Hiking Switzerland’s high alpine trails isn’t exclusive to hardcore hikers. Through a patchwork of eccentric transport systems—tiny cable cars, aging gondolas and remote post buses—writer Ailsa Sheldon takes a ‘lift safari’ through the Swiss mountains.
As the cable car creaks into view, my stomach sinks. It looks less like public transport than a garden shed suspended from a wire—the sort of contraption I might have cobbled together as a child from scrap wood and an abandoned stroller. And yet, in a moment, I’ll be trusting it with my life as it lurches down a near-vertical Alpine mountainside.
So far, Switzerland has spoiled me: Sleek cable cars with panoramic windows, electronic displays and reassuring automatic doors. But today, the seats are covered in carpet offcuts, the sides open to the mountain air. I’m here for a different kind of hiking adventure, using these much lesser-known gateways to these mountains.
There’s nobody around so we climb into the lift and press a button. Nothing. Then a burst of static. A crackly voice. We stab at a few more buttons before, with a jerk, the lift begins to move. At first, we’re only a few feet above the meadows and it feels quite serene. Then the ground suddenly disappears beneath us and we swing out over a cliff, the treetops far below.
This is a Buiräbähnli, or farmer’s lift, built after World War II to haul supplies up to remote farms and bring milk and cheese back down to the villages. Some lifts have creaked to a final rusty stop, or been replaced, but those that remain do so because they are still vital to the farming communities. But they’re also accessible to visitors.
Around Engelberg, 19 miles (30 kilometers) south of Lucerne in central Switzerland, eight Buiräbähnli are licensed to carry paying passengers. Individually owned by farming families, they’re linked by a 30-mile (48-kilometer) hiking route through high Alpine valleys which follows a rough loop of Engelberg valley, on the lower alps below the lofty high peaks of Spannort and Titlis. You can buy a pass online, and have it posted to you or collect in Engelberg, along with a route map. Lifts generally operate from early in the morning, once the farmers begin their day, until the evening.
“The way to get groceries is via the cable car. I grew up like this, so I don’t know any other way to live.”
- Josef Durrer, farmer and lift operator
Journeys cost around CHF5 (USD$6) each (cash only), or hikers can buy a CHF47 (USD$58) safari pass from the tourist office and tear off each ticket as they ride. The Buiräbähnli look erratic, but they are carefully serviced every year. I cling to this fact for the rest of the journey.
We’ve hiked steadily uphill from Engelberg through farms and woodland, and past Lutersee, a mountain lake, to find this first Buiräbähnli lift. We disembark giddily at Rugisbalmbahn farm, halfway down the slope. Farmer Mrs Töngi, in a flowery dress and apron, takes our tickets with a quick smile before ushering us into the next cable car down to the small village of Grafenort at the bottom of the valley. This cable car is even smaller than the last, its once-red paint faded and cracked. Mrs Töngi, operates this two-part cable car route with her son, answering the phone when hikers call to summon it, and sending the rattling cable cars to meet them.
At the hamlet of Fell, a larger, more modern cable car leads up the mountain to Bannalpse, a popular hiking spot. But we follow a rough track to climb aboard another Buiräbähnli, this one almost entirely open to the elements. We’re welcomed at the top by Josef Durrer in his checked shirt and braces, and a reassuring smile.
Durrer grew up at Spis on his family farm 3,940 feet (1,200 meters) above sea level “I’ve been living within the cable car station for 76 years now,” he says, “Growing up, I’d have to take the cable car down to get to school. When it was bad weather, you would have to walk, and in the worst case, you couldn’t go to school.” The Buiräbähnli are essential to live and work here: “The way to get groceries is via the cable car. I grew up like this, so I don’t know any other way to live.”
After decades farming these high pastures, Durrer now leases out his land. Today, he’s the cable car operator on both the Fell to Spis route, which he owns, and the upper section from Spis to Sinsgäu. Each stop is an individual farm, a tiny dot on the map with no access road.
Running the cable car has always been a family business. “I operate the cable car on my own and before me, it was one of my parents. I already knew how to operate the cable cars when I was in second grade,” he tells me. “I live here now with my family: My wife, two sons and my brother. It is not certain yet, but maybe one of the sons will take over after me.”
Durrer shows us into his control room, where he sets the cable cars in motion. There’s a live camera monitoring the top station—we give him a cheerful wave as we disembark. Our destination tonight is Alp Oberfeld, a family farm with simple accommodation. After a long afternoon hiking the final hurdle, a steep hill beckons, followed by a large stretch of snow and ice. As we gingerly pick our way across, a woman marches past us with a friendly nod, effortlessly powering up the slope.
At the top stand two buildings: A large goat shed and a low wooden farmhouse. I step inside the farmhouse, untie my boots, and look up to find a bewildered small child staring back—I’ve wandered into the family’s living room rather than the hikers’ accommodation—the goat shed. We’re actually sleeping above the goats. We walk through the racks of farming tools, and turn left at the hay bales to find two clean, cozy and freshly painted dorm rooms.
