It’s near dusk on a stormy, June evening above Verona, Italy. The white patio of Pizzeria San Mattia offers a great vantage point to watch dark clouds brood over the city below, and the occasional gust that makes it up this far brings with it the heavy smell of rain. Across the Adige river at Boscomantico Airport, planes queue on the runway, their running lights bright dots against the encroaching darkness. I shudder. I’m not fond of flying, even in good weather. Terra firma is where I like to be and right now that means the eastern hills flanking Verona where it is still clear and five friends enjoy the coolness of the evening. Even though it is close to 6 pm, dinner is still a good two to three hours away so we snack to take the edge off our hunger.
To my right sits my wife Rachel. Her green eyes are fixed on the magnificent view of Verona. The past two weeks have been full — Tuscan castles, Italian rednecks, daylong bike rides, new friends, and the discovery we are expecting. There’s a tinge of homesickness in those eyes and also the anticipation of exploring a new city. Travel is a complex thing. Joy, tiredness, confusion, and discovery all come in turns. As for me — the Italian family we are staying with most of the trip nicknamed me “tedesco,” the Italian word for German. To the Italians my German heritage must be easy to see. Thankfully their lack of love for Germany and Germanic things didn’t extend to me.
Across from me sit Darren and Rebecca, our friends and travel companions. Darren is the only American who actually is of Italian heritage, and yet he ties me for least Italian looking. Our lack of sun exposure doesn’t help. Rebecca is why we are here. Several years ago, she spent 7 months in Italy teaching English and polishing her Italian. She has returned to revisit old friends and we’ve tagged along. Being half-Brazilian, she passes for Italian in appearance which has led to memorable moments involving other American tourists muttering under their breath when they think no other English speakers are present.
The rest of us fumble our way through, murdering any romantic feel of the language. Or, in my case, murdering both the language and the subject “una dellamorta, per favore.” This translates to “One dead woman, please.” An order I do get right is my favorite drink — “Una spremuta fresca di arancia” which produces the satisfying result of two blood-oranges deposited into one end of a machine and pulpy, fresh squeezed juice out the other end. Espresso is fantastic, but this orange juice is ambrosia.
The one true Italian sits to my left. Marco is a native Veronese and friend of Rebecca’s. He has graciously offered to be the guide for our short stop in Verona. With his prominent chin, dark curly hair and even darker sunglasses, he looks every bit the Veronese. As guides go he is a natural: knowledgeable and warm, with an inexhaustible desire to answer questions. Currently he is educating me on Gewürztraminer, an aromatic and slightly sweet wine whose mother breed, Traminer, is native to this region and named after a local town. I’m more of an aged cheese and cured meat kind of guy but after trying bubbly-sweet Lambrusco in Ferrara and smooth-earthy Chianti in Buonconvento, my Italian wine education is taking off.
As we finish eating the storm seems to lose interest with Verona and drifts off along a northern route. My thoughts follow north as well, beyond Largo di Garda to the land where the pale mountains rise and the food takes on a Germanic sensibility. The same line of storms pelting Verona this evening threaten to obscure the Dolomites, make for poor hiking weather, and even poorer photography. I express my misgivings to Marco whose family often vacation there. He has seen the Dolomites in many moods so I value his opinion. He thinks for a few seconds and decisively replies, “There is never a bad time to see the Dolomites.”
After San Mattia, we pile back into Marco’s Volvo and make our way down to Verona. A few minutes into the drive, we turn abruptly right and onto via S. Leonardo, or as the locals call it, “the lasagna way”. It’s a preposterously narrow, and surprisingly, two-way road that careens between houses and rock walls. I’ve driven some narrow, and high-hedged English country roads but even they have nothing the claustrophobia I feel right now. Marco handles the bends and twists with aplomb all the while filling us in on his deep love for Veronese architecture. It’s the mix of Roman, Venetian, and Austrian influences, he explains, that makes Verona such a unique city. He recommends we have dinner at 12 Apostoli where, if you ask, the owner will take you down through two wine cellars to walk among Roman ruins. Verona is littered, Marco says, with archaeological sites.
