To inhale the Alps and really hold it in, I sleep high in Gimmelwald. Poor but pleasantly stuck in the past, the village has a creaky hotel, happy hostel, decent pension, and a couple of B&Bs. Walter Mittler’s Hotel Mittaghorn, sitting at the top end of Gimmelwald, has long been my favorite. The weather-stained chalet has eight pint-sized balconies and a few tables shaded by umbrellas on its small terrace. Everything comes with huge views. Sitting as if anchored by pitons in the steep, grassy hillside, the hotel is disturbed only by the cheery chatter of hikers and the two-stroke clatter of passing mini tractors. On Walter’s terrace, I grab a table next to a group of Alp-aholics from the village’s youth hostel. While they compare notes on nearby hikes and team up for tomorrow’s adventures, I sip a coffee schnapps and watch rays from the setting sun warm the mountaintops as the moon rises over the Jungfrau.