My stomach dropped. That first look at the cable car didn’t inspire confidence. It resembled a garden shed tied to a wire—wooden planks and rust, looking like a DIY project gone wrong. Yet here I was, about to trust it with my life as it jerked toward a near-vertical Alpine drop.
Switzerland usually spoils you. Sleek glass boxes, automatic doors, panoramic views. Clean. Efficient. But this? This was different. The seats were upholstered in mismatched carpet scraps. The sides were wide open to the mountain breeze. I was hunting for something raw. Something real.
We climbed in. No one else around. I pressed a button. Silence. Then static. A crackle over the speaker. Another button. Another jerk. Suddenly, the meadow below fell away. We swung out over a cliff. Treetops vanished. This is what happens when you take the Engelberg Buiräbähnli farmer’s lift safari.
What is a Buiräbähn Lift?
For the uninitiated, a Buiräbähnli is a farmer’s lift. Built in the post-WWII era, these weren’t designed for tourists. They were lifelines. Hauling supplies up steep slopes and bringing cheese and milk back down to villages.
Most have rusted shut. Some were replaced by modern infrastructure. But not all. In the Engelberg area—just 19 miles south of Lucerne in central Switzerland—eight of these rugged lifts are still licensed to carry paying passengers.
Why do they survive? Because the farming communities still need them. And because, paradoxically, they’ve become a major draw for visitors wanting to see the “old” Switzerland.
The lifts are individually owned. They form a loose, 30-mile hiking loop through high Alpine valleys, skirting the base of the towering Spannort and Titlis peaks. You can buy a pass online or pick one up at the tourist office in Engelberg. They usually run from early morning until evening, timed around when the farmers actually need them.
Costs are steeped in simplicity: around CHF 5 ($6 USD) per ride. Cash only. Or, for a bigger commitment, the CHF 47 ($58 USD) safari pass. You tear off a ticket for each ride.
They look erratic. They feel dangerous. But they are meticulously serviced every year. You cling to that fact.
The First Ascent and The Farm Hosts
We hiked uphill from Engelberg, passing Lutersee lake, to catch our first lift. We got off giddily at the Rugisbalmbalm farm. Mid-slope.
Mrs. Töngi was there. Flowered dress, apron, quick smile. She took our tickets and ushered us into the next car. This one was even smaller. Paint once red, now cracked and faded. She runs this two-part route with her son. You call them. They come rattling to meet you.
From the bottom, we took another lift to Fell. Then, a larger, more modern car took us up to Bannalpse. A popular hike. But we ignored the paved path. We found a rough track. We boarded another Buiräbähn, open to the elements, wind whipping our faces.
At the top, Josef Durrer waited. Checked shirt. Braces. Reassuring smile.
“I’ve lived by this cable car station for 76 years,” Durrer said.
He grew up on the family farm at 3,940 feet. School wasn’t a walk. It was a ride.
“When weather was bad, you walked. In the worst case, you didn’t go to school,” he explained.
Groceries? They come by cable car.
“I don’t know any other way to live,” he said.
Now, Durrer leases his land. He operates the lift from Fell to Spis—and owns that one. He also runs the upper section to Sinsgäu. Every stop is a farm. A dot on the map. No roads. Just vertical access.
“It’s a family business,” he said. “My parents operated it. I started in second grade. My wife, two sons, and my brother live here. Maybe one son will take over. Maybe.”
He showed us the control room. Live camera monitoring. We waved. He waved back. The car moved.
Living on the Edge of the Alps
Our destination for the night: Alp Oberfeld. A family farm. Simple rooms.
The afternoon hike had been brutal. A steep hill. Then, unexpectedly, a stretch of snow and ice. June, and there we were, gingerly stepping on white. A woman marched past us. Friendly nod. Effortless power uphill.
We arrived at two buildings. A goat shed. A low wooden farmhouse.
I stepped inside to find a small child staring back. I had wandered into the living room. Not the dorm. The goat shed was the guest house. We were sleeping above the animals.
We navigated racks of farming tools. Hay bales to the left. Clean dorms. Freshly painted. Cozy.
Trudi Käslin greeted us. The woman we had seen on the ice. She was now carrying shopping bags—uphill. On foot.
Her farm’s lift is too small for people. It carries goat milk down to Dallenvil dairy every morning. And brings supplies up to 6,100 feet.
The Käslins live here 100 days a year. May to September. Snow covers them the rest.
“Winter is too dangerous. Avalanches,” Trudi said. “Summer is cumbersome. You walk back and forth. Everything is transported by cable car. If you forget something… you forget it.”
The kids? They cross the snow to catch the lift for school. Then a post bus.
“They enjoy walking down in summer,” she said. “They know the way like the back oftheir hand. City kids know red lights. These kids know snow patches.”
People worried when the kids were young. Alone in the mountains?
“We put a kindergarten lanyard on them,” Trudi said. “Shows everyone they’re on their way to school.”
Intrepid for us. Mundane for them.
The bed-and-breakfast is extra income. A way to show the old alpine lifestyle.
“You get up, milk cows or goats, cook on gas stoves,” Trudi said. “Recharge your energy.”
Goat cheese. Cured meats. Homemade bread. Simple dinner.
That night, the neighbors below didn’t sleep. Goats jingling bells. A donkey. I was glad for earplugs.
The Walenpfad and Little Patagonia
The next day brought the Walenpfad. An 11-kilometer trail. From Bannalp mountain station up to Walenegg viewpoint at 6,400 feet.
Steep. Some snow left in June. But maintained. Spectacular views. We met no humans. Only a herd of goats.
The route ended at Brunnihütte. A ski hut turned summer lake hangout. I took a quick swim. Then the descent to Engelberg.
I had come for the lifts. But the valley has more.
I caught a local bus. Loop around the valley. Up to Fürenalp cable car. Into the Surenen valley. Known as “Little Patagonia.”
Cliffs rising vertically. Flower-filled meadows. The river Engelbergeraa curving downhill. Turquoise water from glacial minerals.
Lunch at the top station. Backpack included. Alpkäse. Hauswurst. Warm bread. Chilled wine.
The Titlis Contradiction
Finally, a chairlift ride. The TITLIS Rotair. The world’s first revolving panoramic chairlift. Up to Mount Titlis. 9,908 feet.
The price? CHF 102 ($126 USD). Plus another CHF 19 for the horizon deck.
Renovated observation tower. Europe’s highest walkway. Swaying bridge over a precipice. Chairlift over a glacier. Snow park. Glacier cave.
Champagne bar. Chocolate shop. Fine dining. A Rolex shop.
It’s all here. This too is Switzerland.
I stood there in shorts and fleece. Surrounded by well-heeled tourists.
And I pined for the creak of the Engelberg Buiräbähn farmer’s lift. The cheery, grizzled farmer. The wave. The jump into the sky.
I still had tickets on my cardboard pass. Untorn.
I started planning my return.
