 Arrived in Zermatt yesterday to clear skies and
sunshine. Spent the afternoon looking around and walking
along the river that runs from the Matterhorn down the
valley. The air here is pure---no cars allowed--with
each breath you feel refreshed. This small village is
scenic and magical; the Matterhorn connects heaven and
earth.
Our hiking trip to the Alps has been unexpectedly rough
for Moritz. First in Giessbach, he was showered with
ticks.
The ticks are unpleasant, but, being Moritz, he travels
with his usual grace and calm. Trains, taxis, buses,
crowds, noise -- none of these seem to disturb him. He
is at home anywhere. Taking care of him through such a
variety of new experiences has been a helpful lesson. In
turn, he looks after me attracting such a wide variety
of meetings and conversations. Yet I do wonder if all
this travel is good for him.
Early Sunday morning we begin a long hike high in the
mountains to view the Matterhorn range and a sizable
glacier. It is foggy and misty and I wonder if I have
chosen the right day. The manager of the hotel advises
going ahead as it may clear in the afternoon.
 We walk through the empty village and find our footpath
behind the church. Immediately we begin to ascend a
steep trail alongside a creek. Soon we hear a waterfall,
and Moritz runs ahead to spot a good drinking area. He
prefers cold mountain water--I suppose it is in his
genes, but wonder if growing up in Montana gave him
preference for lake and river water. We climb gradually
through the mist of the waterfall and the low clouds
hovering in the valley and nestled in the forest, a
natural background to the roar of the rushing water.
Moritz runs about, always checking to see if I am
following. The trail is rough and my progress is slow.
Too, I pay close attention to the wanderweg signs (trail
markers), not wanting to get lost. We are the only
hikers at this early hour.
After an hour or so, Moritz barks and I wonder what
interests him. I find him at the top of the trail near a
little chalet and restaurant where two men are talking.
One is a guest, the other the summer caretaker. Both are
friendly and love being up in the Alps. The caretaker
does not speak much English but lets us know that he
lives 100 days here each summer --says it is the best
job in the world.
 I ask directions. He points to a path leading up the
mountain. A slight rain has begun as we start our next
leg. Alongside the trail, in a hollow carved into the
rock, a candle burns by a photo of a young man who was
killed on a nearby mountain;. I stop to pay my respects.
We have seen other memorials in the mountains, a
reminder to be careful and grateful.
Before long we climb above the tree line and see fields
of alpine flowers amidst the grassy slopes. Without the
protection of the trees, the wind is strong and the
wetness of the mist covers us. Moritz doesn't seem to
mind as he prances along, nose in the air, sniffing and
listening. We hear cowbells. Is it a herd of cows or a
flock of sheep? I guess sheep.
The sound is, spontaneous and comforting. I feel I have
heard these bells in a distant past.
 Suddenly, Moritz becomes alert and rushes off the trail,
probably chasing a marmot. I shout, "Moritz come! come!"
but he is jumping up and down trying to get high enough
to see over the grass. He runs farther and disappears in
the fog.
Suddenly I am alone.
I wait for Moritz to return or bark. Silence.
The fog blows in, the visibility is limited. The ringing
of the bells becomes distant and disappears. I stand
still to collect myself. I remind myself, Moritz has
never gotten lost; he is a mountain dog and can handle
the rough terrain. But such encouragement does little to
calm my fear :Is he OK ? Will I find him? It begins to
rain. I walk up and down the trail calling "Moritz" and
whistling. Nothing.
I search for an hour. Nothing.
It begins to snow.
I have 3 choices: continue up the trail to the pass;
continue a little bit farther to where another trail
leading back to Zermatt intersects our trail; or return
back on the trail we came up.
 I ponder.
I decide to go up toward the pass to check the terrain
and see if he would attempt that route. I see it is
rough terrain and unless he found the trail, it is
unlikely that he chose this direction. I see no paw
prints on the trail, just some goat tracks.
I decide to return to the little house and ask the
caretaker if he has seen Moritz. It is a further walk
than I remember. I enter the house, dripping wet. The
caretaker is having a cup of coffee with a different
man. I ask if he has seen Moritz. His expression tells
me he does not understand. Fortunately, the other man
speaks English and translates. He shakes his head no.
They see my despair. The other man asks what kind of dog
is he. A Berner Senner. He reassures me not to worry he
probably will head back to the valley. If someone finds
him in Switzerland they bring him to the police.
