I 'll meet you at 8:30 Claudio emailed, "Where are you?" I had two addresses for the hotel where I'd been staying in Vittorio Veneto since completing the Alta Via 6 a few days earlier; one on the business card and one the gate. Taking no chances, I gave him both. This little part -actually Serravalle - of the bigger city, was on the Venetian Plain, tucked up against the very southern end of the mountains - a scant 100 meters above sea-level and very hot. Nearly everything closed during the heat of midday, but the brave, or unwary could still be found wandering the streets, looking for ice cream. I was almost certain that Italians possessed a gene for heat tolerance that Scandinavians lacked. My friend arrived at precisely 8:30 the next morning just as I was checking out. I had become quite attached to my temporary home and was encouraged by my hosts to return during the fall months when it was cool and quiet. Claudio and I would follow SS51 up the valleys of the Piave and Boite rivers to Dobbiaco, then east up Val Pusteria to the start of the Alta Via 5. It was a Sunday and this main artery into the mountains was busy. Claudio is a superb mountain companion - young, strong and competent - and also a great tour guide. I peppered him with questions along the route. Fueled by cappucinos and chased with rock-and-roll, the kilometers rolled by and we were soon at the village of Moso and the beginning of the walk. As we started up the path we thought about our missing companion, Claudio's daughter Anna who, with her now-retired father, had just burned through her vacation on the GR10. They had completed nearly 1,000 kilometers from sea to sea along the northern flank of the Pyrenees in less than a month earning her the nickname "La Fusée". Were it not for her work, we would be chasing her now... We would have to make do with each other. See the Alta Via 4 for more about "The Rocket".

In less than an hour we had left the crowds behind, and, being mid-afternoon, most of the walkers were headed the other way. Many of the Alta Via's begin with this modest, yet tantalyzing approach: up a pleasant valley, or past a pretty lake before an ascent that leaves you breathless with the spectacle of the Dolomites. Ours was Val Fiscalina, which soon climbed steeply up the eastern flanks of the Tre Scarperi until meeting the walls of Croda dei Toni which towered at the head of the valley. We took a quick break at Rifugio Comici before finishing our 1,300 meter climb to Forcella Giralba which separates the Val Pusteria, who's waters flow west into the Adige, from the Val D'Ansiei, which drains east into the Piave. These rivers bound the central section of the Dolomites, home to five of the six great Alta Vias. It speaks to the marvelous complexity of these mountains that the neighboring Alta Via 4 was but a few kilometers to the west and though sharing sides of the same mountain (Tre Scarperi), we were looking across a completely different landscape. Here the prayer flags were fluttering in the last rays of the afternoon sun. We marveled at the surroundings: the immense Val Giralba that marked tomorrow's descent to the river below and the expanse of mountains beyond. In the shadows, only a little way below, was Rifugio Carducci and the end of our day.

Our bunks were among the dozen or so in the "Gazebo", a temporary overflow tent. The toilet was in the main building. Throughout the night, many tried but none succeeded in silencing the sliding door. Every passage, whether in or out, regardless of stealth, created a metallic screech, quickly punctuated with a quietly-muttered apology, profanity or a simple, resigned sigh. For those without earplugs and pee-bottles, morning took its sweet time arriving. Some preferred to doze in the main building or huddle in their bag on the deck until reveille rather than deal with the door. Unimpressed, but well-fed and with a long day ahead, we made for the sunlit slopes a few minutes away. The river was 1,300 meters below and the Val Giralba so extensive that it needed two names. We reached the river just at lunch time. It was hot and there were no shady tables at the little restaurant that lay at the start of our afternoon climb. I thought of beer but settled on two liters of water instead. Here, Claudio introduced me to another delight, the Club Sandwich, Italian style, more evidence that there is no such thing as bad food in Italy. Cleaning up the crumbs and slipping into our packs, we shuffled up the pistes.

When in doubt, have some ice cream. At the top of the little ski area was a rifugio and a sweeping view to the north. There was also ice cream and coke. With my blood glucose back to its brain-buzzing level, we wandered along wooded hillsides and forest roads, forsaking the standard route in the valley below for this loftier alternative. Claudio had made a good choice for we wandered in solitude for several kilometers. Eventually we reached a crest and a series of large meadows with Monte Ciarido above, the first in the long, arcing chain of peaks of Marmarole (which we had glimpsed from Val Giralba). As we walked the last few kilometers to the rifugio, my friend told me of the visits he had made to these meadows, the picnics and family gatherings, and I understood why we had come this way. We finished our 1,100 meters to Rifugio Ciaréido and sat down for a beer. To the southeast lay Monte Cridola and off its shoulder, on the distant skyline, the phalanx of towers known as Spalti de Torro. With a little imagination I thought I could make out the location of Rifugio Tita Barba, my fourth stop along the AV6 just two weeks before. There was wasn't enough water for the showers, so we freshened-up at the sink and sat down for another beer in the dining room to wait for dinner.

