Except for a missing glacier or two, the view from Chamonix (Jackson Hole - 'sans le chapeau de cowboy', Zermatt - 'ohne Alphorn', Cortina - 'senza occhiali da sole da 20.000 euro') hasn't changed that much since the mid-seventies - and like a timelessly beautiful woman, I never tire of casting my eyes on Mt. Blanc and her magnificent retinue. This now mini-city has since become a full-featured adventure sport machine that, like all these over-loved places, can still - despite its fame - quite unexpectedly and momentarily reveal a quiet village innocence. With discovery however comes attraction: streets brimming with taggers and baggers, those in hot pursuit of cool - or even a glimpse of it, and of course the truly cool. They are often hard to spot, and the 'unshaven, unwashed, and detached' profile can be wildly misleading. However, you may very well discover someone at a table, or bench, or seat next to you, embracing their passion with purpose and joy. You sense the intensity and that's about as cool as it gets.

Unlike the previous year’s journey from Zermatt to Dobbiaco, Italy, it was not possible to do the same in a day from Chamonix. I had finished the Tour du Mont Blanc two days earlier, done my laundry, mailed post-cards, and sent my now-vestigial camping gear ahead to Austria for the last of the summer’s wanderings. Now, after 12 days of walking and two enjoying all these sights and sounds (and probably no cooler than when I arrived), I reluctantly caught the Mont Blanc Express to spend the night in Martigny Switzerland, Chamonix's now passionless, bipolar sister - once (and only briefly), the cannabis capital of the country. The evening's entertainment - catching the zenith of the Perseids meteor shower from a picnic table in the park - was threatened from the start when I was told camping was prohibited. Even though I was wide awake, my sleeping gear was apparently evidence of premeditation. Here I had found conformity to be a treasured national pastime, so I returned to my hotel and wrapped in my bag at a street-side table, watched the subtle spectacle of cosmic annihilation until 2 am. Today I had napped across northern Italy and was eager to join two friends for the Alta Via 4. After crossing paths on the Alta Via 2 in 2019, we had kept in touch through the years of Covid, injuries and illness, and would now have our chance to walk together. I arrived at the Casa Alpina just in time for a beer, a shower and dinner.

It seems the entire country escapes the August heat en masse for the mountains. My would-be companions, though clever natives, were mired in this migratory mayhem as well, so it was early afternoon when we started the 12 kilometer, 1,200 meter walk to Rifugio Locatelli. The Alta Via 4 began in the valley of Campo di Dentro, and after an hour of pleasant forest walking, it became paved with white scree that had been stripped from the steep walls of the surrounding peaks. The Dolomites or Dolomiti are composed of a unique limestone-like mineral from which comes the name. The effects of water on the complex mineral have created this most magical and unique area of peaks and deep valleys. Nowhere is it more obvious that these ingenious and sometimes improbable paths must follow the line that geology dictates. After a kilometer or so of scree, ours climbed southward, snaking up the steep and rugged shoulders of the 3,000-meter Tre Scarperi to the east and those of the equally-lofty Croda Piatta to the west. In just a few kilometers we had gained two thirds of the day’s elevation and the broad plateau at the head of the valley. Here were our fist views of the Tre Cima di Lavaredo - set upon this natural pedestal like a sculpture in the Uffizi. I was slack-jawed with this sight before me - so magnificent that it had been immortalized on everything from calendars and coffee-table books to matchbook covers and playing cards. Maybe there were more Matterhorn images out there, but the Tre Cima could not be far behind. We passed the Torre di Toblin, a 2,617-meter tower, lighted by the afternoon sun, with climbers on its popular via ferrata, and in just a few minutes were at Rifugio Locatelli. It is a classic rifugio with the view of the Tre Cima and a storied history, like many rifugios in the range. The original hut was built in 1882, destroyed during WWI, rebuilt in 1922, and expanded to its current form in 1935. It was late afternoon and full of people, but we found an outside table and had our first beers of the trip. The Alta Via 4 was off to a great start.

