GTA Part 1

On the way to the Mediterranean Sea to begin the Grande Traversatta de Alpi in the Italian Piedmont, I obtained news that a good buddy of mine perished. A daring base jumper, wild and free, a profound verve for life, Trevor, passed in a paragliding accident in India. His wild shaggy hair and smile I can still see. I had had a nice couple days resting, relaxing and planning in Chamonix. I was in good spirits until the news just really dragged me down. He was an adventurer, a world traveler, and suddenly he was gone. I couldn't help but sink into some introspection. His accident spurred on some emotions I think I had buried over the past year. I reached down inside provoked by a sudden and tragic event. His passing made me reflect on my own very close calls. His passing humbled me and made me reflect on my own life of adventuring and getting older while doing it. I was drawn to the vision of getting swept away by a glacial river in Iceland, my life in real danger, a reenactment in my head where I gasped for breath while completely getting submerged. I felt my ears ring, that incredible buzz from trying to survive and fight for a continuance of life. At the same time, I felt depleted of the passion it takes to carry on. I just felt weary from close calls. Suddenly, I felt the nonsensical crap of life where I can get some close calls and Trevor just went away. I pensively gazed out the window of the train. I tried to withhold a couple tears. Shit, how oppressive have my emotions been? So oppressive that I just buried them? Wow, I was flooded. At that moment, I realized I hadn't processed those precarious and life-threatening moments and situations of the previous year. I felt utterly zapped of energy. I shook my head trying to shake off some grief --- an image of Trevor flying through the air and encountering something unexplainable; that river in Iceland, Rider Canyon in the Grand Canyon convulsing with heat spasms and cramps --- I felt jostled through my veins as if I was chilled. I started to think of my close relationships back home. I started to think about kindred spirits and the connection to live a full life. I will miss him and will continue to be inspired by him. I was sad but felt very grateful to continue adventuring in this precious life.

I took my first steps through the alleyways of Ventimiglia. I cooed at some stray cats flitting through the narrow corridors, bounding from windows, doors, and corners. I ambled through a slowly waking town. The slopes reached steeply up over the seaside city. I began to climb up out under the vapor of a teal blue sky. A local man hollered at me from a terrace below: buen camino! I waved at a teenage girl walking her little dog. She smiled back, the dog wagging its tongue at me. I went up and left the city behind and fell into immediate contemplation. I was ready for the trance of walking. I was sure I was still triggered by the death of Trevor. It seemed to spurn on some deep reflection. Does it take a year to process a year of adventure? What is so precious about life? Our presence or how we live it? Everything felt so pivotal at the moment. I’ve done so much that I feel like I’ve done nothing. It’s like I’m defeated enough through weariness that I feel unaccomplished despite all the difficult endeavors I have accomplished. At that moment, I felt bewildered by all of everything. Fuck, I yearned to be farther ahead and into the high mountains as if that meant I would have the understanding of everything, everything about life. I felt so far behind. Man, I just bucked up and forged ahead believing each step would erode the tenderness. I flung myself up into the Ligurian Alps. From the Mediterranean Sea I had an initial 5000ft climb over 13 miles. The sweltering sun suffocated the hill tops and a hazy sheen blocked my gazing further deep into the high mountains. I plodded onward keeping a close watch at the darker layer of clouds to over my left shoulder to the west. I could smell rain but I wasn't sure if the dome I was in just had a dense humidity. Through chaparral and under an oak forest, from a thick pine forest to a mix of all three zones I sweated profusely within the mugginess. Once atop a long backbone, an incredible haze smothered the sky. I was sheltered by a silver gleaming haze, the clouds hidden behind the wall of haze. Camouflaged under a platinum sky the clouds were, so much so the darker and stormier clouds I could barely distinguish from whether shadow or cell. The mass crept closer. A sprinkle started, then a heavy rain. I huddled the larger pines lining the military road. I bounded from each one to another, sometimes waiting for 5 minutes, another for an hour. The rain clattered atop the cobblestones, pecking and pecking. I only raised my head up at cement road survey markers, some as old as 1947, the stone military roads built after WWII. I was up high with barely any coverage, the roads weaving right under the ridge line border. The rain would let up every now and then. The pine forests were incredibly tall. Beautiful camps galore tucked into the fairy tale forest. I felt good despite being sweaty and sticky, damp and sodden. I pushed onward, driven by the higher peaks and a long day of light.

