14 ALPINE HIKERS GET A YOGA TUNEUP
By Patti Doten, Globe Correspondent

SAMEDAN, Switzerland - When I told friends I was going to Europe on
a yoga/hiking trip, many of them looked at me quizzically. Yoga and
hiking? It sounded like an oxymoron to them. Just what was the
connection between cross-legged, Buddha-like meditation and huffing
and puffing up a mountainside? After all, they said, I wasn't headed
for tame walks in the White Mountains, but rather steep hikes in the
Alps, which at some 10,000 feet above sea level would strain the most
aerobically toned lungs.
It did take our group a couple of days to adjust to the altitude,
and there were hikes, even at week's end, that reduced many of us to a
slow crawl with numerous breath-catching rests. But the visual
splendor, sweet air, and camaraderie pulled us out of bed early each
morning and up onto the mountains.
Of course, these treks followed a buffet breakfast and an hour of
yoga.
Without going into all the wonders of yoga, which might sound like
hocus-pocus to the uninitiated, there's nothing more satisfying than
beginning the day with yoga breathing and exercises and then taking a
tuned-up mind and body to the top of the world, where glistening
glaciers share the landscape with colorful, mid-August wildflowers.
(Of course, I would be amiss if I failed to mention that coming down a
steep trail and placing one's hiking boots on level ground also holds
its own type of splendor.)
Another incentive was to try to match the mountain-goat agility of
the natives. The German Swiss walk straight up into the clouds as if
they are strolling in Central Park, even when laden with children,
full backpacks, and dogs pulling on leashes. One elderly woman -
dressed in capri pants, a colorful scarf framing her tanned face, and
gripping two walking sticks - said she trekked to the summit of
Diavolezza (9,810 feet) several times a week. But, she said in halting
English, "I take it very slowly - I walk slowly now."
She was 87 years old.
Our group numbered 14 and was led by Cambridge yoga instructor
Sandra Uyterhoeven. We ranged in age from our early 20s to late 60s
and included a professor, a musician, three students, a doctor, a
former rock band manager, a journalist, and a dog named Lucy. Most of
us were from the Boston area and single, but there were two married
couples as well. We stayed at the family-owned and family-run Hotel
Chesa Quadratscha in Samedan for the week, with breakfast and dinner
included in the package.
We were all responsible for our flights and arrival in Samedan. I
flew to Zurich on SwissAir, arriving on a Friday morning, and took the
train to Samedan - a three-hour ride through shockingly beautiful
scenery: small pastel cottages with painted shutters and window boxes
overflowing with flowers, stone rail bridges arching their way across
clear streams and verdant valleys and into dark narrow tunnels, and
mountains dressed in green firs with top hats of snow. I was
jet-lagged - I can never sleep on planes, certainly not when seated
next to a young man from Turkey who talked nonstop from dusk to dawn
(no small feat) as we made our way across the Atlantic - but I didn't
want to miss one goat or one vista or one Heidi.
My train arrived exactly on time (as Swiss trains always do) in
Samedan, a small village at the beginning of the Upper Engadine Valley
that boasts houses dating to the 16th century. The valley, where the
"champagne" sunshine is enjoyed an average of 322 days a year, is
anchored on the other end by St. Moritz, the elegant and pricey ski
resort that draws Europe's royalty and the rich and even richer during
the Christmas holidays. It is also atypical of the narrow cleft
valleys found in the rest of the country. The Engadine is wide, airy,
and bejeweled by a series of lakes.
After disembarking from the train, I walked up a cobbled street to
my hotel, threw open the shutters in my room, and took in a panoramic
view of the mighty mountains rising from the valley floor, their peaks
coned by glaciers impervious to the rays of the sun.
And then I went to sleep.
Most of our group gathered for breakfast Saturday morning and did
the usual sizing-one-another-up routine. We then headed off for a mild
horizontal walk to the nearby village of Bever. It was altitude
adjustment day; even the valley floor is 6,000 feet above sea level.
Bever is presided over by a large church built in 1370, a sports shop
(at least one graces every village to help outfit the hikers drawn by
the valley's 500 miles of trails), and dogs. The Swiss love their
dogs. They take them everywhere, including restaurants where the
creatures, big and small, sit jauntily on chairs and banquettes.
Rarely are they relegated to the floor.
For lunch, our group of humans chose the ground. We picnicked by a
waterfall on food bought at a local market that morning. Very few
folks speak English in these villages - and I met no other American
tourists during my stay - so store negotiations are efficiently done
nonverbally. They do speak English at the tourist bureaus, sports
shops, and hotels - in other words, you will not starve or get lost in
the Engadine.
