Never was a hike so painful as the one to Monte Forcone, painful physically and psychologically. Indelibly, today more than ever, it marks a dividing line between two quite distinct periods of my life.
A line perhaps blurred, mystical like that early-snowing autumn, sudden like a bolt from the blue. The climb to Monte Forcone was back then my “first” of the hikes that marked my return to great solo experiences.
Solo hikes are far more difficult than group hikes; the only possible companion was humming in my head an African lullaby heard on an old record from the seventies. And he hummed, the madman, hummed without pause to fill the silence and the solitude. I was that madman... who, having lost the habit of talking to himself, had for some time taken to echoing in his head the notes of some distant music.
The route was to climb the Forcone, gaining its summit by its steepest and probably most boring side, and then to carry on as far as the distant Monte della Corte. The ascent starts near the road that leads from Opi towards Villetta Barrea.
Along the road there are no particularly convenient lay-bys to leave the car. You can barely make out a wooden post with the hiking signs. Having left the car, you follow the path marked F10, which climbs in continuous bends to a wide high plateau, a marvellous balcony overlooking the most inviolable peaks of the Abruzzo, Lazio and Molise National Park: Monte Petroso, the Balzo della Chiesa and the Capraro.
The view suggests a few good photos; the warm autumn light does the rest. On the other hand, for some weeks now I haven't been in proper shape; after the first three hundred metres of height gain I immediately start to feel tired. I take as much time to rest as I need.
The southern side of Monte Forcone is rather continuous and monotonous, a stony expanse of dry grass exposed to the wind and the blazing sun. I spend many hours climbing a few hundred metres, gripped by breathlessness and uncontrollable sweating.
I move eastwards to follow the right-hand line of the ridge, which climbs among little steps and small rocks, a bit less monotonous.
Up high a group of red deer is on the move, instinctively seeking shelter in the wooded strict nature reserve area that includes Monte Ninna and Monte della Corte.
I go straight up almost to the summit, when the first signs of snow welcome me onto one of the most longed-for peaks of recent years.
I'm suffering; I carry inside me many burdens I dare not reveal to anyone. There is real life, made of real problems, sometimes insurmountable; there is loneliness, fear. And then there is that nasty, mysterious story about an innkeeper and wicked goblins.
“At the time of these events there was a hut in the middle of the wood, kept and run by a stern, restless innkeeper. With the first leaves of autumn the wood began to fill with wicked dancing goblins, who took to making fun of the innkeeper who, gruff and grumbling though he was, did everything he could to keep that hut clean and tidy. When the ogre went to sleep, on those feast days that only the Almighty would light up with the sun again, and again, and again, with that holy promise to make the sun rise beyond the hill... a few but trusted mushroom-pickers would reach the hut for a light-hearted glass of wine. And the hut, on those feast days, became the right refreshment, the rest and the serenity after all labours.
As in every cold winter, the bearded innkeeper went down to the village to see out the coldest months darning socks in front of the crackling fire. The goblins, scatterbrained and rowdy, taking advantage of the innkeeper's absence, took over the hut, jumbling up the furniture, doors and windows, knocking the rooms out of square, contriving secret passages and draughts of wicked wind. At night on the mountain you could see a strange light coming from the hut: something was changing. The innkeeper already imagined what disaster was happening, but that year the winter lasted longer than it should have and the hut was in the end left abandoned to itself and to the absent-minded arrogance of the spiteful goblins.”
All this, and other even more dreadful tales, I was already carrying in my rucksack, together with the hope that spring would soon come back.
At the top the lightly whitened landscape had taken on that elegant, joyful veil that only the mountains in winter can have.
From the Forcone I could see the nearby mountains of the Serra di Rocca Chiarano, Monte Greco, and far away the mountains of the Majella. The warm light of the autumn sun and the clear sky combined in an unrepeatable riot of colour.
On top of Monte Forcone it is hard to recognise the landscape of the surrounding peaks, the Marsicano, Monte Ninna and Monte della Corte. The high ground is vast, or at least it is vast for a man as tired as I was that autumn... tired, already very tired, of having to go up to the hut to chase away the pesky goblins, tired of squaring up the rooms every time, putting the windows back in their place, the furniture and the other all-important furnishings. I was tired, yes, like the gruff innkeeper who got up in despair every night to find that some sarcastic prankster had jumbled everything up each time he passed...
A detour from Monte Forcone in a north-north-easterly direction lets you reach a small but interesting minor summit of the group. It is point 2161, a nameless little peak that can only be reached at the price of a few small grade I and II moves.
A question springs to mind (I'll never stop learning about all this): what does a grade II move become with a flimsy covering of snow? The simplest answer I'd be tempted to give is: a grade II move on flimsy snow. Obviously. A minor nuisance that can be overcome with a small dose of cool-headedness and a pair of crampons brought ad hoc for the occasion... almost as if I had foreseen the unforeseen.
Back we go, passing over the summit of the Forcone again and, drawing on the last of our strength, gaining the summit of Monte Ninna. Same shape as point 2161 but broader and with a far more interesting view.
Monte della Corte is far away and my strength is spent. Time is short; it's time to go home.
The descent is even longer and more tiring than the ascent. Only the wood at the foot of the mountain is a greater, more restful refreshment than the vainglory of an undeserved conquest.
The leaves of the trees, in that colour you can see only once a year, stand out against the clear sky; they seem to say goodbye, until the next hike... but Monte Forcone will probably not see me climb it again from that side. And never again carrying, in my rucksack, tales of shadowy ogres, long winters and spiteful goblins...
|
