I’ll take a day off from hiking here in Ghigo di Prali. My legs are tight and tired and sleeping seems like it lasts longer and longer into the mornings. I wash my clothes and buy cheese, meat, and bread from the tiny market.
In the afternoon, I go to the hotel bar to meet the Dutch hiker who contacted me through my blog-we sit and have a beer.
Suddenly, alchemy happens-in walk three additional hikers, wearing ultralight backpacks, clothes dusty, paces tired-these all are long-distance hikers, I think.
I pull the other hikers into our conversation, and we all sit together-five of us, more than any other hikers I have seen on the GTA. 2 of the hikers are German, hiking the GTA the other direction towards Ventimiglia. The third, a man in his later 60s, with white hair a huge easy smile, and blue eyes that are all fire-the way of every person I have met that deeply loves the mountains. His name is Amadeo, and he is Italian, from north of Milan.
We move to dinner. Three of the hikers, it happens, are all professional musicians. The question is posed over dinner-is music necessarily spiritual, or are these different entities?
Holger is a professional guitarist in a German symphony. His dark eyes burn as he tells me, in curving solemn English, of the moment the symphony starts to play, and the sounds of the instruments all come together, as if by magic. We talk over each other, and our voices rise high into the night
-together we share stories, piecing together a tapestry of our languages-German, English, Dutch, Italian. In these moments my heart is on fire-full of passion and delight at this golden moment, over dinner and wine, with other walkers-we find each other in our passions, and the shared passion of the wilderness.
We rise early and walk out of Ghigo. The weather is giving us a gentle warning-dark clouds roll and surge across the sky. The three of us going north walk together through the morning.
We come upon a village. Amadeo strikes up a conversation with a couple of people coming out of their house-and as they drive away, he half grumbles, “If this was southern Italy, they would have invited us in for coffee.”
“Well, they were clearly on their way somewhere…they got into their car and drove away.”
“Well, they could have at least let a neighbor know, so THEY could have offered us coffee,” Amadeo responded.
This level of expectation around hospitality cracks me up, and I imagine hailing my actress neighbors in West Hollywood and being offended at not being offered coffee.
It is early afternoon.
The clouds finally make their point and open into a steady rain as we walk into the village of Didiero. We lean our soaking packs outside under the eaves, and I slowly peel off my raincoat and rain pants.
I am a few minutes slower than my friends. I duck into the impossibly tiny house-made-restaurant-it is dark, and warm, with low lighting, and a wood stove sits in a corner, and my friends are crowded into a corner table-one of two tables in the minuscule dining room-the other is surrounded by old men, talking in Italian. Pierre Luigi, the owner, greets me warmly and offers me a seat. It smells like wood smoke, and spices, and warm food.
“We already ordered wine and pasta,”
my Dutch friend says, almost apologetically.
“Red wine and pasta! I’m going to need a nap after this!” I say, only half-joking.
Pierre-Luigi brings out steaming plates of pasta with tomato sauce, and a half-liter of wine. It is impossibly delicious. We are talking, mostly in English, when an old man hails us from the other table-“hey! Talk in Italian! We can’t eavesdrop on your conversation like this!”
The room is deliciously warm, in every possible way. We decide to just stay, although it has been a short day.
I wake up to an early breakfast with Pierre-Luigi and Amadeo-just coffee and toast with local butter and honey, a simple typical Italian breakfast. Pierre-Luigi is going hiking this morning as well. Again a steady stream of Italian conversation surrounds me in the tiny inn, and we head out-He will drive us up the first 4 kilometers to the next village, which is all paved road-not a nice walk. We all crowd into Pierre-Luigi’s tiny car, me in the front seat-and at the last minute he calls a dog over to my side of the car, and it jumps in.
“This is my daughter’s dog!” He says, apparently assuming that I also love dogs. “She will act like she is your dog.”
The dog jumps in, but the front seat is too small for her to sit on the floor, so she sits with her back legs on the floor and herfront legs on me, as if she is hugging me, for the entire 15 minute ride.
We pile out at the last village, and Amadeo takes off-he is a faster hiker than me. I slowly make my way up to Colle dell’Albergian, then start down the other side. I see Amadeo far below me.
A German hiker meets me, going the other direction-he is hiking the GTA the other direction. We chat for a few minutes. I continue down the trail, into the woods-and come upon a series of wooden carvings of faces in the trees. My Dutch friend catches up with me just before Usseaux and we walk into town together. We meet Amadeo and have a beer, then we check into the apartment that we all got together-it is large and comfortable, with a balcony facing the mountains.
We have dinner at 7:30. It is a feast. Amadeo tells us stories of his long Italian walk, and I strain my ear to pick up what Italian I can. My Dutch friend speaks 6 languages, one of which is Italian.
