My journey began on Thursday afternoon (September 18) by car, with the destination being Calalzo di Cadore. Three and a half hours of heavy traffic, followed by an overnight stay in a hostel. It proved to be a good decision: the next day, at 8 in the morning, I was fresh and rested, backpack on my shoulders, ready at the trailhead (my car was parked in the locality of Praciadelan, ten minutes from the hostel).

Day 1

From Praciadelan to Bivacco Tiziano, passing through Rifugio Chiggiato and forcella Jau della Tana

The ascent to Col Negro and Rifugio Chiggiato is in the woods, on a trail that’s almost always steep but comfortable. Nine hundred meters of elevation gain covered without stops, I felt in good shape. The fifteen-minute break I had planned at the refuge, I skipped it, a grave mistake. The presence of the two keepers having breakfast on the refuge terrace put me in a difficult situation. I didn’t want to sit there in their refuge without consuming anything, but I also didn’t want to move to the nearby meadow to avoid looking cheap. I had started just an hour and a half earlier, and it wasn’t the time to consume anything except maybe an energy bar, since the most challenging part awaited me.

After a brief traverse westward, more or less at mid-slope toward Forcella Jau della Tana, the trail immediately becomes technical and demanding. It overcomes a series of rock “blades”) under Cima Salina, with deep intermediate scree gullies. It jumps on stones and scree, with continuous ups and downs. I slipped once on small rocks going downhill; fortunately, there was no damage apart from a couple of tears to my shorts. In this area, I encountered a herd of chamois moving nimbly, not too far on the opposite scree. There’s so much silence on these mountains that it’s easy to hear their alarm whistle or notice their trampling on gravel or rocks. Once I reached the vertical line to the pass, the final ascent began, a very long and largely steel-cabled route with exposed sections. This section, especially in the final part near the summit, really put me to the test. The two sections together (Parking-Rifugio Chiggiato, then Chiggiato-Jau della Tana) cover approximately 1,600 meters of elevation gain, which I stupidly tackled almost without rest. Toward the end, I was getting dizzy with every few steps and/or pulls on the iron cables. I was in difficulty and didn’t expect it, so much so that, now almost at the summit, I consumed a second energy bar. From Rifugio Chiggiato to Jau della Tana, it took me no less than two hours and thirty minutes, possibly three.

From the pass, I could see Bivacco Tiziano, the day’s destination. From up there, it appears as little more than a red dot still distant, resting on a grassy ridge a few kilometers away and about five hundred meters of elevation loss downhill. A few meters from the summit, I met the first person, a Frenchman (I think) with a tent and a huge backpack. He came from Bivacco Musatti or thereabouts and asked me where he could find some water. I told him it was a long way down until the Chiggiato; no water until there. While I was resting at the pass, a very young and fit boy reached me. He had stopped to chat with the Frenchman (I could hear them chatting a couple of hundred meters below me). The boy told me that the Frenchman left (if I understood correctly, I was tired) France in April and was slowly hiking across all the Alps to reach Slovenia by the end of October. Crazy. The boy was headed to Bivacco Fantoni and was the vanguard of a group of four. He was “running” ahead to arrive early at Fantoni, which nowadays is “YouTube famous” since it has been recently rebuilt and is now an ultra-modern and very comfortable structure. We parted ways as I undertook my descent toward Tiziano. Slowly, I descended first on steep scree and then on mixed terrain of stone and meadow, navigating the ups and downs of the Lastoni delle Marmarole, and finally arrived at Bivacco Tiziano at about 4:30 PM. Bivacco Tiziano is situated in a stunning location, at the western edge of the Lastoni, with the Marmarole ridges behind and the door opening onto the Ansiei Valley, a thousand meters below, and the Dolomites to the north. You can admire the Tre Cime di Lavaredo, Cristallo, the Tofane, the Cadini di Misurina, and many other well-known groups and peaks.

As widely expected, there’s no water at Tiziano, and none is found along the entire route once you leave Chiggiato. I had brought an extra supply that was sufficient to prepare dinner and breakfast for the next day, certainly not to continue for another two days. At this point, I was worried. In the bivouac log, a good soul had described where to find it. Still, it wasn’t close, and to be honest, for a moment I considered the idea of giving up and heading down to the valley the next day, so exhausted I was, and especially worried about the lack of water on the rest of the route. I had dinner, recovered some strength, and then, with my headlamp on, sat-nav in my pocket, and two water bottles in hand, I headed toward a wall of slabs “striped” by what looked like water rivulets. These slabs were approximately 500 meters from the bivouac as the crow flies, but to reach them, you had to cover a certain elevation difference, first uphill and then downhill. Without a backpack, however, it seemed like flying. Dinner had reinvigorated me, and I got there without too much suffering except for a frontal fall tripping on a stone that cost me a bruise on my hand that still hurts today. Reaching the wall, I realized that to collect water, it was necessary to climb about ten meters up the slabs, near a small roof from which water dripped onto the slabs below, forming the striped lines visible from the bivouac. Fortunately, the slabs are easily climbable due to their adhesion, so I went up and slowly filled one container at a time. It took a long time to fill the three containers from that tiny trickle of water; moreover, each time I had to climb down to return to the ground, deposit the whole container, and climb back up to fill the next one (I feared that a full water bottle could slip down and break). The position was uncomfortable: my feet were resting in adhesion, one hand to hold myself in place, the other with my arm extended to fill the bottle slowly. The entire procedure took me an hour, so I returned to the bivouac when it was almost dark. At 8 PM, exhausted but happy, I got into my sleeping bag and fell asleep almost immediately. For some strange reason, falling asleep alone, in a tent or bivouac, in such remote and wild places, far from everyone, with only nature around, puts me at ease. It’s almost as if I were cradled by nature itself.

