Hans im Glück – The Story Behind a Freeride Descent in Andermatt
If you are a dedicated freerider in Andermatt, you have probably heard of the legendary descent known as “Hans im Glück”.
It leads from Gemsstock down into the Unteralp Valley – remote, demanding and magical. A line many people only speak about in whispers.
But do you actually know what – or rather, who – lies behind the name?
We met the real Hans.
Who Is Behind “Hans im Glück”?
The names of freeride descents often originate from memorable experiences, local stories or people who have shaped the terrain over many years.
“Hans im Glück” also has a very personal story behind it.
In this interview, we discover how the name came about and learn more about the connection between Hans, Gemsstock and Andermatt.
The Interview
Text & Interview: Dominik Osswald
As I approach the house, I can already hear a greeting from behind the hedge.
Wearing a gardening apron and holding a pair of shears, he stands there with a white moustache, a friendly smile and a firm handshake. This is Hans Berger.
His house lies in a quiet neighbourhood in Olten, and the garden is in full bloom. Hans immediately starts talking – but not about couloirs or powder slopes. Instead, he proudly shows me his courgettes, tomatoes and flowers.
Hans belongs to a generation of Alpine pioneers who achieved extraordinary things without making much noise about them.
In the 1970s, he was among the first climbers to repeat major routes, including the Japanese Direct Route on the Eiger North Face. He completed the first winter ascent of the north face of Les Droites and later took part in an expedition to the south face of Mount Everest.
His most lasting impact, however, was in the Gotthard region. For 34 years, he managed the Salbit Hut, opened and restored climbing routes and initiated the spectacular Salbit Bridge.
Born in Thun, Hans has seen many of the world’s mountains. Today, he lives in Olten with his wife Bea and their two children, Aline and Jonas.
But why does a legendary freeride descent north of Gemsstock bear his name?
Hans, who are you?
Iwas born a farm boy and grew up with six siblings.
My father died when I was ten years old. My dream job would have been to become a farmer – a few cows, some vegetables. But my mother could no longer manage everything on her own.
Six months after my father died, my sister drowned in a duck pond.
I left home when I was twelve. A mother living on a pension of 280 francs could hardly support five children.
I began an apprenticeship as a carpenter, managed to buy myself a bicycle and discovered the mountains as an escape from everyday life.
Before long, all I cared about were my bicycle and the mountains.
I still worked on Saturday mornings. Afterwards, we would set off by bike and climb mountains in the Bernese Oberland on Sundays: Wildstrubel, Balmhorn, Doldenhorn – normal tours.
That is how I became a mountaineer.
So instead of becoming a farmer, you became a mountain guide?
first worked as a carpenter in Grindelwald.
At the age of 22, I completed the mountain-guide course. It was completely different from today.
There was no aspirant training. You obtained a porter’s permit and helped a mountain guide take guests into the mountains.
In 1968, I entered the mountain-guide course. First, you had to complete a climbing circuit. If you passed, you went directly to the Jungfraujoch.
There, you had to climb a slope on skis, complete two kick turns and ski back down.
If you passed that as well, you completed a week of touring in the Jungfrau region. That was the first part.
The second part consisted of high-alpine tours. There was very little formal instruction; it was more about practical application.
After that came a climbing examination – and then you were a mountain guide.
What was skiing like in the 1970s?
There was no such thing as off-piste skiing or freeriding as we know it today.
Ski tours were only done in spring. During the middle of winter, there were hardly any guests.
I first went to Davos in 1976, and even then people there were already beginning to explore the idea of ski touring in midwinter.
Elsewhere, there was very little activity. Ski lifts existed, but practically nothing happened beyond the pistes.
Piste skiing itself was more demanding, though. The slopes were not groomed, so you skied on moguls.
Was that because people were not interested in powder, or because there was not enough knowledge about avalanches?
We knew almost nothing.
There was no safety equipment. Even shovels only appeared much later.
During the mountain-guide course, we carried an avalanche cord. If someone was buried, the idea was that at least you would know where they were.
But how were you supposed to dig them out without a shovel?
Only gradually did people realise that carrying a shovel might be important.
The first versions of avalanche transceivers appeared in 1968, but they were initially only used by the military.
There was no avalanche bulletin.
So avalanche science was largely unknown?
Yes.
There was instinct, of course. But people did not yet know, for example, that avalanches usually release on slopes steeper than around 30 degrees.
That understanding only came later with Werner Munter.
He began identifying patterns after being caught in avalanches three times himself. I was even there on one occasion, at the Oberalp Pass.
The difference between what we knew then and what we know today is about as large as the glacier retreat we have witnessed over the past 30 years.
You are one of Switzerland’s mountaineering pioneers, yet your name is mainly known among insiders. Why?
I never wanted to become famous.
I simply enjoyed doing these things.
The media did take notice of us, but they came to us – not the other way around.
That also had something to do with the Swiss mentality. It was not considered appropriate to make a big story out of doing wild things or taking risks.
People would quickly dismiss you as a lunatic.
So you kept it to yourself.
A good example is Hermann Steuri, the technical director of my mountain-guide training.
In my opinion, he was one of the greatest mountaineers of all time.
I am convinced that he would have made the first ascent of the Eiger North Face if he had received support from his village.
But he encountered enormous opposition – even from his own family.
That was the reserved Swiss mentality of the time: you did not put yourself on display.
Take us back to Gemsstock in 1983.
There was a small red cable car that carried perhaps 20 to 25 people.
At the top, you descended a staircase onto the glacier. The piste route that exists today had not yet been built.
You could ski towards Guspis and the Unteralp Valley much as you can today, but you had to make sure the piste manager was not around. I occasionally had a bit of an argument with him.
The glacier was much larger and extended much further down.
Even in the Felsental, you had to be careful not to fall into a crevasse.
To the left of the Sonnenpiste, the St. Anna Firn was still a proper glacier at the time.
Today, there are only a few remnants of dead ice left.
So you more or less had the off-piste terrain at Gemsstock to yourselves?
Yes.
We always carried climbing skins because sometimes we had to climb back out after ending up in a dead end.
The guests understood that we were sometimes taking them into terrain that was also unknown to us.
They were part of the process of discovering new routes and descents.
Felsental, Unteralp, Guspis, Geissberg, Winterhorn – everything lay untouched in front of us.
At the time, there was still a lift at Winterhorn. We would sometimes combine a descent through Guspis with a direct continuation towards Winterhorn, where another virtually untouched mountain was waiting.
How did the “Hans im Glück” descent come about?
I often skied out through the Unteralp Valley.
When you look up to the left, you can see couloirs descending from above.
They caught my attention, but they looked very narrow.
One day, I went to have a look with a group of Austrian guests.
I said to them: “Do you feel like an adventure? There are no guarantees. If it does not work, we will have to climb back using our skins.”
They were delighted.
We descended from the summit of Gemsstock towards the Unteralp Valley and then climbed up to the Gafallen ridge.
Behind it, a hidden and gentle valley opens up before eventually narrowing into a steep, confined couloir.
The avalanche conditions were favourable.
I was extremely nervous because I did not know exactly what awaited us.
But then the couloir opened up in front of me, and I knew it would work.
I was enormously relieved.
At the bottom, the Austrians said: “You were lucky there, Hans.”
And that is how the name “Hans im Glück” remained.
Where Does the Name of the Neighbouring “Giraffe” Descent Come From?
Alex Clappason was the first person to ski the Giraffe.
He named it that because people stood at the top with their necks stretched out, leaning far forward just to see how the route continued below.