GTA Part 3

I enjoyed my stay at the 1200 year old convent turned boutique hotel. After a large breakfast, I got going early to tick off a 6400ft ascent. I had felt refreshed from my stay in Susa, so I was fairly motivated to tackle the climb earnestly. The day was cool. A smattering layer of clouds roved in from the west and clung to the higher peaks, the valley floor becoming more distant and blurred. The higher I got, the colder it got, the clouds becoming thicker and damper. I rounded a high point and traversed over towards the pass and could barely see a hundred feet in front of me, another pass in the clouds common theme. I hurried down the pass as mist crashed into me. As I broke through the clouds, turquoise Lago di Malciaussia came into sight. A lot of visitors were at the lake, friendly folk waving at me as I passed by. I had a break in the weather so I pushed on to the next village of Usseglio. There, I found Hotel Furneso, a cheap Posto Tappa where I was again the only visitor. I had heard this route was known for traveling through the Piedmont that just wasn’t frequented as much anymore as in the old days. The GTA was built to connect these mountain villages to increase tourism, which is why each village in the valleys had a Posto Tappa. I guess I expected these places to be a little bit more crowded but the reality was that the heavy rains kept people away from visiting. This turn of events benefited me as I wasn’t interested in crowded places. As what turned people away, however, I found the stopping points refuge from inclement weather. To boot, I had the opportunity to indulge in the amazing local fare. I may have stated this before but it’s worth noting again. The further north I went, the more the towns had been ravaged by floods and the more snow the mountains held. I was essentially hiking during the shoulder season. So, with me being the only guest, I just had time to myself. I was in a different mode, like running long trail runs each day only to go home. The innkeepers showed me around the place. I was excited for dinner. What would I have tonight? I sat down for dinner and had an octopus dish for an appetizer. Then, I had venison strips with garden grown veggies. I finished the meal off with a pale ale and a snifter of genopy. Damn, I was living!

Atop Colle de costa fiorita, a very steep climb with ~2000ft/mile, I skidded down on slick slopes muddied from the previous evening’s rain. Heavy gray clouds smashed into the peaks and interrupted my views. At least it wasn't raining but the grass and brush drenched me anyway. It was very damp out. I passed through the village of Balme, which had been flooded the previous week with some severe thunderstorms and heavy downfall. I could still see the smears of dirt and mud on the roads. Heading up towards Colle de Trione, nothing but silvery granite slabs existed in this world of rock. Within the pockets of boulders deep purple gentians and white pasque flowers grew and brought me some brightness on a gloomy day. It seems that every layer has turned to granite. Coupled with a very thick and low cloud layer, I was in a platinum atmosphere. Churning waterfalls fell from the hanging valleys above, just waterfall after waterfall breaching huge ledges and benches. One valley took me away from the normal ‘up and over’ ridge-hopping game. Suddenly, I felt like the scenery had changed to the High Sierra with long valleys and a pass to navigate. I reached Noasca which was utterly water-ravaged from the previous week's flooding. Old buildings established riverside now had an underswept precipice over the raging river. Massive boulders were strewn about the river. A huge waterfall poured through a notch just behind a church. Destruction was evident and cleaning crews were still at it but the town was still functioning. I found a Posto Tappa there and had myself a first: steak tartare, a specialty of the valley. The roar of the river clamored and I found the similarity of my screamingly sore legs with the raucous river. I had had a very tough couple of days getting to Noasca. My legs were as pounding as the torrent out my window, my feet aching. I had endured so much ascent and descent on uneven trails that went straight up and straight down. Everything was swollen --- the rivers and the waterfalls, my legs and my feet. The passes had a different character and texture now. After a winter of heavy snow and a spring of heavy rain, the snow was finally melting. Now, soft liquefactive dirt sponged atop the passes and higher slopes. The scarring of fresh snowmelt, the erosion of a high water year, the constant cloud layers obstructing views, the humidity, the sweat and toil…all wearing down the mind, let alone the physical toil of the terrain. I did, however, welcome the challenge, for the scenery was getting prettier the deeper into the Alps I went. The temps began to swing up and with all the running water and snowmelt, the air was generally very humid and muggy. At one strange moment, I walked through a sudden pocket of balmy and sticky air, a floating orb of sauna air that literally manifested out of nowhere. I was much wetter than any rain had done to me now because the air was so swampy. It was hard to get used to being constantly drenched. I had a bushwack out of Noasca around an eroded gully beneath a waterfall. I had climbed a very steep trail to get there only to find the way more or less obstructed by the dried mud and rock flow. I had to search for the trail on the other side. I had to fight my way through cluttered and overgrown thorny brush to continue on. The now warmer weather was being trapped in the valleys. Climb after massive climb ensued in a haze that shrouded the peaks and I just could never dry off. Conditions were uncomfortable to say the least. I hadn’t seen a hiker in nearly 4 days. The only people I encountered were in tiny villages or shepherds.

