Henricus: The Mountain Wraith of Roggenloch

The Muota Valley (only the village itself is called Muotathal), or “Mutta Thal” as it’s written on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, is home to some of Switzerland’s most headstrong compatriots. In the past, it was the scene of clashes between European powers—today, it stands as a secluded natural paradise of international significance, both above and below ground. In more recent times, it has become known for its shrewd alpine farmers with an uncanny knack for predicting the weather.

I still recall my own memories of “military victories” at the Pragel Pass—gas mask on—against the overpowering mechanized red BöFei (BöFei=Böser Feind =Evil Enemy). One should also mention the culinary delights that await visitors here, treats that are difficult to find in the urban sprawl of Zurich. And for those who prefer not to eat them—well, the fat can be rubbed into the skin as a herbal salve, soothing even the weariest of bones.

The incredible beauty of this wild landscape makes one suspect a legend hiding behind every boulder. And behind every legend, there’s always a grain of truth. Today, a storm front named Benjamin—or perhaps just a latecomer—drives clouds and rain almost horizontally across the harvested fields of Riedt, setting the perfect mood.

It was in this atmosphere that I wrote the novella Henricus and the Mountain Wraith of Roggenloch—a tale that could very well have taken place here.

But as Giordano Bruno said back in 1582: Se non è vero, è molto ben trovato.

Thomas von Riedt

October 2025

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