iseltwald. We said our goodbyes, and I decided to check out a local waterfall, the Giessbach.

The sign suggested a 90-minute hike, but it neglected to say it was one way. It is a beautiful wooded hike on the banks of Lake Brienz, until the end, that is. I went off-road looking for a shortcut, and the trail was wet from last night’s rain, crisscrossed by tree roots hidden under the wet fall leaves carpeting the path. Add to that, most of the 1,200 feet of ascent was packed into this short segment. I missed my hiking poles but incurred no lasting damage. The falls — fed from the high Faulhorn–Sägis valley above and tumbling roughly 500 meters over 14 cascades, each named for a Bernese hero — reminded me of Lauterbrunnen. But it was easy to imagine its majesty cascading over rocky stair steps for a good 1,500 feet when pregnant with water. I ran-walked back and just made it in time for the boat to Interlaken Ost.

Lo and behold, I ran into my Bakersfield crowd again, necessitating another round of goodbyes when getting off the boat. I had an important box to check in Interlaken: visiting the statue of the legendary Indian filmmaker Yash Chopra, celebrated as Interlaken’s ambassador. He was not only one of Bollywood’s most successful filmmakers; he also did more than anyone to put the natural beauty of the Interlaken region on the Indian map. Ten of his films were shot in the Jungfrau region, and stars like Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan appeared in his movies, which is precisely why my own Bakersfield crowd and I kept crossing paths with fellow Indian tourists all week. The 350-kilogram bronze statue, a replica of the one at his studio in Mumbai, stands in the Kursaal Garden. His widow, Pamela Chopra, unveiled it in 2016.

Done for the day, I headed back to the train station for Wengen. Did I say it is a small world? You guessed it: I ran into my Bakersfield crowd a third time. All in all, I logged a little over 13 miles for the purported slow day, not counting the gym work I squeezed in to get the day started.

Day 4  ·  On to Zermatt

The move to Zermatt was a relay race in miniature: Wengen–Lauterbrunnen–Interlaken Ost–Visp–Zermatt, four trains in under four hours, each connection made with the smugness the Swiss reserve for punctuality. Zermatt itself is car-free and unapologetically upscale, a town where every storefront seems to be a Swiss watch or chocolate brand auditioning for your wallet. The Mont Cervin Palace gave me a suite directly facing the Matterhorn, a room with a view that does most of the marketing for itself.

Travel had eaten most of the day, but I salvaged what I could with a run up to Sunnegga, a steep funicular ride and the gateway to the famous Five Lakes Hike. With the last train down setting a hard stop, I had barely two hours — enough to scout the route and take in the Matterhorn unobstructed.

The mountain’s geology is more interesting than its silhouette suggests. It is not simply Alpine granite thrust skyward but a layered leftover of the Tethys Ocean, the sea that once separated Africa from Europe until the two plates closed the gap. The lower part of the peak is largely ocean crust and sediment from that vanished sea, while the upper portion, the final push to 14,692 feet (4,478 meters), is gneiss from the African plate, shoved on top in the collision that raised the Alps. The summit is, in effect, a rather dramatic import from Africa. Its famous pyramid is not a birthright but a carving: glaciers gnawing at the mountain from four sides through the ice ages produced the clean faces we see today. The name, roughly “peak of the meadows,” reflects how the spire rises almost vertically out of the surrounding pastures.

Science favors the African import. The legend of Gargantua crossing from the Italian side, slipping, and crushing the entire mountain range, leaving behind the towering spire, is romantically more appealing. I am going with the giant.

Day 5  ·  The Five Lakes

Rain was promised for the afternoon, so I front-loaded the day with the Five Lakes Hike proper — the Fünf-Seenweg — at a pace that let the Matterhorn earn its keep. The trail connects five lakes: Stellisee, Grindjisee, Grünsee, Moosjisee, and Leisee. Three of them — Stellisee, Grindjisee, and Leisee — throw a clean reflection of the mountain back at anyone patient enough to stop and look. Stellisee, the first, is the postcard shot: still water, the peak doubled in it. Moosjisee, by contrast, runs a milky turquoise, tinted by glacial silt rather than ambition. My own route, run long, cleared ten miles with roughly 2,200 feet of gain — well past the standard loop of about six miles, but the extra ground bought extra glacier.