Some of the passes were getting more difficult. The Bochetto delle Oche had some tricky maneuvering climbing up using ropes and chains and metal steps on very slick rocks. Snow choked the gullies and ravines and a fine drizzle smothered the snowfields and brush. The way up and down were un-grazeable -- not much grass and too much rock for the cows to walk on. The terrain was very hardscrabble. With constant concern about weather, I definitely felt the rainy weather affected by gumption and nerve. Over the Bochetto delle Oche the rain really began to fall. Thunder and lightning occurred and I began a speedy descent which only became precarious the lower I went. Once I reached the grazing areas, I slipped and slid on fresh cow pies. Shit splattered onto my calves and shoes. I wasn't too happy but I wanted out of the reach of any electric finger of lightning. Coupled with the terrain involved, the steepness, and the past week walking in the clouds all day, the constantly changing weather only exacerbated my lack of nerves. Even if I had a decent weather window at various points in the day, I still had to watch my crossings of the passes. Whether lightning or heavy rainfall that concerned me, I also wanted to have the best effort at seeing the beautiful scenery around me. I had traveled a long way to come here to the Piedmont to hike this route. I had the time to lay up anyway. I waited out inclement weather in Fondo at the Posto Tappa. A quiet place, I relished a zero day there without any cell service. I read throughout the day and watched the rain fall on the stone roofs. A day later, I ended up at Quincinetto where I had another half day. Having waited out the storm I had lost track of the days. So, when I went to resupply in Quincinetto I didn't realize the market was closed until I got to the shut doors. I found a caravan park and chatted up the friendly woman running the place. At one point she mentioned something wise to me. Maybe it was the look of fretfulness on my face that said it all. Maybe it was how I meandered my speech about the weather. I'm sure I spoke with much more worry than I had thought. She looked at me with a smile and point blankly said: 'Maybe you need to find a home. Or at least a partner to travel with. Maybe you need to stop moving.' I rented a tent shaped treehouse for $20 that night. I made myself a very nice dinner after having walked 3 miles one way to the nearest market. I knew she was right with what she told me. I just needed to chill. I think I was just missing a rhythm. Most importantly, which has been a theme of this trip, I was still pretty tired mentally from the previous year's travel and a winter of challenging work. I just didn't want to fight as hard as I normally would. Despite my lethargy the next morning, I made swift progress on the 6500ft climb. The day was sunny and cool. As soon as I hit the craggy crest, clouds from the east swallowed up the skyline but not before I caught full glimpses of Monte Rosa, the Matterhorn, and Mont Blanc. I got excited for what would be ahead. Tricky hiking up there at the crest with boulder-hopping and scrambling. The going was slow and tedious, the knobby ridge had some hand over hand climbing. Then a sidelong traverse ensued along a balcony with chains and ropes occasionally leading a safe passage through. And the grass, the tall grass, just made for really tough vision and foot placement underfoot. I ran out of water at another pass where I was looking to camp. I did not have enough to cook. So I meandered on in hopes of finding a camp and water down lower, a combo I wasn’t too hopeful on. I stumbled upon the buzzing Santuario San Giovanni. The large sanctuary was built up on a hillside on a clearing in a thick forest. It looked over the deep canyon and river drainage down below. I followed the murmur of voices and went through a wide corridor. I entered a courtyard and noticed the restaurant and the long tables of a large party eating together. Piles of Italian food sat on the table and glasses of wine were being raised. I found the headwaiter and got situated. I couldn't pass this experience up. The sanctuary was very old. The dinner party was a large church group. I sat in the corner and inside and observed the raucous group cheering and eating all together, the epitome of Italian life. 