We slept like rocks in an otherwise empty room. The past two days had been longer and harder than any in the preceeding three weeks, so the good night's sleep was welcome. Today would be the real challenge. We would begin our passge of Marmarole: a series of peaks that rise to nearly 3,000 meters and are the soul of the Alta Via 5. The path, known as the Strada Sanmarchi, is wild and complex, and the terrain requires concentration - in places extremely exposed and unequipped. Knowing we would need a good breakfast, we waited for a real one, forgoing the snacks laid out for the early birds and brooded over the possibility of afternoon storms.

After an hour of deceptively pleasant walking, we began our ascent in earnest, climbing a mixture of ever-steepening scree gullies, buttresses and grassy slopes. Eventually, we reached the first cable in a broad, steep, dirt-filled slot. I cursed and grunted to the finish, then turned to watch the more elegant efforts of my younger friend. Ahead the path was reduced to small depressions leading across a 40° slope of turf, its convex nature only sharpening the airiness. Choking my uphill pole midway and placing the front half of each boot in its respective pocket, I tippy-toed across the first of the many shits and giggles this path would provide. As the final one of six Alta Vias, I found the minimal presence of 'equipped passages' appropriate for the extraordinary character and wildness of Marmarole and the tiny footholds confirmation of its seldom-visited nature. There are easier ways to do the Alta Via 5 and still be able to say you did it. This passage however was the real deal. We crossed a large bowl and made our way up more cables and ladders, reaching Forcella Giau de la Tana, our high point of 2,650 meters. The storm clouds, which had been threatening for the past hour, broke over us. We had just enough time to get our bearings and begin the descent of the 300 meters of scree slope below before the view disappeared.

Squarely in the track of this intense thunderstorm, with sheets of hail and lightning all around, we quickly lost enough elevation via the path to reduce our value as elctrical targets. We were like mice trapped in a tympani as each crack reverberated through the bowl we were descending. "This is awesome!" I said. Neither my deep fascination with the power of storms nor my outwardly casual attitude toward them diminished the concerns of my level-headed companion. We would not perish today - at least not from lightning. The hail had cloaked everything and water was pouring everywhere, but the visibility had improved with the descent and the path with its red markings could easily be followed - at least until we reached a large area of karst landscape that we knew preceeded our destination, Bivacco Tiziano. The lightning had stopped and the storm was clearing as we wandered through this maze of clefts and gullies, knowing the little red "tuna box" was close by. Claudio soon spotted it. I was a bit below him, and with no beeline route through the jumble, trudged back up the 50 meters I had relinquished to join him on the intricate path to the bivacco. Soon, the sun was breaking through the clouds and we were able to dry out our gear and ourselves. The tiny haven was otherwise unoccupied and, given the hour, we might be the only residents for the night. I packed the two beers we had hauled from the trailhead in a mound of hail and while they cooled, we made our nests in the 9-bed structure. The immensity of our surroundings slowly revealed itself. Gradually the Cadin di Misurina and Tre Cima di Lavaredo emerged in a brooding canvas to the north, across the upper reaches of the deep Val d'Ansiei - the same valley we had crossed two days before. We cooked up a meal and sat outside to watch the sunset. The peaks surrounding us were now bathed in fading golden light. The beer was unquestionably the best I'd ever tasted, and I laughed when Claudio made a toast to our survival. He grinned at my now-predicatable response - "So far, so good..."

Last night we had discussed the weather. The forecast was for a decent day, but with the standard August disclaimer of afternoon thunderstorms. Our original plan was to walk to Bivacco Voltolina, a long day taking us over two lengthy stretches of high ground. Harboring a lingering distrust of the now-blue skies overhead and eager to avoid being burned once again, we elected instead to do a shorter day to Bivacco Musatti and finish the high ground earlier. We set out along the grassy path into Val Longa which had been filled with camoscio the evening before. The distinct path in the grass soon became rocky and I followed cairns up into the basin before becoming suspicious: there was no obvious exit ahead, only the 2,800 meter summit of the Pale de Meduci. My GPS confirmed that we had wandered too far up the valley. With some red-green color-blindness, I had missed the turn in the path where it met the rock. After a bit of thrashing back across the hillside, we were back on the steep path of the Strada Sanmarchi that ascended the now-obvious break to the ridge above.

Along the crest of this airy spine, the views opened again and the path became a delightful scramble along the narrow ridge, climbing to 2,600 meters before descending a long switchback and across a face where Claudio found a seep while a chamois watched intently as he collected water. We descended the only small patch of snow we would encounter, hidden deep in the north-facing recess of this huge bowl. The path now wandered through a maze of gigantic boulders and headwalls, then back onto the grassy slopes with the bivacco now in sight. The Bivacco Musatti was a near clone of the Bivacco Tiziano and already had an occupant who, unable to afford lodging in the valley some 1,000 meters below, had hiked up to spend the night. He was a self-described tourist and it seemed, perfectly happy to descend, take in the sights, and return to Musatti at the end of his day. He was on a shoestring budget and this kept it alive and well. We claimed our bunks just as two others arrived, and shortly thereafter, two more, and then two more - the last a desperately romantic young couple. It looked like the bivacco would be packed, but after some discussion, two departed and we were down to 7. This was cramped but tolerable - or so we thought. At lights-out we discovered that the lovers would not be denied, and that one of the other pair was a world-class snorer. His companion, rather than disturbing the bliss of his larger and decidedly moodier buddy, chose instead to entertain himself with videos on his phone - a double-whammy. Then, someone added flatulence, creating the perfect trifecta of sensory abuse. I whimpered quietly, my head buried in my bag. It seemed nothing, including procreation, was taboo in this tiny space. I offered Claudio earplugs but he declined and seemed to fall asleep - how, I did not know...

