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...

 

Good thought. Poor execution.

Disclaimer – I tried to take a vacation. I tried to leave my raccoon-esque fatigue look behind me in Munich and run away to Colombia. This is the story of what happens when I try to take a vacation.

Out of respect for the newlyweds, I have taken some distance from their enchanting wedding before diving into the story of how I ride a horse. It is a charming story of sweeping Colombian panoramas drenched in hues of chlorophyll and topaz and a cotton candy sunset.

But first – two introductions.

First, the Cabalgata (read: cavalcade to Southwestern Americans and awesomeness to anyone unfamiliar to it). A slow meandering ride on horseback throughout villages – in our case through the Cali valley – filled with music, celebration and enough Aguardiente to kill a horse.

Second, Freckles – my trusty steed and fairytale white horse flecked with brown spots and of a stature that negates both the bit about trusty and the bit about fairytales. Up I went on to Freckles with a bit more experience than most of the group, but far less than I would need.

Off we went in a group of 60 people, most on horseback, some wisely wedged into a wagon illuminated by club quality disco lights and speakers shouting out Latin hits ahead to the next village, alerting them of the shenanigans of which they would soon bear witness.

From the outset we had a few horses that were listening intensely when the group of inexperienced riders was called to the front to mount. Itching to take advantage of inexperience, a group of eight horses set off for an impromptu Kentucky Derby whisking away frightened faces and dotting the field with newly acquired hats that a local boy promptly collected with a business model brewing in his head. One rider down.

The horses returned, the hats were reacquired and the group set off for a definitional Cabalgata. For the next hour, the fresh air was welcomed with open arms from the depth of our lungs. The winds slid down the mountains and through our hair with such innocence and abandon that it seemingly scooped out reality and the burdens a continent away. A sudden flurry of excitement and we lost another rider…but this one upped the ante and was tossed aside onto the contrasting reality of asphalt.

The sun began to set and we added more music, permanent smiles so effortless a beauty pageant contest would kill for, more Aguardiente and more photos of this epic adventure to complement the candid selfie I took with a donkey. Clouds dissipated in the sky slowly, but left behind enough strands to grab hold of the bubble gum pink of the fleeting sun. It would have been breathtaking if we were not on the move, but alas, Freckles charged ahead and I needed to breathe. One place Freckles steered clear of however, was the kicking horse.

There is one in every group – in this group the one horse that just had to stand out and make his mark, did so with a coy sidekick that would rupture any ankle that came in his path. Someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the stable that morning or had a stick in his horseshoe, because he was on a role. Any horse nearby and wham!, he would have a go at them. Comically (or less so for our Beloved Belgian after yet another selfie to add to his Instagram collection and a lucid conversation) kicking horse simply kicked and our poor Belgian sprung back to his feet after bouncing his head on the ground and lucid was no longer applicable. A hospital trip would be required and we had lost another good man - a direct victim of the kicking horse.

Assuming I had survived the worst of it and with my injured friends safely and gently tucked into the party wagons, I confidently took a mental timeout and handed over control to Freckles. We had made a good pair for four hours, I was on holiday and everyone was having a blast – what could go wrong now?

It is poor foreshadowing, but it was also poor decision making – so why call it something it is not.

I have a general propensity for pretending / thinking / convincing others I am the offspring of Otto Lilienthal or Evel Knievel with a serious shortcoming on execution. This night was no exception and Freckles knew it.

The little guy – remember not some formidable steed, more like an oversized pony – decided he wanted to run and I decided to let him, but just for 100 meters. We had covered more than that previously in the night – for safety sake and companionship, we asked the local Cali friend to join in our jaunt. The world's general propensity to remind me that I am good at planning, but should execute my life from within an air filled resilient bubble, kicked in and the jaunt was a full sprint gallop and the next thing I felt was the shift of the saddle.

Fine, I will come clean – I am basically an expert horse rider – hell I even took a lesson once in Hyde Park AND I watched at least three Equestrian events during the last Summer Olympics. A controlled exit from this situation was clearly required. I needed to finesse my way off the horse before the saddle was on his hip…Freckles was less than impressed by my decision, lack of skill at such a maneuver and lack of grace, so he seemingly hit the eject button on my behalf. Another rider down.

The experience was amazing – without sarcasm it was epic – even when you take a look at the scorecard – Freckles 1; Andrea 0.

Damages tally:

- An evening that became a blur & suspected concussion

- Lost mobile phone into the darkness holding precious enough photos to remind me that a photo is powerful, but doesn’t replace an emotion or experience

- A blocked mobile phone due to attempts to communicate injuries as I had failed to alert O2 that I was traveling beyond the German border

- Hole in my hat rendering it useless even to the aforementioned young local entrepreneur

- Designer espadrilles detached at one heel

- Sleeve that decided to part ways with the rest of my shirt

- Enough scrapes and bruises to serve as a pain compass for the subsequent parade of doctor's appointments

- Aguardiente-a-plenty to survive the wedding ceremony

- Last minute Business Class upgrade for a 9 hour overnight flight that included eight hours of five minute massage cycles from the deluxe seat selection and one hour of sleep

- And bleeding ears….wait….what…

So those cost me…

- A round of x-rays and a CT scan to eventually diagnose perforated ear drums from the impact to my head

- An MRI to uncover a handful of hemotomas down the length of my back and my liver decided to get involved too 

It is difficult to defend myself when people tell me I should probably forego the notion of holiday and just sit safely in my office and work. I am 0 for 2 on vacations this year – I never did get around to writing about the exploding juice bottle.

But man, it was pretty spectacular and did I mention the selfie with a donkey!?