We meet our host Trudi Käslin, the speedy walker who passed us earlier. She’s now laden with shopping bags from her own farmer’s lift which she was marching up to catch. This lift is too small for people, but it’s used to send goat milk down to the dairy in Dallenwil, a village lower down the valley, every morning after milking, and to send back up whatever the family needs to run their business at 6,100 feet (1,860 meters).
The Käslin family, Thomas, Trudi and their four children, live here for 100 days of the year, roughly May to September. The rest of the year, their farm is covered in snow. “In winter, it would be too dangerous because of the amounts of snow, and the danger of avalanches,” says Käslin. “Living here during the summer is a little cumbersome, as you have to walk back and forth with material quite a bit. Everything needs to be transported with the cable car and that needs a lot of planning. And if you forget something, there’s no easy fix, it’s just forgotten.”
Yet standing in my shorts and fleece among well-heeled visitors, I pine for the freedom of a Buiräbähnli lift, and a cheery grizzled farmer pressing the buttons, sending me into the sky with a wave.
To get to school for the few weeks either side of the summer holidays, the children cross that same snowy patch, and walk through the hills to take a cable car to the bottom of the valley, then catch a post bus to school.
“It’s only for a few weeks during the summer, and they enjoy walking down the mountain,” says Käslin. “They know the way like the back of their hand and know what to look out for, just like a kid in the city would know to stop at a red light and wait before crossing the road. When they were younger, people sometimes questioned what a child on their own was doing in the mountains. However, we solved this by putting a kindergarten lanyard on them to show that this is their way to school.”
To us it felt intrepid. For them, it’s the school run.
Providing basic hikers’ bed-and-breakfast accommodation is an additional income stream for the family. It gives visitors the chance to experience Swiss farming culture, and enjoy the calm grandeur of the mountains at night. “We want to showcase a view of an alpine farm which is more like it used to be back in the old days. You get up in the morning, milk your cows or goats, feed the animals and cook your meals on gas stoves,” says Käslin. “It’s a place where you can recharge your energy.”
After a simple dinner of goat cheese, cured meats and homemade bread, we settle into our dormitory. Our downstairs neighbors do not seem to sleep: The herd of goats jingle their bells all night, and I hear the donkey too. I’m glad I packed earplugs.
The next day’s hike, we join the Walenpfad, a seven-mile (11-kilometer) route linking Bannalp mountain station from the previous day, with the ascent to the panoramic viewpoint of Walenegg (6,400 feet/1,951 meters). There are some steep sections, and in June, still some snow, but it’s a well-maintained path with spectacular views. The only other hikers we meet are a large group of goats. The route ends at Brunnihütte, a ski hut-turned-summer lake hangout. I have a quick swim before the descent to Engelberg.
I came to Engelberg for the Buiräbähnli, but they’re not the only way to explore the valley. I catch the little local bus that loops around the valley to Fürenalp cable car to explore the Surenen valley, the area between the Surenen pass and Fürenalp, known as ‘Little Patagonia’. Cliffs rise almost vertically from flower-filled meadows, and the river Engelbergeraa curves gently downhill, the water a distinctive turquoise from mineral-rich glacial water. From the restaurant at the top cable car station, we pick up a lunch backpack. Inside is a generous block of Alpkäse (Alpine cheese), Hauswurst (homemade sausage), a loaf of warm bread, and a chilled bottle of wine.
For a final mountain adventure, I catch a series of chairlifts—including the world’s first panoramic revolving chairlift, the TITLIS Rotair—from Engelberg up to the top of Mount Titlis (9,908 feet/3,020 meters) in the Uri Alps, on the border of the Obwalden and Bern cantons. The journey costs CHF102 (USD$126), plus an extra CHF19 (USD$24) to access the horizon deck.
The renovated observation tower is hugely impressive, featuring Europe’s highest walkway, a swaying bridge over a precipice, a chairlift over the glacier, a snow fun park and a glacier cave. There’s a champagne bar, a chocolate shop, a casual fine-dining restaurant, and a Rolex shop. This too is Switzerland.
Yet standing in my shorts and fleece among well-heeled visitors, I pine for the freedom of a Buiräbähnli lift, and a cheery grizzled farmer pressing the buttons, sending me into the sky with a wave. There are still little tokens I haven’t yet torn from my cardboard pass, and I find myself plotting my return to use them.
Ailsa Sheldon was a guest of Switzerland Tourism, Engelberg Titlis Tourism, Edelweiss Air and Travel Switzerland. She traveled using the Buiräbähnli lift pass and Travel Switzerland’s Swiss Travel Pass which offers international visitors unlimited travel on consecutive days across the rail, bus and boat network.
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Ailsa Sheldon is an award-winning freelance travel writer based in Edinburgh. She writes regularly for The Guardian, The Herald and JRNY magazine, usually about outdoor adventures across Europe. Originally from Lochaber in Scotland's West Highlands and brought up by outdoor instructor parents, Ailsa takes any opportunity to be outside: she is often found hiking, skiing, swimming, cycling, trail running and eyeing up kayaks and paddleboards—then writing about it.
