Last week, an email from a Belgian reader arrived. He wanted to know how much sun we get here in the Swiss Alps, and whether or not the mountains keep the clouds away. I wasn't sure, but I did understand the importance of sunshine, as I had started taking vitamin D-3 after listening to a James Altucher podcast with Dr. Sanjiv Chopra, who warned of vitamin D-3 deficiency.
Despite yesterday's blistery north wind, my son Oliver, our dog Bizzi and I managed to go out for a walk.
Five minutes into our stroll, and while passing a farm, Bizzi yelped.
"Bizzi touched the electric cow fence," Oliver said.
I think Bizzi's eyes are going (he's nine years old after all), because on more than three occasions, I've seen him running after what he thought were cats in the fields only to be chased by a growling farm dog, or only to find a spool of electrical wire or a water bucket.
On the downhill part of our adventure, Oliver decided to test the speed of his bike as well as its braking ability. When I finally caught up with him, he showed off a bloodied knee.
Further down the road, the way was corded off. A herd of cows dawdled on their way back to the barn munching on a luxury chalet's hedge. Two neighbors chatted next to their parked cars, while waiting for the road to reopen. The rosy cheeked farmer, an expectant father, smiled and said hello, as he walked by.
Oliver and I played soccer and the ball went into our oil burner repair man's garage and got stuck under his car. Luckily, the oil burner repair man witnessed this and invited us into his garage.
Just an ordinary walk in the Swiss Alps.
Newcomers are shocked when they witness the spraying of "Gülle" or the black liquid cow shit and piss, considered gold by local farmers.
So what's going on?
In the olden days, farmers mucked out their stalls, scraping the liquid and solid cow excrement into wheelbarrows and dumping the mixture onto a pile outside. Problems began when farmers increased the size of their herds, and the shit piles grew. Run-off from these piles contaminated the ground water and made people sick.
To solve this problem, the government began requiring the installation of tanks to collect the black smelly, liquid manure. This liquid--which gets particularly stinky after stewing all winter long--is then pumped into a movable tank that is strapped to a tractor and sprayed onto pastures. As you can imagine, the stink is violent.
The benefit is that the spray feeds the grass without going deep enough into the ground to pollute groundwater. Much evaporates before it even hits the ground.
It can be quite a nuisance when you are planning to eat lunch outdoors, as for example, on an Easter weekend, a neighbor's favorite time to spray Gülle.
Our dog doesn't mind at all. He looooves going into the field after it's been sprayed. I haven't actually seen what he does in there. Don't really want to know.
Interestingly, farmers usually spray a few hours before rain comes, as the liquid can have a burning effect on grass. So, the spreading of Gülle is a useful precipitation indicator.
And the perennial debate continues: city people with secondary homes in the country complain about the stink, and the country people explain the importance of nutrient cycling. It reminds me of people who build homes next to airports and then complain about the noise. I just have to remember not to plan eating lunch outside on Easter weekend… a small sacrifice to pay for living in a chemical fertilizer-free area.
What do you do when your beloved pet parakeet dies, and it's 20 below outside? Answer: Stick him in the freezer.
This is what we did a few Februaries ago when my then seven-year old son found a barely breathing "Blue" on the floor of his cage. Carefully, my son picked him up and held him in his cupped hands. Within an hour, Blue was dead. During the ensuing hours, my son continued to hold him, as he walked around the house. Finally, he placed Blue in a shoebox and stowed it under his bed.
A day passed, and I didn't know what to do. Blue deserved a proper ceremony and grave, but there was at least a meter of snow covering the frozen ground outside. I couldn't bear the idea of handing the box to the town recycling and animal carcass man, like I had done with Peter rabbit.
The next day, I recounted my story to girlfriends over coffee, after which one Canadian joked: "Stick him in the freezer."
So, that's what I did when I got home.
Three months later on one glorious May evening, I made the following announcement: "Today's the perfect day to bury Blue."