Up high and traversing a granite landscape, I crossed into a huge valley that led to the even higher valley of Valsesia. Massive and looming, the massif of Monte Rosa reigned over the valley. Alagna was very picturesque and backdropped by such stunning natural beauty. The architecture of the traditional European Alpine town was what I was accustomed to seeing in various magazines, social media, and in Colorado ski towns. I found a pizza spot and indulged in the salami and cheeses. Monte Rosa swirled with clouds overhead, as I looked back toward the massif from the Colle delle Mud. I had swiftly attained the pass. I soaked in the beauty and it dawned on me as if I had never had this thought before how much easier hiking is descending and ascending 4000ft on a well-groomed, properly switchbacked and graded trail. Looking around me and scanning the huge peaks, I knew why the trail was so groomed. Hikers came up here often from the villages. I had a very dramatic view of a shrouded Monte Tagliaferro above the angled vee-shaped Colle delle Mud. The north face went absolutely straight up. I craned my neck directly up at the impressive face and gazed into the clouds smashing against the rock. I was enthralled by the perforating sunlight piercing through the wispy clouds. I sat on a rock and contemplated the sun setting over faraway jagged peaks and blue ridge lines --- what is so natural in this act of walking, so deeply ingrained that instinctively I must gaze as much as I need to breathe --- why is this the simplest and most fulfilling way to live life? I spent a hot and muggy day going into Antronapiana. I could feel the pressure of the heat as my quads turned to mush. I had descended in total that day some 9000ft. The previous 3 days all pushed 9000ft in ascents, even more, and I only maxed out with a 20 mile day. The GTA in this area was rough but so damn beautiful. I was feeling gassed. But I knew if I maintained a brisk pace I could roll onto the Tour de Monte Rosa, a 100 mile loop around the giant massif. I still had some time, I thought. I ate as much as I could in Antronapiana in anticipation of hard days ahead. I knew I had to stay on top of things even with the temps suddenly changing to a balmier rise. I departed the hamlet still feeling drained. Logistics were looming and bogging the brain down a little bit only because I now thought I had had some time to pursue other things. I also understood I was getting closer to the end of the GTA, which meant only more logistics. I was tired, certainly. With so many grueling climbs I felt like I was fiercely trying to keep my body in tact. I slowly left with a tight belly, my body just wanting to lay around all day. But I knew I needed to take advantage of good weather and keep it moving forward for the sake of timing. Halfway up the 5000ft ascent I took a break and ate some salty ritz crackers. They settled my stomach, my body craving salts from all the electrolytes I’ve been losing lately, as I still sweated profusely and constantly. I had never been so wet from sweat on a hike as much as this one. Feeling rejuvenated after the ritz crackers, I seemed to make it to the Col in no time. Up there I found an Italian couple and an American couple, the first Americans of any kind on this trek in 500 miles or so. It felt good to compare trails, talk about the GTA and such. Off I went after a lunch of meat and cheese and what began felt like a dream, a trail so unfamiliar as to what I’ve experienced so far. The trail angled gradually on green slopes that opened into a wide valley. At first, I didn’t have to descend straight down, rather I contoured over. This went on for a few hours and I gained a rhythm unlike any flow in this trek so far. My knees felt great, my stride lengthened, and I sailed along. Eventually the trail entered a tributary drainage, up high in a larch forest and into a slabby highland with islands of grass. Clouds pushed upwards and a grey sheen illuminated distant peaks from whence I came. At the Col, an eerie yet soothing silence emanated from the basin and I realized this may have been a first too: no sound of rushing water. Descending through a now porous limestone with rhododendron filled swales, I weaved my way down on scant trail, the grass not yet green as snow had recently melted, so it seemed. The pointy peaks of the Switzerland border shot into the moody sky and a deep valley came into view. I arrived at a bivouac hut, empty and clean, and eagerly went in, as loud bangs rang from the heavens above. In the loft, I laid about on my mattress writing and reading the map, thunder clamoring outside the window, a booming base reverberating softly through the stone walls. 

