Bachalpsee is a shallow pan of snowmelt on a treeless shelf at 2,265 metres, and on a windless morning it holds an entire mountain wall upside down. Across the valley the Wetterhorn, the sharp pyramid of the Schreckhorn and the Finsteraarhorn behind it close the view, with the Grindelwald glacier pouring down between them. The lake is small: about eight hectares, and nowhere deeper than roughly fifteen metres, on a shelf above Grindelwald below the summit of the Faulhorn. Nothing grows tall up here, so the wall of rock and ice is in front of you the whole way round the shore. It is really two lakes: a natural rock dam splits the water, and the basin behind it sits a full six metres lower, which almost nobody notices in the photographs. A single stream, the Milibach, drains the whole thing.
Getting there is a walk, not a climb. From the top of the First cable car a gravel path runs three kilometres across open pasture on a gentle gradient; most people take about fifty minutes, and marmots whistle from the slopes on either side. In late June and early July the turf reddens with alpine roses; by October it has gone rust-gold, the air is at its stillest and the crowds have thinned. Then, from about mid-December to early April, the lake is simply not there: it freezes, disappears under snow, and the summer path is groomed and walked as a winter trail. The reflection everyone comes for is a matter of hours rather than months. It needs still air, which in practice means the first hours after sunrise; as soon as a breeze picks up, the surface ripples and the mirrored peaks break apart.