 It isn't his words that are so comforting; it is the way
he speaks. Then I notice his Labrador lying next to his
chair.
I thank them both and leave my name and hotel.
The brief meeting encourages me to keep looking. I
expect to see Moritz near where I lost him but I find
only mist. I walk the trail calling. No paw prints, no
sign of him. Then, along the trail, bright yellow
bouquets of alpine flowers appear, as if sent from a
heaven realm to shock my mind back to the present and
break the cycle of worry and fear. My mind swings
quickly from a hellish to a heavenly state with no
intent on my part . The mind seems so small in the
context of sky and earth, rain, snow and wind. I feel
humble.
I begin to pray to find Moritz and for guidance on where
to look. I realize I can't seek advice outside myself:
no parents, no teachers, no friends, no experts. Nothing
outside. Have Faith. Listen. Act without doubt.
I realize if I lose Moritz, in seconds my life will
change. It is unimaginable. I wonder how others facing
tragedy cope with the suddenness of change, the grief
and bewilderment. I see how fragile our lives are. I
realize with a new immediacy, the constancy of
impermance, despite our efforts to distract ourselves
from understanding this profound reality. Nothing to
hold on to; it is frightening and freeing.
 I decide to head down to Zermatt on another steep trail
that intersects the one I travel. I search for paw
prints. Nothing. It is snowing and I am chilled. I call
for Moritz. Suddenly out of the fog, a Japanese tourist
with a small backpack carrying an ice pick in his hand
appears.
Have you seen a dog?
What color?
Black and big.
No only a white dog amidst some houses down in the
valley.
Thanks.
I walk a few steps; my heart sinks.
 Carefully using my trekking poles I work my way down the
trail, calling Moritz all the way.
Out of the corner of my eye, lying on a rock, he
appears, soaking wet.. Silently he lifts himself, limps
over to me and sits by my side. There is no emotion from
either of us, only my sigh of relief.. I give him all
the biscuits in my pocket and look him over. He has a
gash on his chin and seems shaken and embarrassed. I put
my hands around his face and my nose on his to comfort
him, and me.
I snap the leash on his collar and begin the steep
descent. In lightly falling snow he trails behind,
moving slowly and unsurely. The wind picks up and the
rush of the air speaks of the formidable power of
nature. I feel grateful and quiet.
We come to a few houses, each with gardens, the
vegetables in perfectly aligned rows, well above the
ground. I see kohlrabi turnips, carrots, potatoes, a
wide variety of lettuces: I stop and admire the
wholesome beauty of natural food grown where it is to be
eaten... Too, I see a flower garden, the peonies in full
bloom with a lilac tree near by. The simple houses with
beautiful gardens strike me as a humble offering to
life. I felt vitalized and appreciative of this touch
with the earth.
 We continue and suddenly hear a Swiss band robustly
playing marching music. The trumpets and drums echo
throughout the mountain side. It is such a surprise to
hear music rising from the valley and echoing here in
the mountains. The music is welcoming, it seems a
tribute to my humble prayer, as if celebrating my act of
faith.
We zigzag downward for about 90 minutes and finally
reach the village. On flat ground Moritz limps badly,
barely using his left front paw. When we reach the hotel
room I examine him --his leg is obviously painful. I ask
the hotel manager for a vet. She says there is no vet in
Zermatt, its Sunday, she would make an appointment with
her vet in Visp, a 1 - hour train ride, for Monday
morning.
We have a sleepless night, Moritz uncomfortable and me
concerned.
In the morning we arrange a ride to the train station,
travel to Visp, taxi to the vet.
 She greets us warmly and in no time has Moritz on the
x-ray table. Her office is clean and spacious-- Moritz's
leg is not broken -- she wraps it and gives me some
painkillers. We talk and I ask if she does MRI's as
well. She says yes she has a machine in her office and
sonograms also. I am amazed. She says her husband is a
radiologist; he will read the x-rays when he arrives in
the afternoon to be sure there was no break.
We are fortunate to find such a friendly and capable
healer. We talk and I suggest she look at nose-to-nose.com
to see how Moritz has led me through the world these
last few years. I am relieved: I don't yet have to face
the inevitable parting from this being who has become so
much a part of my life. The reminder is useful: he, I,
each of us will not be here forever. Best I appreciate
his joyful company each moment while we are together.
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