My Father, Swiss Alpine Guide

Rafting a river, biking through Burgundy, hiking the Grand Canyon. I realize adventure travel is trendy, and the more active the better.

Even so, the Great Outdoors always seemed like an oxymoron to me. And, as far as I’m concerned, going anywhere that doesn’t have a Saks Fifth Avenue and an organic grocery is roughing it.

So how my father and I came to be related is beyond both of us. I’m a journalist who loathes snow and statistics— and is petrified of heights. He’s a former Swiss Alpine guide–turned- mathematician.

Though my father had a degree in engineering, from his 20s he often could be found dangling from a rock, a pipe in his mouth, a climbing rope wrapped around his waist, and a gaggle of mountaineers trailing behind.

I can’t recall a single photo from his youth without the backdrop of snow-capped mountains or his uniform of parka, knickers, cleated boots, and coil of rope. With a curl of red hair sprouting from his head, he looked like the living incarnation of French comic-strip adventure hero (and climber) Tintin.

He met my mother when her best friend—his sister—had a cocktail party in London to welcome him on his return to the UK from across the pond, the first such voyage for anyone they knew. The dress code probably was cocktail attire, but I bet my father arrived in his stained parka. Perhaps his smiling eyes, rakish grin, and intelligence blinded my mother. His attraction to her was no mystery. She was the kind of woman others hate: Her elegance was striking. Assistant to one of the top publishers in London, she went to the best parties, wore the most fashionable clothes, and had flawless ivory skin that even Nicole Kidman would envy.

I still wonder whether my parents would have married if Dad hadn’t spent much of their courtship with his broken jaw wired shut because of a climbing accident. Once the wires were removed, my mom learned he rarely spoke. But by then, she was hooked.

She agreed to marry him if he’d come off the mountain, give up his motorcycle, and get a proper job. He became a math professor and taught in Sydney, Australia; Providence, Rhode Island; and Madison, Wisconsin—only 45 minutes from the great rock faces in Devil’s Lake. But I don’t think his heart ever left the Alps. (That might explain why he always seemed deep in thought.)

Any fantasy my father had about my mother joining him on hikes was quickly dashed. The one and only time they tried, she managed to get “stuck’’ between two rocks. I have a feeling she was wearing pearls, white gloves, and kitten heels at the time.

Alas, I wasn’t so lucky.

From the start, my father and I battled the elements: math and nature. He headed into hurricanes for the fun of it and to the cliffs every weekend. When driving, he careened madly around curves, somehow shifting gears with one hand while squeezing a spring resistance grip in the other to strengthen his muscles for mountaineering.

I asked him why he climbed so much, and he explained the only time he truly relaxed was when searching for a handhold while scaling rocks.

My brother, meanwhile, cross-country skied across the frozen lake three blocks from home. He rode his bike everywhere and not only belonged to a bike club but also trained for the Olympics. Like Dad, he pushed the limits, smashing local sports records (and his knee).

Whatever. I rarely left my room—except to hit the library. When Dad removed my bike’s training wheels when I turned 8, I simply stopped riding. Even so, he refused to relinquish his quixotic quest to find my inner athlete. I kept insisting I was afraid of heights, but he’d insist no such fear existed. He tried to make me learn how to ski down our backyard’s “bunny’’ hill, which made me hunker down even further in my room. He had to bribe me with a chocolate milkshake to get me to go to Devil’s Lake with him, a place I felt aptly named for its cliffs, winding trails, and distance from any shopping malls.

He went every weekend with students in a university mountaineering club. Dad always took the lead, in part because he was the only one who’d climb six rock faces in a day. They, oddly enough, wanted to take breaks and enjoy the view.

I have no idea how he got his climbing rope around my waist when I was 12. He persuaded me to take the first few steps up a wall—but I was crying the entire time. Not that he noticed; he had scampered to the cliff top and impatiently ordered me to catch up. Of course, I fell and was smashed between rocks and a tree as the rope swung. I sobbed, Dad yelled, and our fellow climbers begged him to let me down. (Fortunately, they won.) That was the last time he roped me in.