Then, I entered pointed and jagged peaks of shorn rock, where the excellent campsites disappeared. I pushed just a couple miles further from the last camp because it was still early. Despite my gut feeling that the great camps would be no longer, as soon as I saw the pointy peaks, I couldn't overcome my eagerness to explore. The peaks were stunning, poking out of the platinum gleam, as a sprinkled set of clouds roved in. The peaks were not too tall, nothing insanely alpine, yet they struck up a lofty wall from the sea a short distance away. To make matters inconveniently worse, I was low on water. Up on a crest, I understood I wouldn't have a great chance at finding water. I’ve seen environments like this…good luck, I thought. Now I was in a mode where I had to keep hiking as long as I could. I was aware of a massive rockslide to avoid in the area, too. I knew it was around here and rather than take the better trail towards the peak and the bright waymarks, all signs indicating GO THAT WAY, I ignored my instincts, even after checking my map. I just didn’t zoom in enough. I was chasing dark on an overgrown and sketchy trail with no camps feasible and certainly no water. Then I saw it. From my perch along the precarious trail, the dramatic scenery beckoning me to gawk, then I saw it. The rockslide was extremely massive. I rechecked my GPS and zoomed in as far as I could go. The names matched. I fucked up. I turned around knowing it wasn’t worth it even with a fool’s gumption to go for it because of my need for shelter and water. I turned back. I wedged under a tamarack in a padded swale on a sharp ridge as a heavy rain began to fall. Calm down, I thought, you’re okay, just a detour.

It wasn't really endurance, but the proper phrase here feels like: I endured a long yet short night. Despite the constant pitter patter of rain and wind, I made do in my little swale under the small swaying larch clung precariously to a sharp ridgeline. It did seem silly to have had a camp on that particular spot, but I had no other choice. I was okay though. Once back on route, I found water in a notch, in a pinch of time, in a check dam holding clear water, huge cliffs shooting straight up. I stopped to drink and cook a meal. I was both thirsty and hungry. The rest of the day the rain was on and off, slow moving and arduous. I was constantly sweaty and sticky, warm enough and not cold despite the sogginess. I had a huge climb up Monte Sacarello during a break in the weather. I felt fortunate for that break because of the exposure.  A huge basin was on the other side, just spectacularly green, so different from what I had been hiking in. The descent, although easy, was a muddy mess. Fortunately, the weather eased up and I made some miles. I tried for a refuge and it was closed. It must be too early in the season, I thought. So, I moved up Saline Creek steeply, creeping at a pace that was neither too slow or too fast. Jagged rock squeezed the cascading creek and I hit some narrows with a ribbon of whitewater sliding down the chasm. I scared a couple chamois, one of which bolted and skittered down a very steep and rocky slope at full speed, bounding in an explosion of power and grace. I watched in disbelief of the speed, the agility, the utter fearlessness. It was unbelievable. The dude must have barreled 300 feet angled down through a very rubbly talus field. Unbelievable. I got further than I had hoped for considering the weather, and I found a camp about 500 feet beneath a pass. I knocked out a huge chunk of the climb. Tuckered out, I pitched my shelter and laid around a bit before boiling some water. An odd feeling enveloped me. I actually felt a feeling of what felt like wilderness. I felt the weight of the sky and the sinking air, the booming mass of the mountains, the wilderness of space, the echo of silence. Isolation and a beautiful lonesomeness encompassed me. Rain pounded on my shelter all night. The wind howled like a monster in the upper basins, the thunder clapping off the cliff faces. I was okay despite my exposed camp in a high basin. I pitched the tent lower than usual so the wind couldn’t just gust in and then push up. The pitch worked. I tossed and turned on my lumpy and grassy ground, thankful for my respite and protection from the rain and wind. At one moment of coming to, I had a sudden urge to shit, and not just a shit but diarrhea. A reprieve in the storm had just happened, and probably why I woke up—-dead silence. I lunged out and waddled over to a side hill and funneled out some liquid shit. No way, I thought, could this be happening again. I hadn’t felt a thing up to that point, not a single thing. I fretted a bit as the rain returned, the wind even worse, the thunder and lightning entering the fight. I did eventually doze off, I don't know how. 

