I am feeling the patience I need. Maybe I am officially in middle life and I feel the need to slow down a bit. It feels palpable; I can taste it. I walked out of Sambuco feeling quite replenished and at ease with how things were going despite the heavy rains and days off. Before I might have considered those days as wasted days but I got so much out of them. I think what I needed most was to just sit and rest and not put any pressure on myself. The flashbacks I had the previous week were real, something welling up from the inside and I understood I needed some kind of rest. I went up a narrow canyon and the torrent mimicked the roar of emotion felt inside of me. I was beaming, roaring, welling up with goodness from the kind people of the village. The gorge plunged from a hanging valley that curved within smooth limestone walls on one side and craggy bluffs on the other. Suddenly, I was above the treeline and the green alpine area just sparkled like an illuminating emerald jewel within a silver craggy crown. I enjoyed the simple act of walking. I passed a man and his herd of cows on a grassy patch atop a knoll. We greeted each other in Italian and his gaze shifted from me to the cliffs above. He looked to be contemplating and effused a spirit that lives in the mountains. The cows groaned at me and hardly moved. I weaved in between them, nearly rubbing their haunches. The basin opened up very wide and I saw the pass I needed to get up. I could melt in all the vibrant color and solitude here. I could meld into the dirt and grass. I could blend in with the silvery rock and the glistening tarns. I yearned to be that spirit in the mountains. At the pass, my silence was broken. I quite literally walked through a cloud and ran into people, a portal breaking the solitude of being. A bike race was going on. Aid station crews were at the pass. Vehicles were parked with rooters cheering on. Bikes whizzed by with pace cars and motorcycles blaring their horns within the groups of riders. I was a little shell-shocked at the scene that instantaneously cracked my solace. I followed the riders for a few miles along a piste. I adapted to the spirit of the event -- people simply enjoying a day in the mountains. I was too, and I liked the idea of sharing such a special place. I passed by a refuge, the race hub for visitors and racers. Music boomed and people jiggled. Hikers were along the road and the trail with beers in hand. The whole scene was festive and it reminded me of a Colorado ski town in the summertime. After a few miles, I stayed along a creekside trail and avoided the riders. I shoved my way through some cows penned up in a pasture before reaching the road again. After a mile or so, I left the road and went up to the higher ridges. Up top I could barely make out Torino way down below in the flats. Clouds pushed up from the muddy flats and formed misty clouds that vaporized as they crashed into the ridge. Shadows raced and swirled through the tall grass that rippled with the wind. The shushing of the tall grass transfixed my gaze to the wind current rifling through. I was hypnotized. The midsummer scene was only highlighted further by the surrounding mega mountains free of snow, the fluttering butterflies, and the colorful wildflowers. Traversing through thick forests high above the valley floor, I now reached a massive river drainage. Tucked up on the slopes tiny villages called borgatas, in particular of the main village of Macra, spread out and were connected by trails and roads. The surrounding hillsides were interconnected by mulattieras and some narrow piste, with most of the villages facing to the southwest which ensured sunny weather all year round. Borgata to borgata, the trail weaved or ascended through birch and pine forests, connecting villages, the path of the locals, shepherds, and vendors. Some were in ruins where nature now consumed the old stone buildings. Some had stone buildings refurbished where city people in search of a rustic and more pastoral way of life now resided.