Day 2

From Bivacco Tiziano to Bivacco Voltolina

The most spectacular day. I exit the bivouac and brush my teeth while a young ibex watches me, perplexed, no more than twenty meters away. Having left Bivacco Tiziano, I enter Val Longa, where three more ibexes, one adult and two youngsters, graze peacefully and are not at all intimidated by my passing by. The ascent begins early, though, on the hydrographic left of Val Longa, and it’s as I expected: steep and, soon, technical. Steel cable sections (not marked on the map) help in the most exposed sections until you reach the ridge line, in an airy and spectacular position, with breathtaking panoramas all around. Looking down in the direction I climbed from, I see the bivouac I left about an hour ago, a tiny red tin can. The path follows the ridge line until it reaches a pass that gives high entrance to a new glacial basin, the Meduce de Fora. We’re very high, literally a step from the sky. Far below, at the entrance to the upper part of the basin, I can see the red of Bivacco Musatti, the intermediate destination of the day. The descent is initially easy on the high meadows until I reach the terminal scree, which is initially steep and treacherous. Here, toward the bottom of the basin, I spot other ibexes a few meters from me. Unlike the cautious chamois, ibexes have a haughty attitude: they observe you calmly, unimpressed, with those majestic horns and regal pose. They certainly are the kings of the great heights. I find Bivacco Musatti occupied by a gentleman and his son. They are from the local CAI branch and are conducting maintenance work on the bivouac. I rest nearby for about ten minutes and leave again, aware that the longest and most demanding section still awaits me.

The ascent along the slopes of Monte Mecol is immediately hard and equipped with steel cables in the most exposed sections. Again, you climb up to the summit ridge and the highest passes; otherwise, you can’t get through. This is, it seems to me, the salient characteristic of these Marmarole Mountains: every valley change, on the north face, involves steep climbs, up to the summit ridges, then crossings of airy passes, and finally rough descents. There’s no easy passage from one basin to the other. The path descends and then crosses the Meduce De Inze among large erratic boulders. One must follow the many but constantly attention-requiring signs (red-painted dots and “ometti”); on this terrain, it’s easy to get lost. You then climb again, steeply and at length, again with equipped sections, on the slopes of Croda Rotta until arriving, you guessed it, at an airy pass. Staying high at the foot of the summit walls, you go around two or three gorges and cross again at length to finally drop, always on difficult terrain and often with the help of steel cables, to Forcella Vanedel, the narrowest, steepest, and also most dangerous of all. Pay attention here not to unhook too early from the cable: if toward the north the usual steep scree descends, toward the south, right where feet rest upon arrival, there’s a precipice of several tens of meters. Also be careful not to follow the scree downhill: a new steel cable is ready to your left and continues the course on the left slabs, still for a long time but gradually descending, parallel to the scree of Forcella Vanedel (still equipped sections here) until reaching a greener area and finally a trail that leads to the head of Val Granda, which is visible much lower, and to the access to Val De Medo, suspended almost in the void, where the day’s destination, Bivacco Voltolina, is hidden. A very exposed passage on rock protects access to Val De Medo. This passage is perfectly equipped with cables and is perhaps the most beautiful along the entire tour.

Arriving in this valley hidden in the recesses of the Marmarole, no matter how tired, offers a magnificent sensation, also for the wonder of what opens before us. The bivouac can be seen in the distance, up high: one last effort to cover the last two to three hundred meters of elevation gain, and I can finally rest. I can already see that nobody is there: I will be alone for the night, once again. As the day before, I’m anxious about the water. I already imagine I’ll have to look for it among the walls surrounding the bivouac. The trail climbs through a low grove of larches (we’re at the extreme limit of the vegetation’s range), sometimes intersecting the dry bed of a stream, and sometimes running alongside it a hundred meters away. After a few hundred meters, I seem to hear the sound of flowing water. Where I am, you can no longer see the stream bed that was completely dry a few moments ago when I crossed it. I stand still for a moment listening: there’s no doubt, what I hear is water, and not little, flowing among the rocks. I leave the trail and head toward the sound. As I imagined, there’s an abundant water outcrop right in the stream bed, which, in this season, evidently, flows underground for most of the route. Enormous joy takes me. There’s a small waterfall, and there’s even a pool so big I could bathe in it. I drink all the water I have left, then fill the bottles, and all happy and watered, I cover the last kilometer that takes me to Voltolina. The conditions of this bivouac are worse than the previous one. There’s no broom, to begin with, which certainly doesn’t help keep it clean. There are no pillows, but there are mattresses and blankets, although partially eaten by critters. There’s the bivouac log, but a pen is missing to update it. I don’t have one with me, so I won’t be able to register my passage, which is a pity, also because I’ll probably be one of the last to pass here before winter. I don’t have to worry about water, so I can spend a couple of hours contemplating nature, taking in the majestic view that opens before me, and the silence at high altitude.

Day 3

From Bivacco Voltolina to Forcella Grande via Cengia del Doge, then to Forcella Piccola and return to Praciadelan, passing through Rifugi San Marco and Galassi

During the night, I was awakened by a loud crash, likely a landslide on the ridges behind or around the bivouac, possibly on the Piana del Scoter, which is located directly behind here. The descent from Voltolina is pleasant and enchanting, continuing until you arrive at the entrance to the famous Cengia del Doge. I hear the typical alarm whistle, I raise my head and see a group of chamois that, it seems to me, have just tackled the Cengia. The Cengia is about a kilometer of trail that exploits a very exposed ledge that cuts in half a very high vertical wall. Absence of vertigo and sure footing are required. It’s well secured with cables, except for a brief passage of about three meters, which, frankly, leaves me perplexed: it’s dangerous; a slip there would be fatal. From the Cengia, the gaze spans over the imposing slopes of Sorapiss opposite, beyond the deep and spectacular Val de San Vido. The Minazio Trail, which cuts horizontally across the southeastern spurs of Sorapiss, is clearly visible and is almost as stunning as the Cengia del Doge. I walked that trail nearly thirty years ago with Fabio (my brother) and Gianluca. Good memories. We were young.