When exhaustion seemed to seep in, a few seconds’ break let the rejuvenating breeze breathe extra steps into me. The spectacular scenery was no trivial crutch either.

True to forecast, the rain arrived at 4 pm on schedule, as if the Alps kept watch too. I answered it by taking the Gornergrat train instead of retreating — a cogwheel line that has climbed to 10,135 feet since 1898, still the highest open-air railway in Europe, built to put tourists eye-level with the Matterhorn and its glaciers. It tends to get cold up there. The weather opened up intermittently, giving me views of the peaks and glaciers. More importantly, the trip served as a scouting mission: less a consolation for the rain than a preview of what clear skies might offer.

Day 6  ·  Gornergrat

The train to Gornergrat was the main and only event. The day was choreographed to perfection, with the Sun playing peek-a-boo with the clouds, presenting a buffet of nature’s repertoire.

Most revelers get off the train at Rotenboden, before the final stop at Gornergrat. Rotenboden offers miles of trails adjacent to the majestic and mighty glaciers. But the Matterhorn, admiring its reflection in the Riffelsee, takes the cake. I conspicuously lack the language to capture the abundance of nature’s eye-watering and soul-saturating bounty. Only seeing is believing. A hike along the glaciers taught me the meaning of soul-itude.

After a few miles of hiking, I boarded the train to Gornergrat. At an altitude slightly higher than 10,000 feet, Gornergrat puts you in proximity to the Matterhorn. The views and the magnitude of the massive spire jutting into space are mind-blowing. The steep hikes in different directions at this altitude open up vistas far exceeding the prior encounters. The best part of a visit to Gornergrat is that the train does the hiking for you, and the views are available to anyone, regardless of physical ability. Beauty-wise, a trip to Gornergrat is a must and easily the crowning glory.

Day 7  ·  Lucerne

After a final lingering look at the Matterhorn, and with a deep appreciation for the brave souls actively engaged in summiting the behemoth, I checked out and headed for the last leg of my journey, Lucerne. To reach the Bürgenstock Hotel, I took a catamaran and then a funicular. The 25-minute catamaran ride offered lavish views of the glistening lake as the sun peeked in and out of the clouds. The colors shifted from turquoise to blue to sapphire, against the fading city buildings and towering churches, as we headed toward the mountains. The funicular delivered me to the grand lobby, elegantly designed and beautifully decorated, with an elevated panoramic view of Lake Lucerne and its celebrated peaks: Pilatus, the Rigi, the Stanserhorn, and, on a clear day, Titlis in the distance.

I had drawn up an ambitious schedule to maximize my time in Lucerne. The place and the views overruled it. After checking in, I spent a few hours exploring, took a few brief hikes around the property, and enjoyed endless views of the sprawling lake against the mountains, its arms seeming to run into fjords. Lush meadows with grazing cows, their bells ringing, and omnipresent Swiss music on one side and the alpine lake on the other fed my eyes. The Hammetschwand Lift, the highest outdoor elevator in Europe, took me up 153 meters, where the panoramic views, as you would expect, got even better. The resort has welcomed guests since 1873, and its motto is Beyond Imagination; some slogans age well.

Dinner was at the elegant Spices Kitchen & Terrace, overlooking the lake. It serves Asian fusion from four kitchens under one roof — Indian, Chinese, Japanese, and Thai — and lets you mix and match.

After dinner, and a final goodbye to the setting sun on the placid lake, I went to pack and get ready to return home.

– brij

Kindness is a matrix, a milieu where peace thrives. It is the warmth that lingers after a pleasant encounter, the anticipation that awaits the next one, the curiosity that lends an ear to an opposing view. Kindness enriches empathy.

It is a chamber that cancels echoes and nurtures conversation.

It steadies the rhythm of life. It relaxes breathing and unquickens the heartbeat. It is the best self-service that serves all others.

It is a perspective that settles an easy smile on the lips, like the mysterious glow of twilight. Life becomes more livable.

Kindness is a final common path where love, empathy, generosity, camaraderie and decency blend in complete harmony. It nourishes the human soul and is imperative for humanity.

Kindness does not judge. Empathy allows the benefit of the doubt. Kindness harbors the possibility of redemption. It soothes. It heals.