We have breakfast-a few types of old cheeses, sausage, bread, coffee-and walk out of Usseaux. Amadeo was critical of Usseaux-although beautiful, he thought it was less warm and friendly, and certainly more expensive, than some of the other little villages along the Sentiero Italia. I can see what he means-especially about the prices-but the effect is blunted to me because I don’t speak Italian. Usseaux is considered to be “one of the most beautiful places in Italy” and therefore has a fair amount of tourist traffic, more than some of the little out-of-the-way villages we have moved through-the ones far, far down a dirt road, tucked into the fold of the mountains, seemingly untouched by modern life. Usseaux is just outside Susa, an important small hub city connecting this part of Italy to southern France.
We walk onwards, up and over Colle di Orsiera, elevation 8500 feet.
We walk up into a cloud. It is cool and light rain comes and goes. Then, we drop all the way down, down, down into the valley of Susa-almost 7000 feet down, to the lowest part of the entire GTA.
I walk alone now. The air warms. Light lifts, and shines golden in the late afternoon sun through the chestnut and beech trees. Now it is summer.
I walk in a deep, quiet joy. I walk through a field and happily kick the burnt grass in front of me, and the cicadas sing-and everything is fully alive. The air is warm, velvet-thick-and it smells of grass, and ripening fruit, and green living things warm in the summer sun.
I catch up with my friends and we slowly walk into Susa as evening settles. The city is alive with townspeople, shopping and going about their evening-leaving work, visiting with friends, catching up on gossip in the street. We walk to a hotel, B&B Du Parc-we are in the city street, and then suddenly, up a winding driveway-we are in an garden oasis, a carefully kept green lawn surrounded by lovingly gardened roses. The house is run by a couple not a day younger than 80-everything is perfectly neat, and clean, and I feel as if I have stepped back in time to a place not so crowded with people, where hospitality is a skill to take pride in. Every line of the hotel is perfect, every detail considered-the woman is gracious and quiet in her movements, and I think of my grandma, now dead five years-this is how she would have run a hotel.
We go to dinner at a pizzeria, down a winding narrow cobblestone street, and we sit outside, until thunder rumbles and a few raindrops start to fall-we quickly pay our check and run back to the hotel as the heavens open and a torrential thunderstorm rains down on Susa. I am content as I go to sleep, with the sound of rain outside-it was a good time to come into town.
I take today off from hiking. Susa is a really lovely, compact little city-and it dates from the Roman era, actually containing an arch from the 8th century BC.
I walk into a beauty shop-“ Bongiorno!” And point to my blue stripe of hair in the center of my head, which has now faded to an ugly teal.
“Posso avere…più….blu?” I ask.
“Yes, I could, but I’m completely booked today,” she tells me in Italian.”
“…..Posso comprare….just the dye?” I ask in both languages.
“Si!” She assures me. She points me to a beauty supply store two blocks away. Sure enough, this shop has blue hair dye, and the shopkeeper even speaks English-explaining how to wash and dry my hair first, then apply the dye for one hour. My stripe comes out electric blue.
The next day, I feel the heat and the city-it is an incredible, steep climb out of Susa. From here, you could climb directly to the top of Rocciomelone, the area’s highest peak- as a continual gain of 10000 feet over about 7 miles. Even so, the day is steep and hot-the trail is not good here-as there was a forest fire some years ago, and there are blow downs and brushy undergrowth. I sweat and struggle uphill, stinging nettle burning my legs-it thrives in open areas-and raspberry brambles grabbing me, leaving hairline cuts.
I am not into this. I give up early, around 3 pm, stopping at the first rifugio, Il Trucco. It is a basic affair, run by a family. The bunkroom is furnished with old bedding and secondhand furniture, and there is an outdoor seating area, covered with a tent.
The woman running the establishment is incredibly kind, and the dinner proves to be amazing. I feel glad that I stayed here. I hiked 5.3 miles today, with 3500 ft gain.
I wake up, and the sun is already high. Family life is happening outside, children running and playing, morning chores-and I make my way out to the outdoor eating area and have breakfast. I hike up gently around Rocciomelone on dirt road, and the weather is perfect today, sapphire blue skies-and the mountain rises subtly above, a brown pyramid, seemingly close, accessible. It is about 6000 vertical feet to the summit from where I walk.
I am hungry at midday and stop at Rifugio Aurelio-my Dutch friend is there, eating a big plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce on a picnic table outside. In a rare moment my appetite kicks in midday as I smell this rich food; I order a plate and eat all of it in about 5 minutes. I hike on, over Colle Croce di Ferro-and down to Rifugio Vulpot, which is absolutely overrun with people on this sunny Sunday. I am struck by how busy the mountains are on the weekend. I continue down, down, down to the village of Usseglio. I stay in an albergo just before the main village. The food is incredible-a four course dinner, with wine. I hiked 16 miles today, gaining 4000 feet.
I walk out of Usseglio and steeply climb up towards Colle di Costa Fiorita, into clouds. It is incredibly hot in the valley, and I am hiking in just my sports bra and running shorts-I generally don’t do this because I don’t feel that I understand how conservative Italians are, but the weather necessitates it.
Slowly, the weather shifts, and I enter a cloud. The trail is nearly vertical, and I think that this is the steepest that I have seen it. I slowly pass a herd of sheep, and a shepherd watches me hike slowly by-I wonder for a moment if these are Italian shepherds, or from another country like Peru, as they were last summer in Nevada. Traditional sheepherding requires a skill, tenacity, and fitness level that is rarely seen in modern lifestyles.