Our little band included Claudio, a year from retirement, and his daughter Anna, with her life before her. They had just completed the Walker’s Haute Route, a 12-day trek along the Pennine Alps from Chamonix to Zermatt. They pursued living in the moment with a passion that was hard to equal, and in a way that made you happy to be in their company. We would spend what remained of their summer holiday on the AV4, then complete the final stages of the AV3, from which I had been rained off the summer before. Her birthday present was a new camera - and she was excited - so we were up before dawn taking photos. Morning's light was as dazzling as the previous evening’s, and only the presence of a few cows challenged our artistic efforts. Today's walk would take us around the Tre Cimas along a plateau past Rifugio Auronzo then along the Sentiero Bonacossa to Rifugio Fonda Savio, perched high in the midst of the next mountain group, the Cadin di Misurina. We were mostly alone at first. It was cool and the walking was pleasant, but it would become crowded as we neared Rifugio Auronzo with its pay toilets and bus loads of tourists, some of whom would discover that the world-famous view they sought meant a 7 kilometer walk to the other side of the Tre Cima. Many were simply happy to be at this stunning spot in the mountains, or would make the shorter trek to an equally famous view - the Punto Panoramico Cadini di Misurina. Here, one looks across the chasm of the Val de la Cianpedéle at a collection of some of the most impressive spires in the Dolomites.

With queues at the bagnos there was no reason to stop at Rifugio Auronzo, so we continued along the southern extension of the plateau until rounding a corner that suddenly revealed the whole of the Cadin di Misurina. I took a hero shot of Anna, briefly motionless on the overlook and we continued along this wild path, eventually descending into the Valle De la Cianpedéle before climbing back out of it to rifugio Fonda Savio and the finish our day. Like Locatelli, Fondo Savio is also a stone building, nestled on a small forcella at 2367 meters, but unlike the Locatelli, it is far from any road so supplies arrive via a cable car from some 500 meters below. A diesel generator keeps the lights on and the beer cold, and a sophisticated collection system of cisterns, tanks and pumps provides water, here the most precious resource in this increasingly dry region. My companions, resigned to spending the night in their tent, were assessing the few remaining, least-desirable campsites, when they were told that beds had become available. It seems not everyone who intends to spend a night at this far-away place actually walks the walk, so instead of a tent, we all scored beds in a tiny room in the loft.

Sunrise was a disappointment compared to the previous morning’s grandeur but we stuck to our photo routine, making the best of the flat light and drab color. Today’s walk of some 18 kilometers would be the longest stage of the route, taking us through the last of the Cadin di Misurina, then down a 1,000 meters to Val Bona before crossing the Fiume Ansiei and finishing with a 600 meter ascent to Rifugio Vandelli. After an hour’s walking, we could see the entire route in detail. Vandelli is nestled in the huge north cirque of Sorapiss, just below a beautiful glacial tarn - an enchanting feature that draws crowds from the road at Passo Tre Croci.

As we walked to the river, I asked Anna about her job. In our emails, we had covered a lot of ground, but she had volunteered little about work, and now I understood why as she described, almost apologetically, her frustrations. She was a polyglot - highly-trained and motivated - a clear threat to the status-quo. She was doing multi-lingual user support for her company's software system - a package designed for non-profit organizations - and likely under-appreciated. She was cosmopolitan, yet a self-admitted borderline vagabond, possibly even a closet dirtbag. She was in constant motion, cramming her energy and restlessness into the month of freedom that sustained her until she could repeat the process. She was teetering on a precipice of decision - tethered to expectations, uncertainty, and tradition on one hand, and on the other - a growing realization that this passion was as fundamental as love. Not so long ago, I had heard the same words from my daughter, and though it required no less courage to make the leap now, I kept quiet, and crossed my fingers - hoping the dirtbag would prevail. Those I know who fit the definition might at times, be broke, hungry and homeless, but they are invariably happy to live their dream ...

We finished the climb to Vandelli by mid-afternoon. Framed by the arms of the vast Circo Sorapiss, the views back to the Cadin di Misurina and Tre Cima had become progressively more stunning and were now about as good as they could get. I studied the place-name exhibit that confirmed my suspicions that names were as prodigiously reused throughout the Dolomites as in the American west (in Wyoming, there are a lot of "Bitch Creeks").

"You were here last year!", exclaimed the girl behind the desk. "Are you Jim?". "Yes." I replied, tamping down my ego at being recognized by a pretty girl - and the only obvious Scandinavian within a kilometer. I returned a quizzical look. I had forgotten her name but not her dirndl. "Angelica.", she said, returning a smile that I now remembered. It was Ø-Beer:30 and we found a table on the deck. Claudio set us up with the first round. It had been a sublime day, and as we sat with our beers, I asked Anna why she never smelled bad. Knowing I didn't think of her as one of the boys, she was reverse-engineering my idiomatic compliment when Claudio put her capilene to his nose. We howled at this and I caught her bursting with laughter. "This could be in the Patagonia Catalog." I suggested in an attempt at deflectiom. "You'd be famous..." but it didn't resonate. So, there are two prints. One is in Italy, the other has its place at home in the collection from our time together. I look at it and smile. It is a moment I remember. Others look at it and ask, "Is that from the Patagonia Catalog?". Who's the girl?

