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The Gran Sasso range, the Pian Grande, Campo Imperatore; I still remember Patrick saying that they were the only real mountains in central Italy, and that if you started going there they would take possession of you and call you back strongly every time you thought about the mountains.
I also remember how I had reacted, a bit irritated, to such a sweeping and almost snobbish dismissal of the many natural beauties of this region.
Today, though, I have to admit there is some truth in it.
Corno Grande, Pizzo Cefalone, the Camicia, Monte Aquila and the Pian Grande are now familiar views, and a bit obsessive too. An obsession, just as the Brancastello had become; within the Gran Sasso group it is a modest summit of 2384 metres, easy to reach. From Monte Aquila, with its long ridge, sharp in places, reaching out over the almost lunar ruggedness of the Prena, it had struck me with the elegance of its long route, almost all along the ridge, and it had become a sort of obsessive desire.
So much so that today, fifteen days after our climb of Monte Aquila, we set foot on its summit. A fine November day; the weather forecast looks promising, so Giorgio and I don't let the chance slip.
The usual pleasant dawn spent on the motorway, between our expectations for the day and the effort of fighting off sleep, and by 8 we are already at the car park on the big bend of the road to Campo Imperatore, facing the start at Vado di Corno.
Of the snow that was there fifteen days earlier there is no trace, and this, together with the magnificent sunny day in prospect, makes us decide against carrying crampons, ice axe and whatever else you need for winter terrain; it will turn out to be a reckless decision.
By 8.25 we are already at Vado di Corno, where his majesty the Corno Grande leaves you amazed with admiration, always as if it were the first time you saw it. There begins the Sentiero del Centenario, which crosses the whole range as far as Fonte Vetica, and its first stretch will take us to the summit of the Brancastello. With a gradual, gentle ascent we soon reach the ridge that had intrigued me so much only two weeks earlier. When the route becomes a bit exposed on the Teramo side, the landscape takes on the common denominator of the whole ridge: the east side has sheer faces dropping towards the Abruzzo hills below, while the west side has more or less steep slopes, but gradual ones, without dizzying drops.
And there, where the ridge shows itself with those drops into the void, we allow ourselves the first stop, as if wanting to defeat the ancestral fears of those boundaries suspended over the void. We let our gaze wander towards the distant line of the sea, we try to take hold of every powerful emotion that nature manages to give you at such moments, we try to immortalise and capture those images inside our cameras, aware all the same that nothing will ever let you relive that moment with the same intensity. We would never have our fill of such vastness, of the horizontal lines of the far edges of the horizon contrasting with the verticality of the Corno Grande face, of the coloured geometries of the Teramo hills, so we may as well hoist our rucksacks back on and point our gaze towards the summit again.
Apart from the verticality of the east side, the path is never particularly exposed or difficult; it just turns out to be unexpectedly long and, the higher you go, still covered by a thin layer of snow in the shady stretches facing east. From the Pian Grande nothing suggested this annoying presence, but the temperature on those shady slopes has not yet let the snow melt. Under the first veil of snow there is ice, the small rocks are covered with an icy film and we soon find ourselves in trouble. At times we are forced to move with extreme caution, slowly, aware of the danger of sudden slips.
We regret the gear left in the car, we curse our thoughtlessness. A lesson the mountain wanted to teach our inexperience. And we promise ourselves to treasure this lesson. Anyway, choosing the line carefully, at times climbing back up the ridge towards sunny spots at the cost of considerable detours, we manage to get ourselves out of trouble and at 10.35 we are on the summit.
The view is wonderful, as only the summits of this range can give you. To the west the Pian Grande is a constant, vast presence, like a flat palette; to the north the vertical bulk of the Corno Grande draws your attention and your dreams, to the east the pale blue blurs the sea into the sky and below, far below, the hills are geometric arabesques that bear witness to the industry of man. But from the summit of the Brancastello what strikes you and stays inside you is the view of Monte Prena. A succession of rugged rock, spires and sharp ridges, a torment of rock that looks inaccessible. And the fascination of these mountains is immediate and powerful.
We had only just reached the summit of the Brancastello; it was, after all, the conquest of this mountain, but our hearts and heads were already over there, on those tormented faces. The horizons had already widened; the original obsession remained, it had only changed its name. We stop on the summit for something to eat, but our attention is drawn to the Prena; we try to scan its faces to understand its secrets, but nothing, we are left only with the feeling of a rough face that looks inaccessible. And yet we know there's a way through! After a restorative break we decide to carry on along the ridge and get closer to the Prena, just like that, to have a nose around from closer up. The temptation to have a go is great, but partly the time ticking away relentlessly, partly the total lack of the necessary gear keep us anchored to reality. For 40 minutes we carry on along the ridge; the outline of the Prena becomes sharper, but its paths are and remain hidden. It's a fascinating sight, a temptation. There, on the saddle between the Brancastello and the Prena, we promise ourselves we'll reach that summit as soon as possible.
But thick, dark clouds are gathering from the Lazio side, promising nothing good; the late hour and the threat of storms push us to give up any more nosing around. We set off on the way back. It will be 2 and a half hours of pleasant descent dominated by the cathedral-like, looming presence of the great face of the Corno Grande, in which we relax in friendly chats that only the mountains allow. The heart is light and the spirit flies. By 2 pm we are already in the car. From the valley we gaze back at the whole path we have walked, aware that the next appointment with the new obsession, which is there, provocative in front of us, will necessarily come next year in late spring. We reflect on the beauty of the place and on how solitary it is, despite being only 2 hours' drive from Rome. In a few days it will be covered in snow and will become inaccessible to most people. And the Prena will have to wait for the distant next spring; this is the dominant thought that accompanies us as we drive down the first hairpins on the way home.
And another fine day in the mountains was coming to an end, one that had already given birth to its legitimate child: Monte Prena.
The Gran Sasso range.
A monument of nature.
A love now rooted in the heart and the mind.
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