Shakespeare, through Portia, mused that mercy is twice blest — blessing him that gives and him that takes. But mercy, for all its nobility, is a little hierarchical. It flows downward: from judge to judged, from the powerful to the powerless. It requires a wrong, and someone positioned to forgive it. Kindness asks for less and reaches further. It is evenly grounded, passing between equals. It requires no wrongdoer and no verdict — only two people and a moment. We cannot all be in a position to grant mercy. We can all afford to be kind. Or kinder.

Kindness and generosity are not weakness or surrender. Moral uprightness will at times test our commitment to peace, and resorting to arms may yet be the necessary recourse. But kindness will keep many fires from flaring in the first place. There is merit in a position of strength: strength can empower kindness, and virtue can have a virtuous cycle of its own.

The algorithms that curate our feeds are engineered to reward outrage. They aggregate and filter our most combustible passions, amplifying anger into virulence. Kindness is the one thing they cannot monetize. It is worth carrying with us, offline and online.

Human interactions are an exercise in the realm of possibilities. Love and hate are powerful emotions, aroused by intimate experience, and all outcomes crowd the table. But kindness mellows the options. It is a do-good amplification cascade. It brings out the best in us. It exalts.

Practice kindness. Be kind. Inspire kindness. It is a discipline, not a mood — and surely worth the effort.

Let kindness be the bridge.

This piece appeared in the Community Voices section of The Bakersfield Californian.

The flight arrived on time on a brilliant day, the sun sparkling in the sapphire Pacific. The
Uber ride to the hotel, unfortunately, took rather longer when the driver missed an exit, and
the U-turn far down the road converted a twenty-minute ride into an hour and five.

One last box remained to check, per the travel guides: Manly Beach, a quick twenty-minute
ferry ride I could have done without. I had carried a mental image of a rugged shore —
towering cliffs, towering trees guarding pristine coves. Instead, it was another beach town of
the Southern California persuasion, a busy tourist trap. Well, you have to see it to know it.

I squeezed in a quick forty-five-minute workout this morning, and now it is time to hail the
Uber one last time. Then binge television and some wine across a fourteen-hour flight —
looking forward to a bit of levity and libations.

Bakersfield, here I come back.

– brij

Well, I have been tardy. Actually, I packed a lot of travel in those three days. I drove from the Thala Natural Reserve near Port Douglas to Cairns, returned the rental car, and flew to Sydney on Aug 1. In Sydney, a three-hour layover stretched into more than four hours, causing minor stress for a rental car pickup in Hobart, Tasmania. 

The gentleman sitting next to me on the plane turned out to be an Australian immigrant from San Diego, and the car rental guy had a girlfriend in Bakersfield before moving to Australia in 1993. I guess it is a small world after all.

I got into the hotel late and left early for my trip to Coles Bay with an educational stopover at the Bonorong Animal Sanctuary, where I got to meet the local marsupial celebrities. It was fun to hand-feed the kangaroos; not sure they would remember, but I have a few videos to reinforce my memory. In Coles Bay, in the Freycinet National Park, I stayed at the Freycinet Lodge. The preferred Wineglass lodge was sold out. The drive from Hobart to the Freycinet Lodge took about 2.5 hours. It is a single-lane highway coiled like a snake ready to attack, with a minimum of four bends per mile. I found the speed limit to be too aggressive for the highway. It left me in a constant state of alertness, making sure I wasn’t being an old coot slowing traffic for the more productive humans. I made up for lost time by hurrying up the hike to Wineglass Bay and squeezing in a visit to Honeymoon Bay before heading for my slightly late 6 pm dinner. The lookout for Wineglass Bay was majestic, but a walk down a thousand steps was more intimate. The hike up the steps earned an appetite. Monday morning, Aug 3rd, day 9; I enjoyed the dawn at Honeymoon Bay and the Sunrise at Friendly Beaches, with not a soul around. It was a special and memorable experience. By 8 am, I had run out of things to do in Freycinet. I stopped by the Freycinet Marine Farm Restaurant for the “best seafood in Tasmania” and headed back to Hobart. I am staying at The Tasman again, a Marriott property. I walked around the city a few times, had local fish at the hotel, and packed for the flight back to Sydney in the morning. I am not sure if anybody is interested, but I am keeping the count: two 15-hour flights, five domestic flights in Australia, three car rentals, and seven hotels. I feel fully rested and ready to start working the day I come back to the US.