A perfect morning. I was enjoying this string of good weather. I had heard of major flooding north of me and I knew the GTA would cross some of those ravaged areas. I wasn’t pushing too hard and kept my pace and mileage per day very attainable. I would usually get 20-21 miles with an unbelievable 7000-8000ft of elevation gain per day. But, almost every time I would find a Posto Tappa with hardly any one there. I took advantage of it. Besides, the general nature of the route went crosswise, or against the grain, of the protruding ridges. With the steepness of the arms of the ridges camping wasn’t always the best option, especially if rainy weather was present. I was hiking whatever Mother Nature gave me and I adapted quite nicely. I arrived in Pontechianale and found a mini market, the first in a while. I gathered some lunch and made for the 4000ft climb up to a rigid flank of Monte Viso. The trail beautifully winded through a verdant forest chiming with brooks. Steeply angled and spiraled, once above the trees I was in a world of mangled rock. It didn’t seem to take a long time and before I knew it I was in a very high rock basin bubbling with fresh snow melt cascades and freshly cleaved and flaky rock. After traversing over a snowy slope, I attained another pass and I now began to see the spectacular northern walls of Monte Viso. But the roving cloud layer pushed in vigorously and smothered the serrated skyline. I rested a bit, snacked, and left as the misty clouds enveloped me. Soon enough the swirling clouds sunk and everything above me was gone. After angling over through snowfields and rock I reach a lake, abridged by a clear route despite the murky sky. The clouds sunk even more and hung over the lake still adorned with ice that was eerily blue and speckled with a smidge of red dust that resembled dye. After speaking with the host of the Refugio, a massive alpine styled building hulked on a point above the lake looming in the midst of clouds, I continued on with updated trail conditions. We spoke of the conditions, how much snow they had had, and how much work they had to do to get the refuge open. I scampered away trying to get a beat on the rain forecasted for the next day. I knew the next pass would have significant snow and would be a bit trickier to negotiate if I waited. Upon angling over to the pass situated just above the basin of the lake, a light from the sky broke through the clouds resembling a light from above in a temple. The sight was holy and incredibly dramatic. I plodded onward along a long gully filled with snow. Fog hovered in and choked the peaks and gullies. I slid down the long chute until I hit the switchbacks perfectly constructed where the first signs of snowmelt usually occur. The trail spiraled down a headwall in which Lago Chiaretto filled the basin down below. The refraction of the blues -- turquoise, cerulean, aqua -- even under a grey morass of a sky, still persisted and glowed refulgently. The changing blues showed the wonder of light, the beauty and harshness of rock and ice which can create something so delicate. The light refracted from all the colors of the bowl that blended in with the cerulean and milky glacial run-off. I rounded the lake and witnessed the phenomenon of the twinkling changing blues. I drank from the main feeder stream, the water so cold to hurt my head, so crisp to blur my vision, baptized in full.
I am halfway through the GTA, and I must say this has been a very filling experience. I am in my own type of ‘eat/pray/love’ shit. although it's rather some ‘eat/pray/eat/hike’ type shit. I am serious though. Jokes aside, I am keeping this hike the most simplest version I could ever do. The bikepacking trip felt that way and now the GTA feels this way. I am being much kinder to myself on this whole trip than any I have been on. I reached a refuge and inquired about a bed for the night. A paved road reached the refuge, the headwaters of the River Po. I got lucky and got the last room. Now I wouldn't have to pack up in rainy weather the next morning. At dinner, the friendly servers served me a heaping pile of polenta with an array of toppings such as ragu and sausage, various cheese, olives, garbanzo beans, and bread. I was so impressed by the presentation I was kind of shocked that the whole platter was just for me. God, I was happy. I sat there breathing it all in, everything, the mountains, the polenta platter, the jovial staff, the warm and beautiful mountain hut, and the rain drizzling out the window. I remembered that moment on the pass earlier that day. That shine from above felt and looked like a sign, something revealing itself that is held for saints and the like and not for someone like me. It was a powerful moment and I scribbled this: Mountains are temples. Mountains are shrines. Mountains are religion. Mountains are people. Mountains are dreams. Mountains are bountiful. Simple and complex. I fully recognize and understand this: mountains are mountains, as nothing else. I have had some really special and powerful moments out here recently, just glimmers, fractions of seconds, a breadth of a stride spanning time; mountains are a bridge to something else, something holy.
I left the next morning full and warm. The mountains were inundated with thick clouds and dampness. I stayed warm enough though with the climbing and brisk pace. I couldn't see much but I wasn't too concerned. I was content with simply moving. The rain finally fell instead of the cloudy skies just threatening. I kept at it and popped in my headphones. As usual, I did not see a soul. I took a long break on the other side of the climb in a wide and high alpine valley with a hut at the foot, various flags waving about above the hut. After a hot bowl of ramen, I took the precarious trail scaling down the huge narrow canyon that undulated over massive boulders shrouded by thick and lush greenery. Black salamanders slowly belly-walked in between the rocks and the trail. The speckled yellow salamanders resembled brightly colored lichen. I got a kick watching the salamanders slither and move like a black slimy mass of a sticky blob figure a kid gets from a gum ball contraption. I bet the salamanders would stick on your refrigerator or car window. The roar of the huge cascading waterfalls backdropped my intent to focus on not twisting an ankle on the slippery rocks and boulders. I found this challenging trail very engaging. With the backdrop of the waterfalls and the crazy roaring rapids trail held a sanctity of travel, of how we humans can travel our way through anything and that will find a way. Primordially, we humans contain a belief and faith that a trail leads somewhere good and, most importantly, somewhere through. It's in our bones; it's in the dirt, these communications, these histories, these stories. I had one more climb of the day, some 4000ft. Near the top, I finally got a clearing in the sky. I was in between the cloud layers, layers that choked the valleys below and the other hanging just beneath the treeline. The girthy trunk of Monte Viso appeared, the summit pyramid blanketed by clouds. I was rewarded for the hard work on a soggy day, finally getting my panoramic view. I crossed over into another drainage, steeper than the one had just ascended. I had a difficult time finding a camp and I had to walk until darkness hit to camp in a vacant field near an empty farmhouse. I left early the next morning, the night filled with deep sleep despite the barking dogs in the valley. I found a coffee shop where I drank a few cups of coffee and waited for the market to open. Later that afternoon, after roving through a couple small villages, I found a cafe and had another round of polenta, this time served with red sauce and wild boar. I lazily walked through the village afterwards and became transfixed on the sound of a fountain dribbling in a narrow alleyway. Like a trail through the clouds, a sign of existence in a lonely place felt palpable. I sat by the fountain and took a soothing nap. After about 15 minutes, I felt lighter and I thought that maybe the polenta had digested. I moved on and began a long slog up 5000ft to the Colle delle Albergian.