The two most popular exits from the immense Circo del Sorapiss are the via ferratas Berti and Vandelli. The Berti circles the Croda Marcora, a sub-summit of Sorapiss along ledges to the west and south. The Vandelli begins after a short walk above the rifugio, ascending first eastward around Col del Fuoco before turning back west high above the Val de San Vido. Both routes lead to Forcella Grande, a broad pass that separates the impressive Sorapiss from the even more impressive and wilder peaks of Marmarole - home of the Alta Via V. Our route would be along the Ferrata Vandelli, to Forcella Grande and down to Rifugio San Marco, perched on a promontory overlooking San Vito di Cadore and the Torrente Bòite .

Anna led the cables, pausing occasionally as I fumbled with gear unused for a year. Claudio patiently brought up the rear with constant thumbs-up of encouragement. After a couple of hours, we emerged from the shade of the north-facing wall and into welcome sunshine. Views from the 2400-meter shoulder of Col del Fuoco were like a 3D map of our previous two days of walking. Soon, we were chasing the youngster along the path that would take us to Forcella Grande. In Italy, the mountain paths and via ferratas are maintained by individual chapters of the Club Alpino Italiano. There are no fixed standards that determine which sections are equipped with cables. Often, character is preserved at the expense of comfort. If you have no head for heights, or difficulty paying attention, many of these paths might not be for you. Thunderheads were building behind us, so with a balance of haste and caution we made our way to Forcella Grande. Haste got us just over the pass before the heavens unleashed a storm of biblical proportions. Soon the rushing water was moving rocks the size of bowling balls down the narrow descent gully. Both leapt across the torrent with ease. I waited for another bowling ball. Deserving attention in the best of conditions, this path had become a test of patience versus panic fueled by fear - either from electrocution, or dissolving like the Wicked Witch of the West. In fact, when it became apparent that it was impossible to get any wetter and that the lightning was now more bark than bite, the headlong rush quieted to a more reasonable rush to the rifugio.

Among the 20 or so drowned rats arriving at San Marco, there were a couple of injuries and a lot of wet gear. The injuries were patched and boots were stuffed with newspaper (which quickly became a commodity). The little building's interior was festooned with dripping gear and steaming bodies, some stripped to their skivvies. We lucked-out again with a cozy room, draped our gear to dry, and agreed that, in spite of the storm, it had been a pretty good day.

The storms of the previous day had been widespread and broken clouds still hung above as we resumed our walk, now southward across scree slopes and stands of dwarf pine to Forcella Piccolo. Along this pleasant 300-meter ascent were great views of the peaks of the western Dolomites; Tofane, Marmolada, Pelmo and Civetta, as well as the groups of the Pale San Martino and Vette Feltrine. Before us, and now too close to appreciate, was the mass of Antelao, only 80 meters lower than Marmolada, the “Queen of the Dolomites" at 3343 meters. For my companions, these were the familiar landscapes of home and childhood. For me, they recalled the AVs 1, 2 and 3, adventures that marked a return to mountains, freedom from pain, and the kindling of a love affair with these peaks and her people - one that still burned, five remarkable years later.

Following a short descent to Rifugio Galassi, we turned onto path 250 and in an hour, had finished the 400-meter ascent to the beginning of the Ferrata Ghiacciaio. On went the harnesses and up we went along the 150 meters of cable to the forcella and its view of Antelao’s largest glacier. There is a misconception that there are no glaciers in the Dolomites, one formed from a roadside perspective or picture book. Though small, and affected as much by global warming, the glaciers of the Dolomites are as alive and well as any. We descended into the glacial cirque and along extensive moraines, then after a short cable down the final headwall, were again in dwarf pines and on grassy slopes, losing more elevation until we could once again regain it, then once again, descend along the beautiful continuation of path 250 to Rifugio Antelao. Strains of “Born in the USA" told us we were close. Italian rifugios are invariably joyous places. Guests are happy to be there and hosts are happy to have them, and even the recent, massive influx of visitors has failed to dampen the experience. Rifugio Antelao in particular, has set the party bar higher than most. The happiness quotient must be credited to the rifugio master Livio and his music, beer, great food - and bewildering collection of grappa. Salute!