The ledge exits into a trail that leads right to the head of Val De San Vido. Here you walk among larches and mountain pines (with some water!), passing under the famous Torre dei Sabbioni and finally reaching Forcella Grande. Here, the path abandons the wild north face of the Marmarole and descends toward Rifugio San Marco, which is managed and open in high season. When I pass, the managers are setting up for winter closure. I continue for Forcella Piccola, with a panorama over the valley of San Vito di Cadore and Monte Pelmo opposite. The path eventually crosses under the enormous south walls and then climbs to Forcella Piccola, where the Normal Route, which leads to the summit of Monte Antelao, begins. Many years ago, I was here in the same place on August 4 (!) to climb the Antelao summit, but I had to withdraw due to the snow that had fallen during a night storm. The climbs are over: from now on, only a long descent, passing from Rifugio Galassi on its last day of opening and continuing for six kilometers, first steep till Capanna degli Alpini, then four kilometers on Pian della Gravina until reaching the car again at Praciadelan and closing the loop.

I must admit that when I arrived at the car, I became emotional. The satisfaction of having completed this solo adventure, certainly the most demanding of all, filled me with joy. In terms of overall difficulty, the Translogorai comes close. Still, while in that case the difficulty is mainly due to its length, here on the Marmarole, it’s the combination of rugged and technical trails, difficult orientation, demanding elevation gains, exposed and un-equipped sections, lack of water, and isolation that raises the level.

Closing notes

While a GPX track is now standard procedure, it’s always a good idea to carry a good paper map, such as the Tabacco 016 for this hike. The GPX is valuable, but nothing beats the map when it comes to details, precision, and reliability. I ran out of battery on my phone on day two. It was fully charged when I left the bivouac. Still, always-on Komoot tracking can be taxing on the battery on very long days. I had a power bank with me, but the point still stands. A paper map is durable and, as such, always available.

An emergency satellite navigation device is mandatory for solo adventures, let alone one like this. I had no cell signal for three consecutive days. Yet every evening, when I arrived at the bivouac, I could text Serena to let her know I was doing fine. Moreover, in the unfortunate event of an emergency, help is just a press of the SOS button away.

Do your homework. Prepare consciously and adapt your usual routine to the expected situation. Knowing there was little water on the route, I brought an extra one-and-a-half-litre bottle with me. Best call ever.

Wait for the best weather. I had been waiting for the perfect long weekend for one month. I only went when the forecast was highly optimistic. Knowing that the weather is not an issue is a significant relief and a crucial safety measure, especially on hazardous and challenging terrain.

I could go on a super sunny weekend because we were almost in the Fall. Going off-season is beneficial for many reasons, one of which is that it’s not scorching hot weather. Also, you can expect very little company on the route and, more importantly, at the bivouacs. The room in those shelters is minimal. Being alone in both of them was a luxury, but a planned one.

The GPX is I used is available here. This is not the effective recording because well, my phone died at some point, as mentioned.

The Monte Mauro loop is a classic route in the Vena del Gesso area. Wooded areas alternate with exposed stretches below the summit of Monte Mauro, where you literally walk on chalk outcrops. The trail is well marked, but you have to pay attention to the path because there are often alternatives (also marked) that can confuse you. It is an enjoyable short tour.

I had no backpack or equipment, and I alternated between fast walking and running, especially in the final stretch, taking no rest. Therefore, the times reported (1h 56m) should be taken with a grain of salt.

I had already been to Monte Mauro about thirty years ago, and I remembered it as being much less wooded, which was probably the case. Track and details on Komoot.

PS: Cover images aren’t included in the RSS feed, so you won’t see this post’s picture if you are reading from the newsletter. If curious, click here.

It’s also because of this recent changes in our lives that I could appreciate the story of the three-day hiking trip that Dries Buytaert took with his son Axl in the French Alps. Axl has just finished high school and will soon be at University, so this hike served as a rite of passage for both of them. I profoundly understand Dries’s emotional moment:

As we sat down, we had time for deeper conversations. We talked about how life will change now that he is eighteen and about to leave for university. I told him our hike felt symbolic. The climb up was like the years behind us, when his parents, myself included, made most of the important decisions in his life. The way down would be different. From here he would choose his own path in life, and my role would be to walk beside him and support him. Saying it out loud caught me by surprise. It left me with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It felt as if we would leave one version of Axl at the summit and return with another, stepping into adulthood and independence.

Sustaining our children from afar is demanding and draining in many ways, but it is also rewarding. We observe their struggles and accomplishments from a distance, sometimes worried and feeling powerless and unhelpful, yet with a sense of pride and achievement that is unparalleled.

I was hiking the Narrows trail along the Rockcastle river in Kentucky’s Daniel Boone National Forest, slipped off the edge of the trail and broke me ankle. There was no cell phone service so I ended up butt-crawling a ways on the trail (crutches I hacked together made things worse with weak wood out there) until I finally raised a faint signal. Texted 911 (so thankful they have this service for the deaf), helped their volunteer rescue squad locate me by boat on the river below and their wonderful firemen hauled me down the mountain with good cheer.

Lucky man. Reaching an area with cell phone reception was not impossible, and the distance to cover was still feasible.

Reading stories like this doesn’t make me as nervous as it did before I took the plunge and got a Garmin InReach Mini and then joined CAI, so I would have insurance coverage for emergency rescues.

A calm day is always welcome, but there’s a perverse pleasure in struggling against violent gusts, or enjoying the steady rhythmic crackle of rain on a waterproof hood. Sometimes, bad weather can feel like a gift, exactly what’s needed to stir the senses and awaken the brain.

I also share with him my disillusionment about the sublime purity of nature.

When I was young I saw only what I wanted to see — mostly myself — in what appeared to be a beautiful landscape with the occasional thrill of the sublime. But now, I see every sign of intensive land management; little is natural or truly wild when almost every hectare is the product of either sheep farming, grouse production, or forestry. And I think about issues of ownership, class, exclusion, climate and tourism. This landscape is political, and it reflects all of us.

