Seven hours into an arduous Alpine climb up teetering wooden staircases and scree-strewn switchbacks, the trail finally spits me out onto the cloud-wrapped summit of the Hohtürli Pass. At 2,840 meters (9,317 feet), the world feels reduced to gray rock and mist, save for a few fluttering prayer flags and the yolk-yellow signposts that mark the route.
A cheery, hand-written sign in German subverts my otherwise thunderous mood: “You’ve almost made it! Only seven minutes left to your destination.”
The problem? My destination—the Blüemlisalphütte Hut—is nowhere in sight. My companion and I circle a large cairn, looking for the building our map claims should be here. No luck; just mist. It’s late August, and the afternoon sky seems perilously moody—and my calves feel as close to snapping as my patience.
But then, a bit of luck. The clouds briefly roll out, revealing a path that leads up a short, steep slope to a wooden building: Blüemlisalphütte, its red and white shutters glinting in the miraculous sudden sunlight. As we climb the final few steps to the front door, a cloud inversion spreads out below us, the jagged peaks of the Bernese Alps piercing soft gray clouds. Suddenly, the long hike feels worth it.
We’re walking part of Switzerland’s Via Alpina 1, a 240-mile stretch of the larger Via Alpina network that links eight European countries across 1,200 miles. This Swiss section runs from just over the border in Vaduz, the Liechtenstein capital, to the town of Montreux on Lake Geneva.
Hiking all stages takes about 20 days, but like most trekkers we meet, we’re only here for 3. The country’s famously efficient trains and buses make it easy to dip in and out, accessing even the most remote valleys.
Along the way, we’re staying in mountain huts, or hütten, a defining feature of the Swiss hiking experience. Over 200 dot the country’s Alpine landscape, from no-frills bivouac shelters to sleek, sci-fi-looking lodges. Most are run by the Swiss Alpine Club (SAC) and offer a warm bed, hearty meals, and a sense of community amid the challenging mountain terrain.
Our adventure begins in Lauterbrunnen. After weaving past restaurants selling wurst (traditional pork sausages) and rösti (a Swiss dish of grated, fried potatoes), we climb through shady forest toward the ski town of Mürren, glimpsing the cream-topped peaks of the region’s tallest mountains, Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau, through the trees.
We pass a rural cheese shop, wooden farm chalets draped in geraniums, and the occasional hiker. A Swiss German woman shows us how to pick bilberries, and we paint the tips of our fingers a brilliant pink with their juices.
You never know when you might come across an alphorn practice in Switzerland; some huts are more rustic, and some are more like lodges or chalets.
Photo by Danuta Hyniewska/Shutterstock (L); photo by Kate-Sisk/Shutterstock (R)
Our first overnight is at Rotstockhütte, a rustic hut at the foot of the Schilthorn. We arrive as a herd of cows are filing into a nearby barn for milking. Their bells jingle as we swap dirty shoes for communal Crocs in the boot room and head upstairs to find our bunks beneath the eaves. The 30-person shelter is half full and already feels like a small community: Someone is drying a pair of damp socks on the sole windowsill in the dorm. Downstairs, a group of Americans are chatting joyfully.
A serviced hut is more than a place to sleep. After long days in the mountains, people gather around tables to trade stories, compare blisters, and obsess over routes, often with a warming cup of schoggi (hot chocolate). That night, we converse with a British man heading the same way as us; nearby, the Americans enjoy final beers—they’re heading home in the morning.
Rain patters on the roof when we wake. We debate waiting it out, but eventually shoulder packs and climb into the clouds toward the Sefinenfurgge Pass. At the summit, the landscape is Gothic—like Frankenstein’s monster might be hiding around a boulder. But even here are pockets of natural brilliance: Purple monkshood flowers grow in single spears above the rocks.
The Via Alpine 1 is demanding. Days are long; elevations are vicious. But the landscapes are sublime—rugged peaks, green pastures, glaciers groaning on high—and few destinations make accessing such terrain so easy. The trails are meticulously maintained, winding through terrain that looks wild but is rarely out of reach.
And it’s the people you meet that make the journey. By the time we approach Blüemlisalphütte, we spot the orange jacket of our new British friend a few hundred meters ahead. We yodel; he waves back. In the hut that night, over steaming bowls of soup, followed by suure mocke—braised beef marinated in vinegar—we talk routes, bad weather, and marmot sightings over a game of cards until lights-out. Our companions are two middle-age Australians, two college-age Americans, and a Swiss grandfather.
Hiking through the Swiss Alps is full of mountains, marmots, and meeting new people.
Photo by kasakphoto/Shutterstock
Sunshine illuminates our morning descent toward Kandersteg. As the moon-like, rocky slopes give way to boulder-strewn meadows, we spot black, glossy Alpine salamanders huddled in the damp grass. After a few hours, Oeschinensee appears, a Gatorade-blue lake framed by steel-gray mountains and the feathered tops of pines. Day-trippers dot the lake, braving chilly swims, renting rowboats, and basking in the sun. You can grab a beer here, at Chalet Arva, and dip your toes in the waters before a final descent toward town. We stay at Camping Rendez-Vous for our final night, a campsite with a shop selling fresh bread, a small restaurant, and—excitingly—hot showers.
On our final morning, enroute to Kandersteg station, we wander past a group of alphorn players rehearsing in a square. Once used by shepherds to call cows from the pastures, the long, conical instruments are now used in folk music, brought out for celebrations. You can catch performances at the International Alphorn Festival in Valais’s Nendaz each July. The moment I witness, though, is a village practice—a centuries-old tradition casually continuing on a Saturday morning. The rich, woody notes hover in the morning air, a final salute to our hut-to-hut adventure.
Practical tips for Swiss mountain huts
Huts operate from approximately mid-June until mid-October, with about half remaining partially open (but unserviced) in the winter and spring. Expect limited phone signal, no Wi-Fi, and no access to electric plugs. Dorms normally provide a duvet and pillow, but you may want to bring a lightweight sleeping bag for added comfort and hygiene.
Serviced SAC huts offer half-board meals (soup, a main course, and dessert) and breakfast for an extra charge. Water and “hiking tea”—a sweetened fruit or herbal tea—are offered the next day.
The shelters are popular, especially on weekends, so book ahead. If full, huts may offer floor space or allow tent camping nearby with access to their facilities.
How to get to the Bernese Alps
The Bernese Alps are easily reachable by train. Many hikers arrive at Grindelwald or Lauterbrunnen—either village provides access to Stage 11 of the Via Alpina, which winds between the two.
A full 240-mile trek along the Via Alpina 1 takes around 20 days, but shorter itineraries are possible. For a scenic day trip, try the six-mile Oeschinensee hike from Kandersteg. Lakeside restaurants serve mountain-cheese risotto, crispy bacon with potatoes, and fresh-baked strudel—ideal post-hike fare.