I laid around in my shelter in the middle of the morning. The storm did not relent. I laid around and did some reading until a small window occurred. I packed everything away more or less dry, at least more than expected, in a hurry. From the pass, I had a good clear view of the surrounding peaks and the basins on either side. I descended exquisite rock trail work that zigzagged down from the pass. Soon enough a thick wall of clouds consumed me and the lower shelf I was on. A two track eerily reached into a blinding fog up ahead, a road to who knows where. I found an open refuge and went to inspect the door handle, as if to check if it was really open 'open,' The Italian flag waved atop a flagpole. I found Mikel, who elaborated on the impending weather and the GTA route to Limonetto. It was doable and I had another refuge over a tall pass that would harbor safety and dryness if the rainy weather continued. I met four blokes there from Guernsey and their Italian guide waiting for the weather window, too. I relished the ensuing conversation. Just as I had been thinking I needed some sort of uplift, I found it. I had good fortune, according to Mikel at the hut. The small weather window, the blooming purply pink rhododendrons, and friendly folk, all at the refuge Mondovi, I had good fortune. Sipping on my second coffee and watching the chess match between two mates avoiding the weather like I had been and endured, I just realized how much time I had. I felt so rejuvenated after my encounter at the refuge. I felt so suddenly…patient. I left feeling upbeat. I left feeling non-rigid, even flexible and open. God, what was happening to me. I didn’t fight it though. I could feel something shifting. No longer had I had those thoughts of defeat, even quitting dare I say, from the previous day and night. I think I had been scared the previous night. The friendly and random genuine conversation pulled me away from it. I had definitely been looking for excuses… my tent had a few tears and a worn zipper, I was feigning the ache of a now healed foot, I had a stomach flash of diarrhea… I was definitely scared and even more afraid to admit it. I just had to admit that to myself more than anything. I almost felt the need to stop, to stop and process it all. Flashes of last year’s incidents scoured my brain and heart, so lucid as if I had moments where I was reliving those moments. The cramps on the tiny ledge in Rider Canyon, the wails and the screams of pain; the moment of coming back to consciousness in the empty dark meadow, so alone, so wet from pissing myself, chilled to the core; the extreme nausea in my shelter under formidable skies and the explosive diarrhea as lightning struck around me; the gasping of breath in mid tumble in roiling waves in the glacial river, the gasps for breath, the heaves, the survival mode to just keep going, the tingly and burning fingers at camp and the whirring in my ears so monumentally deafening I couldn’t fathom what was happening. The shock of last year had begun to settle in. I was still in shock. A moment of clarity occurred: I just had not taken the time to process, reflect, and actually do something about those events of the previous year. 