The Serra Pass mule track is one of the most fascinating in the entire Casentino territory, if only for the tangible memory of the millions of feet that have trodden, traveled, and worn it down over the centuries. It connected – and still connects – the upper Savio valley with that of Corsalone, branching off from the Romagna valley floor near the Gualchiere (about 2 km south of Bagno di Romagna) and climbing up the Nasseto ridge to reach the summit ridge at a pass that isn’t exactly low (1,150 m), but evidently “convenient” for other reasons, given that its use is documented as early as prehistoric times and experienced an intense period with medieval pilgrimages directed to Rome and later to La Verna.

This itinerary follows its best-preserved section, on the Tuscan side, from the mountain hamlet of Serra to the pass of the same name, among remnants of ancient stone paving where one seems to still perceive that “incessant wearing of steps” of pilgrims who descended from the Alps to reach the hospitals of Serra and Scapruggine, now safe from the dangers and storms of the ridge.

This trip was also an opportunity to take a ride on my motorcycle. The combination of motorcycling and hiking is not easy to pull off, especially with a classic bike like mine, but it’s worth it as it combines two of my passions.

GPX track available here.

GPX track and details available here.

The day was bright and perfect, and everything went well. The highlight of the day was testing the Garmin InReach, and La Lama is the ideal place to test such an item since you have no cell signal. I sent and received text messages via satellite with Serena. The messages are geo-localized. You are no longer isolated; it works anywhere worldwide, and you can issue an SOS call anytime. Garmin will contact Mountain Rescue or equivalent service anywhere. As I have recently re-enrolled in CAI, social insurance should also cover any extraction intervention. I am very pleased with this setup; safety has increased dramatically. I have gone and come back on my motorcycle.

• FatturaElettronica for .NET 3.6 has been released. It adds support for the upcoming technical specifications v1.9 that are coming into effect on April 1, 2025 (not a joke.) The changelog is here.
• I did some maintenance work on Eve. The CI workflow has been switched to ubuntu-latest from 20.04, as the latter is about to be sunsetted by GitHub. I also merged two pull requests (#1541 and #1547), one of which was long-standing. There isn’t enough material for a release, although the guys who submitted the PRs might think otherwise (if that’s the case, let me know.)
• I ran two DevRomagna meetups. The first one was on OpenTelemetry and was kept by Alessandro Mengoli, of whom I’m very proud (I’ve been encouraging him to start speaking for a long time.) The second was on Linux Containers but before Docker. The speaker was Gabriele Santomaggio, my go-to buddy regarding low-level networking stuff. I found both events to be quite successful and enjoyable. I hope the other attendants agree.
• I finally deactivated my Twitter/X account. I abandoned the platform a while ago and did not miss it. I maintain a presence on Mastodon and Bluesky, mainly to propagate whatever content I post on my website, but don’t count on me following or reading you there (same with LinkedIn.) I’m not active on social media and don’t see myself getting back into them. I’m not interested anymore (and the content there is mostly trash.)
• I went on a nice hike a couple of weeks ago. It was cold and overcast, and that’s why, I suspect, I did not meet a single person the whole day.
• Speaking of hiking, I finally got myself a Garmin inReach Mini 2 device. It’s meant to be used in case of emergency. It allows me to call for help and send sms messages even when no cell signal is available (it uses the Iridium satellite network.) I resisted getting it so far because of the high cost, not so much of the device itself, but the mandatory subscription. Only recently, I found that one can buy Garmin data plans from other vendors, and ProteGear has a nice option to suspend the subscription when not in use. So, I bought the device from Garmin, activated it, and subscribed to ProteGear. It’s looking good so far, and sending sms messages (and emails!) when there’s no cell signal feels like black magic.
• I’ve been reading good books, and I’m grateful for them.
• Well, my dad is not doing well. He’s okay now, but he’s been going through a lot, and more is expected soon. That’s life, I know.
• I am having difficulty making peace with what is happening in the world right now. American friends, I cannot understand how you could re-elect Donald Trump for a second term. It beats me. I am in shock and worried about the geopolitical consequences. I hope time will prove me wrong, but the future looks grim.

It was an excellent circular tour that, to the merits of moderation-it is not too long, nor too strenuous, the ascent is always gradual, etc. - also combines the variety of the environment, shading from mixed mid-altitude broadleaf forests (hornbeams, oaks, ash, cherry, maple) to coniferous reforestations that in this case, with increasing age and size, have taken on a certain dignity.

Valpisella is a rural stone building dating back to 1872 and later reclaimed as a vacation home by the volunteer work of ANPI partisans. When I arrived, I could hear people enjoying their lunch inside. It’s a nice place; unfortunately, I forgot to take a picture.

If hiked at a brisk pace, it might take only half a day, but with a few well-deserved stops and savouring the myriad details that the various seasons can offer, it fills the whole day without difficulty.

The Corniolo/Braccina route marked my first winter hike of the season. I recently realized that, to me, daily hikes are more accessible in the winter. In summer, I’m usually too busy between motorcycling trips with the Club, family matters, holidays and, since we live close by, going to the beach.

GPS track is available here.

After the fork to the Rifugio Tissi, the crowd (literally) disappeared. We are on the Alta Via 1, which has become an international attraction since I walked it almost thirty years ago: French, Dutch, Americans, and Italians, all lining up to complete it, and I guess it is a good thing, or maybe not? I snacked on one of the two small sandwiches I had bought at a café in Zoldo, enjoying the sunshine in a surprisingly flat clearing that was undoubtedly once an alpine pasture. I was low on water but heard water running nearby as I ate. And indeed, there was a stream just a few meters from me, and I refilled my water bottle. This canteen has a water filter and costs a lot, but it grants safety and peace of mind. It is too bad it is small; I should have gotten the 1L version. 0.6L is small when you are out all day in the sun in summer, and there’s little to no water around.

