As a hiker who has spent most of my life trekking the slopes of volcanic mountains from Sabang to Merauke across the Indonesian archipelago, the contrast with my experience in Switzerland truly gave me a new perspective and carried a different meaning.
After closing a stack of seminar report files in St. Gallen, a city located in Northeastern Switzerland (Ostschweiz), I packed bread and chocolate, a waterproof jacket, and a water bottle, heading toward St. Gallen Bahnhof. My destination was Seealpsee, located slightly south of St. Gallen, a hidden oasis in the Appenzell Alps.
As the train slowly moved, leaving the cityscape of St. Gallen, the academic atmosphere I had lived in for five days seemed to melt away, replaced by the atmosphere of a rural journey. The train started to gain altitude, cutting through the rolling green hills that are famous as the signature view of the Appenzellerland region, where every blade of grass seemed to have been carefully combed by invisible hands.
Seealpsee should only be about 18-20 kilometres from St. Gallen, but because of the mountainous topography, the route is longer, winding through the green valleys of Appenzell. In less than an hour, the train arrived at Appenzell Station. I then transferred to a local train heading to Wasserauen, which is the final stop as well as the gateway to the hiking trail toward Seealpsee.
This journey offered an emotional transition for me. Outside the train, I saw the sort of green hills that I thought could only be glimpsed in paintings or films, things that felt impossible for me to see with my own eyes.
The peaks of the hills touched each other warmly with the mist above them. Wooden houses full of flowers looked grounded yet luxurious. Not to mention the herds of cows with faintly clinking bells, as if completing this region’s ecosystem, mutually guarding and beautifying one another: the nature, the buildings, and the animals.
Meanwhile, inside the train, the passengers changed; from locals with simple everyday purposes and modest appearances, they turned into mountain explorers or travellers with trekking poles and mountain backpacks.
The background of the Alpine mountains seemed to draw closer.
The train arrived at Wasserauen, and the cold mountain air gripped me as soon as I stepped off the platform. It crossed my mind: would I be able to start this hike? But according to several reviews I read on the internet, the hike to Seealpsee is classified as easy. Even some families can still use strollers for their toddlers. What I worried about was not my ability to handle the route, but the weather.
However, the view before me defeated all those doubts. I could not possibly ignore a beauty that I might never get to experience again in the future. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I started following where the crowd was heading. As an Asian, their pace felt so fast. I started to get breathless, especially as the path grew steeper. At that moment, I realised that I should hike at my own pace. There was no need to feel afraid of being left behind. By walking at my own pace, I might be able to see and observe things I hadn’t fully appreciated before, things that, perhaps, if I observed them more deeply, would hold a different meaning for me.
The route is clearly marked; even where the path branches off, there are yellow signposts pointing the way to Seealpsee. The path I took was still paved and quite wide. It slowly cut through a protected forest with the sound of a stream that was so clear, not just the flow, but the tone as well. This area was very quiet; even the tinkling of the bells hanging on the necks of the cows sounded so distinct, even though the closer I got to the mountains, the more crowded the travellers became.
The path began to change into dirt and rocks. The scent of damp earth and fresh pine slowly filled my lungs, while my eyes were presented with a beauty that touched my soul with emotion. I smiled at travellers who also greeted me. It felt like there was no reason not to smile; if I could, I would happily smile even at the cows and the trees! Occasionally, I also took photos, with wonderment at how I finally felt being in the Alpine mountains, where the paths and clearings struck me as so neatly structured and clean.
After nearly an hour of hiking leisurely, the steep path slowly began to flatten. The forest I passed through gradually opened, replaced by scattered wooden houses, revealing a view that instantly made me gasp in awe while feeling so peaceful.
I arrived at the edge of the lake, with water that was a deep turquoise, so clear that I could see the rock formations at the bottom: Lake Seealpsee. With a background of thin mist hanging over the giant limestone of the Alps, moving calmly like the rhythm of the life of the people living below it. Like a mirror. The same went for the lake water, which reflected the sky and the mountains, as if sending a message that perfect beauty often forces us to reflect more deeply.