At the next refuge, Rifugio Garelli, I stared at the roving and billowing clouds being sucked and pulled between the tremendous depths of the deep canyons below and the craggy peaks above. The emptiness of the basin churned and swirled like puffy smoke from a boiling cauldron. My mind felt as caustic and scalding as the imaginary boiling vat, really just assimilating to my surroundings. Ideas swirled amongst the fearing fog. I could push on and get 17 miles away to the next spot or try and brave the weather. Or I can stop for the night. I had a good day of weather the next day, then 3 full days of very heavy rain. Could I get to town tomorrow and wait it out? I knew I was in for some downtime. I could wait out the shittiest of weather in the remote haven of a ski village. This just meant I would have to lay up today just after a measly 6 miles. So, I decided to stay at Rifugio Garelli. I needed a reset anyway. I probably needed to assess my thoughts through sitting and pondering rather than hiking and racing. I needed to watch the swirling and boiling cauldron churn and rove. I needed to be mesmerized by something my brain couldn’t handle. I needed contemplation, the curiosity of nature as my theater. I needed to remove myself from the audience and become a participant. I sat on a small concrete bench on the backside of the refuge below the giant windows where a couple other hikers were gawking at the scenery. I stayed on the cold concrete ledge and took in the occasional sun. The refuge cat wandered over and snuggled against my legs. I patted its belly as the cat rolled over and back. Then, the refuge mule moseyed over. The mule was as personable as could be and I longingly stroked the long nose and gazed into the mule's deep and big eyes. The cat pranced off, most likely looking for other petters. The mule ventured out to a platform that raised up from a knob and dropped off the ends about 20 feet. I had never seen a mule so willing to go to the edge. I snapped an image of the contemplating mule, a caricature of me. a self-portrait. Oh, I found solace in the mule's preponderance. I found humor in the sight. The sight of the mule standing over the edge and backdropped by the massive roiling clouds amused me. Stubborn and a dreamer....sounds so familiar. I laughed out loud to myself. I could feel my squinting wrinkles around my eyes widen out. I could feel myself smiling. The ridiculousness of my follies and travails made me feel a bit goofy yet fulfilled. I have experienced life. It seems that beside trying to tackle life by the horns, that the simple act of observation, in particular of the wondrous vista directly beheld in front of me, is as much a key to a fulfilled life as anything else. 

I left the refugio the next morning after a filling breakfast. I had a mere 17 miles to the next town of Limonetto where I had a room reserved for at least two nights. I would wait out the storm there. I spanned high ridgelines curving west and I entered the Italian Piedmont. I had supremely good weather, enough to make me prance along the ridge tops and spines. I played and scampered as if I was a mountain goat. I took a break near an abandoned military fort and soaked up the seemingly everlasting sun. I knew things would not last much longer, this good weather. I felt an understanding within me that I am in a pivotal moment. From a wonderful year off of adventuring with some crazy moments to getting just plain older and the yearning for a settled home. These things have floated in my mind before but none as a heftier time than now. I kind of felt a yearning for rest, for stopping. I drifted into a vision of the Colorado Plateau, a place where I would want to call home. Could I play there the rest of my life? I understood that I could. I am feeling the pull. Is it time? What about South America, Alaska, Central Asia, Mongolia, and the rest of Europe? I scooted smoothly into Limonetto, a smaller ski village and a valley adjacent to a bigger one. I walked over to a cafe and had a light lunch and bought some time before check-in. The village was so, so quiet. The rain fell constantly throughout the next three days. I had thought about leaving on the third morning but thought against the impulse. I would not see a thing in some unforgivable terrain. I enjoyed my little room for three days. I stayed at a bed and breakfast with hosts Walter and Anya. Walter was Italian and Anya was German. They had moved from a bigger city for a quiet place in the Piedmont. They had refurbished a couple hundred year old buildings in the tiny village and up on the hillside in the side drainage. I stayed in a single room and had a home cooked meal every night up above in the Posto Tappa, or resting or stopping place. I don’t know, I really enjoyed not doing anything, writing, and watching movies. I enjoyed drinking coffee and eating and laying around. Sure, I was ecstatic to not be hiking in torrential rain but I was even more happier to just be stopped and breathing and relaxed. I hadn’t an urge to push on; I had the urge to stay. 