The evening at Rifugio Vazzoler was enjoyable. I had dinner at a table outside, sitting with five French people and one Spaniard. The French were two groups: three guys from Paris fleeing the 2024 Olympics and a couple from Lyon. She speaks Italian and breeds horses for a living, while he is an ultra-marathon runner who is a bit introverted and sulky but definitely on the ball. After the others went to bed, I chatted a little longer with Javier from Malaga. Last year, he did the Tour du Mont Blanc solo, his first real hiking experience. Remarkable. Like everyone else (except me) at the Vazzoler, he is now doing the Alta Via 1. After so much time avoiding them, I reevaluated the Alpine hut experience. In recent years, I have opted for wild camping away from the crowds. Still, the social aspect of sharing the experience in a cosy facility after a long day of strenuous hiking makes it all magical and unforgettable. There is another great advantage to the shelter: fewer logistical difficulties and less weight (tent, sleeping bag, stove, food) to carry around, which is no small thing, especially at 54. Looming over Vazzoler are Torre Venezia and Torre Trieste, the first of which I climbed almost thirty years ago. It was good to see it again and recall those strong emotions.

After a restful night (I wouldn’t have guessed it, I was in a dormitory with 24 beds-luckily the one next to me was empty, and on the other side, I had the wooden wall-apt choice) I set off for the second and (much) more challenging stage, the one that would climb the very steep wall leading to Van delle Sasse and the fork above, then traverse the challenging Tivan Trail to Rifugio Coldai and then back to Palafavera. The climb was steady for almost 2 1/2 hours, always in an exciting environment. I never cease to be amazed at the wit of the hunters and hikers who, in ages long gone, have traced these daring routes. The Van delle Sasse is an isolated and wonderful high-altitude basin. There are no words to describe it. Almost unreachable, lonely, circled by a crown of peaks, with a flat, green plain just below the fork. It is the result of what used to be at the bottom of a massive glacier of lost epic. As I left early, I got up there first and met nobody the whole time. I rested and ate dried fruit at the Forcella delle Sasse above.

I began the rugged and steep descent, first on an equipped section (a few meters of iron cable), then on a very steep and slippery scree, and then I took the Tivan Trail to the left, which I must say I had underestimated. Very long, a continuous up and down at the foot of the looming Civetta walls. When it connects with the trail that goes up to Coldai from Pecol, it becomes a steady though not steep climb, interrupted often by exposed and equipped (again, iron cables) downhill sections, practically until the vicinity of the refuge. Tivan Trail is a wild, strenuous, exposed, lonely, precious experience. I was alone the whole time.

I arrived at the hut very tired. There, I ate the sandwich the Vazzoler guys had made me, drank a Radler (a mixture of beer and Lemon soda the Germans like to drink; it didn’t particularly quench my thirst), and walked down back for one more hour to the parking lot, where my trusty Bonneville was waiting for me.

It was a glorious day. Unfortunately, I sprained my ankle (my usual ankle) shortly after starting the climb to Van delle Sasse. I was sore but didn’t stop for a moment, and it slowly became manageable. Later, on a vertically equipped section on the descent, now 20 minutes, maybe less from the Coldai hut, I sprained the ankle again, which hurt a lot more this time. From experience, I was expecting this second accident to happen. I let out a terrible scream, I’m afraid, but I was alone, and no one could have helped me anyway. I slowly dragged myself to the hut, one step after another, hiking poles being crucial in this situation. Strangely enough, after lunch at Coldai, I could descend to Palafavera almost normally, with virtually no pain.

After the second sprain, I sat, looked at the view, and said, “OK, this is my goodbye to the mountains.” I can’t hurt my ankle that often: it’s a problem, a fragility that sooner or later could put me in serious trouble, especially since I go solo on wild trails like the Tivan. I was convinced. But at the same time, I started wondering what I could do about it. Have Dr Calderoni examine me, maybe talk to him about my problem and hear if/what can be done, even if only on the level of rehabilitation exercise (I’m very pessimistic: I’ve been exercising for years, ankles included). I’ve been thinking about the ankle braces that Jannik Sinner and other professional tennis players use. On my first day back from the trip, I ordered something similar on Amazon.

Today, I am less convinced about my goodbye to the mountain¹.

When I’m out hiking on my weekend hike I often spend much of the experience in contemplation. My thoughts are usually tickling at Warp 10, going everywhere possible at once, but then I ramp it back a bit and I just think about an assortment of topics at any given moment. Out in nature is really a good place for me to get things back into perspective, and I usually feel the better for it when I get back home.

– J.P. Wing

The loop tour from the Montone River Valley reaches the watershed ridge overlooking the Acquacheta basin and then the main Apennine ridge at over 1,000 meters. From an environmental point of view, it is worth noting the constant presence of woods, first of oak and hornbeam, then of beech; the latter, with recent conversions to tall trees from coppice, have largely regained an appearance closer to naturalness. From a historical point of view, the itinerary is characterized by access to the very ancient (11th century) Hermitage of the Toschi or Tusci, currently being restored to be used as a farm and accommodation facility that gives hospitality to hikers, still very suggestive for its superb isolation and position set among the meadows at the top of the valley of Fosso Pian di Soia.

I risked losing the path when, just near the Hermitage, I spotted a hare a few steps away. She scampered unhurriedly away under my gaze as I was walking and not paying too much attention to the path, which seemed obvious. I missed a detour, and I recovered shortly after. Just before the hare, I kicked a harmless snake who got more scared than I did. It ran away, disappearing into knee-high grass.

When I returned to the bike, since it was still early, I decided to go up to the Muraglione Pass, descend to Tuscany, and return via the Tre Faggi Pass, Permilcuore and Predappio. It always strikes me to see tourists (alas, many motorcyclists) stopping at the cemetery in Predappio, presumably to visit Mussolini’s grave.

I published a short video on Vimeo¹; GPX track and some photos are available here.

It is a nice hike, with the ascent that becomes quite challenging in the final part, towards the ridge tops, which, once reached, you’ll follow for a long time, partially on a forest road, before plunging back downhill, initially following a lovely descending ridge da makes most of the descent quite pleasant. During the ascent, several detours were necessary to get around the landslides that originated during the infamous May floods (there are still several traffic lights on the roadway leading up from Forlì, all due to the restoration works following the flood). Hats off to the volunteers who maintain the trail: they have had to work hard this year. At some point, they had to ‘dug out’ complete new sections to get around the more enormous landslides.