After ten minutes or so of bouncing on cobblestone, we are suddenly back on smooth asphalt and curving along with the Adige. The claustrophobia of the lasagna way fades as we take a leisurely pace through Verona, exploring spired churches, statue-lined piazzas, and Roman ruins all freshly washed by the rain. Twilight and window light mingle on the wet cobblestone of Corso Porta Borsari as we say goodnight to Marco and duck down a side street in search 12 Apostoli, and then sleep.
The next morning we meet Marco for a farewell brunch at Antica Bottego del Vino. Over a glass of Gewürztraminer — phenomenal — I check the weather one last time. Marco’s assurances ease my mind some, but the weather is still a toss-up. It’s time for me to make a decision and for the five of us to part ways. Darren and Rebecca head back to our home base of Ferrara where our host family is waiting for them along with another of Mimi’s fantastic dinners.
As much as I would love more of Mimi’s cooking I decide I’d be stupid to not take this chance. Besides, I have promised Rachel at least a few nights in a nice hotel and I’ve yet to deliver on that promise. An hour or so later the two of us wind our way out of Verona and, after a few missed turns, onto the A22. We stop for gas and a quick Google search later I make reservations at the Anterleghes Arthotel, nestled in Val Gardena.
Continuing on the A22, the flatness of the Po river plain quickly gives way to peaks in excess of 5,000 feet. From here, it’s a northern route following the Adige’s twisting path through the Italian Alps. The route that the A22 now runs has been in use for millennia, and along the way we see this history in the form of heavy fortresses crouching on rocky outcroppings. At Bolzano, the A22 swings right and then up again. A few miles beyond this, we turn right onto SS242 and into the shadows of the pale mountains.
The Dolomites are divided into clusters of peaks, each with a distinct personality. The Langkofel group, which tops out at 10,436ft, is shaped like a massive horseshoe. The tallest and largest of the six main Langkofel summits is Sassolungo, which looms nearly 6,500 feet into the sky above the towns of Val Gardena. It is a massive, hulking presence that dominates the sky.
Across a small valley from the Langkofel group is the fortress-like Sella group with its four towers and 75 main summits. When viewed from the 40 mile long road that circumscribes it, the group appears indomitable and austere, a never ending wall of of pale rock. The ring road winds through four mountain passes: Campolongo, Pordoi, Sella, and Gardena. The Sella group sits in the heart of the Ladin speaking area of the Dolomites.
A few kilometers to the southeast, Marmolada is the highest point in the Dolomites, topping out at nearly 11,000 feet. It is a glacier-capped, brooding behemoth that can be seen as far away as Venice. At the base of Marmolada in June it can be pleasantly warm while 7,000 feet higher the summit is obscured in a roiling blizzard. This drastic elevation gain puts Marmolada into the Ultra category for mountains.
Marmolada’s height makes it famous. Its past makes it infamous. In 1915, long festering animosity over Austro-Hungarian claims in northern Italy and secret pledges from the Allies stoked Italian nationalism. What erupted was essentially a civil war as locals joined forces with either Italian Alpini or Austro-Hungarian Kaiserjäger.
This part of WWI is known as the Guerra Blanca, or White War. Both sides dug vast networks of tunnels into the frozen mountasides. The Austro-Hungarian troops built an ice-city in the glacier that crowns Marmolada. On December 13, 1916 some 200,000 tons of snow, ice, and rock obliterated a camp near the summit of Marmolada and claimed 300 souls. In the month of December alone, an estimated 10,000 soldiers perished from avalanches. Only a third of casualties during the White War died from a human hand. One hundred years later the trenches, watchtowers, and barbed wire remain. During the summer months, bodies and relics sometimes emerge from their frozen graves.
Despite the horrors of the White War, the hidden valleys and high passes of the Dolomites were often insulated against the machinations and politics of surrounding powers. So isolated were the valleys surrounding the Sella Group, they preserved Ladin, a relic of the vulgar Latin spoken in Roman times. To outsiders the Ladin speakers use fluent German or Italian, but in the local shops and Osterias, Ladin is still the language of choice. It’s perhaps more accurate to call it a group of dialects instead of a language. Each valley has its own flavor of Ladin, some of them so different as to be unintelligible to the others. This is a fiercely independent region of the world. Though they are now part of Italy, they are granted semi-autonomous status, and Ladin is an officially recognized language. Signs can get a bit crowded, having to make room for three languages.