On the fourth morning, I left with a big wide smile as I closed the door and trotted up the steps, the smile on my face of gratitude and peace. Yes, that’s the word…peace. That’s it. The village buildings glowed with the bright morning sun. I could smell the fragrant air of the lushness of bushy grass. Ciao! Anya said from her balcony, a cheery clamor as pleasant as birdsong, her smile gleaming in the spectacular morning sun. Ciao! I said back, holding my poles together up in the air, the clasped hands of a grateful and praying hiker. Peace, yes, that’s the word. I sweated so profusely I was completely drenched, clothes and my whole body. Every piece of clothing clung to my body. The climb was steep and the higher I got I attained a cloudy and misty layer that bubbled water on my skin. I punched through and hit the col that broke through a crumbly layer of rock at a narrow notch. Now I truly understood how smart it was for me to lay up in town for three days. Even though I felt completely at ease with my decision, there was still a part of me that yearned to have pushed it and stuck it out. Wow, I really saw the sensibility in my decision. I had views of the massive peaks surrounding the col. I looked down at the vaporous clouds below me nestled in the basins that shimmered and twinkled with the penetrating sunlight. Every single place that could have a waterfall had a waterfall. Every channel, every ravine, every cliff face, every chute and gully. Everywhere waterfalls were running very high and loud. Every rivulet brimming. Every rill cascading. I followed a narrow path switchbacking down a steep grassy hillside. The grass had grown so high that it brushed my hips. I was so drenched from the brushing of the dewy and wet grass that I felt like going through a car wash. I reached a birch forest as a round of rain came in. I hunkered under a wide canopy near the base of a large birch tree. I waited it out. Soon after, I descended another sketchy slope, this time the birch leaves pushed and compacted by rushing water, still the grass really tall and laden with water. Thankfully, I wasn’t cold. I was too concentrated on not falling. All this made for slick and slow travel. Each rock was slippery with moss or water or leaves. The trail was punchy with a thick layer of birch leaves. A trail full of tall nettle, my legs tingling with an electric shock, a burning sensation I got used to and eventually welcomed like menthol to the nose. Another brief storm hit and everything again got really slick, the heavy humid and warm air thick, sticky. Then, things got very tricky. I went down a very steep and narrow section of trail with slick ledges. I took my time down and finally hit the Torrente Gesso della Balla, an absolutely raging and fierce river, roaring with nothing but whitewater cascading, a spindrift mist of glacial blue spritzing into the air making everything appear refreshing. Drenched in sweat constantly throughout the day, sticky and clammy, so while everything was drenched everywhere with water, the humidity had made me sweat out all the liquid I was drinking. How could I be pissing golden in these conditions? Problem after problem with the tricky trail. The side drainages raged with swollen creeks. One was even choked with a huge snow field and a hollowed out snow cave. It had been a big day considering the precarious conditions. I can see how much the watermark has fallen even in the present flooding. Things must have been insane the previous couple days. I finally got to some flats in a tall pine forest. I suddenly felt not suffocated by the tall grass or the wet air. I found many wild strawberries growing in tiny patches, the juice as sweet as a glacial torrent. I found the Posto Tappa and the women there looked at me like I was crazy. I was the only visitor, the only one they had seen in some days. That night they served me some stewed rabbit. I sucked on a small snifter of genepy too, the local aperitif, after the meal. I felt the urge to do some writing, some processing. This hike was already feeling like a hike that was helping me process some things I held deep. This is what going on long walks does to the psyche and rhythm of the body. I couldn't help but drift into memories of the previous year's incidents, the genopy induced visions. I knew something was lying under the layers inside. I hadn’t wanted to let go of the Grand Canyon Traverse memory and immersion. I packed it away in the recesses of my mind because I wanted to hold it too tight. I think I understood the shift in the things to come. Finally the heart eroded the brain. And, as I released the memory I began to see it more clearly and gain some understanding; I began to see just how much I loved that deep and ravaged place. I began to see just how much I was changing as I was entering the next phase of middle life.