– brij

I must confess that the experience itself was underwhelming, perhaps a victim of heightened expectations. We have all seen Discovery Channel documentaries, but the visit didn’t live up to that expectation. In retrospect, the reason is obvious: we visited a very small slice of this mammoth structure and then had to extrapolate its true size.

Now, the facts: The Great Barrier Reef is the largest living structure on Earth, growing for thousands of years. It hugs the Queensland coast for more than 1400 miles from a little distance, creating a buffer lagoon from the Pacific, sparing Queensland some of the fury from tsunamis and cyclones. The Dutch are bioengineering dikes with bioreceptive concrete to create a synthetic option that emulates reefs, aiming for a more viable way to ward off rising oceans. Nature threatens, nature lends a cure.

The Reef supports a rich biodiversity, with over 1,500 species of fish that live peacefully within its massive structure, which provides food and shelter. The fish have different food habits and habitats, eliminating the need for destructive competition, at least to an innocent bystander. Under the cover, predation abounds. They float around amicably, just like humans do.

Despite some buyer’s remorse, this is one box we have to check. Seeing threatened turtles is exhilarating. The schools of fish passing by a plethora of species and minding their own business is instructive, in more ways than one.

Tomorrow Tasmania.

– brif

I flew from Uluru to Cairns and drove to Oak Beach. What a transformative experience, thoroughly rewarding, with extremes from a cold, red desert to a tropical, lush coastal habitat.

Lemme be honest, the driver’s seat is still on the wrong side, and the indicator functions as a windshield wiper, especially when I am in a rush. But I make do.

Cairns is not meant to be a transitional city; it ought to be experienced with the clock at a standstill. I was there for all of 15 minutes, longing for 15 days.

The drive to Oak Beach is a slow, sinuous coastal road with frequent roadwork interruptions. It is gorgeous, though, if I had a skilled driver, I would love to enjoy it.

The sunlight fell to the floor, writhing between the wildly swaying trees that densely canopied the road. The light and shadow dance vied for attention, but the heavily trafficked road, with frequent blind spots, demanded full attention.

I stopped at a viewpoint, Rex Lookout, to enjoy a majestic panorama looking at the bay. The feisty winds have stirred the waters that swallowed the shoreline sand and assumed its color.

The Thala Beach Reserve Resort is a doozy. It is a tropical paradise that one would expect in Kauai.

I came here intending to hike; however, the receptionist laid out the lay of the land, and the snakes on the trail were an effective deterrent. I have been not only coaxed but coerced into decadence; the Great Barrier Reef it is.

Walking on the beach, part of the resort property, I befriended a rather forward older beauty. At 12, she retained amazing agility and insisted that I keep throwing her the wooden stick, which she would unfailingly catch in an acrobatic jump. She didn’t tell me her name, a canine and kind one.

I enjoyed the dinner at the resort restaurant, admiring the changing colors of the setting Sun on the tropical jungle, embroidering a tumultuous sea.

The retreating Sun’s blush crimsoned the mountainous clouds on the far horizon.

All in all, a fairly decent day.

Barrier Reef tomorrow.

– brij

A Journal of Winter in the Southern Hemisphere

The Decision

The decision to travel to Australia bore all the classic hallmarks of my decision-making
process: a spontaneous impulse followed by an afternoon of furious logistics. By
dinnertime I had airline bookings, six hotels scattered across the southeast, the Red
Centre, and Tasmania, multiple car rentals, and a lattice of domestic flights. And voilà —
I was ready to trade the baking heat of Bakersfield for the winter of the southern
hemisphere. An Australian summer has never tempted me; an Australian winter, on the
other hand, is my kind of season.

Sydney — Arrival

I landed in Sydney at seven in the morning and, defying jet lag with the stubbornness of
a man who has paid for the day, dedicated it to the city: the fabled Opera House and a
climb up the storied Harbour Bridge.

The Harbour Bridge was completed during the Depression for about six million pounds,
and it exemplifies the unyielding resilience of the Australian people — a chapter of lore
embedded deep in the national psyche, much as the Empire State Building, another
child of the Depression, stands as testament to American grit.

