I wake up around 6:30 and enjoy an incredible breakfast set out for me by the hotel owner.
This really is a gem of a little hotel in this little village. “Mini Hotel Praia”, I am told by the kind owner, closed ten years ago. She just bought it this winter and this is the first summer she is open. I smile when I like up Quincinetto in my outdated Rother guide-they also recommend staying at this hotel, which closed two years after they published this guide. The updated English version is scheduled to come out next year, the authors told me, when I contacted them and asked if they wanted my updates. The new German version is already out.
I walk out of the village and check my elevation….ugh. 880 feet. It’s going to be a long way up. This is the lowest point on the entire GTA.
Mercifully, the route follows a mulaterra for a bunch of miles, gently upwards, which is almost like a paved road it is so well-kept.
It is hot, in the 80s-90s F, but the route stays in tree cover for a long time. I listen to a classical symphony entitled “Alpin Symphony” recommended by my Dutch musician friend, and am delighted-the symphony is meant to evoke the feeling of walking up into the mountains in the Alps. I sit down on the side of the road to pump a liter of water and a middle aged woman comes walking briskly down the road.
“Where are you from?” She asks me in slow Italian.
“Estati Uniti,” I respond. I have memorized the answers to these 5 or 6 common questions. She asks me where I came from, and where I started my hike, and where I am headed tonight.
“I’m hiking a loop,” she says.
“Oh! How many days?”
She laughs, as if that is a very funny joke. “About one hour. My house is right over there.” She walks away, still chuckling to herself, and I can imagine that it must be a bit strange to have walkers passing by on some kind of an epic journey when it just happens to be where you live your normal life.
I hike on, upwards. It becomes hot and e posed. I feel “bonky” in the afternoon, around 3 pm, and I lay down with my head on my backpack for a quick catnap. A shepherd wakes me up, driving by in a Jeep, which I am a little surprised by on this lonely dirt road. He asks me the same series of questions. I walk on, finally cresting Colle di Lace- 6000 feet of continuous gain.
The trail falls to shit. Rother’s guide suggests walking the true ridge north of here, but mentions it is very exposed, and the ridge is swallowed in a cloud, so I opt for the lower Route which is a side hill traverse just under the crest. It is a total and complete pain in the ass. Long, slippery grass covers intermittently spaced invisible boulders on what is basically boot track, with a steep drop off to one side. I swear inwardly in annoyance, picking my way slowly along. Finally, after an hour and a half, I regain the crest-and stop, jaw dropped. The clouds have cleared, and directly in front of me are the Swiss Alps.
Dufourspitze, the Dom, and the Matterhorn blink with their massive silent glaciers in the evening light-the entire Monte Rosa Massif. I am transfixed. I think of my initial travels to Europe, my exploration of the Pyrenees, my brief emigration, and now this slow introduction to the Alps-and here they are, the mountains known the world over and really the western epicenter of the sport I love so much. There is something quietly beautiful about this introduction happening on a hot, sleepy, irritating day with 7000 feet of gain off the valley floor.
I finish picking my way up to Rifugio Coda. I momentarily brace myself-the last high alpine hut I stayed in was Quintino Sella, with its hundreds of people-but as I pause at the door, it opens and the hutmaster is there-“Buena sera! Did you want to stay here tonight?”
I happily agree. I sleep soundly in a bunk room that just contains me. I hiked 11.1 miles, with 7000 feet gained.
I get moving pretty early, but am feeling sleepy, irritable, and just done with this ridge and slow moving. The trail picks it’s way along, sometimes with steel rebar steps or cables.
It is hot, although it is still early. I sit down at a stream and drink a full liter of water, and eat some cheese and meat and multigrain cookies. I go over a little pass, then drop down to Rifugio Rosazza for a beer.
From here, Doing Miles and the Rother guide folks all took the ski lift down to Oropa, which has a massive cathedral. That sounds like a nighmare to me on an Italian weekend, and I am also not jazzed about taking ski lifts to skip big ascents and descents. I decide to go over another pass to the north. Boccetta di Finnestra, instead, rejoining the original route in a few more miles.
This proves to be an interesting, if not time-saving, choice.
The hut proprietor tells me, “well, it’s ok on this side of the pass, but it’s steep and grassy on the other side.” I slowly hike away in the midday sun, and even more slowly make the 800 foot ascent to the pass-there is no trail, just boot track and painted blazes, and it is almost vertical. I think to myself, “I must have misunderstood her. She must have said THIS was the steep side.”
This turns out to be incorrect.