The breakfast was the usual Italian Piedmon fare -- bread, jam and butter, coffee, nutella and biscuits, some cereal, enough to fuel me most of the morning. A spiraling climb along a grassy staircase wrapped up a promontory to Colle delle Fenestrelle. Sweeping views to the south showed a glacier nestled under a broad mountain. The climb totaled 4000ft from the refuge and filled my gaze with endless high mountains. I descended into snow fields of mashed potatoes and picked my way down on bare rock and clumps of grass. A huge lake down below, dammed, Chiotas, twinkled in the sunlight, the ribbons of waterfalls filling the lake to the brim. The waterfalls everywhere I turned ran at full bore, and heaved over pour offs, similar to high water in the Sierra snowmelt except without the long valleys to drain. Everything here just plummets. Conditions were rough. The conditions went from summer in the valleys with stupendously roaring rivers to late spring and snow-clad passes and high water crossings. I was amazed at how fast these conditions shifted and changed from one pass to the next, from one valley over from another. I was very grateful for the nice and sunny weather window. I hardly saw anyone down in the valleys and not a soul up high. I imagine the conditions spooked folks off. Everything felt way more wild than expected and I caught myself saying 'momma mia!' a few times, a phrase utilized so often with the cheery Piedmont locals. Another climb back up on seemingly endless switchbacks through massive boulder fields holding up a huge moraine. I stopped for lunch and cooked some noodles with pasta sauce and Parmesan cheese and watched a few chamois down in a gully traipsing and grazing at the same time. I had one more pass for the day and encountered some really long snowfields. I had to really concentrate on picking my way through. I was having fun prancing along and thinking of myself as a spry chamois skating on the snow slopes. To my left, the sheer face of Cima de Argentera loomed, so incredibly vast and vertical. I found myself in a snow bowl That I needed to negotiate at an angle where the consequence would be a free sketchy glissade into a pile of boulders. I found my way down unsscathed and began another climb that I hoped to gain a chunk in. Up at the Valasco Plain, nestled beneath a ring of craggy mountains, huge runoffs and cascades overfilled the meadow that caused flooding. I don't think I could have found a place to camp unless I continued across the basin and up into the high cirques. In the immediate distance, a wide building with castle-like turrets on each side popped up. I got near it and saw an Italian flag waving. The place looked deserted as a river flowed over the road and the river and meadow flooded over with a few feet of water. To my surprise, the refugio was open and I was welcomed. I saw only one hiker there besides me and it was Daniel, an Italian from Cuneo that I had met in Limonetto at the Posto Tappa. He had begun to hitch around the sketchy sections, namely most of the high mountain passes inundated with snow and the swollen rivers. We had dinner together over a locally brewed beer and some locally picked herbs of fermented genopy. I felt pretty good after such an adventurous day and I knew another one would inevitably occur tomorrow. I went to bed tired but feeling strong, fit and mentally prepared for what the mountains were throwing at me.

Daniel and I left the next morning together. We hiked across the soggy meadow and continued up a superbly constructed military road. The meadow roared from the cacophony of plunging and rushing water. We had been told of some heavy snow that choked the pass, even precarious enough that the hut manager hadn't been sure that anyone had been over yet. Daniel looked dissuaded but asked me if he could join. I thought to myself that it was okay and that we would just separate after the pass or he would turn around. I looked up admirably at the craggy peaks above, a haze clung to the ramparts and smeared the bright white of rushing water. The last time I saw a haze like this, rain came. Maybe the haze is a precursor of a storm. The road wended up a gully almost on top of each switchback, the road used for jeeps and tanks in WWII to defend the border between Italy and France. The military road ended at a large lake. A huge fort flanked the upper reaches, just under the border, that resembled an ominous castle. We scrambled up towards the Colle delle Valasco, Daniel getting further and further behind. At the pass, I took in the view and waited for Daniel. I sat and gathered my breath and then began to look for a way down. The high basin was throttled with huge snow