The little train leaves Zermatt slowly, as if to remind us that speed in the high mountains is a relative thing. When the line opened in 1898, the carriages reached an average of 7.2 kilometres per hour. Slow, we’d say now. But back then, it turned a half-day climb into a one-hour ride – revolutionary speed.
To the right, above the rooftops of the village, the Matterhorn appears – the undisputed star of the show. At 4,478 metres it isn’t Switzerland’s tallest mountain, but it’s certainly the most famous. Without that sharply pointed summit, Zermatt might never have become one of the most renowned and exclusive mountain resorts in the Alps.
I’m on my way to the Gornergrat, 3,089 metres above sea level. Since 1907 it’s been home to the highest hotel in Switzerland: the Kulmhotel – and tonight, my bed. There’s something special happening too: Dining with the Stars. Astronomers from the University of Bern are here to explain the heavens, using the telescope hidden in one of the hotel’s towers. At this altitude, far from any light pollution, it’s one of the best places in Europe to observe the night sky – at least, on a clear evening. And tonight, the heavens are crystal.
Inside the train are skiers, day-trippers and a few hotel guests with overnight bags – like me. The ride is included in the ski pass, and the descent from over 3,000 metres is considered one of Zermatt’s highlights. Peering out the window, the angle of the trees shows just how steep the climb is – up to twenty percent in places. When the railway was built in the 19th century, this was a world-class engineering feat: the first fully electric cogwheel train in history.
The carriages rattle gently through the forest. Between the branches I glimpse the Matterhorn again – that mighty pyramid of rock that has claimed the lives of more than five hundred climbers. Tragedy has only burnished its legend. In the late 19th century, the people of Zermatt weren’t thrilled about plans for a railway. Many worked as porters for wealthy English visitors, carrying both luggage and passengers. A train would end all that.
But progress never asks for permission. The job of porter disappeared, replaced by new ones: guides, innkeepers, waiters, shopkeepers. Innovations like the Gornergratbahn brought more visitors – and with them, opportunity. The line operated only in summer until the late 1920s.
The train climbs above the tree line. First, wide views open to the left; later, the Matterhorn returns to the right. It’s easy to imagine those 19th-century climbers dreaming of being the first to reach the top – a race that became legend.
On one side was the Italian mountaineer Jean-Antoine Carrel, climbing slowly from the south for patriotic reasons. On the other, the Englishman Edward Whymper, impatient and determined. When Whymper heard that Carrel had begun his ascent, he launched his own, pushing hard for the summit. On 14 July 1865, at 1:40 p.m., Whymper’s team stood victorious on top of the Matterhorn. Their triumph, however, was shattered during the descent when one climber slipped, dragging three others to their deaths. Whymper survived – but the glory was forever shadowed by tragedy.
Such stories feed the mountain’s mythology. And the shape itself is irresistible: that perfect point, that subtle twist, those impossibly steep faces. When the train reaches the summit station, skiers clip in for the long descent via Riffelberg and Riffelalp, while non-skiers head to the viewing platforms or the Kulmhotel terrace – hot chocolate in hand, surrounded by peaks and silence.
I check in. From my room: a dream view, the Matterhorn framed in the window. When the day-trippers are gone, silence returns. Only the hotel guests remain. The wind picks up, sharp and icy, but it feels like a privilege – so much mountain, so few people.
It turns into a wonderful evening of fondue, stargazing, and wonder. After dinner, we gather for an engaging presentation beneath the hotel’s old stone arches — the kind of talk that makes you want to look up more often. Tonight’s mission: to make some sense of that dazzling chaos of lights above us. What’s what? And why? To finally know what we’re really looking at.
It sounds ambitious, but as the night unfolds, the sky begins to make sense. I learn to recognise Sirius, Jupiter, and Orion — bright, proud, and impossibly far away. And then there’s the North Star, which, surprisingly, isn’t the brightest of them all. You find it, our guide explains, by tracing a line through the two stars at the end of the Big Dipper, multiplying the distance by five. There it is. Simple. That’s north.
Finally, we climb one of the towers to look through the telescope. The light we see has travelled some 20,000 years to reach us.
‘Don’t worry,’ says astronomer Jesse Weder from the University of Bern, controlling the instrument from his laptop. ‘The stars you’re looking at probably still exist. Most live for billions of years – it would be quite the coincidence if one burned out on the way.’
Later, I fall asleep beneath that same sky. The next morning, I wake to the Matterhorn glowing in the first light of dawn. The word magical is overused – for puddings, pop songs and theme parks – but here, it truly fits. The summit blushes pink in the sunrise, the sky melts into rose and gold.
Magical.
Outside, a few other guests brave the twenty-below chill, taking photos before the first train arrives. Soon, skiers and sightseers will return – to glide, gaze or visit the tiny chapel and ZOOOM the Mattherhorn, the interactive exhibition, where a virtual paraglide circles the Gornergrat. For now, it’s just us, the cold, and the view. I watch the first train crawl up the track, red against white. Time for breakfast.
There are three ways to stargaze in Zermatt: from the village with your head tilted back, by staying overnight at 3,000 metres, or by booking Dining with the Stars on the Gornergrat Railway. In the last two cases, clear skies guarantee a celestial show – with almost zero light pollution. Even the train ride itself – up in daylight, down in darkness – is unforgettable.
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