Primroses, wild saffron, and buttercup suggest that, yes, we are indeed entering spring. All of this botanic expertise is due to PlantNet, the app I installed the other day, which works well, except that it has to be online, which is only rarely possible on the trail. Fortunately, it can also be used on previously taken photos, which I did once I was back in Bocconi. I also installed an app to recognize birdsong; it’s called Merlin Bird ID, received a lot of praise, and should work offline, but I have yet to try it.

The best moment was the twenty or so minutes I spent lying down to rest at the highest point before embarking on the descent. I listened to the silence that silence was not: the sounds of the forest, the birds, the wind, the heat of the sun on my skin. My mind wanted to divert to new paths, and I tended to fall asleep several times, but I consciously tried to bring my mind back to listening. A meditation exercise that restored my energy levels: I felt recharged and rested when I got up.

At the start, be careful not to take the trail in reverse (as I initially did): after crossing the beautiful humpback bridge known as the Brusia, do not take the trail directly in front of you, but turn sharply left, walk about 30 meters above the Montone river, then take the trail to the right, marked “Valbura”.

GPX track and some photos here.

It is inadvisable on the hottest summer days when the nearby forests offer more cover from the scorching sun, but it is a real treat throughout the rest of the year.

Reasons for environmental interest, other than in individual uncommon botanical species (at least red juniper and turkey oak), lie mainly in the wild valleys overlooked by what is the “turnaround” as well as the highest point of the itinerary, Monte Tiravento (and even the name testifies to the splendid isolation of the site) and in the beautiful ruin of the medieval Montalto Tower. A final appendage to see monumental oaks further embellishes the hike. I met several groups on the trail, and we’re in February, so I’d expect these ridges to be crowded in spring and autumn.

For GPS track, photos, and stats click here.

Rio Petroso is a rather complex and articulated circular tour, with frequent environmental changes, configuring itself among the most arid of the entire Park territory; I wouldn’t do this route at the height of summer.

Another peculiarity of this hike is the dense presence of ruined houses, precious testimonies of the glorious Apennine civilization history that lasted until the late 1960s, with the departure of the population to the valley floors or, more often than not, the plains.

The geological peculiarity is constituted by the so-called “Verghereto marls” (named after the typical locality where they, in fact, overbearingly characterize the landscape), which appear especially along the ridge of Rio Petroso: they give rise to a barren environment, with erosion phenomena reminiscent of those of gullies but with, in addition, an almost exotic suggestion in their lunar nudity.

When I got to the car, I realized I had forgotten the headlights on. It’s a good thing I hurried on the route (and recently changed the battery), or I would have been stuck there, 10 km from civilization, with no phone signal—an adventure I gladly spared myself.

GPS track, map, pics and all the frills are here.

This one marks my very first technology-assisted hiking adventure. It may seem weird for someone who’s been hiking for so long, is a notorious geek and is a professional computer programmer to have never used technology before. A trail map and sometimes a compass were all I was used to, and deliberately. I wanted to avoid technology in this aspect of my life. I welcomed the orientation challenges and superbly looked down at the crowds of phone-smartwatch-compulsive hikers I met on the route. Alas, 2023 was the year I surrendered my motorcycling habits to intercom systems and GPS navigation, and that spoiled me. In a couple of situations yesterday, the app spared me some trouble by warning me of the wrong direction I was going. Nothing major. I would’ve realized the error and backtracked, but being these the shortest and coldest days of the year, I appreciated not risking getting caught by dusk. Also, I found that I can turn on voice-assisted navigation as I do on my motorcycle, and that’s nice (albeit surreal - walking alone in the wilderness, miles from anybody, with a voice coming out of nowhere and whispering when I should take turns on the trail): it avoids looking at the cellphone all the time so I can stay focused on the experience even more, I suspect, than before when the don’t-get-lost alarm bell was constantly ringing in the back of my head.

And then, of course, there’s the selfish and ego-boosting pleasure of sharing your achievement with the masses. I mean, look at this beauty!

The Poggio Montironi hike was an excellent circular tour, advisable all year round and especially suggestive in winter because of the barren and scenic ridge (perhaps too sunny in midsummer) that culminates with the more than 1,000 meters of Poggio Montironi. Near the destination stands an always-open bivouac that can be useful as shelter. At the same time, the ancient castle of Spescia, reduced to ruins but with considerable environmental value, on the return ridge gives the hike additional reasons for interest.

Caution on the descent: Two or three turns could be more noticeable, but they are well reported in the GPX track. A fallen tree (surmountable) interrupts the trail near the ford of the Rio Sasso.

brr’s Antarticta blog is a recent addition to my RSS feed collection. It’s always interesting to follow people living and working in the most remote parts of the world.

Day one

I left at five in the morning and arrived at Malga Sorgazza a few minutes ahead of eight-thirty as planned. The biker-to-hiker transition was pretty quick, and I finally took the trail at about nine.

The first section of the trail, from Malga Sorgazza to Costa Brunella Lake, is a continuous and strenuous climb, initially in the woods. Fortunately, today was a relatively chilly day after weeks of scorching climate. On the bike this morning, I had to wear my rain jacket for chill protection, and I arrived at my destination with numb hands. It took quite some time to warm them up.

Being finally on the trail and climbing up in the woods was invigorating. I resisted the enthusiasm-induced temptation of accelerating and proceeded slowly instead. It paid off, I think, as I was still feeling fresh and strong one hour later as I left the forest behind and started trampling the alpine meadows.

The last stretch before the lake was a tricky incline over beautiful meadows, with open views of Sorgazza Valley and its ranges. I’ve never been here before, but I knew what to expect, as Cima d’Asta and the Alta Via are part of the Loagorai Range I traversed last year while on the Translagorai. Brutal climbs alternated with rapid descents; dark volcanic rocks covered with liches of all kinds and colors, and lush green, high-altitude meadows.