The Opera House, famously, was conceived by its Danish architect, Jørn Utzon, who
arrived at those soaring shells while contemplating the segments of a peeled orange.
Now, I am from Kern County. I have seen my share of oranges, and a fair number of
their peels, and not once have they whispered architecture to me. I don’t know what
Utzon was smoking, but it was mighty good stuff. The ledger tells a more familiar story:
a budgeted seven million dollars ballooned to over a hundred million, and the planned
four years of construction stretched to fourteen — a virtual certainty in today’s
construction business, where timelines and budgets are rough estimates deployed
chiefly to bait the investors.

The Park Hyatt, a perennial stomping ground for British celebrities, offers pretty
exclusive views of the majestic Opera House, while the ferries below continually shuttle
enthralled tourists to the surrounding attractions.

The Blue Mountains — Katoomba

Early the next morning — technically Day One in Sydney proper — I headed to
Katoomba, a town of natural beauty nestled in the lap of the Blue Mountains. A
pilgrimage to Katoomba mandates three rites: viewing the Three Sisters, carved by wind
and water from the sandstone escarpment; admiring Katoomba Falls (the name itself
derives from an Aboriginal word for shining, falling water); and an up-and-down on the
Giant Staircase, some nine hundred steps descending nearly eight hundred feet into the
Jamison Valley. My quadriceps registered a formal complaint on the way back up; it was
overruled.

The two-hour train ride back to Sydney became a minor adventure when, halfway
through, the train stopped dead — a “network failure,” the announcement said. Such
failures, I am told, are not unusual, a product of aging infrastructure and long-running
labor disputes. Every country, it seems, has its own version of deferred maintenance.

The Red Centre — Uluru

After a two-night stint in Sydney, I boarded a three-hour flight to Ayers Rock in the
Northern Territory. The 2,500-kilometer journey offered a monotonous, mesmerizing
view of the land below: a Mars-like surface, red and cracked and inhospitable to life.
Then, descending, I caught my first aerial glimpse of the sacred behemoth the Anangu
people have revered for some thirty thousand years. Uluru rises about 1,140 feet above
the plain, runs nearly ten kilometers around, and continues for kilometers more beneath
the surface — an iceberg of stone in an ocean of desert.

I rented a car at the airport and drove to the hotel with a fair amount of trepidation, this
being my inaugural attempt at driving on the left side of the road. The rental car and I
reached an uneasy truce somewhere around the second roundabout. That evening, the
desert rewarded the effort with a spectacular sunset at the Dune Top viewing area — the
rock smoldering orange, then crimson, then a bruised purple as the light died.
Early the next morning I drove some fifty kilometers to Kata Tjuta for the Valley of the
Winds, a hike of a couple of hours through domes of conglomerate rock that make a
man feel agreeably small. On the way back, I paid my respects at the base of mighty
Uluru and took in its majesty up close — a thing photographs flatten and presence
restores.

Tomorrow, I head to Cairns, Queensland, as the adventure continues.

– brij

July 4–14, 2023

We drove uneventfully to LAX and boarded the flight to Copenhagen, joined by the Khannas, our dear old friends. The flight itself was routine; my campaign to sleep through it, waged to preempt jet lag, was routed entirely.

Then came Bergen, where our adventure acquired its permanent prefix: mis. The flight from Copenhagen landed forty-five minutes late, vaporizing our connection to Tromsø. What followed was a masterclass in institutional arrogance. The airline and airport staff — generously supported by taxpayers, travelers, and tourists — have cultivated a culture in which gratitude flows backward and the customer experience has been reduced to a slur. We lost our luggage, missed our connection, and watched employees treat our misery as a spectator sport. One agent, fortified by the small power of his post, came close to open assault on travelers who had no cards left to play; Dinesh, wiser than the moment deserved, walked away from the provocation after my gentle urging. I have spent forty years at bedsides where kindness is the last currency that matters. I know what it looks like when the empowered turn on the powerless, and I saw it in that terminal. We had long harbored a nearly divine respect for Norwegian hospitality. We stood corrected.

A taxi driver named Yacub fleeced us on the way to an unplanned night in Bergen, where we paid — again — for a flight to Tromsø. For the record, the breakfast at Hotel Norge was a delight. The restrooms at the fish-market restaurants, however, carried a stench that made rotting fish smell like roses.