fields, steep and had some angles that I knew we wouldn't be able to cross. So, I scouted the bluffs that reached out of the snow field, a huge berm of about 10ft separated the knobby bluffs with the snowfield that created a small cavern running along the base of the bluffs. I thought I could see a way down. It would just be slow-going and sketchy. The angle of the peaks above us and the height of the bluffs casted a large shadow across the snow and I knew we would have some icy layers atop the snow. My eyes lined out a pathway to a rocky bulge at the headwall of the basin below. My eyes scanned angles and ledges, sun cups and rocks, and I knew we needed to get to that rocky bulge. I scrambled back up to the notch as Daniel was just hiking up. He looked a bit wide-eyed and nervous, completely opposite of how I excitedly felt. I tried to keep things chill and I did not want to spook him with my exuberance. Maybe he had never seen anything like this. I understood his nervousness, even more so I understood that what we were about to do could be dangerous and I needed to take the lead calmly. This would be a challenging descent but I believed we could get down if we took our time and stayed close together. We began the descent using the cliffs . I had to kick into the lip of the snow berms from an elevated perch on the cliffs. I meticulously showed Daniel my hand and footholds. Once down about 200ft, we needed to angle over to the rocky bulge pushing out into a massive basin. Microspikes would've been nice but we had to cut and tiptoe across the forming sun cups. We finally crossed the seam of shade cast from above and I took extra caution in the next few steps, for I knew that what may be potentially melting in the fresh sunlight would only make the ice slicker. I sliced and kicked my way into the slope, keeping Daniel close by eyeing him intently and making sure he was doing okay. The rocky bulge eased over the headwall and we climbed down the ledgy wall with our hands. Once at the base of the rocky bulge, the hard part was behind us and we could skip across the fields. Well, I mean I was scampering across like a goat while Daniel took a higher and less steeper way. The descent was time consuming. The down-climbing and the chopping in of the steps, we took our time to ensure safety. We kept going across snow fields that would get slushier and slushier with less elevation and fuller sunshine. At Malinvern, the lake was filled to the brim and where the trail crossed the water was deeper and taller than me. Cascading water flowed into the lake from about a dozen ribbons of thin waterfalls. The water was so fluorescently blue, almost so blue I thought for a second that I could have quite possibly not seen anything like it. Up and over the berm of the deep lake, we encountered some big larches anchored on precarious slopes. I could see the refuge still some 2000ft below. I was still very impressed at how steep the mountains and terrain was here. Finally, at the refuge. I felt a tad nervous. Would the next pass hold as much snow or even more since it’s higher up? I scanned across the valley and discerned the zigzagging trail climb and climb up. I couldn't see the pass that I had seen from the previous pass. It had looked more or less snow-free from the side I would be ascending. I just didn't know about the other side. I looked up and noticed even bigger mountains stood in the direction I was going. I hoped the massive spur ridge wouldn't be as bad, especially considering the pass faced east/west. Daniel fell into an easy mood, his shoulders slumped. I knew he was done for the day but he hadn't committed vocally to it. I found the manager of the refuge and asked about the conditions. In an excited trill the manager exclaimed: SNOW FREE! Enlivened by the news, I eagerly slopped up my heaping pile of polenta with ragu sauce. We shoved off and I hiked with some extra vigor with the notion of having a snow-free trail. I noticed Daniel getting further and further behind. At some point, he was gone and I knew he had turned around. I felt relieved. I did not want to guide him or feel responsible for his way through a tough and challenging hike. Just because we were around each other did not mean we were hiking together. I did, however, enjoy hiking the sketchy Colle delle Valasco with Daniel. He was a really nice person and had some enjoyment being in the mountains. He had the right idea in thinking a day out here was better than any day toiling away on his farm or being in the crowded city. I was glad that I got him over the pass so he could continue on. At one point, he turned around to me and said, 'You are a very good alpinista! Momma mia!' 

Oh, the climb was huge and I crushed it. Probably fueled by the polenta. Probably stoked by the big mountains. Probably stoked by the challenging conditions. I was having fun. I zipped along the trail and attained the snow-free pass. All around me the haze enveloped the high pointy peaks like a pall of wildfire smoke on a cool and frosty morning in the Rocky Mountains. I scanned the horizon and saw even bigger mountains to the west in France. Man, I felt like I was in the heart of the Alps. I had some easy walking to Sant’anna through a long and verdant alpine valley. Sant'anna was full of people, a large church and sanctuary swarming with people. I pushed on another few more miles begging for some solitude. I reached my third pass of the day and found a magnificent camp perched on a mound at the foot of a bowl, a small larch silhouetted against the fractured light splintering its way through puffy clouds above spired peaks. I couldn't almost believe I had found such a campsite and I had it all to myself. After a blissful night, I woke up to a clear sky above me and a thick cloud layer smothering the valleys below. In the first valley I walked through the peaceful village in Bagni di Vinadio as a thick mist drizzled. What a scene of serenity despite the drizzle. I found an old man dressed in a tank top and blue jeans tilling his garden. A priest sat on a bench outside the church. An older woman opened up her creaky shudders and watered her colorful flowers. The rush of water rang in the valley, the verdant greenery, the old buildings tiered on the hillsides, I was struck by it all. Everything seemed to manifest such a simple life.

The route went up 3500ft in a little less than 3 miles. The trail switchbacked under a forest canopy which sheltered me from the rain which had turned heavy. I felt like I was on an escalator going directly into the clouds. I actually enjoyed the hiking and the soggy weather. I had a few large spruce trees that provided me a dry refuge. I squatted and took short little cat naps a couple times trying to time the stop and go of the rain. Up across the top, the clouds completely engrossed the flat like mesa, so much so that I couldn't even see 10 yards in front of me. I almost literally ran into some ruins that eerily resembled war torn carnage. The ghost of ruins laid in rubble with a few walls barely standing, the clouds seething through the crevices and broken windows. I was drenched and the breeze up top chilled me to the bone. The treeless mesa had no coverage of any sort and I found it ironic that the only possible coverage lay in ghostly ruins. Although the ruins emanated through the mist like the flipped pages of history, I could see the way of life, like a spectral, a skeleton of the past. I pushed on into the morass of clouds and mist, the pathway simply appearing in front of me, haunted by the outlines of trees appearing as apparitions floating in the cloud layer. The descent fell into the clouds and the rain. I hurried on to maintain warmth and to get into lower elevations. I stopped in Sambuco with the intention of taking just a break. I checked the weather for the afternoon and the forecast did not look too good. I felt fine and probably would have pushed on but I figured I needed a bit of rest to break up the next week somehow. Besides, I needed a minor resupply and I would have to wait for the store to open after the siesta anyways. I told the innkeeper I was sorry I was coming in like a wet and sad dog, merely soggy and hungry. She laughed at my sodden appearance but sorted me out. She gave me the time for dinner, I showered up with a steamy shower, took a nap, and let my hunger settle in.

I walked downstairs to dinner. I was the first one there and I realized I was the only hiker (again) in the Posto Tappa. I had a table placard made of wood that said GTA HIKER. The placard was decorated with a carved larch. I felt like a special guest. Other folks began walking in and I realized the dinner was for other guests as well and not an open-to-the-public restaurant. I definitely looked out of place considering the well-dressed other guests and my shaggy hair and beard. The owners treated me like everyone else. It was such a treat. Every dinner I have had so far, I have felt like I was a real guest in someone’s house. I couldn’t believe the hospitality that I had encountered so far but I couldn't even believe what I was witnessing in front of me at this moment. The spread! The careful details! The friendliness! God, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude I almost teared up there at the table. Gazing at the magnificent baked ham they brought me teared up just out of an epicurean principle. I was drooling! I savored each bite and moaned with pleasure. I felt so fortunate. I felt like I was onto something by enjoying not just the physical side of the trail. Patience oozed from me and I could feel it in essence feeding my body and spirit. I was melting like the mouth watering ham in my mouth. I feel I am inadvertently using the GTA to reflect on the past couple years. Through this reflection I am finding that I have not always been nice to myself. So, it seems so far on the GTA I am being so nice to myself and just taking my time. This not only helps me reflect but helps me experience being present, at the same time. I am granting myself some grace through this indulgence and patience. This wasn’t planned. It just happened and it feels right. I am on some eat, pray, love type shit but rather than my own eat, pray, love type trip…it’s my own version of eat, hike, live. What a magical dinner experience in Sambuco. I felt full in so many ways.