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.