Undaunted, my father moved to academia. He tossed me a calculus book later that year and ordered me to “read’’ it. I threw it back. Who needed math? This was the era of calculators.

Perhaps that’s why I thought I’d won—and that I’d receive a tiny velvet box lined with satin and holding a treasure for my sweet 16th birthday as my friends had. Emeralds. Sapphires. Zirconia. Really, I didn’t care as long as my present was delicate and set in 14-karat gold.

When my father was unusually chipper, eager to see my delight at his gift, I took it as a sign. Perhaps I was getting diamonds and pearls.

My heart sank that morning when I found a new knapsack leaning against a large box. I was less than delighted by the navy-blue suede climbing boots I unearthed. They weren’t just any boots. My father had special-ordered them from Switzerland, size 7AAA, just for me. The treads, the laces, the lining could withstand the roughest mountain conditions. And each boot weighed about 10 pounds. For all I cared, they might as well have been bricks. If I could’ve lifted my feet, I’d have fled to my room to special-order a new father. Needless to say, that day was the last time I wore those boots.

I think my father finally gave up and wrote me off as a victory for my mom’s side and a loss for his. From then on, I stayed indoors, and my time with him was spent falling behind as he strode through hardware and grocery stores. No words were exchanged, which suited both of us fine. I knew his resoluteness extended to his love for me.

Off I went to college in Minnesota and New York—without ever strapping on skis or hiking boots.

Dad, meanwhile, continued to climb well into his 80s, slowed more by the hesitation of students than his age. But at 85, he fell while skiing. Refusing to go to the hospital, he got in his stick-shift car and drove the 45 minutes home. On the way, he phoned my mom to say, “Ilse, please put your father’s canes at the back door.’’ She knew it was serious.

When my mom dragged him to the doctor, they found out that he’d broken his pelvis clean through in two places. Did that stop him from climbing or skiing? Hardly. By the next season, he was back on the slopes alongside my brother.

As for me, I can’t say I’ve been up a hill since childhood. I even live at sea level.

Yet with time, I realized my dad and I have more in common than either of us suspected—starting with stubborness, perfectionism, and a love of silence. But writing? Imagine my surprise when I was thumbing through my mother’s books and I found two climbing journals, each with a short story by Richard E. Meyer about his Alpine escapades. One tale was hilarious. Who knew he had a sense of humor? Surely, it was another man with the same name.

When asked, he had no retort—what else was new? But Mom said the author was indeed my father.

Even stranger, I became more like him. I even like visiting hardware stores now, as he always has. Admittedly, he’s focused and efficient as he runs errands, while I meander without buying a thing, out of nostalgia. For the same reason, I actually cherish my Swiss boots, which I’ve lugged from home to home and state to state over the years.

Still, we’re an odd pair. You’ll find him in a climbing parka and puffing a pipe, while I’m likely to be wearing something impractical and black with boots. Not navy suede, of course, but pointed-toe stiletto ankle boots by Stephane Kélian of Paris, thank you very much.

But Dad is somehow at my side. And though I may not see a smile on his face, I know we accept each other. That mountain, at least, we’ve climbed.

Details, Details, Details / To hire a top-tier Alpine guide, contact the Swiss Mountain Guide Association, Hadlaubstrasse 49, 8006 Zürich; Tel: 41-44-360-5366 or e-mail sbv@awww.ch; or the Alpine Club, 55/56 Charlotte Road, London EC2A 3QF, Tel: 44-20-7613-0755 or alpine-club.org.uk.

To post your request for a qualified guide fluent in English, French, German, or Italian, visit 4000plus.ch.

Celebrate the 150th anniversary of Alpinism in Zermatt, below the Matterhorn, at the Cantonal Mountain Guide Festival, June 22–24, 2007. And don’t miss Zermatt’s new Matterhorn Museum. Visit zermatt.ch.

Michele Meyer is a former fashion editor who has covered the collections in Paris, Milan, New York, and LA while contributing to Lucky, Allure, and Women’s Wear Daily. Her fear of heights extends to hills, ladders—and platform shoes.