The first few miles ran along a tarmac under a thick canopy of oaks. A deep gorge sank off to my left, the tarmac skimming the rim. Eventually the tarmac ended at the head of a long and narrow valley where a tiny borgata sat. The trailhead was dusty from cattle that evidently had been driven up to the greener high country recently. I eagerly stomped the dirt and began the long ascent. The thinner portion of the valley opened up into a large basin. Massive bluffs reached towards the next lip of ridges. At the headwall of the basin Cascata di Pis plummeted a couple hundred feet, the slaps of cascading water as loud as the roar of rushing water. With the clear obstruction of a way through from the incredibly impressive cliffs, the trail switchbacked along and through some granite benches and grassy ledges. I constantly stopped to gawk at the Cascata, my eyes bulging from my head. The sight was just so impressive, like I had never seen a waterfall of such magnificence. Any other place, I thought, this place would be a national treasure and park. Just so spectacular the Italian Piedmont was this valley was just another high mountain valley. The trail scaled to a narrow gash in the rock adjacent to the massive cliffs and waterfall. Stone steps led me to an even higher basin and meadow, the roar of the water diminishing. A mighty wind blew directly headward and crashed into my body. I braced the wind with my trekking poles and cut them deep into the ground to push upward. The high valley stretched to a crestline that reminded me of the San Juan in Colorado. Smears of reds and browns blended with the granite sheen of the rocks faces and peaks. The vibrant greens of the meadows and corn lilies punctuated the rocky slopes with a vivacity as bright as the blue sky above. The wind kept crashing and I climbed another slope. At the top of a knoll, a large shepherd's hut lay in ruins. I found some coverage by one of the broken walls. I was braced from the wind for a moment while at the same time taking in the warm sun. I was chilled a bit with the wind piercing my sweaty skin and clothes. I could see the col. I could also see a tiny figure scrambling up the trail just beneath the col. I pushed onto a notch and then the col was in close sights. I hiked with my layers on, my windbreaker hoodie cinched around my head. I got to the col and saw the tiny figure huddled against a boulder directly facing the wind and the better views. We smiled at each other, our voices drowned out by the wind. She stood up and almost got flung by a strong gust. I went for coverage just on the other side of a rock pile. She came over and we conversed with our teeth chattering and our shoulders shivering. I really wanted a break both from the wind and the exertion. I didn't want to push too much further since I knew if I went too far, finding a campsite would be very difficult in and around the villages. Noemi was her name. She was a thin and wiry woman, fit as a fiddle. I could hardly piece her face together with the large lenses of her sunglasses and her layers of hoodies. She smiled brightly at me. She was eager to know about my travels and where I had come from. She spoke broken English which complimented my broken Italian. She was so friendly towards me and was so enthusiastic about her home in Torino and the Piedmont. She typed her email into my phone, her fingers frozen and jittering. She wanted to host me and help me in some way. She typed it in and turned towards the descent and then looked back at me. She asked if I was going. I told her I needed a break and that it was nice meeting her. I could tell she wanted me to hike with her. I was still in my own head with the wind pounding it. Although I liked her friendliness, I was in no mood for a hiking partner. I had been moving in a long-distance type of manner, one where you pace out the day and think about where you might camp or stay. I really wanted to camp that evening, especially so with the bigger town of Susa up ahead in a day or so where I would take a zero day.
