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Rating: CENTRAL VENTS BY NIGHT
I'm in the car, in Vallesinella near Madonna di Campiglio, with a friend of mine. He sleeps, I can't: I'm lying on this uncomfortable and hard seat in feverish anticipation for the alarm clock, set for 2:15 a.m., to go off. Three hours during which I think, imagine, savor what I might see on this magnificent standalone Dolomitic complex known as the Brenta Massif. I look out the window, and the clouds are covering everything. Damn it! Question marks creep into my mind: I turn and curl up, but I already know that this new position won't help me count the damn sheep. Will I find the stars, the moon, and a breathtaking dawn, I wonder? It's the weekend of Ferragosto, and I know the parking lot where I'm now resting will, in a few hours, be bustling with laced-up hiking boots, filled and checked backpacks, families with sleepy and reluctant children, and cars maneuvering; but I'm stubborn when something gets in my head, and even on the least suitable weekend, I want to have the mountain all to myself.
Too many people, with their mere presence, often ruin it irreparably because what elevates and differentiates it for me is the silence that permeates it. I want to devour the trails by climbing at my own pace without having to weave through a forest of legs, more or less trained. The via ferratas, on the other hand, should be savored slowly, between photos, a view of the panorama, and a few minutes of pure trance without having to think about the dozens of tourists ahead or those slowing me down. And so, without the slightest regret, uncomfortable seat it is, and headlamp and flashlight ready to cut through the blackest black without city lights or a living soul to beat the passengers of the dozens of empty cars now sleeping over 1000 meters above me, at the refuges.
The first steps into an ink-black sea are tentative, I won't deny it. Have you ever walked in a forest at night at 2:30? Every sound in the deadliest silence imaginable becomes exaggerated; even the mere heartbeat takes on the semblance of an orchestra's gong. I constantly wave the flashlight searching for something that obviously isn't there. I'm scared, evidenced by the fact that despite the dim light from the headlamp and the rocks wet from the night humidity, I quicken my pace and in 25 minutes reach the Casinei Refuge. Only when the dolomite takes over the vegetation do I relax. A little. It's 4 a.m., and we're already at the Brentei Refuge, at 2200 meters. It's still pitch dark, and while awaiting the dawn's light, I lie on wet rocks to see stars so bright and twinkling they seem fake; the very ones that light pollution and clouds had denied me at home three days ago. It's chilly, but I'm awe-struck by the spectacle before me. Ten shooting stars burst forth just for the two of us as we wait for the light to take over. Few words to savor this magical moment while, thanks to the rising moon, over there towards the Sfulmini, the imposing profile of the Crozzon del Brenta slowly stands out, with its hundreds of meters of wall.
It's the start of my trip; the 80th in 2 years and 8 months despite amateur sports commitments and work. Seeing the night give way to the day in this place, alone amidst kilometers of majestic rocks and peaks, is a unique feeling. You feel small, almost undeserving and out of place, yet at the same time proud of what you are doing. The sun arrives, and the dolomite catches fire with its typical hue. I put on the harness and take the first ledges to climb and reach 2900 meters to enjoy a sea of clouds below while up here, a warm sun shines narcissistically. A ladder and there it is beside me, the legendary Campanile Basso; a peak that made Trentino mountaineering history in the early decades of the last century. And then the so-called Dolomite cycle path: a wide U-shaped ledge with hundreds of meters of drop. We descend five consecutive ladders to a snowfield leading to the Alimonta Refuge. It's 8:30, and we start encountering the crowd: the owners of the cars from this morning beginning what we have just finished and enjoyed to the core. They give us a puzzled and astonished look, the universal language of eyes: "And where the hell do these two come from, it's not even nine????"
During the descent, in the switchbacks, melancholy rises, my dear friend pushing me to seek new adventures to undertake. Yes, I believe there's still time for the couch, for days spent fiddling with a joystick, or writing nonsense on Facebook.
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