We had been able to hear the sound growing for the last three hours as we hiked across the alpine fields, drinking in the sights and sounds of the high meadows of Switzerland.
The notes rang clear and true, reverberating along the canyons and off distant mountainsides, with pindrop clarity.
At
last, we crested the rise four abreast and were confronted with a sight of extraordinary splendour... A cadre of massively muscled Teutons, short blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, their bronzed upper bodies gleaming like burnished statues. They each swung massive hammers; some with one hammer, others with two.
Each was bare-chested, dressed in well-worn moleskin chaps and heavy boots, conveying the impression of blacksmiths of yore, swinging their hammers lustily against gigantic pipes and plates of steel, each stroke bringing a perfect note from the instrument.
In all, there must have been more than seventy men, playing tunes in perfect time, from this magnificent musical instrument. With tears welling in my eyes, I sat on the short, sweet grass in rapt wonder, enveloped in the wall of pure sound they made.
These men passed their artistry on from father to son, in a tradition of hundreds of years. For many, eventual deafness was a small price to pay for the sheer artistry and joy they brought to the world.
In winter they only played on those days when it was necessary to bring down dangerous avalanches from the skifields, for public safety.