Each week this summer has brought something new and exciting. The cobblestone streets of communism line Cesky Krumlov as you make your way into the local pub for the best beer on earth. The Gouda (pronounced QCHUHOWDA) cheese wheels in Holland spin faster than the windmills. And the sun baked roads of Provence invite even the most laissez-faire person to hop on their bike and go for a spin. But there was something missing. Finding myself back in the Czech Republic for the rest of the season, I took my last week of free time and jumped on a train headed south. This girl needed some soul medicine and the only place it could be found is of course….in the mountains.
With some inside information from fellow co-leaders (my colleagues are like walking/talking versions of Lonely Planet), I headed for the beautiful moonscape rocks of the Italian Alps…the Dolomites. Missing the mountains a bit himself, Marty, a fellow first year leader I trained with in France, joined me for eight days of hut to hut hiking! After digging his passport out of the trash (oh Marty…), we had two days of travel ahead of us before we would even reach the trail head at Passo Falzarego. No…the Dolomites are not that far from Czech, but the Italian train system is still run by Italy, thus making things a bit slower (and never on time!). After only one van ride, five trains, three buses, and a cable car later, we were on our way!
Unlike some of the rolling “mountains” of Czech Republic, the Dolomites are one hundred percent vertical cliffs, winding steps, jagged peaks mountains! Formally, and appropriately, called the “White Mounts,” the Dolomites feel like a lunar landscape of ascending and descending white rocks that create an undulating border between Austria and Italy. Each conversation I had with fellow hikers went from “Gruss Got, Bonjurno, Hello, and Bonjour,” to “Danke, Grazie, Thanks, and Merci.” Packed full of bread, tuna, and cheese (and of course wine…thanks for carrying that Marty!), we followed the red and white painted trail markers to our first Rifugio (hut) of the trip.
Throughout the Dolomites is an intricate hut to hut system linking all major trails. Each hut is a unique micro organism offering warmth, beds, water, and food to those brave enough to make the journey. The remoteness of the Rifugio proved to be quite expensive when you consider a bowl of spaghetti costs fifteen dollars and a precious bottle of water five. And I thought Colorado ski resorts were pricey! With no food stores and no potable water, we had no other options. My addiction to water was proving to be very costly.
An altitude junkie at heart, I decided our first night’s stay would be 2,300 meters high at the tiny family owned hut of Refugio Nuvolau. Surrounded on all sides by cliffs, the view literally took my breath away…or was it the thinner air? With the help of ladders, iron cables, and metal railings, we reached the summit of the peak and landed at the front door of our Rifugio. Dinner was ordered at 6 pm, served at 7 pm, and bed was a 10 pm. “Toilets” (a hole in the ground with boards on either side for your feet) were located outside until 10 pm when the one indoor toilet was opened, thus saving me some very cold mid night trips to the loo. Brrrr.
Every morning was the same no matter which side of the Refugio we woke up on. Marty would settle himself comfortably in a chair sipping his usual cappuccino and smoking his rolled cigarette, while I was spread over a map, chugging water as I planned our route for the day. Most of our hikes were well marked as we made our way from one Rifugio to the next. However, there were some sticky parts of the trail that required us to cross reference the trail markers, our trail book, and the map. When trail 23 suddenly forked into trail 23 and 23b, the correct path is not as obvious as one would hope. Trail 23b led straight up (literally) the side of a mountain and over a jagged pass to the other side. Much to Marty’s dismay, the correct path was indeed…23b. We tightened up our boot laces, split a Snicker’s bar, and started the accent. Marty’s last words to me were, “I’ll see you at the top.” With a smile of understanding, I took off, leaving Marty behind to navigate the steep switchbacks at his own pace. Balancing one foot precariously in front of the other, I made my way up the steepest trail of my life. And trust me…I have hiked some steep trails!
Walking on a ledge as wide as my shoulders, I followed the suddenly numerous red and white trail markers into the clouds. Why is it that when the trail is obvious, there are trail markers every ten feet, but when the trail is confusing, no markers can be found? As if I needed trail markers to tell me to continue straight when my only other options were a cliff on my left and a vertical rock wall on my right! What made the tight ledges and steep switchbacks even more interesting was meeting hikers coming down the same path I was hiking up. The question then became…who was going to pass cliff side?
Our hut to hut adventure continued with more ravines, steep scree fields, and scary mountain donkeys (that’s a whole other story). We passed the nights by playing Gin Rummy, washing our clothes in the bathroom sink, and debating whether or not the apple strudel was really worth ten dollars. Feeling rejuvenated and full of fresh mountain air, I was ready to finish out the season with a bang.
If only there were red and white markers for everyday life,
Kristyn
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