There are mountains that not only soar into the sky, but also reach deep into the soul. One of them is the Brienzer Rothorn – a primeval bulwark of stone and wind, towering at 2,350 meters above the turquoise waters of Lake Brienz. It is the highest peak in the Emmental Alps, and yet – or perhaps precisely because of this – it is surrounded by an air of mystery, of something older than time itself.
The ascent begins innocently, almost playfully. In Brienz, the old steam train hisses like a sleeping animal being roused from its dreams. Shining black and with steamy breath, the Brienz Rothorn Railway winds through forests and rocks as if following an ancient line drawn not by human hands, but by the will of the earth itself. The path leads past precipices and clearings so silent that you can almost hear every breath of the wind—and perhaps even the voices of those who once walked here.
Up above, in the thinner air, everything changes. The view opens up in all directions – to the south, to the shimmering waters of Lake Brienz, glowing like liquid opal in the sunlight. To the north, over the forgotten valley of the Waldemme, whose mist often wraps itself around the peaks like a living veil. But what truly matters is not what the eye sees, but what the silence tells us.
The four cardinal directions that converge here – Brienz and Schwanden in the canton of Bern, Giswil in Obwalden, Flühli in Lucerne – share the summit like a sacred relic. And perhaps that is precisely why the Rothorn seems so soulful. It is a place of transitions, an intersection of worlds. No wonder, then, that one hears of apparitions here: a wandering hunter without a shadow, who loses himself in the mist. A woman in traditional Bernese dress, who strides silently across the scree and is never seen again. Or the Rothorn itself, which on some nights seems to stir, as if the mountain were breathing slowly and deeply.
From Sörenberg, a gondola takes visitors up silently, as if floating on wings. And up at the summit, where the wind seems to speak in ancient languages, it's not hard to imagine that gods once sat enthroned here, gazing over the valleys, dipping their fingers into the mist, and weaving stories that still whisper beneath the rocks today.
The Brienzer Rothorn is not just a mountain. It is a mirror—not made of water, but of wind, light, and silence. Those who climb it do so not only with their feet, but with their hearts. And when they descend again, something remains behind up there—a thought, a dream, a sense of wonder. In return, they take something else with them: the feeling of having entered a place not quite of this world.
Anyone who has the courage to get so close to heaven will not only encounter the mountain – but themselves.