The children and I dug the grave, and once Blue's shoebox was in the ground and covered with dirt, I read the pet burial prayers I had found on the internet, and my daughter placed a bouquet of Forget-me-nots on the little mound. She painted a rock with a blue cross and the words "RIP Blue" and used smaller rocks to make a crown around the grave. We then transplanted more wildflowers onto the grave. To complete the ceremony, my son played a song on his trumpet.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains in a golden glow, my children frolicked in the garden. It really felt as if Blue had finally gone to heaven.
Last Saturday, after getting up at around 7:30, I ventured outside wearing my IceBugs (running shoes with metal spikes) and jogged 25 minutes with the dog. The sun reflected on the high peaks, and the air felt significantly warmer than it did yesterday, when temps were -18C.
On the road lay a carpet of fresh powder snow, disturbed by a set of tire tracks. While jogging, I was awed at seeing the outlines of a multitude of snow laden pine trees. How distinct each tree appeared!
After a shower and bringing the kids to ski race training, I met friends who live on a sunny, southeastern facing slope. The mood was jovial and there was even a snow ball fight and wrestle to start the day.
The group split up. Most were snowboarders, who went off into the forests to find some jumps and trees to scare, while my new friend Barry and I enjoyed the near-empty and buttery pistes. I practiced some newly-learned carving techniques, and as a stratus layer began to spread in from the west, covering up the cerulean sky, I thanked providence and the privilege of grabbing those two hours of pure bliss.
So what does my commute look like in the Swiss Alps?
After a typical routine that begins at 6:30 a.m. and that includes feeding the birds, the dog, the children, and trying to remember each piece of ski equipment needed at school that day, I usually have to scrape ice from the inside and outside of my car's windshield and windows. And that's after having to shovel it out from under a few meters of snow. At around 8:10, the children have climbed into the car and the house's front door has been locked, we depart, heading down our icy, snowing driveway, and steep, one-lane road that is more than often coated with ice.
At 8:17, we arrive in the neighboring village, the kids jump out of the car, and after saying "bye mom", they head off carrying their school bags and ski gear. I turn around and head to the next village, where I usually park in spot number 59 in the underground parking. I insert four francs forty in the central meter, then head out onto the Promenade. It's a chilly yet peaceful walk. The luxury shops will not open for another half an hour or more. The farmer wives set up their food stands, while a portly dark-haired waiter wipes off café tables and puts out ashtrays. A lawyer in a long dark overcoat and round spectacles walks in the other direction, and a street worker in orange reflective rain gear uses a long-handled stick to pick up garbage. Further up, another worker wearing a wide black brimmed hat scrapes ice on the road to free up a street drain.
When I finally sit down in front of my three oversized computer screens, I feel refreshed and ready for the morning's work. I could be anywhere... New York... San Francisco...
After four hours, it's lunch time. I put on my coat and return to Swiss village life. A banker and his girlfriend sun themselves on a bench, smoking cigarettes, smiling, and nodding as I pass by. There are tourists milling about, strolling in and out of boutiques, and the farmers wives are busy selling their bread, cheese, and cookies, and fresh vegetables in summer.
I stop to buy some cookies.
"Wie geht's Diana?" asks Erika, one of the farmer's wives.
"Gut, danke und Dir?" I respond. Meanwhile, a banker I've seen before collects change that Erika is handing him. He counts it. I make a joke about bankers counting money and ending up with more money than they started with. He doesn't laugh, but smiles and heads into the bank. I feel guilty for teasing him. UBS is going through a hard time.
After paying for my cookies and extending greetings to Erika's husband (a mountain guide and one of my father's friends), I find my car free of ice and head back to my house in the mountains, where my little dog will greet me with much happiness.
The idea crossed my mind to share a video with you of my dog eating a field mouse. I decided against it.
I know it's gross, but you have to understand that mice are a problem in the Swiss Alps, and my dog is being very useful in playing a part in controlling their population. I just wish he had left me the tail, so I could have taken it to the commune and gotten my one franc.
Farmers confirm that this year has been particularly good for mice and bad for farmers. It seems the field mice have taken over and dug up entire fields, leaving their annoying mounds of dirt everywhere.
I am still wondering how my dog can still eat his dog food...