I’m Rigi, a mountain’s response

I'm Rigi. From the top of me I can overlook Lake Lucerne, which is often shrouded in a sea of clouds. The ridges and valleys are covered by open grassy fields and trees, which crackle as wind gusts sweep through the exposed patches up here. I transform over time into a place for many actors. Paths bring visitors up, disrupting my surroundings alongside the houses and railways. Often, I see them come up here to just stand on top of me, where the wind blows off their hats and they try to find the best positions for a picture. How can I shift their perspectives to support my transformation?

Visitors use the interconnected web of paths to explore different aspects of my presence. I hear the rocks move beneath their footsteps, deer walking past in the far distance, still unnoticed by the visitors, and feel the bark of the trees as they try to make their way through the thicket. This curiosity does not go unnoticed as they divert from the path, stepping on flora and fauna that grow on top of me, leaving visible traces on the surfaces that last for years. They do not know this. But not all are driven by curiosity and seem to value my convenience more. Gondolas can bring them to the top of the mountain. I feel unrecognized by them. When they get their pictures of the scenery, they rush down towards the valley. As soon as the weather turns and rain drizzles on my surface, dried-out river beds turn into streams of water, the visitors start running through the muddy paths, and search for the next gondola to bring them off me. If the next few days continue to be rainy, fewer footsteps will be run over me, and it’s time to rest.

On my steep slopes, farmers get to work. Unlike the visitor, they accompany me year-round. They notice the change in vegetation, care for the exposed slopes, and check whether anyone, such as a deer, has strolled through their fields and disrupted their organized fields. I can see that they are not just here to enjoy but to use my land. They follow their routines, but once it rains, they have to adapt. They work with me but also exploit me. Using the soil to grow new crops, using fertilizers that impact my surroundings, cutting down trees for new fences, and diverting streams of water to best fit their needs. But once it gets cold, it becomes quiet, and I am wondering where they are.

Over time, I could see that once they see the effects, they try to take care of them and reverse the changes. Sometimes reverting takes time or seems difficult because new patterns on my surface have evolved. The diverting of streams hurts me; it creates dead patches of grass where no one wants to go anymore. But also a flourishing stream bed full of life, new flowers find their way there, and small trees start sprouting out of my soil. I feel that way often; they do not learn from it, and the same mistake keeps happening. This adaptation shows that they try to live with the conditions: cold, snow, summer heat, or rainstorms.

In my untouched areas, when the sun sets, deer jump through the forest and the open fields, even passing along the paths, and are only held up by the fences. Their movement tells me patterns of how well I am doing and where I need to take more care of myself. They recognize weather changes early and, through their steps and sheltering, act as a reliable source of weather forecasts for me. But when they are disturbed by visitors or farmers, their sense of safety seems to fall apart. As I can observe, the deer seem to be vulnerable and most affected by the changes, and they can still only hide. Through this missing value, the forecast is interrupted, as I can no longer recognize their patterns, which are now overlaid by the sound of deer jumping and running hesitantly into the distance, seeking the quiet parts of me. When it gets calm, they can get out. They inspect the wide areas by strolling through my woods, cracking small branches, and making noise as they move the loose, fallen leaves from last autumn to find new, calm areas.

They seem to recognize the wind gusts and the changes in vegetation from a slow winter to a blooming spring. Each carries a different knowledge of what surrounds them. How might I communicate my needs to the different actors? It feels as if they recognize me differently, through their differences.

To bring the visitors on top of me, the railways seem to try to tame and control me. They transform my landscape to make the climb as accessible as possible. Drill into me for new constructions, reshape parts of me for new roads. I need to be more aware of them, as sometimes I feel powerless. As they act against me, they deconstruct my narratives of a sustainable transformation. Seeing how the deer and vegetation depart where they cross paths hurts. How might I react and work with them to express my needs? I try to show them my best side. Can I evoke positive emotions for my desired transformation? However, to truly understand my reaction, one must feel the sound of the wind, the passing of visitors, the rushing of deer, the vast diversity of animals, and the continuous silence in more remote areas. The farmers, visitors, and animals, such as deer, could help me take a stand against the undesired path of transformation, one that does not prioritize the short-term health of my surroundings but rather the long-term.

The other day, it rained, and I could feel the drizzle on my surface. At one point, I felt it would never stop. My surface started to get soaked, and the rocks started moving. At one point, I felt a large slide; rocks and mud started moving down the valley. It was an abrupt change in the surroundings. A stream of water was redirected. These are slow changes that take time, but are still recognized by my inhabitants. The wind that brings the rain and snow, or the change in pressure, signals an upcoming change. The animals running on top of me realize them and try to adapt before it is too late to keep up. I can feel that even the most subtle shifts can have far-reaching consequences.

When they see what the landslides caused, the disruption of the surroundings, the new patterns of mud and stones that were crawling down the mountain, they are often worried. The farmer looks frightened if his cattle have been affected. The visitors seem to avoid me in the days after, unsure what to do now. Lastly, the deer seem curious, passing by and inspecting their new surroundings. I sometimes wonder whether I could use this phenomenon the landslide to bring about a better change.

They seem to be trying to tame these consequences; new barricades against rockfalls are being built, the riverbed is being adjusted, and many other efforts are underway. All this reactive effort, and for me, it looks like they still do not see the cause of all this. If they listened more to the movement of the cracking branches of the old trees, the wind that sweeps over the ridges, or the rain that searches new paths down my back. Maybe then they could understand the causes and take proactive steps to transform my surroundings sustainably?

As I realize that transformation takes time. It is shaped and disrupted by a tangled web of causes, the landslide, the constructions, the visitors diverting the paths, and farmers exploiting me. The effects reach further, and the influence of many different actors is often unseen. They seem to recognize me differently, and I need to communicate with them depending on the context. This is new to me, and I still have to find effective ways to do it. Still, changes seem to be addressed only to individuals, and the collective effort is missing. Could the wind that passes over the ridge, the blooming fields, and the beauty of the forest help me in different ways? These actors can be human or non-human. Each holds different powers in the web of change. Now I look back at what is happening and see the biggest challenge.