Besides Gewürztraminer, this region has given the world heavenly Bombardino: egg liqueur, rum, and heavy cream served hot. A friend described it as tasting like a “liquid eclair”. Mixing high altitude skiing and such a drink seems like a very Italian way of enjoying the slopes. To quote Bibo, the puckish father of our host mom, “Skis go on, bombardino goes down, skis go up.” It’s generally recommended you enjoy bombardino après-ski.
The day after arriving at our hotel, Germany defeats Portugal 4–0 in the first stage of the World Cup. The staff are beside themselves in joy — clearly they are of Germanic descent. Here the German and Italian cultures fuse — personal warmth and promptness, a Romance language without its musicality, pasta served with dense, flavorful bread. I guess my preference for those breads, compared to the lighter breads you find farther south, shows my Germanic roots as well.
The weather remains overcast but thankfully mild with a hint of coolness. Most of the past 15 days have been spent sans-airconditioning in 80F+ weather. One shirt I wore three days in a row while hanging out with Italian rednecks on the Adriatic coast. People fantasize about an “authentic Italian experience.” It doesn’t get much more authentic than that. With those hot days came the wonderful meals spent at Mimi’s garden table while listening to Bibo’s raucous tales. A fair trade. Still, it’s nice to indulge in creature comforts a little.
A few minutes walk from the hotel is a small shop selling all kinds of intricate wooden figures. For Cinzia, our host mother in Ferrara, we find a beautifully carved tartaruga. It will go well with the 16 live turtles in the garden behind her house. The very back corner of the shop contains an impressive collection of hand carved, hand painted nativities. I pick up the figure of a shepherd and marvel at the care used to pull such intricate but tiny features from a piece of wood. I had read about the wood carving prowess of Val Gardena, but to see it and hold it is something else entirely.
Rachel and I spend the rest of the day lounging in the hotel’s outdoor hot tub and avoiding nude Germans in the saunas. Thank goodness for frosted glass. Late in the evening we drive up and out of Val Gardena towards the Gardena Pass. At the edge of the pass sits Chalet Gerard with its commanding view of the Langkofel and Sella groups.
The sky is overcast with a storm quickly rising from the south, so we eat inside while rain lashes Langkofel. The food is a match for the panoramic view and inviting interior: tortellini stuffed with wild game, topped with speck, served with porcini mushroom soup and finished with a glass of Gewürztraminer — again, phenomenal. Ten minutes before sunset a crack appears in the clouds and sunlight pours over the north face of the Langkofel group, lighting mighty Sassolungo. The mist rising after the rain gives the illusion the mountain is smoldering. As beautiful as a smoldering Sassolungo is, I want to capture the moment it and the Sella towers bursts into flame.
The next morning as we explore more of the area around Val Gardena I stay alert for the best sunrise vantage points. Driving up into the Sella Pass, I discover a cluster of small hills right between Langkofel and Sella. It’s the perfect spot with a great angle of both groups. Now all I have to do is wait for the perfect morning. I have two days left and so far every morning has been cloudy. The temptation to worry is strong but I know there’s no point in doing so. Besides, Marco was right. There really never is a bad time to see the Dolomites. Brooding and clouded over they are still majestic.
The rest of the day is spent exploring via foot, lift, and car. Snow and ice still cover the entire face of Marmolada so we hop on a lift for a ride up Marmolada to rifugio Pian dei Fiacconi. When I say “lift” I really mean a small, perpetually moving shopping cart that you run alongside and jump into. Halfway up the mountain I spot the ruins of a WWI watch tower hidden against a minor peak. Even after a century it clings tenaciously to the rock, its second story partially caved in. At the rifugio we jump from the lift and hurry inside to escape the swirling snow and near freezing temperatures.
While the top of Marmolada is completely lost in a snowstorm, down below, it is still a pleasant June day. As I order some hot tea the man behind the counter smiles and gestures. “Warm day, no?” I’m caught off guard, so in reply, I compliment the beauty of the land. He thanks me and with a sly smile quickly points out they also have “the best food and the best women.” I ask if he would ever consider moving away. “Never.”
In the evening, I go through the well-worn ritual of checking the weather. This time Google has great news — what was to be another cloudy morning has been upgraded to clear, and just like that I have my wish granted.
My alarm goes off at 4:15 Wednesday morning. I like mornings, but this is a bit masochistic, even for me. Photography is something I do for enjoyment, and lying in a warm bed seems, right now, a much more enjoyable activity.
At 4:25, I finally drag myself out of bed. My gear and clothes are laid out already, so as to not disturb Rachel. After dressing I grab the keys to the rental car, a laughably under-powered but thankfully automatic Fiat 500. Downstairs, the hotel doors require me to swipe my keycard before unlocking. Even they think this is too early to be out and about. The Fiat whines and strains as it follows the winding ribbon of asphalt out of Selva. A few miles past the Chalet Gerard turnoff, I see the Sella group looming out of the darkness and the road bends sharply right to run parallel. A few miles more, the last of the fir trees abruptly end, and the Sella Pass begins.
Thirty minutes after leaving my warm bed, I pull into a small gravel parking area at the base of the Langkofel group. Sassolungo and the other peaks are still shrouded in night. Five days ago, I spent 2 hours circling a hot and crowded Siena, desperate for any parking spot. Today, I have this outcropping of gravel all to myself. Crunching of gravel gives way to dew-drenched grass and wildflower covered hills. I set up my equipment and wait.
A heavy mist hides the base of the Sella group. It clings to the hills and slides down into surrounding valleys. From this angle, the land looks broken — a jumble of peaks, plateaus and valleys. The faintest of orange and pink appears at the edges of the sky, silhouetting the jagged rocks. Patches of snow glisten as the sky brightens. In the gap between peaks the snow and ice is upwards of eight feet thick still.
Except for the whistling of the wind, I’m surrounded by a weighty silence. I’m alone, or at least I think I am. Behind me, the cry of a fox cuts through the wind, and I turn to see him winding his way along a ridge. No doubt he is off to a warm burrow while I stand underprepared on this cold June morning. During the night, the temperature has plunged to 37° Fahrenheit. I’ve been fighting a cold off and on the past week, so I really should have brought a thicker jacket, and my canvas shoes are soaked. Clearly June in the Dolomites is quite different than June in humid South Carolina, but it’s a small price, and my wait will soon be over. I occupy myself by taking some pre-dawn photos.
Between photos I turn to my left to check Sassolungo. At the base of the mountain, the lift station gives much needed perspective on how massive this collection of peaks is. On a whim, I look behind me. In the distance, a cloud-wreathed Marmolada is already lit by the new sun. Silently I word “Oh!”
The moment is upon me.
The edge of Sassolungo begins to smolder. A warm pink creeps down the mountain face, pushing out the cool blues and deep purples.
Five months of planning merge into one second, and one second becomes an eternity.
I don’t want to sound too preposterous, but I swear I smell the sunrise before I see it. Maybe it is the invisible warming of the air. Whatever it is, my camera shutter is deafening as the rising sun pierces through the Sella group and golden light pours into the valley. Like a phoenix, Sassolungo is born again in the fire of the new day. Morning mist caught between the peaks agitates at the sudden warming of the air. The mist dances up the immovable rock before cresting and burning away.
The light that sears these mountains also sears this moment into my mind. Years from now, I’ll close my eyes and be here again, the smells, the warmth, the mountains.
The rock faces begin to cool to a warm glow as the tip of morning passes. I pull my eye away from the viewfinder and turn the camera off. Now it is time to be still, to be warmed by the light of a new sun, to smell a freshly awoken land, and revel in this bit of terra firma.
FOR MORE OF MY PHOTOGRAPHIC WORK
davidsiglinphotography.com
500px
CREDITS
WORDS, PHOTOS, & GRAPHICS BY
David Siglin unless otherwise noted
EDITED BY
Jeanne Petrizzo & Elaine Siglin
