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	story Alex Eberspaecher      photos Judy Eberspaecher Anthon did not believe in ghosts. How could he anyway? Schoolmasters deal with reality. He was also not afraid of the darkness that was casting strange shadows over the icy surface. On this day, as had become a tradition, he would tell the headmaster that he would lead some of his most promising students to the glacier to study the natural history, but it was more than that. Anthon loved to be near the glacier - a strange relationship he admitted, but glaciers simply were part of Switzerland. Years ago, the majestic glacier reached further into the valley, emptying abruptly at the far end of the Riederalp, almost twenty-four kilometres from its source at the foot of the Eiger and Jungfrau mountains in the Bernese Oberland. There was no hesitation as Anthon stepped onto the immense ice field. The small group of boys watched as he decisively took a step or two toward an ice bridge that spanned the fracture just a few steps from the rocks where they had gathered. As suddenly as he had started, Anthon stopped in front of the barely visible fracture. The boys could see him well, in spite of the encroaching darkness. They could also see that he was shaking uncontrollably and his face had turned almost as white as the ice itself. “What is it?” one of the boys called, “Are you alright Master?” But he did not answer. Time has clouded much of the details now, but it must have been some time before he called the oldest and the strongest of the boys to join him. He would look over the master’s shoulder, fall silent and start to shake uncontrollably. One after the other, the boys walked out, looked into the dark crevasse and returned quickly to the rocky cliff. “What is it we have seen Master?” they asked gingerly and with shaking voices. “We have seen the souls, the souls of the unfortunate that were condemned to live in the glacier forever,” was the master’s answer. Ed Kummer never looked at me when I asked him if he believed in ghosts. I had noticed however that the shadows of the Aletschgletscher had become darker and longer, and even if I didn’t believe in ghosts, it had become chilly and perhaps it was time to leave the glacier for the night. Ed knows every crevasse in the 23-kilometre long glacier and that is why many in Switzerland consider him the best glacier guide. “Perhaps we could stay on the glacier tonight,” he suggested. There was a hut a few kilometres past the bend. At least we would have had the opportunity to walk on the ice. I asked if we had to pass by that crevasse with the souls, and he told me that it was an old story and he wasn’t quite sure where it happened, but we would go by the general area on our way to the hut. I suggested that perhaps we could do it some other time. I do not know exactly why I was so captivated by the Aletsch as I took one final,  unusually long look - a saddened look perhaps - a final goodbye to something I probably will never see again. Canada has a thousand glaciers, yet here in the mountains of the Valais (Wallis) Region of Switzerland, the Aletschgletscher, the longest of the glaciers in Europe, has taken on a special meaning to me, not only in its supernatural beauty, but perhaps more so as a reminder of an urgency that our natural world is changing at an uncontrollable tempo. Scientists tell us that the Great Aletsch is shrinking quickly each year, and although the ice field is as low now as it was during Roman Times, it is receding much faster than expected. Where there was thick ice a year or two ago, large boulders impede the path of the fast running waters, much like the bright blue blood of the dying giant. This glacier is also unique among most other glaciers that I have ever seen. Standing in the UNESCO designated area, the high ridge (over 2500 metre) that separates the glaciers from the Alpine meadows to our back, we actually could look down onto the ice field instead of up as is the case with most glaciers. The only other glacier that we had visited in Switzerland that actually was below us was in Zermatt, below the magnificent Matterhorn, only there we were above the tree line. Here in the Aletsch, we were standing amongst gnarled, conceivably 800 year old pine and larch trees that form a forest teeming with wildlife and ending only where the hostile and mysterious ice fields begin. Watching with each step, we took to avoid to trampling the rare alpine flora is certainly a challenge not encountered in the mostly bare rock at much higher altitudes. Even here amongst the trees, the view that opens up from time to time to the icy giant below is unique, an experience without comparison. The darkness, which is total here in the Swiss mountains, is on its final conquest of the sun and although each step now becomes a contest between man and nature, with the glacier behind us we can still see the tiny silver band of the Rhone River below us in the distant valley. Yet, there is one more stop, according to Ed, that we must take along our journey back to reality. Built in 1606, the Nagulschbalmu on the Riederalp is no longer in active use as an alpine hut. The elements have taken its toll even on the roughly hewn pine and tamarack timbers. Cows no longer are sheltered here for their milk to be turned into fine Swiss cheese. Yet, if any part of the building that is now a museum has been restored over the last four hundred years, it certainly is not apparent. We no longer can see the Rhone down in the valley and the lights of the small village of Breiten are not quite as bright as the stars above us. It is here in that old Swiss mountain hut that I reflect on the past, and fear for the future. Just as the Aletschgletscher has become a victim of climate change and is struggling to remain one of the largest natural phenomena, the old wooden Nagulschbalmu alpine hut no longer is alive with the laughter and sorrow of times of the past. There is, however, a sound that is most heart warming – the popping of the cork as Ed pours us a hefty glass of Kirsch to go with the local cheese from the small building where they have been making it for almost 400 years. The night is now absolute as we make our way through the little alpine community of Riederalp. There are lights at some of the huts and chalets and tourists outnumber the locals, but it is still a world of its own. The streets are narrow, steep and winding but there is absolute peace up here. It is a place that has never seen a car or motorcycle - a place that is still in harmony with nature. From here on down to Breiten, there is the choice of travel by foot (that may take hours) or by cable car and we take the latter. Hotel Salinas is down there not far from the Rhone and after a day of hiking around the Great Aletsch and Riederalp, a good soaking in the hotel’s saltwater pool and perhaps a massage or sauna will probably bring us back to reality. But for now we linger, listening for the sounds of the great glacier as it empties into the deep canyon. There is a faint whisper from the other side, but the insistent ringing of cowbells makes it difficult to distinguish anything. Yet it does not matter to me. I am privileged to experience one of the great wonders of nature. That unfortunately will no longer be the case a generation or two from now when the Aletschgletscher will probably be much shorter, if it is there at all. For this privilege, we are so grateful to Ed for bringing us here. But he does not hear anything, he is listening intensively, his head turned toward the Aletsch. Perhaps he is listening to the poor souls, but I did not ask. Mysteries are better kept to themselves.  GL	ABOVE Guide Ed Krummer and Alex overlook the Great Aletsch. A 400 year old Alpine hut full of surprises. A closeup of the Great Aletsch icefield. View from the top. For further information contact: www.valais.ch, www.myswitzerland.com, info@myswitzerland.com or call Tourism Switzerland: 1-800-794-7795