Claudio had spent his childhood summers just down the road in Pozzale (the official end of the AV4), and was a veteran of many trips to this rifugio. He had caught up on the latest local news with Livio, so we took a few pictures and finding no reason to further delay our bittersweet departure, started down the road and our final 10 kilometers of the Alta Via 4. In two hours we had reached Pozzale. I was getting a synopsis of childhood memories when a woman sipping from a big mug stepped into the street. She was jet-lagged and knocking back an americano. She was half of a Canadian couple who had fled the summer smoke at home and had rented a place for a couple of weeks of wandering in the area. He joined us, wearing a Whistler tee-shirt, and the conversation eventually morphed from Claudio's description of the many local attractions into one of mutual skiing and climbing experiences in Canada and Wyoming, and confirmation that it was indeed a small world. With the promise of “see you later” (who really knows…?), we walked the final twenty minutes to the tourist office in Pieve di Cadore, signed our names to the log of AV4 travelers and received pins commemorating our walk. The sad part was that the Alta Via 4 was finished and we would now entrust these experiences to the vagarities of grey matter and memory chips. The happy part was that we would continue on to Passo Cibiana and from there, complete the unfinished 3 stages of my previous summer’s walk along the Alta Via 3.

We caught the bus to Passo Cibiana, only to discover that it actually didn’t really go there - stopping instead at Cibiana di Cadore, 8 kilometers and 400 meters short of our destination. The road to the pass was too narrow for a bus. We delayed what looked to be a respectable walk up the narrow winding road and instead, strolled through the village with its street art exhibit and made a visit to the small church. Soon though, we resigned ourselves to the walk up the road in the hot afternoon sun. I had realized earlier that my friends were immune to the heat and now found them ambivalent with hitchhiking. Being from Wyoming, I had issues with the heat, but no reservations with sticking out my thumb. Within a few minutes, a young German fellow pulled over. We stuffed ourselves and our packs into his tiny hatchback for the ride up to the pass and our night’s lodging. Hmmm... I wondered if Anna’s moment in the church might have had something to do with this tiny, well-timed miracle. Overflowing with gratitude, we found a table in the sun and drank enough beer to raise concerns with our hero. These were apparently well-founded, for after departing with farewell waves and more proclamations of thanks, he returned a short while later to retrieve the keys to the hatch of his car.

As a guest at Rifugio Remauro a year earlier, I assured Anna that it was a rifugio in name only and we could indeed wash away the hot day's walk and sleep in a real room. I needed a little time to myself and so had dinner alone on the patio, watching Italians practicing their own special art of happiness. In this, there was a lesson for everyone. Though it had been an easy day, we all seemed ready for a good night's sleep and, despite the security light outside the window, mine came quickly.

Following a simple colazione of bread, jam and coffee, we shouldered our packs, crossed the now deserted road and headed south along the Alta Via 3 to Rifugio Bosconero, first up through pretty forest in the dappled morning sun, then more steeply through dwarf pine to Forcella de le Ciavazole. At 2000 meters, this pass yields a stunning view south to the towers of the Bosconero group. These spires rise some 900 meters from their bases and make for some of the best big-wall climbing in the Dolomites. As a climber now long past my best years, the simplicity of these beautiful lines brought a misty longing for days past. By the time I had returned to my senses and geared up for the 250-meter descent down the nasty couloir, my companions were well below and safe from the stones that I would send tumbling down the slope. Half plunge-stepping and surfing the patches of moving scree, I caught up with them, waiting at the bottom of the slope, and after another thirty minutes in the cool, mossy forest, we arrived at the rifugio.

Rifugio Bosconero is nestled on a grassy bench in a large amphitheater in the upper reaches of Val de Bosconero, 600 meters above Val di Zoldo. The backdrop is Rocchette Alta with her nearly vertical, 700-meter west face. Though her nearby neighbors are a bit higher, the clean lines and challenging routes of Rocchette Alta attract the most attention from climbers, despite the long approach. After picking our bunks and having lunch (and beer), we joined the other visitors in the afternoon sun. Both pulled out books; Claudio, a guide, Anna, Kerouac's “Lonesome Traveler” in Italian. We had talked about restlessness and wanderlust, and I wondered if the title had been the attraction. I could not imagine it in any words but his. Like many my age, I had bought into the Kerouac cool, only to have this book show how heartbreaking the journey from beatnik to hippie to dirtbag could be. I kept quiet and turned my attention to the treasure trove of route descriptions, topos, and colorful reports stacked in the corner of the bar. Here, as at home, there was reassuring evidence that climbers were still willing to haul gear for a good climb, then write giddy accounts of their s&g adventures.