I start down the pass, and any gentle suggestion of trail utterly vanishes in a massive Boulder field. Suddenly, I am Boulder-hopping as if I were on the Sierra High Route in California, which I have done zero times on this trail.
Helpfully, someone has put up lots of cairns through here, so as long as I am careful to follow the cairns, a little skinny way forward keeps appearing. Every once in a while I spot a faded spot of paint, or the red-and-white randoneé blaze.
That’s a blaze….
The angle of the gully becomes steeper. I desperately focus to stay on whatever modicum of “trail” I have-bushwhacking down this thing would be an absolute nightmare, and it is clear that the wavy line I am following is designed like this to avoid getting cliffed out, an easy fate to imagine.
Finally, 2000 vertical feet later, I clear the boulders. Now I am walking-well, almost crawling-down what basically looks like a vertical rainforest. Long grass and brambles grab my feet and threaten to trip me, but miraculously, there continues to be a tiny path under my feet, and I don’t lose it.
I am fascinated (if frustrated.). Is this a mulaterra? The boot track I am on feels very, very old-there is a skinny line of hard-packed dirt. Who made this, and when?
Two hours and fifteen minutes after I leave the pass, I spit out at the side of River Pragnetta. There, in front of my eyes, in the middle of the forest, far from any roads at all, is a shrine to San Giovanni. Next to this, a crystal clear spring bubbles. I feel like I am dreaming. So, people do come here. At the spring, an old metal drinking ladle is chained to the rock.
I wonder if this spring is said to have specific healing powers. I’ll have to read up on it later.
I drink a lot of this cold pure water and also cook some risotto for myself. Then, I continue down towards the junction with the GTA-and suddenly I am walking on ancient Roman road, in the middle of nowhere.
I camp on a little hill just past Rifugio Madonna Delle Neve, with a view of a couple villages 1500 feet below me. The church bells on the hour chime as I fall asleep. I hiked 10 miles today, gaining about 2000 feet. It felt like much, much more.
I start moving when the sun is high. I am tired, slow, and frustrated that I am tired and slow. I descend to the village of Piedicavallo. I stop at a little coffee shop as I enter town-this is a touristy area, and there are a lot of people who have come to the mountains for the weekend. It is Saturday.
I pick up an ice cream, a bag of chips, and go to order a cafe. A man blatantly steps in front of me to purchase a beer. The proprietor looks at him, ignores him, and quietly and politely takes my order for coffee (really a tiny powerful espresso), and packages up a wonderful soft tomato focaccia and a hotdog wrapped in bread dough for me to take with me. He has soft blue eyes and a kind manner, in his 50s, silver hair and silver stubble dotting his face.
I walk out of the village, and up. I am finishing listening to Tara Westover’s “Educated: A Memoir”, which a well-written account of growing up in a rural Mormon conservative home in Idaho, going to Brigham Young University with absolutely no experience in school, and then finally ending up with a PhD from Cambridge. I like her thoughts on feminism and her personal account of making sense of her womanhood inside or around her conservative religious background, and how that background ceased to be feasible for her as she grew older. I am also astounded at how young she is-she finished her PhD at Cambridge at age 27.
Anyways, I am tired-and my pace is stupidly slow. I reach Rifugio Alfredo Rivetti at 2 pm, 500 feet below the pass. I get some water and am approached by an incredibly friendly Dutch couple in their 50s, hiking the other direction on the GTA. They live in the south of the Netherlands. He is a social worker, and she is a psychiatrist. They mention that they got on the trail at Rima, 5 days ago. I smile. I should reach Rima tomorrow.
I hike on. I ascend the steep pass, and 2 more small passes. This is a beautiful alpine basin, dotted with lakes. The late afternoon sun shines, and everything is green and granite, and the lakes reflect the sky.
I receive my evening second wind-for the life of me, I don’t know why this happens to me, but I remember it from the Appalachian Trail, thirteen years ago- five to eight pm are my best hiking hours of the day. My legs pick up speed and strength as the light wanes and the high peaks turn golden, and streams of pink clouds emanate out from the Monte Rosa-once again I settle happily into my hiker’s legs for hours ten through twelve of this hiking day.
I stop at a stream. I have a few whole grain cookies-not too many-I am almost out of food and need breakfast tomorrow. I have already eaten both the sandwiches I bought in the last village. I hike on, fluid and fast, passing an electric fence-these farmers have kindly built a step-around for hikers so I don’t have to push the line down with the cork end of my trekking pole and awkwardly step over, hoping it doesn’t snap back, shocking me-and pass a herd of highland cows, their long shaggy red hair hanging over their eyes.