Alpe Veglia was a vibrant sight to my tired eyes. God, I love nature, I thought. The tall grass, the waviness and curvature of the grass, the ribbons of water, the flowing and loud creek, the wind pushing all these things around in sound and in physical form held my heart and my mesmerizing gaze. The feel of the ground under my soles, the cool green grass, I felt so connected to the earth. I found a bench to lay on. In the shade under a large larch, the jumbled bark splattered with lichen and spindly branches, the effervescent green sprigs poking out from the fingerling branches, I admired the high peaks and the gleaming snow. Flowers…what color are flowers the most of? Purple, yellow? The meadow had a smeared sprinkling of wildflowers. What a dream this place was. What joy I had then. I felt lucky to have this day, fortunate, especially with a forecasted storm the next day. The scenery continued to amaze me. The mountains resembled the mighty San Juan. The mountain replica was so strikingly similar, I had to pick my jaw up off the ground. Water flowed everywhere and it was impossible to not have wet feet. Could this be the most spectacular day on trail? Not only in the scenic department but just the whole day? Crystal blue skies spackled with puffy pearls of clouds roaming through pockmarked the sky and the red and brown buttresses. I met an experienced Swiss hiker named Jeff. He was from France and was crossing the length of the Swiss border on a high route. He was the first really experienced hiker I had met this past month. It was nice to talk shop with someone I knew could understand what I had been through. We chatted for about 30 minutes while empathizing with each other and marveling at the landscape. I reached Alpe Devero, a crowded large meadow that had access to a highway that terminated at the meadow. I found the public campsite. What a spectacle of travelers I beheld, unlike any place I had seen so far on this trip. Backpackers, day hikers, families, city folk, motorcyclists, cyclists and other visitors and travelers, you name it. A group of Filipino churchgoers singing songs and playing the keyboard dominated the larger campfire pit. There was a family from Eastern Europe. Italian city dwellers dolled up with little dogs and really cheap tents. They hung around a picnic table listening to pop music and drinking sparkling wine. Younger Italians, easily hipsters, danced around, The scene was a mix of après ski and summertime picnicking. Then there was me. The only solo traveler, the obvious American. The lanky scraggly dude. I cooked my dinner of noodles with mashed potatoes as others barbecued. Rain began to fall and I retreated to my shelter and laid around re-reading some Abbey. As the rain pelted my tent and the thunder banged above and echoed throughout the meadow, I drifted into thoughts and visions of the desert close to home. I slept incredibly that night, deep and sound. I woke up early the next morning and had a cup of coffee from my shelter, the rain still at it. I heard the other campers speaking softly and I could tell by the movement that the day's plans had been ruined. People began packing up. Some huddled under a large awning. Cramped together like sticky wet sardines, I chuckled to myself as I sipped my coffee and laid comfortably snug in my tent just waiting for the storm to pass.

The overall feel I've had on the GTA is that I have felt more like a traveler than a thru-hiker. I really have felt like I have traveled through history, especially with the bikepacking trip just before this. I have pondered this aspect greatly: the difference between traveler and thru-hiker. The past is not long ago. This adage only surmises that life is too short. Life is precious, they say. And, I absolutely and wholeheartedly agree. I also believe that if I stop moving I die. It’s a mix of irascibility and tenderness, like a carnivorous flower, a bristlecone beautifully shaped by the harsh wind and cold. I am like a flower-sucking philosophical hummingbird; just ugly. If I stop moving I die. My movement precludes my lust for life. Most of the time I ain’t elegant or graceful. I clunk and fart along one step at a time. That is one thing the Iceland river crossing taught me: keep moving to survive. Maybe it’s the causality of a trained endurance mind: just keep moving. Yet I need to turn around and gaze at the horizon more. I should, at least. I should be a traveler more. Nevertheless, I’ve forgotten to do so with so much moving forward. I still have time, methinks, for reflection, for pondering and contemplation; for love, for passion; for adventures and exploring, traveling. That lust for life is more prevalent than I am letting on. I say all this in recognition that I have pushed too hard. ‘Seriously?’ you might say. Or ‘About fucking time,’ the caring one may exhort. Under a thunderstorm on my second night on the GTA, I fell into lucid visions of a couple life threatening events from last year. Bah, I say; I really mean life threatening though. The water cascading and crushing earthward, barreling and crashing, brought me a timorous ring in my ears, a deep and reaching gasping of breath, an expulsion of fight and a thump of dread. The crackling of electricity brought me to my knees and I curled in, afraid. Nausea crept in and I fought it and wriggled, wincing with a blank stare. My cramps moved and squiggled around like a rat inside and moved to my organs, gnawing my heart from the inside. But really, it’s the sudden urge to shit that cripples me, brings everything back to the forefront. This movement paralyzes me. Has my need for constant movement paralyzed me? A very certain two events I should have either spoken to someone about or have gotten checked up. Really, the answer is both. I could have used some explanation on my mentality and my biology. Instead, I chose movement. Because, if an answer provides me with stagnation (which may be a smeared word for ‘caring for yourself’ or ‘settling’), if I had received instruction, an explanation of inertia, to simply sit and rest, that I would possibly perish from the lack of movement. Nonetheless, it is easy to take the comfortable route. I will flatly reject that notion and way. 