A dam encloses Costa Brunella Lake. At some point, the trail takes you directly to the foot of the dam, and it follows it for the entire length of its wall. The lake is not much, partly because it’s half empty given the drought this season. The trail continued, climbing steadily and still a long way up to Forcella Quarazza, where I arrived in good shape even though fatigue was starting to set in.

Forcella Quarazza welcomed me with a spectacular view. The panorama opens to the south, where you can oversee the Pre-Alps. Today was a beautifully clear day because of yesterday’s thunderstorms, though a bit windy.

The section from Forcella Quarazza to Forzellon de Rava is on technical terrain, always uphill, in its last part especially. Almost at the Forzellon, I wasn’t paying enough attention and didn’t notice a signal denoting a detour. Instead, I followed animal tracks that led me to the ridge in a few minutes. Fortunately, I immediately realized something wasn’t right and looked back, only to see my destination maybe fifty or sixty meters behind me, but I now had to go around a small steep peak. A few minutes later, I was at the Forzellon, back on track.

The next trail section connects the Forzellon with Forcella Ravetta at a slightly lower elevation. It is a long, technical traverse under the Caldenave peak. Here the view opens into this initially stony and wild valley which, further down, reveals the Lago Grande standing right in front of the hiker, on the other side of the valley, with a few alpine pastures and cabins nearby. Toward Forcella Ravetta, two more lakes appear, again on the opposite side, Lago di Mezzo and Lago Primo, below Monte Castelletto and Cima del Frate. I came across a viper sunbathing on the trail stones. She didn’t hear me; I was coming from above, behind, and under her wind. Scared, she quickly crawled away into the grass.

At Forcella Ravetta, I stopped for lunch. The marker there reported a mere 40 minutes descent to Rifugio Caldenave. At 1:15 pm, having woken at 4 am, it was time for a break. Strong winds were blowing on the fork’s north face, while the South side was suitable for lighting my camping stove. The only incident here was that I inadvertently knocked over the pan I had on the stove, spilling the boiling water. With not much water left, only half a bottle, I only managed to cook and take a sip. The Rifugio was not far away, so I wasn’t worried about my water supply. Surprisingly, there was a timid cell phone signal, and I could text the family back home.

The descent to the Malga Caldeneva was beautiful and challenging, rocky first, then in a long stream bed down until the rather characteristic Piana Caldenave, an evocative, flat alpine clearing with a stream placidly running through it. As I was leaving the gorge and entering the stream bed below the Forcella, I spotted two young chamois descending nimbly to my left. At the Malga, I sat for a few minutes and enjoyed strudel and beer. I try to support managers and their families at these remote huts. They might live in beautiful secluded places but also have a harsh life. Besides, I wanted a beer. And cake. I refilled the bottles, too, readying them for the night camp.

I struggled too much to find the start of the trail that would take me up in the heights again, under Forcella Buse Todesche. The canonical first stage of the Alta Via ends here at Malga Caldenave, where one usually stays overnight. However, I had planned to continue for a couple more hours.

A beautiful trail, this last one of the day, always uphill, first in a beautiful forest and then on the highland grasslands. Climbing up through the woods, one comes across an area called “Laghi Della Val D’inferno” (Hell Valley Lakes) that is striking, with these two to three shallow-water lakes scattered among gooseberries and erratic boulders, enclosed by steep rock walls. One expects to see a nymph or any other fairy creature pop up at any moment. I was tempted to camp there, partly because I could have bathed in one of the small lakes, but I decided to stick to the plan and continue.

I first arrivaed at cabin Lastei, which was not in good condition, and continued to cabin Scagni, where I had planned to pitch my tent. The cabin turned out to be in good condition. It was sufficiently clean, with a long plank that, if there were even two of us, would have been impossible to take advantage of. Me being alone, however, this cabin was perfect. I can avoid setting up the tent and, more importantly, taking it down and storing it the next day. A stream runs right in front of the cabin; I can use its water for cooking, washing, and resupplying.

And I find myself sitting on this bench made out of a half-trunk at the cabin’s door. I’m in a beautiful, solitary highland basin, and the sun is just about to set down. Soon it won’t warm me anymore, and I will have to take shelter inside. Tomorrow’s trail leads to a creek. I can hear it from here. I will fill my bottles and maybe even take a quick bath before setting out. I’m glad I’ll sleep between wooden walls tonight.

Day two

The night was good. I enjoyed the great silence inside and around the cabin. I woke up in the morning with a cold nose, and I distinctly remember tucking my head into the sleeping bag’s hook during the night, so it must have been cold outside, but in the sleeping bag, it was warm. I had not set the alarm; I knew the sun would rise right before the lodge, so its light would filter through the wooden boards. I slept a long time, from 8 pm to 7 am -super tired- and woke up refreshed. It was warm when I went outside, with the sun beating down on the lodge’s wood. In about an hour, I had breakfast, got ready, tidied up and set off again for the first leg of the day, the Forcella Buse Todesche.

This first part is lovely. You go up into fairy tale terrain: streams, meadows, stones, and a few scattered saplings until you reach the fork. On the other side, a very different landscape presents itself: steep terrain, pebbles and the trail that follows the entire slope to the left, halfway up to Forcella Magna. It is a long but not too strenuous section, slightly downhill more often than uphill, very spectacular and scenic. Shortly after leaving the fork, you get a glimpse of the final destination: Cima d’Asta with Rifugio Brenteri below, its lake (only a hint of it from that distance) and high, just below the summit, the bivouac, an actual eagle’s nest. I remember a lovely little waterfall where I drank. At about fifteen minutes from Forcella Magna, right on the ridgeline, is the Lasteati bivouac, a restored wartime barrack. This bivouac also has only one sleeping place. Again, traveling alone offers so many advantages from a practical-logistical point of view; one is that you can take advantage of places that would typically be impractical, even for only two people.