It is raining gently now, and I hear distant thunder, and visibility is zero-all in a cloud-but still I make my way up into the alpine. If in can just get over this pass. The storm goes another direction, mercifully, and I pick my way all the way down, into the village of Balme.
I settle into the only place to stay in town-an old house run by a kind old woman, all dark wood, antique furniture and rich smells. I have an incredible meal at the only open restaurant. I hiked 8.4 miles today, gaining 4500 feet.
It rains in the night-thunder and lightning angrily raging against this old house, and I am safe and warm in this bed, with its clean white sheets. I think briefly about how these basic human needs for shelter and comfort run completely parallel to all of our life experiences, and always have-then I drift back off into a deep dreamless sleep.
I wake up to the sound of the River running outside of this two hundred year old house. The wood floor creaks as I walk across the room to open the big window and let the morning sun in-and I wonder how many people have been in this room-woken up to sunny mornings such as this, made love, had crises, felt bored, lived their human lives.
I make my way out of town. It is already hot. I slowly, slowly climb up 3700 feet over alpine fields, passing destroyed stone mountain cottages here and there. The huge massif of the Uia di Mondrone towers to my left.
I pass no less than ten backpackers-far more than any section previously-I guess it is finally entering the high season here in the mountains. All of them are German, except one Irish man, a solo traveler who asks me about good tent sites. I smile. I have been staying in a lot of small hotels and albergos recently, sleeping in beds, eating amazing Italian dinners-I’m not much of a resource right now for tent sites.
I pick my way all the way down into the village of Pialpetta. The air becomes hot once again-hot with summer, hot with life. I pick up a lone dark cherry, small and dark, still attached to its stem and leaves, fallen from high above-it is sour. These are still young. The wild strawberries are at their sweetest low in the valleys-the size of a dime or smaller, fat, sweet, alcoholic.
I feel tired, calm, alive. My body, moving easily down the mountain, buzzes with the vibrations of the cicadas and insects singing their constant summer chorus. It is a place that I feel that I could stay forever-in my flow, my body working fluidly, my mind awake and fluid as well. There is simply is no replacement for this, though I feel my strangeness increasing with time spent alone-the pull of the forces that make me wild.
I am walking into the village and an old man in a small pickup truck pulls over, apparently to give me some advice- “GTA?” He asks, then indicates the albergo where I am heading.
“Auto bus? Torino? Che hora?” I ask.
He gives a longer answer than I can understand with my basic Italian, but says “7:15” several times. This is informative, because google had indicated that the only bus out of the village comes in the afternoon. I have learned that automatic, local knowledge such as this trumps the Internet basically 100% of the time.
I settle in at an albergo in the village and have an amazing meal. I hiked 9.8 miles today, gaining about 3800 feet.
In the morning, early, I make my way to the bus stop, and sure enough, the bus comes at 7:15. I take this bus, and another bus, and a train, and a 3rd bus into Turin, to Porto Susa. Then it is another train to Pont St Martin, and finally one more bus which should take about 10 minutes to get to Quincinetto, where I will pick up the trail again to head north. I am skipping what appears to be a subpar section of trail around the southern border of the Gran Paradiso National Park, to keep this hike to 6 weeks.
This final tiny leg proves to be the most problematic of the entire day. I see the bus approaching 5 minutes after I exit the train and make eye contact with the driver, standing at the bus stop, but he drives by at about 20 miles per hour. I check the schedule. Oops, I probably should have waved to indicate that I want this bus. Another bus should come in one hour.
One and a half hours later, the bus comes by again, and I wave energetically, and he pulls over. “Bongiorno! A Quincinetto?” I ask. I pull my three euros out to pay.
“Quincinetto?” He corrects my pronunciation. “Do you have a ticket?” He asks in Italian. Then, “ticket?” Condescendingly, In English.
I am confused. I thought I could pay for this local bus trip on the bus, and there was no ticket machine inside the station. “Uh….” I stammer, holding out my euros.
“Never mind! Just sit down!” He exclaims in Italian, irritated. He pulls out of the stop and drives rapidly away, talking animatedly and angrily in Italian to the only other rider on the bus, a woman, who is listening politely and making the appropriate sounds. His rant is something along the lines of “those people”, and how people take advantage of the system. His tone drips with anger, condescension, and for a moment I wonder if he is drunk. I didn’t understand the system, and I was ready to pay for my ride. I feel my foreignness, and also have the thought that xenophobia really is the same worldwide.
He tears through Quincetto and is rocketing out of town as I stumble upright and hit the “stop” button. The woman says in Italian, “the woman would like to get off the bus..” I exit and walk back up the highway back into the village. I settle in at the Mini Hotel and buy some groceries from the kind shopkeeper at the tiny alimentari. He tells me I am the first American he has ever seen in Quincinetto.
I have an incredible, simple meal at La Brenta, the only open restaurant in the village. I settle in to sleep with little village sounds as night falls.
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