I’ve reflected before on the benefits of long-stay travel. Without a fixed schedule and the pressure to cram everything into a tight window, you get the freedom to be spontaneous—to go with the flow. Honestly, I feel like I’m built for this kind of travel. Sure, we’ve had to plan around workdays and visitors, but for the most part, when opportunities come up, we’ve been able to jump on them.
Our second trip back to Saas Fee in two weeks was exactly that—one of those opportunities we couldn’t pass up. We’d missed seeing the Barbieros (and missed out on the best Italian food in the Alps—Don Ciccio’s), so when Ina and Andrea invited us back up for a visit, we were in. They’d just returned from vacation, and with the restaurant closed during our last visit, it made perfect sense to hop back on the train after saying goodbye to Dave and Biba.
But this wasn’t just any trip to Saas Fee—this was our chance to take part in an annual tradition: the seasonal return of the goats to their summer alpine homes.
I know very little about goats. They’re not, as it turns out, animals I spend a lot of time thinking about—which means I know even less about how to herd them. Like most events here—explained in a mix of French, Swiss German, and hand signals —we pieced together the basics: every summer, the goats get herded up to the alpine meadows, a big deal in Valaisian folk tradition (on par with cow fighting and yodeling contests). We were, of course, honoured to take part—and it definitely felt like another step toward our unofficial Swiss citizenship.
The best part? Once we got the goats where they needed to be, there’d be food, drinks, and merriment—Andrea’s famous risotto, cooked right there in the alpine meadow, shared with our new goat friends and some of the most spectacular views imaginable. Perfect.
Ina and Andrea generously offered us a stay at their beautiful chalet. The Thursday we arrived, we met for dinner at their place—enjoying a great meal, a bottle of wine (or two… or three…), and an opportunity to catch-up. We spent Friday wandering the village and made a half-hearted attempt to visit a local marmot family—but it was too hot, or they were too well-fed to pay much attention to fawning tourists. That evening, we celebrated re-opening night at Don Ciccio’s with a fantastic dinner, and maybe a few more drinks. I’ve already mentioned how serious goat-herding day is, and we didn’t want to disappoint—our plan was to get a good night’s sleep and be up early, ready to go.
Turns out we were up very early. Cedar, disoriented in the new digs (can’t blame him), woke up around 3:30 a.m. in the pitch-black chalet—thanks to the blackout blinds—and, in his panic, ran straight into the wall. Startled by the crash, I jumped out of bed, whacked my ankle on the side table, and went headfirst into the wardrobe. (The wine from dinner probably didn’t help.) Both of us ended up on the floor.
Not exactly an auspicious start to our herding careers.
Trying to salvage the moment, I explained to Cedar that real goat herders don’t get up until at least 6 a.m.—so we could all go back to bed. When Sheila’s alarm finally went off, I was relieved that my headache was now distracting me from my sore ankle… though less thrilled to discover I’d forgotten to buy coffee for the machine. Excellent start.
Still, when we opened the blinds, we were greeted by a stunning sunrise over the mountains. After a few strong cups of tea, Team Lum was on its way to the car park to meet the other participants.
I wasn’t totally sure what to expect—but, like most things on this trip, we went in with good humour, blind enthusiasm, and faith that everything would work itself out. So far, it always has.
We could hear the bells before we saw the goats. That pleasant jingle, paired with the sunrise and my fading hangover, had me feeling optimistic about a leisurely stroll in the sun.
Looking around, we didn’t seem too out of place—aside from the “real” goat herders, the ones with cool hats and wooden crooks. A few instructions were given (by the president of the goat-herding society, as we later learned) entirely in Swiss German. We just smiled, nodded, and tried to look like we understood.
Then the gates opened.
The goats—previously docile, happily munching grass—took off like they’d been shot from a cannon. Straight through town. And us, the three bewildered Canadians were caught right in the middle.
I did not anticipate this pace.
Sheila, Cedar, and I were suddenly swept into the center of the stampede—it felt like we were the ones now being herded. The peaceful morning erupted with shouting, HUP HUP, ALLEZ ALLEZ, whistles, barking dogs, and the thunder of hooves. No one was strolling—we were all running. Full speed.
I didn’t expect goat herding to feel like the Running of the Bulls—but there we were, funneled through downtown Saas Fee, me hoisting Cedar above my head to keep him clear of horn height, dodging goat shits cascading down the cobblestones in front of me.
Adrenaline kicked in, but we were still getting passed left and right—mostly by spry Swiss septuagenarians clearly seasoned at this. One sweet-looking Swiss grandmother, who’d kindly smiled at me earlier, zipped past aggressively—though not before casually handing me a goat leash.
At this point, I was getting concerned. We hadn’t even reached the trail yet, and here I was—already in the back of the pack, holding a goat leash, my kid on my shoulders, panic stricken, and sweating buckets before the hiking had even started.
That’s when we spotted them—two beautiful shaggy white goats, lingering behind. One, the bigger one, kept a decent pace. The smaller one seemed more interested in munching on villagers’ flowerpots than following the herd. These were chill goats. Like us chill humans. Not in a rush. We’d get to the alpine eventually.
This was how we met Fliri and Flora.
Although, at first, I was calling one of them “Jud.” In my defense, that’s what was on her collar tag. I also assumed, given her size and attitude, she was a male (wrong again).
The larger goat, Flora, took a shine to Cedar and Sheila, and soon we’d settled into a much more relaxed pace. “Jud” (actually Fliri) was more adventurous—but thanks to my now-elite goat-herding skills, we kept her mostly on track and out of the village gardens. I was yelling “JUD! ALLEZ JUD! HUP HUP!” with full conviction. Throw me in some lederhosen, give me a hat and a crook—I could’ve easily passed for a local (I couldn’t).
Of course, I didn’t realize that “Jud” wasn’t her name—it was her owner’s last name. They’d been walking just ahead of us, too polite to correct the clueless foreigner loudly yelling at them instead of their goats.
Eventually, we learned that Fliri and Flora were mother and daughter. Poor Flora—like me—wasn’t exactly thrilled about the heat or the climb, but we weren’t in a rush. Fliri, loyal as ever, never strayed far from her mom, and Cedar and Sheila took turns coaxing Flora along.
After plenty of breaks (for the goats and me) and a necessary beer stop at Alpenblick, we finally reached the alpine hut where lunch awaited. We said farewell to our new friends—and their lovely owners, Sylvia and Roman, who we exchanged numbers with.
I had no idea what to expect from goat herding—but I can confidently say I did not expect to leave thinking the goat might just be my spirit animal.
After an incredible alpine lunch of risotto and chicken skewers, we made our way back down—satisfied, happy, and feeling like we’d officially unlocked “goat herding” as a new Swiss skill.
Still riding the high from our animal-husbandry skills, we decided to try our luck with the marmots. Cedar, armed with fresh Don Ciccio’s carrots, lured them out this time—and even got to hand-feed a few. We spent a fun afternoon making more furry friends.
That evening, we enjoyed another wonderful dinner at Don Ciccio’s—our second of the trip—and caught up with Gabriele, who had just finished exams in Zurich and was back for the summer to help at the restaurant.
Later that night, sitting on the chalet deck, reflecting on the day, I couldn’t help but wonder: what other unexpected adventures might still be waiting for us around the corner? Cedar and I have decided to start practicing our yodeling skills – you know, just in case.