July 5 — Tromsø and Senja

A propeller plane carried us through Arctic skies on a laborious two-and-a-half-hour flight, and we landed in Tromsø sleep-deprived, jet-lagged, and disillusioned about the purported Norwegian decency. Then we met Earl. Our driver for the next few days, a thoroughly pleasant gentleman, Earl single-handedly renewed our faith and unfurled before us the jewel that Senja is on this planet. We wandered from fjord to fjord, took easy walks, and gorged on views of endless beauty — gray peaks wearing scarves of cloud, water the color of polished pewter.

Our hotel, Hamn i Senja, was an upgrade on a regular cabin, though the toilets carried the repulsive odor of the potties on the trail to Mt. Whitney. The twin beds were a third the size of a typical American twin, but comparisons lose significance when sleep-deprived, jet-lagged, elderly bodies, staring into relentless twenty-four-hour sun, can do all but fume. Just kidding — insomnia won that battle, hands down. It is not an ordinary day that has sunlight running circles around the clock.

July 6 — Senja

We woke as sleep-hungry zombies and toured the fjords and salmon farms of Senja. An attempt on Segla was aborted in the planning stages — a summit for another lifetime — and we consoled ourselves decadently with delicious Thai food in Finnsnes before heading back to Hamn for drinks and dinner.

July 7–8 — Bergen, redeemed

An uneventful flight returned us to Bergen — the city, this time, not the airport — and we checked into Opus XVI. After ceremonial cheers we walked the old town, dined at the hotel, and I stole away for a quick evening hike up Fløyen, the top of Bergen. The next morning, after a relaxed breakfast, I went up again with Dinesh; at the summit, the resident goats lounged among the tourists with the unhurried confidence of landowners. Dinner at an Indian restaurant, ice cream at Olivia’s, and Bergen was forgiven. Mostly.

July 9 — Loen

Our new driver, Agnis, all of twenty-five, picked us up for the scenic drive to Loen — a delightful fellow, energetic and knowledgeable beyond his years. We checked into Hotel Alexandra, its windows full of fjord. The Skylift hauled us up a nearly vertical kilometer of cliff to a platform where the valley floor fell away beneath our feet and Lovatnet glowed turquoise below, and we had dinner at the restaurant overlooking that majesty. Back at the hotel we had to request fans — Norway, it turns out, does not believe in heat, and therefore not in cooling either.

July 10 — Geiranger

Agnis took us across to Geirangerfjord, reputedly the prettiest fjord in the world, and the reputation is not marketing. From the overlook the fjord lay far below like a ribbon of blue-green glass, the Seven Sisters spilling down the far wall in silver threads, ferries reduced to toys. We took to the water by boat, small beneath walls of rock a thousand meters high, then drove back past snowfields and a high mountain lake so still it seemed painted. By evening, my party had reached what can only be called scenic overload and began agitating, without shame, for a metropolis.

July 11 — Flåm

Agnis delivered us to Flåm. I did a small scenic hike up the valley — a waterfall came braiding down the cliff as if the mountain had sprung a magnificent leak — and then I forced a boat ride upon my reluctant co-travelers. Zipped into neon survival suits and goggles, dressed like a highway crew that had lost its highway, we flew down the Nærøyfjord between cliffs that closed overhead like cathedral walls. The fjords of Flåm are breathlessly pretty, and even the reluctant were quietly converted.

July 12 — To Oslo

An early ride on the Flåm Railway lifted us out of the valley past waterfalls and switchbacks, and we changed to the Oslo train. The ride was beautiful; my party, by now fjord-proofed, was serenely uninterested. We reached Oslo after three into mildly tempestuous weather that cleared promptly, and the party grew appreciably animated in the pretty environs of a proper city. A stroll to the castle, a small detour home, and then the Eight Bar atop the Grand Hotel, our abode for the final two days. Dinner at the hotel restaurant.

July 13 — Oslo

A taxi to Vigeland Sculpture Park after breakfast — hundreds of granite and bronze figures wrestling, embracing, raging, aging — followed by a city stroll to admire the local houses and a tram ride back. A drink at the Eight Bar, then Indian food that shall remain uncelebrated.

July 14 — Home

An early breakfast, sweet goodbyes, and our sojourn concluded. Back to the airport and the mundane.

Just kidding. Hell was waiting to be unleashed all over again.

