Matterhorn Matters

By Finn Patterson

Switzerland

I used to think mountains were just scenery. Backdrops to postcards. Quiet giants whose job was to look impressive while people sipped hot chocolate at their base. That was before I came to Switzerland. Before I saw the Matterhorn. And definitely before I tried to climb it.

I’m studying abroad in Geneva this semester, focusing on International Relations, which sounds much more glamorous than it is. Between classes on diplomacy and human rights, I was itching for something physical—something real. A few friends mentioned Zermatt. “The Matterhorn is the most photographed mountain in the world,” one of them said. “It’s basically the Beyoncé of the Alps.”

Challenge accepted.

I did my research. Climbers call it a “pyramid of ice and rock.” It’s 14,692 feet of jagged beauty, with a summit that’s both iconic and dangerous. People have died on it. But with a guide, the right training, and a little recklessness, it’s doable. So I signed up with a local guide service. My friends thought I was having a quarter-life crisis. Maybe I was.

The climb began before dawn, under a sky that still held stars. My guide, a man named Elias with the posture of someone who trusts the earth too much, handed me a harness, crampons, and a helmet. He asked if I’d ever climbed anything before. I said, “A hill once, in Vermont.”

He laughed. “Good. Then you’ll respect the mountain.”

We started slow. The lower ridges were manageable—icy but quiet. I focused on my breathing, the crunch of my boots, the rhythm of rope between us. About halfway up, the wind picked up. Thin air made every breath feel like a negotiation. My legs were heavy. My ego, heavier.

But then—something shifted. As we hit the Hörnli ridge, I stopped thinking about reaching the summit. I started thinking about every small foothold. Every hand grip. Every single, deliberate movement. My thoughts narrowed. My ego shrank. All that existed was the mountain and me not falling off it.

Hours later, we reached the top. The summit was shockingly small—just enough space for a few photos and a long, quiet look around. Clouds floated below us. Italy to one side, Switzerland to the other. The air was silent in a way that made me want to whisper.

I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt... clear. Like the mountain had stripped something away.

On the descent, Elias said, “You climb a mountain to learn how to come back down.” I thought he was just being poetic. But I got it.

The Matterhorn didn’t care who I was. It didn’t care about my GPA or my resume. It didn’t care what I was majoring in or if I was ‘finding myself’ while abroad. It just stood there, tall and silent, asking me one question: Can you be present, even when it’s hard?

Now, back in Geneva, that question echoes louder than any lecture hall.

Switzerland taught me a lot—about efficiency, neutrality, chocolate. But the Matterhorn taught me how to pay attention. How to keep going, one step at a time. How to let go of what doesn't matter, and how to hold tight to what does.

And yeah, I still took a photo at the top. But it’s not the picture that stayed with me.

It’s the climb.