Hike to Monte Genzana and Monte Rognone

17 March 2010

Lately a lot of things have happened that have shifted the balance of my mountain-going. This winter season gave us continual snowfalls and it seemed possible to take on great undertakings. The alternation of cold air currents and warm, humid air currents caused the snow to melt quickly. The avalanche danger dragged on for the whole season.

The ice course and the personal commitments of the individual members of the group have reduced the number of outings. And, not least, the reflection I'm carrying out on my way of going to the mountains is changing my way of thinking about, seeing and living the concept of adventure. I can't help mulling over the latest book by Messner that I'm reading. In fact good old Messner maintains that there's no adventure if there's no “risk” and if you eliminate all the uncertainties of a journey.

This reflection literally floored me, because up to now, in the name of prudence, we have put together a group of friends who could go out safely.

In fact ours are nothing more than mountain “outings”, in familiar surroundings that cost us a few hours of effort and sweat but which most of the time present no risk at all. Everything is known already at the start: the route, the weather conditions, the departure and arrival times, the estimated timings. Surfing the internet I can preview the photographs of the places I'll see. It's shocking to become aware of the fact that up to now everything has been “certain”, “safe”, “planned”. It's shocking to know that I've so often fooled myself into thinking I was living real adventures.

And to tell the truth, Doriano and I did feel a certain unease. As if something really didn't add up. The mountains are a wonderful and astonishing place. Lately, though, the enthusiasm, the wonder, the adrenaline had started to go missing. And in a moment of reflection I said to Doriano: “let's stop planning only safe outings”.

This time, though, I neither could nor would improvise.

The reflection on the subject touches a delicate point that has been troubling me for some years. Along with the attitude of planning outings that are too certain and risk-free, I've got into the habit of leaning on friends to go out in the mountains. It's as if I could no longer go out in the mountains alone. Sharing the uncertainties, the anxieties and even the fear with a friend makes everything simpler.

Having to reckon alone with the good and the bad emotions is certainly a more complicated thing.

A window of good weather in the middle of the week would give me the chance to go out alone and climb Monte Genzana from Frattura (a small hamlet of Scanno). Above all I'd like to visit Frattura Vecchia, a little abandoned village falling to pieces. I've seen some photos of Frattura that made me curious and I want to see it with my own eyes.

I reach Frattura at 7.20; by the time I'm ready I'm already on the crest of the broad west face of Monte Genzana, a face made up of slabs, towers and loose rubble, probably the result of an ancient landslide. The weather is perfect, there isn't a cloud, the route is as intuitive as it is banal. Following the crest you reach a first repeater antenna. The landscape is inevitably spoilt, we know that, but we also know that by now (sigh) we can no longer do without these antennas.

The view on this side of Monte Genzana is striking for its breadth. You can see the whole massif of the Montagna Grande, now known as Monte Terratta and Monte Argatone, the two main summits of the group. It's a long and varied massif, marked by wide rocky cirques just below the summits. The visual effect is powerful; the morning shadows make it look very … ehm … mountainous.

Out of the tree line, at about 1800 metres, the first traces of snow start to appear, not much considering that until a few days ago it was snowing hard. And yet the sun and the warm scirocco wind have already done their work melting the snow, which hasn't even had time to turn into ice.

I press on briskly and for once I don't even need crampons or ice axe. The ice course has given me a different feel and a greater instinctive confidence. Now my familiarity with snow runs quite deep. I reach the summit pressing on briskly, covering the 860 metres of height gain in just 2 and a half hours. All in all the route is heavy going because the slope never lets up, but it's also rather short. I haven't had time to gather the thoughts I'd brought along, pick them apart and... I'm already on the summit.

The view all around is spectacular. A boundless view over the Abruzzo National Park and the Majella Park.

On the summit a very light north wind is blowing. I take a few photos and sit in the shade of the summit cairn to eat a couple of sandwiches.

The stop is short; I still have to reach the nearby summit of Monte Rognone. By eye it'll be fifteen minutes' walk. You cross three broad humps of mixed rock-grass-snow. It's a bit annoying but you soon get there. I quickly take a photo of the Gran Sasso mountains and of the nearby massif of Monte Sirente.

I decide not to take the summit photo. No vainglory. There are various reasons why I consciously decide to do this: I photograph the summit with only the summit cross to remind me that at that moment I was missing a friend, and then because I believe the mountaineering of renunciation must start again from this too. One day I'll renounce the vainglory of far more important summits; it will be essential to have walked every step without thinking about the domination (by now unchallenged) of technology. Too many crampons, too many ice axes, too many technical windproof jackets to put on. Too many cameras, too many altimeters and watches ticking off the time, the distances, the altitudes. Too many mobile phones that never leave us alone. I want to go back to breathing the pure air of the mountains, of improvisation, of adventure.

The return is planned, this too, damn it. I'd like to head off down the Introdacqua side but... I can't be late, they're waiting for me at home and it really is time to head back.

Now my mountain is an inverted mountain: I have to retrace a climb in descent, one that takes me back home, so hard and demanding because it's loaded with my baggage of responsibility towards my children and a wife who need me.

I descend towards Monte Cona; level with the first hut (wrecked and falling apart) I bend off towards the broad Vallone di Pietra Libertina. Here, among wide bends, I pick up a stony path that leads me to the Fonte di Pietra Libertina. The path coming from Frattura Vecchia is terribly waymarked. The waymarks are faded and it's a real shame, because the area could be the setting for beautiful hikes.

Going down along the traces of path you reach a gravel road that leads to Frattura Vecchia. The town is half abandoned; what strikes you most is the sound of the water dominating the silence of a dying town. Water is life and it seems to want desperately to keep alive a place that has something spectral about it. On the doors of some houses there are padlocks, other houses have neither doors nor windows, some houses have huge gashes in their stone walls.

The sound of the water never leaves me; even a big fountain is gushing water like mad. There's something sad and melancholy about it. But that's how things go. When a place isn't lived in... however wonderful it may be, it is slowly taken back into the great belly of mother nature.

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The return from Frattura Vecchia to Frattura Nuova is quick, along the connecting gravel road that runs right into the village. But Frattura Nuova is desolate too. It's Wednesday and I can't work out why there's nobody in the streets. It's midday and... I understand that Italy has gone away from the villages... these wonderful mountain villages... that we loved so much... but which by now are left to themselves. Italy has shut itself away in the cities, the Italy of civic commitment has left the land to itself... regret completes the melancholy. From a day of sun and shadow I'm left with a collection of chiaroscuros and photos that I'll take back home... and inside me...