At that moment, I stood in silent stillness while gazing calmly at Lake Seealpsee. I have a habit of seeing paradoxes everywhere. When beauty seeps into the soul, what I feel is not absolute happiness, but a question: “Why can’t my homeland treat its mountains with the same reverence?”
My thoughts instantly leapt thousands of miles, crossing ocean boundaries toward the slopes of Mount Gede in West Java, Indonesia. Mount Gede is the most popular mountain in West Java, visited by thousands of hikers every week. Not just hikers, but also trail runners.
It is popular because of the beauty of Surya Kencana, a savanna field overgrown with Edelweiss (Anaphalis Javanica). It is often called the ‘Eternal Flower’ because its petals contain ethylene hormones that prevent them from wilting, allowing them to last for a long time. The vast and majestic Surya Kencana becomes a lure for hikers/runners to hike Mount Gede to a height of 2.750 MDPL (“Meter Di Permukaan Laut” or metres above sea level), without even needing to reach its peak.
That is how Mount Gede is known, because of its Surya Kencana. Not many know, especially hikers and trail runners, that for the Sundanese people living at the foot of the mountain, it is simbah, a living ancestor, a place where the hyang reside, a sacred land with a space between the mortal and spiritual worlds. Culturally, they have forbidden forests and strict customary laws. It is clearly imprinted that when visiting sacred land, the directive to respect nature is absolute.
However, if today we see Mount Gede through the news or social media, that sanctity seems to have evaporated, replaced by the sight of brutal mass tourism. The hiking trails are always full and crowded with people. The mountain ridges are littered with plastic containers, instant noodle wrappers, shampoo bottles, even cigarette butts, and rotting food waste. A sacred area now defiled by daily actions that perhaps very few of those visiting are even aware of.
Truly an irony. In Switzerland, a secular and rational country, nature is treated with full affection and mindfulness. Meanwhile, in Indonesia, a country known for its culture and indigenous wisdom, possessing spirituality and rituals, nature is instead sacrificed on the altar of tourism consumption.
Witnessing the orderliness at Seealpsee made me reflect a lot on the essence of the journey itself. Why do we often have to travel far to the other side of the world just to realise what is wrong at home?
Inhaling the pure Alpine air here feels like a blessing. I spent hours here, walking around the lake, enjoying my lunch, and simply watching the mountain reflection on the calm water surface. This place is not only physically clean of trash but also offers extraordinary mental “cleanliness.”
I often see how political border lines separate the fates of two different nations. Now in Switzerland, I see a borderline of consciousness. Their citizens do not expel humans from nature, but educate humans to know their place when in nature. The cleanliness and orderliness at Seealpsee were not born from abstract love for nature alone, but from a management structure that gives space for local communities to be sovereign over their land.
In Indonesia, as a nation, we always feel proud of our ancestors’ wisdom, but we often fail in translating it into a modern system capable of curbing the flow of tourism capitalism. Where mountains are often seen as commodities, and as something to be conquered, not to be listened to.
This journey of mine is not an attempt to escape or blindly worship the Western world. Admiring the mountain management in Switzerland does not mean I condemn my birthplace with cynicism. On the contrary, Seealpsee has become a mirror that reflects a longing, and simultaneously an urgency, to re-embrace a new consciousness.
I do not need to change Mount Gede into the Alpine mountains, because that is a form of mental colonisation. What I need is to build a bridge between modern logistical discipline and the spiritual and cultural reverence that the Indonesian nation actually already possesses and has been ingrained in from generation to generation.
When the afternoon began to descend, and the train rolled, carrying me back to St. Gallen, I watched my own reflection in the window glass, which displayed the Swiss landscape outside. I know I will return to my archipelago of Indonesia, and I return not with a broken heart from comparing two worlds, but with renewed conviction: that caring for the earth is the highest way for a human to define who they are, and what they will do in their future, as an individual and also as a nation.
