Wordsmith
The Man with
the World’s Best Job
www.kevreynolds.co.uk
Kev Reynolds meets the Man Who Couldn’t Die
D
iagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour,
Franz Müller put his affairs in order, gave
the keys to his apartment to a neighbour, and
headed for the mountains. It was a decision
he’d toyed with for years, but had planned for his
retirement. Now he wouldn’t live long enough to retire,
so he deserted the town in which he’d lived and worked
since university, and with a few clothes, toiletries and
books in a rucksack, took the train to Interlaken. Three
hours later he checked in at the old berghaus in which
he’d spent some of his happiest days, and gazed out the
window at one of the finest views in all the Alps.
The atmosphere was charged with
fury which he observed from his
window...
That summer the numbing pain in his head was kept
under control, thanks to medication and lots of fresh
air. And that view, of which he could never grow tired.
That was a major part of his pain control – the view of
Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau; it was as powerful as any
drug. It was rejuvenating, and enabled him to think of
life, not death.
He’d first seen those iconic mountains as a boy when
he’d gone skiing with his parents. They were beautiful
when lacquered with snow, but he reckoned they were
even better in summer, when the great limestone cliffs
and snow-domed summits rose from pastures bright
with flowers or loud with cowbells. He also discovered
an added dimension when storm clouds erupted, for
then the whole world seemed to shake. The atmosphere
was charged with fury which he observed from his
window as vivid blue flashes of lightning struck the
mountains again and again, and rain poured from the
roof into what seemed like a moat around the building.
But when the clouds drifted away and the sun came
out to set the grass a-steaming, Franz breathed in its
freshness and felt restored.
He baked the bread, made yogurt,
rösti and bilberry tart for
visitors...
As the weeks rolled by, he’d go for short walks in
the valley behind the berghaus. He’d chat with farmers
as they tossed the hay, and engage with cheesemakers
who welcomed him into their parlours, and before the
summer was over he knew he belonged there. It was as
though he’d come home. If only to die.
He hadn’t expected to survive that summer, but
when he went to the hospital for a scan, the specialist
told him the tumour had not increased in size. If
anything, it may have shrunk just a little.
So Franz went back to the mountains and stayed
there through the autumn and the following winter.
He helped the young couple who ran the berghaus,
and when they wanted a day off, he served drinks and
snacks to the locals who’d visit after work. He enjoyed
it so much that when the couple’s contract ran out and
they decided to try somewhere else, Franz became the
acting manager. With the help of a German girl who
worked as waitress and chamber maid, he baked the
bread, made yogurt, rösti and bilberry tart for visitors,
and slept soundly at night. And still he didn’t die.
We first met him that summer when he was acting
manager. We were checking routes for my guide to the
Bernese Alps, and having stayed at the old berghaus
in the past, decided to use it once again as a base for a
few days. Like Franz, we were charmed by its weather-
stained timbers, the low beams, uneven floors and
ill-fitting doors. And that view. The dorm in which
we stayed may have had pillows as soft as sandbags,
but from it we had a million dollar view for only ten
francs a night, plus meals. Meals prepared by Franz
and served by the German girl with yellow hair who’d
sit with us sometimes after Franz had gone to bed, and
talk about mountains.
We returned to the old berghaus the following year as
we plotted the route of the Tour of the Jungfrau Region.
The German girl with the yellow hair had been replaced
for the summer by a Swedish student, but Franz was
still there, and he welcomed us as old friends. We
signed in for a couple of nights, and this time, instead
of the dorm with sandbags for pillows, we celebrated
Franz’s survival by splashing out on a room with twin
beds, a porcelain jug of water on the dresser, and that
view that would glow beneath a heaven full of stars at
night and greet us with the flush of daybreak staining
the Jungfrau’s crown.
He lived for the moment and
only wanted to talk about the
mountains
On our way up to the berghaus we’d passed bushes
heavy with bilberries, so we asked Franz for a bowl
and we’d gather some for him. After an hour of picking
four-for-the-bowl and two for us, we were stained
with juice but had enough fruit to last Franz and his
guests for the next week. After that we had bilberry tart
for dessert, bilberries for breakfast and more bilberry
tart for lunch. Franz said they’d be good for us. After
all, they were good for him. He didn’t mention the state
of his health. He lived for the moment and only wanted
to talk about the mountains. They brought the smile
into his face and the healing he hadn’t expected.
From the Swedish girl we learned that Franz slept
most afternoons for a couple of hours, and sometimes
woke to find that his eyes wouldn’t focus. He still baked
bread and made yogurt, but left the Swedish girl to do
most of the other cooking.
I remem ber the last time we saw him. He walked us
to the door, shook us by the hand and thanked us for
spending time with him. ‘Walk well,’ he said, before
waving us goodbye.
Two years later we called at the berghaus but he
wasn’t there. Ten months earlier the man who couldn’t
die had been rushed to hospital where he drifted in and
out of consciousness before slipping peacefully away.
They didn’t say where he was buried, but I do know
where his spirit rests…
The berghaus won’t be the same without him, so
we’ve never been back.
autumn 2018 | Outdoor focus 5