I do things on my own to not have the clutter of others. However, a soundboard is nice, almost as much as embarking on a new and challenging endeavor. The rawness is more real when it is a solo endeavor and I am left to stare at the reflection with squinting and quavering eyes. ‘I see you,’ I think. I hate asking for help. Probably why I tend to go solo. I can hack it. Yet in another life I would have made a good father, a great coach, an excellent worker at a job that would help people. I have chosen differently. I have chosen to ramble. I think I am an average son. I can be a good and loving partner at times. I try for both of those things, actually striving to be better but ever failing. I am a very hard worker. I can attest to that, others can too. I simply find my solace in nature by myself. I find my serenity in wandering. In the wonder and curiosity of nature, I seek the knowledge of self and my connection to it all, outside and within. That seems to be my purpose: rambling, or traveler. I seem to be the best at constantly moving in big natural spaces. I survive best this way. I am a rambler, in so many ways. The past is not long ago. At times the past feels like now. It is an impulse, a surging of time and movement pulsing towards a horizon. Movement, yea, that’s the trick, the prescription. The irony of all this too is that I’ll die moving, wandering, exploring. I’ll die with movement, and in that exact moment. I’ll die doing what I love.

I digress in thought, but that is what mountains do. Mountains bring forth contemplation. I waited out a last stormy day at Alpe Devero so I could hike the last 20 miles to the Swiss border unencumbered by low clouds and rain. It paid off; by far the prettiest day on the whole route, for me. I crossed into Switzerland at Griess Pass. Wow, what a scenic day crossing 4 passes filled with snow and overlooking insanely beautiful alpine lakes. I am glad I went northbound to finish in this spectacular place. Not only that I needed to head that direction due to heavy snow up north, but northbound meant I would potentially see less people. The majority of hikers hiking the GTA head southbound and finish at the Mediterranean Sea. With all the wet and tough conditions, I hardly saw anyone, As I started to see more hikers, mainly section hikers and an occasional thru-hiker, I kept getting asked about why I chose the direction I chose. Besides the conditions and the chance of encountering less people, why wouldn't I choose northbound if I could save the best scenery for last at the Swiss border. I hadn't cared that I was going upwards and working harder against the grain. I do love some hard work. I don't know, I could tell almost all of them were going the same direction the same as everyone else does, what the herd traditionally does. If I can give one piece of advice in this life, even I prefer to model it because I generally find no use in babbling one's opinion to tell others what to do, it's please go against the grain and try not to do what everyone else does. Live life differently. I have been telling myself this the whole time out here.

Prologue:

The Grande Traversata delle Alpi (GTA) is a challenging mountain route in the Italian Piedmont region, from Ventimiglia to the Swiss border at Griess Pass. The GTA uses the Alp ranges of the Pennine, Ligurian, Cottian, and Graian. The route crosses the region against the grain -- from high col to low valley -- which makes this route very, very physically demanding.

My route:

• NOBO from Ventimiglia to Griess Pass
• ~550 miles
• ~200,000ft net gain
• ~360 ft/m
• ~8000ft gain/day
• 34 total days
• 28 hiking days
• 1 intentional zero day
• 5 weather zero days

I loved this route. The grueling ascents and descents, the friendly and charming people, the cozy inns, the amazing food, and the beautiful scenery, this route provided me with a unique and immersive cultural experience within a spectacular mountainous region. I had been told this route would not be crowded. And, that was true, even more so with a heavy snow year and a rainy spring. I had so many days out there with no one around, to the point a wilderness feel consumed me. Of course, a ton of days were in the clouds. But those glimmers! I usually only encountered locals in the borgatas or an occasional shepherd. This meant I really had some fun encounters. If you're looking for a rugged and wild route without the typical European crowds, the GTA may suit your adventurous palette. I really enjoyed the GTA, such a fulfilling experience. I had so much time to finally reflect on some things that required my full attention. The way the route is and the way the weather was really slowed me down a bit in a very, very good way.