The day-hikers were departing, and in their place appeared a seasoned, sunbaked older woman wearing an Eye of Buddha tee from which the collar and sleeves had been unceremoniously removed. Her name was Clara and with two of her nephews to help out, she was running the place. She was fascinating. Pointing to her shirt, I attempted a fumbling, sign-language conversation. She chuckled and began waving her arms. Claudio, with nascent thoughts of visiting Nepal, rescued me from the rapid-fire Italian and keen to learn more, began an energetic conversation, his eyes alight with curiosity. Except for a passing translation tossed over a shoulder when I looked especially confused, I was otherwise lost in the rapid babble that transcended my “how much do I owe you” (this being a small step above the “where’s the toilet”) grasp of Italian. After dinner there was grappa and more conversation with Clara and the boys. Keeping Bosconero up and running for the brief 3-1/2 month season was not easy, Clara asserted. It is one of the relatively few rifugios that, having no road or cable-trolly, was supplied by very expensive helicopter flights, supplemented by frequent loads carried up by the youngsters. It had been a touch-and-go family operation for years, and prices were continually shrinking the already slim profit margin. I recalled the practice of pilfering rifugio food by guests possessing the means to pay but lacking the conscience to do so, and felt shame that some of these self-absorbed culprits were my countrymen who had left their manners at home. Having decided (wisely, as it would turn out) to skip the customary stay at bivacco Tovanella and instead walk the full 20 km to Longarone the next day, I restrained myself with the grappa but fell asleep with the tell-tale headache nonetheless.

Somehow convinced that we were to receive an early breakfast and be off to a quick start, my alarm went off at 5, the notes of Grieg’s “Morning” filling the dormitory in which fortunately, we were the only remaining occupants - the two climbers having left in the early hours. Ignoring her father’s soft snores, Anna rose with a finger to her lips, and we slipped outside with our cameras, only to be disappointed with the tepid light on the peaks to the west and the gloomy ampitheater surrounding us. She mentioned that it was her father’s birthday and that we would not be getting any breakfast until 7. We sulked on a bench outside, hungry, a bit disappointed and a little depressed. It was the denouement of our time in the mountains, and for her, time to put her chin up and return to work. - It was easy to enjoy retirement but difficult to celebrate its freedoms without guilt in the company of those who could not.

We downed breakfast and blitzed the steep scree of Val Tovanella. Anna was soon a speck, disappearing over the brow of the slope above. We watched the climbers making slow progress on one of the routes on the north face of Rocchette Alta and thought we might well be asleep in our beds before they were back in theirs at the rifugio. Some 500 meters later at the forcella, we were blasted by the first sun of the day and I was blinking like an owl. After a few moments to dry out and take pictures, we were off along the airy path.

The Bosconero group extends for over 20 kilometers south from Passo Cibiana. From the peaks above the rifugio, the path of the Alta Via 3 or Alta Via dei Camosci follows its long, wild spine with panoramic views of the southern Dolomites and the pre-alps yet further south, eventually dropping somewhat unceremoniously into the streets of Longarone. On a clear day, and with the right atmospheric conditions, you can see the Veneto plains and, I am told (with a wink...), smell the sea. There were a couple of short cables where the path switched from one side of the ridge to the other but soon we reached La Porta de la Serra and the end of the rock. Before us lay another 10 kilometers of huge grass-filled slopes and bowls, the first descending to bivacco Tovanella. Here our suspicions of no water were confirmed. The pipes and cistern were bone-dry and the building was in shambles. Claudio expressed his disappointment with the dilapidation and we climbed the last 150 meters of the AV4 to the final ridge and after a few hours rambling through meadows and beech forests, were celebrating his birthday with ice cream in Longarone, aka: “The Ice Cream Capital of Italy”.

All too soon though, we were on the train and where the routes divided at Ponte nelle Alpi, said our goodbyes; they, to home and work, and me, to Belluno for one last taste of the country before heading north to join my wife and friends in Austria, the final act in my summer of wandering and one which I sadly concluded, could not eclipse the awesome week in the Dolomites. By the time I reached my hotel, I was groping for the already fading details - and wondering if my now distant friends, were having better luck remembering theirs.