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Saturday 4 July 2009
As in anything in life, I feel it is important to stay aware and present to oneself... even when hiking. For months D.R. and I have been telling each other that we ought to change our attitude: enough chasing the number of summits over 2000. We have to take back our time in the mountains, stop to look at the landscape, photograph a flower, touch a rock, make small detours to explore slopes, little woods and paths. And so we ended up choosing Monte di Cambio for this “cambio”, this change, of style.
A short route, on a mountain we had wrongly considered of little worth, a plan for a day of unsettled weather with likely summer downpours. Nothing frightens us any more, neither complexity nor difficulty of route; there are no summer downpours, nor strong winds, that can stop our stride. There is only one fear, an all-too-human one: that of failing to see the mountain in the attempt to set a new record. We go back to the mountains with our eyes open to the world.
Past the Sella di Leonessa, after a couple of hairpin bends, the route begins near a tourist sign knocked down by the snow. There are four of us: me, L.R. also known as the Locomotive, D.R. and Giorgio M. also known as the Arab Wayfarer.
We get ready quickly and by 7.20 we are already on the dirt track that leads in less than half a kilometre to the foot of the ridge of Monte Porcini. Along the path the view towards Monte Terminillo slowly opens up. The summer sun shines high and scorching; it seems to want to give us a fine day, in defiance of the forecasts of rain and unsettled weather.
From the western side of the mountain we cross over in less than half an hour to the eastern side. The area is lush. We are in fact talking about 1750 m, and in the Apennines, rare cases aside, it is hard to find so much fresh grass and such wonderful flowers at these heights. It's precisely the freshness and the moisture of the grasses and flowers that strikes me. Probably all the summer downpours of the last month have kept the vegetation more luxuriant than ever.
The dirt road continues almost to the foot of Monte di Cambio, but we decide to leave it to begin our mad cavalcade from ridge to ridge. We move left along the crest to reach the long ridge of Monte Porcini in less than five minutes. D.R. and I take our time photographing flowers and views. The long-yearned-for change of attitude is becoming reality right there on the spot, and almost naturally.
The Arab Wayfarer and the Locomotive lead the hike, galloping on, impatient and eager for the magical fulfilment of a summit. On the top of the Porcini a few photos and off towards Monte di Cambio; the sky gives no particular sign of changing. Only a few scattered clouds peep out over the Velino and Gran Sasso groups.
We go down from Monte Porcini, a considerable drop, bounding along among daisies and violets. We're a bit like four big carefree butterflies. This was the aim, and we've achieved it... now anything that comes after will be pure bonus.
We head along the edge of the high open grassy slopes to find the viewpoint over the valley towards the village of Posta. The view is wonderful, for the colours, for the vegetation, for the soft shape of the surrounding hills; it seems to us we are walking on the Sibillini, but it isn't so, we know we are far from them; only the Monti della Laga watch over us from close by, wondering why four little ants are wandering about on these mountains.
At the foot of Colle delle Pozze, which rises steeply over the valley below, the Locomotive sets off relentlessly to conquer its summit. Not even the heat seems to dent him: no fatigue, no sign of giving way. The rest of us, D.R., the Arab Wayfarer and I, drawn by the spurs below the summit, stop to take a few photographs... I say a few as a euphemism, because in truth we look possessed, so much so that the Arab Wayfarer keeps teasing us. But his presence is essential: his humour, his cheerfulness put us in the right mood... and of course we play along.
After the little detour we regain the road and the summit, where the Locomotive has unwisely sat down on a jutting boulder hanging over the valley. I know what great attraction calls to his spirit. I know what a moment of pure bliss it must have been, sitting there admiring the view on the razor's edge. Heavens, don't I know that feeling... and that's why my first reaction is to photograph him there, because tomorrow I want him to remember that moment. Then, when he gets up and rejoins the group, my second instinct is to scold him, and I do it because I feel responsible for him too, because it was reckless, thoughtless, also towards the other members of the group. My thoughts are many-sided and multifaceted: I think of the worst, I think of the consequences of an accidental fall, I think of the consequences for him and for us. I can't help it; it's a “must” I set myself when I started going to the mountains. Go, yes... but with caution, without needlessly putting your own safety at risk.
We go down towards the last saddle, we're in high spirits; the Locomotive seems to have taken the blow badly, and from a certain point of view I understand him; in some way I try to justify myself, but I also trust in the hope that if he comes out with us again he'll learn to know me too, and to know this caution with which I move in the mountains.
You follow the pace of the slowest, you don't push the group to do things that one or more members are not up to, you never attempt feats without the right mountain equipment. When conditions are not favourable everyone turns back; the mountain won't run away, you can always come back to it knowing you've put yourself in a position to face the difficulties you met.
My legs are full of energy, I feel the drive breaking loose, and the Arab Wayfarer too has magic shoes that crackle with sparks. We talk non-stop until we run out of breath on the last stretch of the climb. In less than forty minutes we are finally on the summit of Monte di Cambio. We reach the summit together... happy and proud to have strengthened this friendship of ours.
I see D.R. and the Locomotive arriving too. The weather is still holding, the sun is beating down and I can already tell I'll go home half tanned. With the customary photos we mark the turning point of our little hike.
We stop to eat and above all to rest. D.R., my good partner as ever, has remembered my birthday; I laugh, embarrassed and at the same time flattered, deeply touched that my companions thought of me. We pop open a bottle of prosecco to celebrate, then, well satisfied, we all stretch out on the ground to rest. A few flies and a couple of horseflies buzz around us, but without bothering us too much.
We spend more than an hour on the summit savouring this wonderful moment of peace.
The return is lightning fast. Instead of going back over hills and hillocks, little summits and little valleys, we regain the dirt track that runs at the foot of Monte di Cambio. In less than an hour and forty minutes we're back at the car... too fast perhaps, but still with our eyes full of sun, flowers, green grass, boundless views and the happiness of having dodged, once again, a summer downpour that meanwhile was brewing over our heads.
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