Sunday we began the daily routine of yoga at 7, breakfast at 8, and
transport by van, bus, or train to the hike of the day at 9. We walked
along the River En to Punt Muragl, where the tram lifted us to the top
of Muottas Muragl (8,104 feet) for an Alpine Mass. We didn't
understand a word of the sermon but enjoyed the choral group and
alpine horn blowers.
We then proceeded on a more or less horizontal walk, but we were
now breathing thinner air than the previous day on the valley floor.
We ate our lunch by a mountain lake, where we were serenaded by
jangling cow bells. The food prepared us for a three-hour trek down
into the mountaineering center of the valley - Pontresina, a
picture-perfect village where the homes are embellished with graffito,
a traditional style of etching colorful patterns into stucco. Here we
treated ourselves to homemade ice cream and pastries in the
Kochendorfer tearoom before heading by bus back to Samedan.
After dinner we piled into a van bound for Sils Maria and got lost
on the way to our evening concert. The driver was Italian. None of the
passengers spoke Italian. There was lots of gesturing, lots of roaring
down tiny streets, and then lots of reversing direction. We arrived at
the concert a bit disheveled.
The Swiss love music, and the summer months are filled with
concerts in churches, village plazas, and school gyms. The audiences
at these affairs are as entertaining as the music.
Our Monday hike of four hours took us from the barren heights of
Murtel into the fertile valley above Sils Maria. This is the Fex
Valley, my favorite spot in the Engadine, with its lush farmland,
horse-drawn carriages, and quaint cottages. The philosopher Friedrich
Nietzsche, who lived in Sils (his house is open to the public), called
it "the loveliest little place on earth that fulfills all 50
requirements of my poor life."
The next day was a long, hot hike up Marguns (7,517 feet). We ate
lunch on a terrace overlooking the valley before hiking down into
Celerina for an afternoon concert in St. Jean Church, which was built
in the 1500s and retains beautiful frescoed walls.
On most of our hikes, which were led by either a self-absorbed male
or a statuesque female, both certified Swiss guides, we were offered a
walk or a more challenging and longer walk/hike. A blister kept me at
the walk level on Wednesday but brought me back into the Fex Valley
and to a superb lunch on a flower-festooned terrace. Afterward, we
walked down to one of the lakes and took a boat back to Sils. The more
experienced hikers went for an exhilarating hike to the top of Piz
Languard (10,758 feet). Although we had a guide, the trails in the
valley are clearly marked, there are many maps, and the tourist
bureaus bend over backward to be of assistance.
Instead of eating in our hotel that evening, three of us went to
Pontresina, a little village that was in a celebratory mood. Open
bazaars lined the cobbled streets, with all sorts of wares for sale -
jewelry, food, and clothing. And of course there was music - and dogs.
Although I brought several books for evening reading, I never
opened one. Sleep came immediately after a moment or two spent on my
tiny balcony observing the moon backlighting the dark, jagged Alps.
By Thursday I had become "grouped out" - I wanted a break from the
daily routine, the waiting, the pleasantries. I took a long morning
swim in the hotel's vast indoor pool and then went to St. Moritz with
one other member of the group. We bought a few souvenirs, but mostly
window-shopped. This is the land of couture and dazzling jewelry -
Prada, Escada, Dior, Cartier, Gucci, and Bulgari. And the Palace
Hotel. Although we didn't eat in the hotel, we did the next best thing
- dined on the Restaurant Cresa Veglia's terrace, which looks down on
the hotel and the lake below.
Friday was perhaps our most spectacular trek. We took a cable car
up Diavolezza to the world of the glacier. From the cable station we
hiked to Pers, a real challenge for a person like me who hates heights
and long drops. But I did all right and was able to enjoy the views of
the surrounding peaks - Piz Roseg, Piz Palu, and the highest peak in
the eastern Alps, Piz Bernina. We had lunch overlooking the glacier
and then rode back down in the cable car with a rowdy group of young
Germans.
Saturday, our last day, three of us again cut out on our own and
walked to Celerina for a jazz festival - a little bit of New Orleans
in the Engadine. The bands included the New Orleans Heartbreakers
(Germany), the Odd Fellows New Orleans Quartet (Italy), and the
Vintage Jazzmen (France). Picnic tables filled the ancient square, and
the whole town - adults, children dressed in leiderhosen, and dogs -
turned out for the music and food, including knockwurst, salmon, and
pizza. And, of course, beer and wine.
That evening our group had our last meal together. We toasted one
another with humorous good cheer and marveled at the connection we had
all made, not only with the mountains but also with one another. And I
made a promise to myself - to return to this valley, if not to hike,
then to ski.