Like a lot of people, we had to postpone our 2020 vacation. So before our United travel vouchers expired and the next Covid mutation mushroomed, my husband Jonathan and I finally took our fully boosted selves off to Switzerland for three weeks of hiking. Before you give us too much credit, no, we were not camping or trekking from hut to hut, our clothes on our backs. Every night we enjoyed fluffy duvets and hot showers, then awoke to wonderful Swiss breakfasts also good for cadging rolls, ham, and cheese for lunch.

Enjoy these highlights!

Appenzell Region. I knew it was famous for cheese and gently rolling hills, but it also has high mountain peaks. It was hot, but gorgeous (and the cheese was good)

This photo is from the dining room of our hotel in Schwende, Frohe Aussicht, which means “happy view.” Indeed. They also served up gourmet four-course meals for dinner.

Interlaken, the heart of the Berner Oberland. Here’s where we spent most of our trip, the place most overrun by tourists, and for good reason. A native told us it was heaven during the pandemic. Now, despite the sometimes crowded trains, buses, and cable cars and the clouds often obscuring the famous high peaks, it was still pretty heavenly.

Interlaken is a great jumping off point for hikes throughout the Thunersee/Brienzersee region–all easily accessible via frequent, well-coordinated, and clean trains, free buses, and cable cars. We are in love with and envious of the Swiss transportation system. So many beautiful and varied hikes!

Plus Trummelbach Falls, an amazing series of 10 cascades inside a mountain, conveniently drilled for an elevator shaft and stairs for viewing the vertically stacked torrents. Bonus: the only cool place on a very hot day:

Our hotel owner directed us to an off-the-beaten-trail hike near Habkern, where she grew up. She said the bakery there had the best nut croissants. When we brought her one, she gave us a box of chocolates in return, saying we were her favorite guests. She also told us she could tell a Democrat from a Republican among the American tourists within one or two minutes (something to do with pleasantness and tolerance).

Below is the Little Engine That Could, the steam train up to Rothorn above Brienz. But the real Little Engine That Could (and cow-whisperer) is Jonathan, who meticulously planned this trip, spending hundreds of hours researching hikes, travel passes, hotels, and exactly which buses and trains to take where (not to be outdone, I canceled the mail and arranged for a neighbor to water our plants):

Engelberg. The last leg of our trip, still in the Berner Oberland but less popular. It turns out the biggest feature of the town, besides skiing and hiking, is a 12th century Benedictine monastery, which seemed to own half the town, including our hotel and the convent dining room where we took our half-board dinners. A portly, non-English-speaking nun would buzz us in, where we’d be served whatever was on the menu that night. Weird, but fortunately tasty. The high peaks were mostly obscured by clouds the whole time we were there, but it was still gorgeous:

Flora. It was pretty much peak wildflower season, and the flowers did not disappoint:

And fauna. This little brown goat had gotten outside its enclosure and was standing on a bridge. A self-described animal lover with a dog accused us of letting it out and expected us to find its proper farmer. Despite the fact that we could use a goat back home to clear brush for fire safety, we most assuredly had nothing to do with its escape, nor a clue about how to locate the owner. Luckily, a guy with a truck came by and the woman persuaded him to take the goat, so we also had nothing to do with its safe return, and the animal-lover let us be.

Cows, of course, were everywhere. We met a farmer riding his ebike up the mountain to open up another pasture for his cows. He told us that the labor of farming wasn’t so difficult, but finding a woman who wanted to marry a farmer was (he had a wife and two kids as well as an ebike–lucky guy!). Wherever we went, the sound of cowbells drifted up from the valleys below, the hills above, the cows right next to us on the trail. In fact, they made such a racket that we pitied the poor and possibly deaf cows, whose lobby is apparently worse than the whale lobby, which at least has gotten sonar restricted. Perhaps the best place for cowbells is hanging from the rafters:

Now it’s Home Sweet Home in brown and traffic-choked California. The final indication of a successful trip? Rain pants never once taken out from the bottom of my pack: