Alta Via 1 Hike: Underbed monsters in the tunnels?

The next morning I was again the first one up and took the honor of waking up the other 13 people in the dorm from their deep breathing and steady snores. People – it is 515 and this hut serves breakfast at 6 – which means there is a sunrise to inhale with our souls and a breakfast of bread, eggs and earl grey to kick open our eye lids. Okay – I did not declare this, but the crumpling of my packing and the back and forth thru the door was sufficient. I roused a small group and we scattered onto the balcony into a crisp morning wind to catch the day's virgin sun.

Today began my series of 'super ideas' and 'flexibility challenges'.

I have had a lot of really good ideas in my life – like moving abroad again and again – and some not so good – like riding my bike into a stationary bus stop shelter. This morning's super idea: I took the 'short cut' down the mountain, alone, at 645 with the morning mountain frost. The route: 650 meters downhill via war time tunnels converted into an open air museum. The upside – entering via a hole in the mountainside, descending alone in pitch black darkness with an occasional natural window (with yet another series of breathtaking vista views towards Cortina) and the echo of eerie singular drops of rain ahead of me – or perhaps just a few steps behind me – no, the definitely came from up ahead – oh hell – I better just run down.

The vision was poetic. After 4 days deeply charmed by the region's beauty and a breakfast declaration that I would take on the tunnels because it was no real challenge – and there I was running through the darkness with my eyes fixated as far forward as my headlamp would allow, jumping every single time the light flashed in a falling water drop, my gloved hands gripped the assist cable hiding my white knuckled fist – singular because I kept my pocket knife firmly clutched in my left hand. Guidance says the tunnels will take 1 – 1.5 hours to make your way down depending on your appetite for exploration of the makeshift museum. Yet, 45 minutes after I took the plunge into the 'gallery' and took a hopeful left turn based on a suggestive sign and a spiraling staircase, I was already done. In those 45 minutes I think I suddenly became afraid of the dark, monsters under my bed and boogie men in the closet. My adolescent fear was laughable and I emerged grinning at the paranoia and questioned what I was really prepared to do with a pocket knife that was closed in my fist – super idea, maybe the monsters would be deterred if I hurled my light weight camping tool and blinded them with my flashy headlamp. I definitely laughed at myself and sudden paranoia for a solid 2 more hours.

Before I knew it I had drifted up Forcella Nuvolau and reached the planned landing pad for my head that night just before they had finished cleaning up after the late departures from the night before. I chatted briefly with the Canadian hostess only to find that she was full for the night and increasingly agitated at a number of weekend cancellations of those missing out on another captivating room with a view. We peered over the mountains steep drop into the valley of Passo Giau. She gestured to a upscale Rifugio that may or may not have one of its 10 rooms open for me – the pages of my torn guidebook quoted 'unreliable' – a dodgy website offered no additional hope, but in any case it was another 1,5 hours, via ferrata and knee knocking descent away. I had choices: wait for a bed to open up in 7 hours, risk a forced journey in a setting sun if no bed was available or sleep on the bench or floor or other available space in the clouds with the bulk of the group that reserved a spot from the night before.

Via ferrata after lunch it was. I forced down a substandard 'würst' of some sort that looked like a hot dog in need of a tan and the standard accoutrement: sauerkraut.

The via ferrata / aided climb section was just out of site below the edge of the helipad. As an intimidating lunch crowd gathered and dangled their feet over the concrete slab, I held a small convention of opinions in my mind:

• Definitely not something you should be doing alone
• Can you not just be patient and wait
• All those people are watching you – do you go down facing the mountain or away from it
• That is the dumbest question – clearly you should go another way
• This cannot be too hard – suck it up and just go slowly, but not too slowly those people are nibbling on their lunch and assessing your skills in both climbing and decision making
• Glad we did not tell mom about this one, but perhaps she thinks I am going the long way around when she reads this chapter of the guide book

I had more discussion with myself in the short distance down than I had in the past four days combined. Two cables and one solid but bent ladder later and I was past the first part. The second was another, slightly longer cable anchored over crumbling orange rocks and this time, no audience. I had my gloves on again – if only to cover my white knuckled fists so I would not obviously see that I was nervous. Mentally I was scaling El Capitan without a harness, in reality I was clumsily descending an unnamed portion of a non-descript mountain with my feet glued to the rocks nearly level with my hands forcing my butt awkwardly up in the air and my center of balance likely miles away from where it needed to be. I made it – gracelessly to the bottom only to find a sign at the end written in Italian and German stating that it is mandatory to have proper via ferrata gear for this section. Hmm. They should have one of those signs at the helipad too.

Down I went for another hour and stumbled past some woman having her feet filmed as she galloped in the afternoon sun for some sort of promotion film and into the 'unreliable' Rifugio as an unassuming bald man held open the front door for me on his way out. My next adventure began in that Rifugio, but I needed a nap first. I laid in my bed and gazed through the window back up the mountain from where I had come as a cotton ball cloud blew in to cover the helipad and my trail friends I had left behind.

 Hikers hints: The tunnels are wet but the temperature is relatively cool irrespective of outside. The path is mostly in the form of steps, some a bit large, but the assist cable is solid and Omni-present. Make reservations to the small Rifugio Nuvolau, but perhaps grab dinner at the Averau before the final and straightforward ascent to Nuvolau. The via Ferrata should not be oversimplified, but it can be done with relative ease if there is no issue with heights. The spacing from rocks to assist cables could prove difficult for kids or smaller adults without any gear.

Alta Via 1 Hike: Stardust and Paris

I once leaned from a Parisian hotel window at 430am with a friend as we bid adieu to a Brit who capped off THE epic day with a simple farewell – Ladies, thank you. It is not often one can wake up for work on Monday and realize they are in the wrong country…

That Sunday is the day I go to in my mind for serenity, energy, confidence, smiles and really anything. My second trip out of the country, first time as a grown-up and there I was in Paris for a weekend with plans melting under an unusual February sun. I speak of that day fondly to others but hold the true treasure locked behind my eyes and tattooed in my memory. For reasons difficult to articulate, it is a day that stands alone thus far in my life…

Until Day 3 of my hike…

It was a day of such immense peace and happiness without any significant event. Nothing extraordinary (beyond the National Geographic highlight real before my eyes) occurred, but I spent hours awake in a state of absolute, exhilarating, unbridled peace. Not bad given I was going to have a healthy 1200m climb ahead of me as I made my way toward Lagazuoi in blasting heat. I was stupefied with happiness the entire day – my feet danced, my eyes smiled, my fingernails tingled and my legs sang and begged me not to stop.

I was up at five for no apparent reason so I toiled around the hut until it was breakfast time. Eggs would be my protein source and a quick smattering of orange marmalade on homemade mountain bread and I was out the door. Logic told me that the previous days's tour group would 1. Still be asleep and 2. Not back track and retrace their steps towards Lagazuoi. All the same – I had an intense desire to break the silence of morning along the trail in a party of one. 

The first signs of exhilaration flickered in the pasture dotted with summer flowers, an occasional marmot and sleepy cows stretching their legs and making their way towards a breakfast of their own. I had a 15 minute staring contest to see who would move from their position on the trail – assessing that if I lost to this teenage bull and survived getting trampled, my landing pad would be the ice cold stream that itself was carved from a Walt Whitman poem.

The day progressed with a climb to Forcella del Lago which only added to my exuberance. I was ahead of scheduled time, I was catching my breath faster and I could feel myself getting stronger. The view from the top offered a smack in the face challenge to my small accomplishments – an instant rewind of the height I had just gained and then a cheeky equal ascent to the structure perched eye level ahead, only a mountain away.

And so I went, all the while I had quieted my mind to an unparalleled level and was able to feel every step of my feet, hear the wind whistle through the flowers and taste the sweet salt in the sweat that saturated my lips. I memorized the shape of every rock that passed beneath my stride and watched the clouds cast finger puppet shadows on the mountain sides before disintegrating like cotton candy. And I stopped twice…to hear the silence. I smiled at the sound and purity of nothingness. The school groups, stubborn winter snow and final climb barely registered on my euphoric state. 

After I snuck in front of unassuming tourists in line for lunch and beer, I surprised tonight's host being not only a solo hiker, but female and having the name 'Andrea'. It was clear I was getting out of Süd Tirol and really getting deeper into the Italian part of the region. Same story: room assigned, territory marked, half attempt to wash clothes in the sink, thick hot chocolate sipped while retreating to the corner of the deck overlooking a panorama that warranted a gondola lift to pluck tourists from their cars only to be put down again in a hug from clouds.

I waited for the last group to retreat to the mechanical trip down tomorrow's tunneled trail before I made the last 50m to the Piccolo Lagazuoi summit. I took my shoes off, dangled my feet over the side and repeated phrases of amazement at what lay before me. My attention span with the four Italians was short lived and I retreated to my perch after final doggie kisses from a sweet yellow canine that smelled a bit like my clothes thanks to his efforts on covering half of the AV1.

 

Words seem to fall short for the day. It felt magical, unworldly, divine and yet so accessible. I used my one trail 'phone a friend' allowance in an attempt to articulate the sunset scene that was unfolding before me, but failed miserably to translate the fairytale scenes and tickle of stardust from the night's wind into a vocabulary structured and dictated by man. It was a vision and an emotion for me. Its beauty now rests behind my eyes and colors my days back in Munich ever since. Best of all, it tattooed itself in my mind next to the February music on Sacre-Coeur steps and the vision of rain-coated cobblestones of a Parisian midnight street.

Alta Via 1 Hike: Rain, wrong turns and nudity – all before dinner

And before you know it you are back into the world of past days…

At first it was the fingers of mundane activity lethargically welcoming me back to society. And within a day I was squeezed by the fist of corporate. Welcome back. I traded my hiking boots in for high heels and my suits smelled of cleaning chemicals, not of week old sweat. And perhaps it happened some other way, but I would like to think my journal bid me adieu on a too early morning flight north. That perhaps some unsuspecting someone stumbled across the sweat soaked pages and hand scribbled notes and read them with a smirk. I hope the quotes and notes inspired a hapless flight attendant to explore just a little more in the next city if time permits it. Better yet – that time is made for it. But my journal seems to be gone and I must write before the tales are lost to the caverns of my memory. So back to the hiking:

After my run in with scree and 1000m later, I ducked into the first Rifugio to be greeted by two German speaking Italians who probably would have hugged me if I did not look so lost. So this is a Rifugio. I left my pack and poles outside, because that is what Pete and Cathie had done and for now, I needed someone to copy. I sat down at the table in the corner and ordered a small beer and skiwater. I managed to break the ice with the English couple and asked a few tips for Rifugio life. 'Which bed do I take in a room with 30 beds' – 'Bottom bunk, by the window' answered Pete who subsequently lost out on every bottom bunk by the window when the three of us found ourselves in the same hut for the remaining nights.

After lunch I made the next hour alone thru an evening fog over to my home for the night. Another open arms welcome before I scribbled out a post card while nibbling on my first run-in with Polenta. The night was uneventful as I was in a room of my own (benefits of early season hiking) – so no snoring, no foreign odors – nothing but me and the steady rain on the idyllic tin roof. RAIN???

Okay, stay calm. Sleep first and then deal with the weather tomorrow. I stumbled down to breakfast after a deep sleep thanks to nature's built-in sound machine and peered over my cup of earl grey at the day's weather report - rain until lunch time. On deck for the day was a reversal of yesterday's incline into a valley of cows via a mix of switchbacks and old military roads. The last time I had a descent like this, my left knee joined in the chorus of laughter spewed by the decent company I had been keeping while I hobbled like a 90 year old down the mountain. Disaster was brewing.

I closed my extraordinarily well organized pack, zipped up my rain jacket to face the onslaught of rain that was tap dancing on the windows and made my way downstairs to lace up my boots before hitting today's wet trail. I took one last deep breath of wood-burning-fireplace-laced-baby-its-cold-out-there air, tucked my chin to my chest and took three steps in to the downpour and then…nothing. Just like that it stopped - with such an abrupt gesture as to mock my preparation that I stubbornly traipsed through the first valley, downhill (and back up hill as I neglected to look for trail markings) and down-down-down for a few hours before shedding my layers of warmth and waterproofing.

The ascent portion of Day 2 was when the restlessness first showed signs of change. Until the clouds subsided and an unfiltered sun beat down on me for the next hours, I had been having a very cognitive fun and relaxing time – but it was still cerebral. Now it was morphing into something wholesomely new in me, something much more ethereal – with the sun and the strain of the climb I had my first taste of what I had come for: a fatigue that was mind erasing and a field of vision that mixed the favorite hues of spring greens and fierce blues. The mountains bore a shade of red after a century's dance with oranges and browns. With every breathless turn the ground beneath me was speckled with kindergarten purples and yellows that matched the purity of the air that filled my lungs.

I slowed my step and heard that favorite voice remind me that I wasn’t in a race. My competitive nature was quelled in a blink and I floated to my next stop.

Fanes. I took refuge in the shade just long enough to say hello to faces from the breakfast table and to Pete and Cathie who had gotten up early to brave the rain. They didn’t have to tell anyone they were out in the rain – the railing was their laundry line and their shoe linings were propped up like makeshift compasses to catch enough sun to evaporate the puddles. Another round of substandard polenta before a tour group of fellow Americans yapping about material things scared me off to my neighboring refuge.

The main room of Lavarella was bustling with people so I quickly found my room, claimed my bottom-bunk-by-the-window, shed my clothes and escaped into the barrel sauna out back. I nestled in next to a German couple and proceeded to have the sauna conversation everyone has with Americans – 'I thought Americans did not like the sauna because you have to get naked' – the catch here, I had never had the conversation while simultaneously being actually naked in the sauna – and to make it better, we had the conversation in German.

Normally one can pass off awkward encounters as a momentary laugh, but I had not seen the end of my medical friends from Hannover. As was often the case – and welcomed situation – I was at a table set for 1 before they insisted I join them for dinner – this time clothing included. It was a welcomed change of pace as it distanced me from the banter of a young couple freshly engaged telling their story for the 4^th time in 2 days over a meal – congrats you two, but I will move to another table. We dined on…polenta… and salad and shared their fancy bottle of red wine over a few rounds of a card game called 'Take 6' – I think. I stated earlier that my competitive nature had been suppressed – I let it come out long enough for a bottle of wine and a goodnight. I would not see them again because they were doing local hikes.

A smile had suddenly become permanently affixed to my face and I am convinced that perhaps I was even smiling in my sleep…

 

 

Hikers hints - Day 2: Day 1 can be extended by less than three hours to get to Pederü for an overnight making sure you don't turn left towards Fodara. The ensuing downhill into the valley is not the most charming and quite steep at times. Just note that the trip from Fanes to Lagazoui is remarkable so plan accommodation accordingly.

Alta Via 1 Hike: Meet Scree...

Wide eyed and an hour delayed, I skipped out of the bus that delivered me to Day 0's hotel at Pragser Wildsee / Lago di Braies. I was in South Tirol / Süd Tyrol and everything from here on out was going to be a healthy mix of languages – thinking it was merely German and Italian was my first mistake.

I bid farewell to my bus driver who had driven slowly so I could gaze in childish wonder at the approaching limestone mountains that were breathtakingly unique as they pierced the sky and jettisoned out from the traditional Alps in my foreground. This was my playground for the next 10ish days and I could not contain my excitement. And neither could Jens…

Jens: hotel concierge, hiking expert, dog owner, phone operator and all around good guy had me booked into the first 3 huts for my hike before he even gave me a room in his hotel for the night. He uttered hiking and must-see tips along the route in a mixture of German and English then sent me out for my first glimpse of Lago di Braies - a legendary lake that held secrets of times past under its ever changing emerald green waters. I was captivated and started to plan my immediate retirement – why do the hike when I can set up camp here on the beaches until the end of time?

I loaded up on a protein fueled dinner, a traditional German breakfast and got underway the next morning. Starting from the signpost of the Alta Via 1, I began my journey dwarfed by mountains and trees equally impressively reflected into the morning's green waters. With a parting wave and a postponement of said retirement plans, I began my first uphill climb and met a few familiar 'faces' on the way and a few not so familiar…

Little Miss Out-of-Shape came first: 1000 meters incline was a nice introduction to my own procrastination and excuses that I worked too many hours to properly get in shape. None of those excuses were going to drag me up the mountain.