I spent the break at the pass huddled behind some rocks. I crunch on some chips while I gazed at the surroundings. I didn't stay long because the wind kept me shivering. But I didn't want to leave too soon. Then, I would catch up with Noemi. Fuck, I'm not an asshole or a solitary curmudgeon, I thought. Just go, whatever happens happens. I ventured down not too slow nor too fast. The wind stayed high and blew into the pristine air and crashed into the peaks. I entered the forests that then zigzagged to some grazing areas, the echoes of the bells of the cows clanging like a carnival. At a junction, Noemi sat and hollered up at me. She flashed a beaming smile and I got a better look at her with her hoodies and sunglasses off. She was just a really nice person and one could just tell. We started hiking together. She asked question after question, giggling and laughing and tripping over rocks and roots. She wasn't clumsy or anything, just energized. I could barely keep up with both her physical energy and social glee. It was strange in some ways, amusingly so. Usually a long distance hiker revels in a chance friendly encounter after not having one in a while. But she was the one that was reveling and he had come from Torino that morning. We got to know each other during our hour and a half hike. Now I'm not saying she was lonely or anything like that but I sensed some sadness behind her. I think she was bonding with someone she felt connected with. I saw it differently but I think I understood that this encounter may help her more than me. As we chatted, I noticed some prime camping sites. We passed them. She appeared to be confused as I explained the concept of long distance backpacking and thru-hiking. Eventually, I stopped looking for sites and just reciprocated the conversation in earnest. I figured I would just find a Posta Tappo in the village. As we entered the village on a narrow alleyway, she wanted to help me find a place. She really wanted to help me communicate in Italian with the locals. I found it funny because I had not had any trouble communicating with any locals so far, other than the old French woman a couple days earlier. I let her help and be the guide. I think she was getting something out of it. We walked along the road. People were out recreating. Some were riding their bikes or taking strolls near a pond. Children played in a park. A couple cowhands wrangled up a few cows for insemination just on the outskirts of the park. A cow screamed as the plunger plunged in. She rattled the cage violently. Every single head turned. Noemi looked worried and suddenly scared. I don't think she realized what was happening. I trained her thoughts towards walking. We got to an inn, beautifully perched above a crystal clear pond. The inn looked like a big and beautiful alpine lodge. I reluctantly followed her because I knew this inn would be more expensive than a Posta Tappa. She led the way, eager to speak Italian for me. We entered the restaurant and bar and the young man spoke English. He was a Russian who had once lived in Philadelphia. So much for helping me, I chuckled aloud. I amused myself with the notion that Noemi secretly worked for the inn and she had led me astray to pay an exorbitant amount of money at the inn. Whatever, I thought, this is part of the story. I offered to buy her dinner but she politely declined. We hugged each other and she left. I nestled in my seat at a lovely dining table. I was served roasted wild boar with all the fixings. I thought about my encounter with Noemi. There seemed to be something meaningful that I couldn't place. I just felt like she needed something. I sipped on a beer and mused about whatever was behind her smiling eyes. Sometimes all one needs is a chance friendly encounter. I felt I was guided by the heart. Shit, it's easy to say 'be nice to people.' It's a simple saying but it is true. I hope I am perceptible when someone else needs something. Because I’ll get something out of it too. Life is one grand adventure where the heart should be the guide. We are not as alone as we feel or think we are; we are a part of something no matter what. Frankly, no matter how odd I felt in that nice room in that luxurious inn, I was glad that I acted nice the way I did. I think she may have had an empty need. I hope I filled it.
The next day I decided early on I would make a big push to Susa. I wanted a full two days of rest in town now, one as planned and one to wait out a big rainy day. I had pushed hard recently and my feet and calves were swollen. I noticed the swollenness and tenderness of my legs the night before while I lounged in the room. I took it as a sign of a much needed rest. I did make Susa in one go, too. Some 27 miles later I wandered into town, the biggest town I had seen since Venitmiglia. In Susa, surrounded by hundreds of years old buildings, I found myself in a convent turned boutique hotel, so cheap yet stunning. I found myself in a courtyard, the walls erected some 1200 years ago, devouring my second pizza and slowly sipping a large bottle of artisanal blonde beer. A belly full crept a buzz into my head, a euphoric sensation of calmness. I slowly sipped the beer, as I listened to the piercing singsong of the wrens flitting about in the courtyard. I sunk into a buzz. I sunk into history.
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