Forcella Magna Lake is beautiful, with nearby ruins of Great War emplacements. At the fork, I made a mistake. Misled by an inscription painted on a large boulder (“Rifugio Brenteri”), I immediately took the wrong trail. It was steep, practically a straight climb up the northern side of the ridge. I soon realized that something was not right. I checked the map only to confirm my concerns: this was the trail that then led, yes, to the Rifugio but not following the Alta Via. Wanting to follow the official path, I turned back. When I returned to the Forcella, I noticed a much smaller rock positioned about ten meters lower relative to the summit, which was marked with a south-west pointing arrow and the AVG (Alta Via del Granito) initials. I’d like to imagine that many others fell to this, but rest assured, not consulting the map when I arrived at the fork was a significant error on my part. It would appear that I tend to be confused, distracted, or most likely both when, exhausted, I finally reach mountain forks.

The new trail starts halfway up the hillside and is much more complicated than the previous one. Full of slope changes, it crosses scree and scree-stones, forcing one to pay full attention at all times. After half an hour, as expected, the most challenging climb of the tour started—seven hundred meters of relentless elevation gain on very technical terrain. I must admit that I suffered here. Tired, I climbed on steep rocky terrain under a scorching sun and tense winds for, I think, one hour and a half. Yes, it took a lot of effort to reach Passo Secede at the top. When I departed the cabin in the morning, I didn’t expect I would be so exhausted at this point. Luckily for me, this would also be the last climb for the day.

At the Pass, the view is spectacular on all sides. You get to contemplate the whole main Lagorai range in all its glory. Right in front of you, the now looming Cima d’Asta with its deep lake stupendously nestled right at the foot of the tall, 500-meter tall granite wall, and then, not too far from the lake river, the plateau where the Rifugio resides. I had my lunch while contemplating the views and pondering what to do next. From a distance, the Rifugio looked adorable, but I knew I would find chaos there. It was a beautiful mid-July Saturday, and Cima d’Asta is the most visited peak in the area. I was tired, even more than I had expected.

To complete the Alta Via, I only needed to reach the bottom of the valley and return to my motorcycle. Still, my super-secret goal was to climb the Cima d’Asta, which would have required another 500 meters of elevation gain. There I would sleep at the bivouac on the wall. However, all those crowds at the Rifugio and around the lake changed my mind. At the summit, I would have found dozens of people, and, more importantly, since the bivouac had only two beds, it was very likely to find fully occupied. At that point, I would have had to descend back to the lake and camp near the hut, something I wanted to avoid on a Saturday night. So, after a bit of wavering, I opted for the descent.

As always in Lagorai, the return to the bottom was not trivial, not at all. It was over a thousand meters drop on a steep and challenging trail down to the forest road that only covers the last couple of kilometers to Malga Sorgazza. I must also admit that during the descent, I was overtaken by several young people descending nimbly and quickly, an unmistakable sign that times have changed for me.

The motorcycle ride back was a three-and-a-half-hour non-stop ride home. I was in an almost catatonic state for the first hour or so. Then, I slowly recovered so much that I did not even feel the need to stop. With the mission accomplished, I only wanted to get home as soon as possible, which doesn’t mean I ran fast on the road; quite the contrary, given my tiredness. I learned that steady progress takes me home safely, pleasantly and often sooner than any other option.

I did the route 25-ish years ago with a couple of friends. A tent, some food, super-heavy backpacks, and off we went, up and down the ravines. Overall, it was a great experience that also destroyed us. I have fond memories of those days when

the grass was greener, the light was brighter, with friends surrounded, the nights of wonder.

I never thought I would go back and do the route again, especially not at 50. As the saying goes, however, never say never. My nephew, to whom I somehow passed on my love for wilderness, asked for advice on an exciting route to take with a friend. I sent him a long email with a series of proposals for two-three day tours. In the end, I made the mistake of mentioning the Translagorai as a more brutal but satisfying alternative. I certainly didn’t expect them to choose it; I added it more as a comparison than anything else. Yet, they were so excited about the prospect of venturing out on that route that I couldn’t convince them otherwise. A little apprehensive about the difficulties they would face (they don’t have much experience) and sensing untold fears during the preparation chats, I ended up hinting that I could accompany them if so they wished. I expected a polite refusal. Why would two twenty-somethings want to spend four days alone in the wilderness with a gruff fifty-year-old? To my surprise, they immediately said yes, and with great relief, I think. I was part of the team. I couldn’t believe it. Twenty-five years later, I was going back, and I only had 48 hours to prepare.

Granted, we met more people than I expected or remembered, but other than that, the route has remained pretty much unchanged. Back in the day, we didn’t follow the official, high-altitude course, which always stays on the crest of the Lagorai range. This time we did, and I found it even more beautiful and satisfying. I suspect I’m more fit today than I was in my youth, which might explain how I could happily follow these two young war machines for four full days, high and down the trail, like there was no tomorrow. The two boys impressed me beyond belief. If I provided some help, I think it was because of the mountaineering experience, but sure as hell, they did not need help with motivation and performance. When I made my first trip there, I’m sure we suffered much, much more pain, and we were about their age. Hiking equipment has improved tenfold since the mid-90s, but today backpacks are still heavy. Mountains, they certainly didn’t flatten at all. We slept in tents and ate our food, usually camping by some small, beautiful mountain lake or mountain pass. That, also, hasn’t changed. I am happy to report that Translagorai is still the king of badass wilderness routes in the Alps. Go there only if you are ready, however, or it will tear you apart.

If you look closely, you can see me standing between our two tents pitched in the clearing. This pic was taken by the war machines, who climbed the fork 200mt above the camp just to “see if we get signal.” Yours truly, overlooking the glacial valley some 1000 meters below Lago Brutto, one of the many beautiful small lakes along the route Another campsite. We were supposed to spend the night in a First-World War barrack along the route, but when we got there late in the evening, it was in such poor conditions that we decided to continue another hour, then detour a little to reach a small lake, past a mountain fork, which the map showed as a possible pitch site. Situations like these is why you want to have someone experienced with you.