I talk to one massive cow for a moment and offer her my hand. She approaches me and slowly sniffs me with her massive wet nose. I pass a mother and adorable, shaggy red calf-but the calf looks scared, pushing into its mother, and I intuitively give them space. I smile wryly at a sign posted at the second electric fence crossing: “mother cows are extremely protective of their babies, please give them space!”
This sign is posted in Italian, French, and English-but the English, I have learned, is really for the Germans-everywhere on this trail, always, people assume that I am German. I am blonde, and not slim, and my legs are muscular, and I am hiking alone, and I often stare vacantly when spoken Italian to. These are the things that make me not Italian, but there are no Americans out here.
It is a sweet place, in some ways-because there are no Americans, there are no bad stereotypes about American tourists-I get raised eyebrows, and impressed commentary that I am hiking alone. It is nice in that way. I imagine a GTA where provincial Italians only know us as we are as thruhikers-tanned, dirty, bright eyes, easy smiles, fluid legs, kind, grateful interactions, a few stilted Italian phrases with American accents. They would watch the news, and they would say, “but that’s not the Americans I know. The Americans I know are kind, and they have full, happy hearts. They just don’t smell very good.” I think what a beautiful phenomenon that would be.
The light is very low now. I find, along the River, a little sliver of grass that will accommodate my tent. I mechanically set up my camp for the night. It is 9 pm. I make a packet of risotto in my pot with my stove. I fall asleep, deeply, and hear nothing for nine hours. The river runs next to me, eternal, but I don’t hear it. I hiked 12.5 miles today, gaining 4500 feet.
I awake at 6 o’clock to two groups of hikers hiking by me. Man, these people get up early.
I have some hot tea and the rest of my multigrain cookies, and I try to eat the rest of the sausage from Quincinetto-but I just can’t stomach a greasy four-day old sausage end at this hour. I pack my tent up and head down the hill. Hundreds of people, it seems, pass me. Italians without fail issue a greeting as you pass-“Bon Giorno!” “Salve!” “Ciao!” But after about the 75th one of these, I feel my responses becoming more and more muted. I think to myself, how is it that I am ALWAYS managing to descend into some extremely popular day hiking area, on Sunday?
I pass a small stone church, near the tiny village of Peccia. The church has been fully restored and is a stunning example of 14th century Walser architecture. The Walsers are a unique ethnogroup that occupied the mountain communities of Germany, Italy, France, and Switzerland, for hundreds of years.
The church doors are open, and I step inside. It smells of very old wood-not like a library, but more like the Quaker meeting houses in New England from the 17th century that I grew up visiting. A massive alter, with an ornate mural, occupies the front. I think about this rural farming community, and how they worshipped here. It is an incredible fixture.
I walk on down the hill. It is hot, and getting hotter as I descend. I arrive at Riva Valdobba and step into an alimentari to buy some food-I buy a massive tart, and chips. I walk to an open restaurant in the main Piazza with outdoor seating scattered around the square. I order two paninis, eat one, and pack the other in my backpack. The restaurant is playing American rock music, and people are lunching and drinking, it is a lazy Sunday.
I do not feel like hiking. I feel like drinking a beer, and taking an afternoon nap in the sunshine, or in a cool air conditioned room in a bed. The old familiar feeling of “feels so good when you stop” returns.
I know I am out of balance. This is an insane amount of elevation gain, and effort, every single day, I knew this going in. Rother guide and Doing Miles both express regret at doing this whole trail as a thruhike, noting its difficulty as detracting from the experience when you do it all at once. I don’t agree, even now-but I just can’t keep hiking long days back-to-back like this and be happy.
I walk slowly along the River to the much bigger, touristy village of Alagna. I decide to just stay in Alagna for the night, even though it is only 2 pm. I am trying to ride the line between “push through the pain” and “listen to your body.” I am concerned and frustrated that it took me all day to hike 12.5 miles yesterday-it was over a big pass, but that shouldn’t have taken so long. My body is not performing the way I want it to, and this feels more like a moment of acceptance than a moment of force.
I get a room at the Cristallo Hotel. I lay on the cool white bed in the air conditioning and almost immediately fall asleep for two hours.
I get up the evening and go to a restaurant and order a pizza and red wine. I lay down in my white bed, and the river runs outside, muted by the closed window. I hiked 8.5 miles today, all downhill.
I get up at 6:30, making tea in my room and eating some of the food I got at the first village yesterday. I walk out of town before the sun crests the mountains, and it is cool.