The flight from Copenhagen left an hour late, making the Chicago connection tenuous, and Chicago answered with delays of its own — thirty minutes, then hours. Seated at last, we were abruptly rushed off the plane for “severe weather” and commanded to seek “shelter,” though no one ever specified where this shelter might be; only the fear was amplified, loudly and repeatedly, while directions were withheld. The severe weather failed to meet the meteorologists’ exalted expectations, we re-boarded, and ten hours beyond schedule I stood at a carousel waiting for luggage that had been quietly rerouted to another flight — attended, with fail-safe consistency, by the rude indifference of the unconcerned.

Air travel connects the world and has somehow become its least human experience. The contrast was the true lesson of the trip: a landscape of overwhelming grace, bracketed on both ends by institutions that have forgotten what grace is. In medicine I have learned that kindness costs nothing and is worth everything, especially when offered by the strong to the stranded. Norway’s fjords needed no such instruction — they were generous without being asked. Long after the boarding passes are recycled, that is what remains: pewter water, silver waterfalls, the sun refusing to set, and Earl and Agnis, who reminded us that a country’s beauty is ultimately vouched for by its kind.

Day 1: A delay by American Airlines while waiting for soccer fans almost cost us our connection in Vancouver, but with hustle and the help of friendly Canadian Airport staff, we were able to catch our flight to Whitehorse. We stayed at the Raven Inn, where Shashi quickly affirmed the appropriate christening, watching a gull fly by. We had dinner at Taj, an only Indian diner, and headed to bed.

Day 2: After a morning run/walk along the scenic Yukon River in Klondike Park, we drove to Haines Junction and checked in at Alcon Inn. We headed for the Sheep Mountain hike soon afterward and missed the trail sign, but practiced creek crossings before being redirected by a passing hiker from the UK.

Day 3: We took a two-hour sightseeing tour of majestic Kluane Park, witnessing awesome snow-covered cliffs, mighty glaciers, and the towering Mount Lodan with its huge glacier-covered plateaued summit.

Afterward, we hiked King’s Throne to its seat. I was tentative and returned earlier because of the scree-covered, steep ridges, which failed to instill confidence in me. The reckless warriors Shashi and Baj continued undeterred, making their insurance carriers nervous.

Day 3: We hiked at a moderate pace and headed towards Carmacks. A jaywalking bear provided the thrill of the day.

Day 4: After the morning walk/run, we headed towards Dawson. We enjoyed a quick hike to Five Sisters on the way. The Arctic highway had its usual maintenance issues, adding to choke points and smothering dust. We ate at our hotel(El Dorado, (same chicken sandwich and fries every night).

Day 5: We headed to Tombstone Park and were fortunate to have favorable weather for hiking to Grizzly Lake, nestled majestically in Canada’s Patagonia. This 14.2-mile hike is considered strenuous, with steep sections of talus and boulders making the ground underfoot precarious. According to the information board, the hike takes 7 hours one-way. We hurried along and finished the back-and-forth in 10 hours. We reached the hotel a little after 10 pm in the blazing Sun, but found the eateries closed and had to observe a coerced fast.

Day 6: We carried a little fatigue in our legs but pushed through the Golden Side hike, followed by a walk along the Klondike River, interspersed with a trip to the Tombstone Interpretive Center.

Day 7: We packed and headed back to Whitehorse with a short but hard Plume Agate hike squeezed along the way. We ran into an intrepid bobcat crossing the highway, and a wayward moose running too fast for our cameras to capture. In Whitehorse, we had Indian food again at the Taj and headed to bed.

Day 8: Mild workout/walk/run and a short drive to the canyon to see the mighty Yukon squeeze through the canyons before boarding the flight back to Vancouver

Some interesting Canadian facts

90% of the population lives within a hundred miles of the US border.

Less than 1% of the area is inhabited.

The three territories have 40% of the land and 0.3% of the population at 136,000.

Canada has the largest area under glaciers in the world.

It has the largest percentage of Sikhs in its population outside Punjab.

It is not the 51st state(yet).

– brij

Returning after a long hike. Grizzly Bear Lake hike. 14.5 miles and 4700 feet. Rated among the top five hikes in Canada.

It is located in Tombstone Park in the Arctic Circle with blazing midnight Sun.

Now for the photos.

Dawson is a town of 2000. It looks like a 1800s gold rush town, with unpaved streets and potholes. We are staying at “the historic Eldorado” with “antique” furniture.

When we came back last night, the restaurant was closed, so I enjoyed a glass of milk for dinner .

We do have running water and AC