Professor Over-Analysis joined me next: Now this is one visitor I knew would be with me from time to time on the trip although I pledged to kick her over the cliff at every chance, but during this first climb I was flushed with thoughts and critical analysis of everything in life in a rapid succession as transient as the path beneath my feet.  

Outperformer Extraordinaire came too: While a voice in my head repeated parting words spoken the day before 'remember – small steps', the athlete of my past seemingly awoke from her long retirement and told me to go faster, push harder and for goodness sake – DO NOT LET HIM….okay, go ahead and let him pass you – he looks like he has done this before….and well – OK, him too, I mean he is clearly training for an endurance marathon...anyone else want to pass?

Future English friends seemed to play a game of leap frog with me. Pete and Cathie - as I would find out a few days later. I first heard Cathie about 30 minutes before her husband Pete passed me (the first one above). She was screaming something about refusing to go on if the rest of the trek was going to suck as much as this incline did. I tried to think 'suck it up', but I was too tired and thinking 'I completely agree'. 

Mister Scree was my favorite trail companion: rock fragments that are omnipresent in the Dolomite ranges. Combine rocks with just the right angle of incline and you find yourself in an 'oh-so-charming' game of two steps forward one step back. This was my first introduction to a healthy dose of limestone scree, but it would by no means be my last.

I learned a few things on Day 1, besides the bit of being tired and out of shape:

- 2400m plus no forward momentum plus a shirt on your back covered in sweat is frighteningly cold in no time at all

- In an emergency situation, I will not survive if I have to rely on rationing Clif Bars to myself

- Drink more water and your pack weighs less

- Respect your elders – they will also kick your butt on a race up one of these mountains

- Prayers to limestone rocks prior to plunging your body weight on it has a 7 to 3 success rate for not crumbling

- This trekking thing is probably going to be my new favorite hobby – assuming I survive my first night in a Rifugio

 


Hikers Hints - Day 1: (more notes collected for the further stages) 'Trekking the Dolomites' is one of the only English guides out there, but the trail can also be completed with the necessary maps and some initial internet research - I went without reservations to most huts (early in season). Day 1 is straight forward. Sennes accommodation was top. 

Alta Via 1 Hike: The Mountains Called

'I am merely going on a hike…'

I cannot explain how many times I said these 7 words in the weeks leading up to my latest vacation. I did assume I would have some explaining to do when it came to my mother – she does not hike, nor is she familiar with the environment I would immerse myself into for ten days. What I did not account for is the number of friends, colleagues and half-strangers to question why I would vanish myself into the Italian mountains for a few days.

For you see, I am not a hiker.

That is not the image that comes to your mind when you know me. That is not the life I live. I am a worker and for now, I am a consultant, but since the time I learned where Patagonia was on a map, I have craved the adventure and isolation the mountains seemingly provided.

Fast forward through years of sports, careers, moves, schools, celebration, tragedies and excuses and I finally got full of desire and stood with pockets empty of excuses good enough to convince me otherwise. I was under-equipped, out of shape and full to the brim with the stresses of work. Perfect.

And so I deflected with ease the questions about break-ups, tragedies, stress, misdirection and whatever Hollywood built conjecture those whom asked could imagine. It was merely a hike with the intention of becoming so tired that I could break away from thought altogether. A single quote has been emblazoned in my mind for more than 20 years:

I am losing precious days. I am degenerating into a machine for making money. I am learning nothing in this trivial world of men. I must break away and get out into the mountains to learn the news. J. Muir

If it was more than a hike, then it was the point in time where a quote first read in seventh grade had finally delivered its truth to my feet. Packed and ready, I said goodbye to a favorite face and sat back on a train bound for Lago di Braies in the Italian Dolomites and the starting point of my next adventure.

As fate would have it – it was a new type of epic. Sketches in a journal stuffed with maps and guide notes show signs that I collected new stories, new friends and a new level of yearning for getting into the mountains to learn the news. These are some of the highlights of my ten day solo trek...