Walter Giger was extremely proud of Ride. Of the passion that went into it. Of the independence from which the magazine never deviated. And of the enthusiasm that Ride was able to spread to so many other people. Now, at the beginning of November, after a short illness, Walter Giger has virtually turned into his last bike trail in our memories. He more than deserved to be honored in Ride. In a magazine that meant so much to him. And which, as the father of Ride editor Thomas Giger, he shaped in a way that few others have.

An intimate obituary by Thomas Giger

I particularly remember one moment of his last time in the cantonal hospital in Chur. Walter was already weak and fought back against this illness, the complicated name of which I could never remember. Intellectually, he was always fully present. One conversation then turned to PFAS. These eternal chemicals were a research topic right up to the end, where he literally blossomed as a chemist. His eyes changed. Suddenly there was that fire again. From zero to one hundred, so to speak. What you could see in his eyes was his passion. When he did something, he was on fire for it.

Chemistry was not a profession for him, it was a passion. In other words: He worked a lot. His workplace at Eawag was almost like a second home to him. In hindsight, I realized: Being a chemist wasn't his profession, but his passion. Like everything else he did. As a child, I used to accompany him to the office at weekends. But I wasn't really interested in his laboratory. I was fascinated by the electric IBM typewriter and the oversized Xerox photocopier. I used it to produce my first magazines at state expense. Which I then tried, rather unsuccessfully, to sell to my classmates at elementary school. Walter was my most important supporter. He paved the way for me to be able to go my own way. He explained the photocopier to me, but I had to operate it myself. He was the same with me as he was with your colleagues, with the students, with alpinist friends. Walter paved the way for so many people. That's a very special legacy.

Trust leads to responsibility

But my childhood didn't take place in Walter's office. Rather outside in nature. I remember one scene in particular. We climbed the Chistenstein in Graubünden. It was easy climbing, but I was still a child. And we went unsecured without a rope. That led to heated debates in the evening. I remember how proud I was that Walter trusted me. Walter wasn't a helicopter father who wanted to protect us from everything possible and impossible. In this way, he taught us how to deal with risks and showed us what personal responsibility means.

Much later, we climbed Piz Palü together. We climbed to the eastern summit together. After that, I did the traverse to the other two peaks on my own. I crossed the exposed ridge alone and unsecured, he watched. That sounds negligent. I see it differently: he trusted me completely. Walter knew that I could take responsibility for myself. Many years later, this trust shaped me more than we realized at the time. I dropped out of university and founded Ride. That was climbing without a rope again. But I knew how to do it.

Looking back, the time we spent together on mountain tours was unfortunately quite short. Because I suddenly had this mountain bike, which redefined my form of mountaineering. But the mountain bike awakened something in me that I copied from Walter: passion. And I felt the same way as he did. Passion does not mean self-realization. Passion is only valuable if you can share it. Walter passed this passion on to his students, fellow researchers and mountain friends. I now do the same as editor of Ride. I know he was always enormously proud of this magazine. Not because it looks so good. But because he probably recognized how I share my passion with so many other people in this way. Just like him.

Passion as a gift

I didn't just pass on my passion to all my readers, but also to him at some point. When climbing and mountaineering became more difficult for Walter, he became a keen mountain biker. For his 75th birthday, we gave him an e-bike, somewhat against his will. In retrospect, it was perhaps the best present we could have given him. Because we didn't give him a bike, we gave him a new passion.

For your 80th birthday, my sister and I went up the Oberrothorn with him in Zermatt and then mountain biked along the Europaweg to Täsch. For those who don't know this route: Even some twenty-year-olds reach their limits here. Looking back, I can't imagine a better experience than this joint bike tour. In Zermatt, the scene on the Chistenstein from my childhood was repeated with the signs reversed, so to speak. What a beautiful arc!

At the beginning of November, it was a bitter sight for me to see Walter confined to bed. What helped me was looking back. I knew that he had lived his life to the full. Anyone who has lived with so much passion can go on good terms. I discovered a photo of a poster on his phone that read: "It's not about giving life more years. It's about giving the years more life." Nothing is better suited as a symbol for his life.

As a scientist, it was always clear to Walter that there is no life after death. I see it exactly the same way. This final transience doesn't make it any easier for me to say goodbye to him. But he leaves behind a legacy that I will always carry with me: passion. Walter lives on in me on every bike trail, every summit ascent and every powder descent. This unifying passion is the greatest gift he could have given me.

More about Walter Giger:

• Wikipedia
• Eawag obituary
• AACZ Hindu Kush Expedition