I feel great. Climbing the first 4000 foot pass comes pretty easily, and I think how miserable I would have been, doing this in the glaring sun yesterday afternoon. I crest Colle di Mud-funny name- and make my way all the way down to Rima.
It is amusing how little I know about these villages. Alagna is massive-clearly a huge hub for skiing the Monte Rosa area in the winter-and I had no idea until I walked into town, a little bewildered, and everyone spoke English to me. Now, in Rima, I realize I have made a tactical error-I assumed it was a sizeable village and walked out of Alagna with almost no food. Now, the one bar/restaurante in town is closed-things often are on Mondays-and I am almost out of food.
I walk out of town and start the climb up
To pass #2 for the day, 3000 feet gain. I’m starting to lose some steam-I had eaten a very strange snack of dried papaya and a tuna packet, just before Rima-and at 5 pm I sit down at a stream and make risotto. I finish the final 500 feet and slowly pick my way all the way back down to Corcoforo, another village.
Walking fast, since it is past 8:30 pm and things tend to close up in the country, I come to the rifugio Alpenrose. They are able to give me a room. There are a lot of what seem like local Italians hanging out on the porch, drinking. I go to bed with the window open-and a few people begin drunkenly singing at the top of their lungs. I put my earplugs in and go to sleep.
The next morning I walk out of Corcoforo at about 9 am, kind of late. Today is one big pass, then one little pass. I climb pretty slowly all the way up pass number one, listening to John C Bogle’s “The Little Book of Common Sense Investing”. It’s well-written and well-narrated. I crest the pass and weave down to Rifugio Alpe Baranca, which is really in the middle of nowhere-it is an alpine hut converted to a rifugio. The lady is incredibly sweet, talking very slow Italian for me and even throwing in a “Danke” here and there (since, of course, in the eyes of rural Italy, I am German.). She charges me 8 euros for a basic cheese sandwich and a beer-but, I think, kindness really does cover a multitude of sins.
I hike all the way down and start up again for the second 1200 foot pass. It is hot and sunny, but I feel surprisingly strong. I crest the second pass, where are a few old stone houses standing-no one is around. It is sunny, golden, and peaceful.
I head down the hill when my friend Bri from California calls me. I am walking down the trail, talking in loud American English about Bri’s dating life, and half notice that I am walking through a little village. When the trail crosses through villages or hamlets, you really are walking right through people’s back yards-it always feels like I am trespassing.
“So yah, I really think you should give the doctor from Bumble a chance..,” I am babbling, when I round the corner and almost collide with three bewildered-looking old Italian men sitting on a patio drinking aperitifs.
“Sorry-is this trail?” I ask, accidentally in English, since I have just been talking in English.
One blinks at me, as if I don’t make any sense in my surroundings, which in this moment, I kind of don’t-I belong on a sidewalk in Southern California drinking an iced coffee from Starbucks.
“The trail? Sí, sí-“ he finally gestures at me, and I continue down the probably 1000-year-old stone steps, still on the phone-I hear them laughing in amusement at the basic white American girl apparition that just exploded around the corner, and I laugh too.
I am so distracted that I miss the turn for the GTA and accidentally continue all the way down to the village of Grondo, 600 vertical feet below Rimella where I am headed. Oh well. Somehow this doesn’t phase me much, and I slowly drag myself back up the hill to the steep cobblestones of Rimella.
There is one commercial establishment in Rimella:the historic Hotel Fontana, which has taken care of travelers for over one hundred years. It is 8:40 pm. I walk in, with my backpack, coated with sweat from that last ascent, dirty. It is late to be arriving at an Italian establishment in the countryside.
The proprietor barely seems to register this however-she sweeps me inside under her efficient wing-“una camara? (A room?)” she asks, pantomiming sleep. I barely have to stumble through any stilted Italian, and she speaks no English-within 30 seconds she bustles me up to the third floor for a shower before dinner. She will feed me dinner. She puts me in a comfortable, old room with a soft bed and a French door that opens to the mountains. I am so incredibly grateful in this moment that she clearly takes care of “my type” day in and day out.
I shower, and go back downstairs for dinner in the large dining room, and almost laugh out loud-it is full, to the rafters, with dining German backpackers. No wonder the proprietor was so efficient-I am barely a blip on the radar. She has simply swept me safely into the henhouse for the night with the other silly little German chicks-she, a protective Italian hen.
Dinner is four courses, all delicious. I eat it all amidst the German chatter all around me. I lay down late, at 10:30 pm-I hear the village church bells chiming, right outside my window. I hiked 13.3 miles today, gaining 5000 feet.
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