Our original plan would have bypassed Bivacco Musatti and had us at Bivacco Voltolina, then from there to Rifugio Antalao - a whopping 20 kilometer day. Instead, we decided to skip Bivacco Voltolina, finish Marmarole, and hope for room at the closer Rifugio San Marco, thus adding a day to the walk. The path from Bivacco Musatti was much like that from Bivacco Tiziano - a short walk up the grassy slopes, followed with a steeper climb to regain the ridgecrest at Forcella del Mescol before descending around the head of the next vast cirque, the Meduce de Inze. "It's a lunar landscape," Claudio remarked, and it was other-worldly. The surroundings were severe and almost sterile, the path a narrow ribbon of scree and rock that wound its way through the maze of boulders and dark, karstic cracks. We crossed this tortured ground, reached the slopes at the northern edge of the cirque and took a break. The path now went more-or-less straight up before gaining the via ferrata that would put us at the next forcella, Croda Rotta. Here we were once again above the magical 2,500 meters and for the next few kilometers, would closely follow the crest of the Marmarole. Nearing the Cresta Vanadel with its 500 meter south face, the views and wildness simply defied description. The chasm of the Val Vanedel dropped a full 1000 meters to Val d' Oten, surrounded by impossibly rugged peaks now pushing 3,000 meters, and there remained two large cirques to traverse before leaving Marmarole. The first, with the descent to Forcella Vanedel, was the only really distastful section of the entire route. The path was steep, loose and exposed, with the descent a series of short, steep switchbacks, forced into the only possible line. I was ready to clip into the cables of the final section that finished with an overhanging descent to the narrow notch. I looked down a nasty-looking gully. Claudio pointed to the ladders leading up the opposite side. A long series of cables followed, taking us around the corner overlooking the final cirque. Here was Val Granda, and some half-an-hour above, the tiny red box of Bivacco Voltolina, surrounded by a vast expanse of white scree. After another short section of cable, we were at the crossing of paths that led up, down, and ahead to the Cengia del Doge, our last via ferrata of the day. The path rounds the corner of this sinister-looking but straightforward buttress for nearly a kilometer before descending into the Val San Vido and the final climb to Forcella Grande. Here in this valley bottom was a cold clear rivulet bubbling from the ground, and with the exception of the 'dripping' Claudio had found two days earlier - the only water since Rifugio Ciaréido. Marmarole was dry ...

After the intricacies and concentration of the last three days, it was wonderful to walk this pleasant, ordinary path. My companion took to singing once more - another rock and roll tune, and it seemed the perfect setting for an old favorite or two as we made our way to the pass. His renditions of "Baba O'Riley" and "Rock and Roll Will Never Die" were very good and he had the lungs to sing and walk (at a good clip) simultaneously. The final descent to Rifugio San Marco was a long, steep, and unrelenting 400 meters of switchbacks and gullies, demanding attention and ending at the rifugio perched high above San Vito di Cadore, but there was more music to smooth the descent. We had been unable to contact the rifugio by phone, so I waited in suspense as Claudio checked for beds. It was taking a long time and there seemed to be a lot of people around... Just as I was beginning to accept the inevitability of walking another 5 kilometers to Rifugio Galassi, he came out the door with beers and sandwiches - and a big smile. Our luck was holding out. This guy was ok!

Both the Alta Via 4 and 5 share the path from Forcella Grande to Rifugio Antelao and on to the common finish in Pieve di Cadore. The three of us had followed this path on the Alta Via 4 the year before. The Alta Via 3 also visits Rifugio san Marco on its way westward, so this was my third visit, and it is a favorite. However, our day's destination, Rifugio Antelao, has first place in my heart. It looked like today would be a nice day to go there as we headed to Forcella Piccolo and down to Rifugio Galassi, where the route turned upward to the west and the Ferrata Ghiacciaio. At Galassi Claudio was told that a group of 75 young people and their instructors were also headed up the route and had left about an hour earlier. Since we would be following them up the cables, we took our time with the 400 meter ascent to its start. When we arrived, only 20 of the group were on the cable, and the remainder were queued-up below. With constant shouts of Roccia! from above, we dropped our packs, turned on the music, and kicked back. Four of the Italian military chaperones were nearby and told us that they were training this group of students who were not soldiers and thanked us for our patience and good humor. It reminded me of a NOLS outing in the States.

Eventually, the group cleared the cables enough that we could start. Claudio looked puzzled. "They moved the cables," he said. "They're not where they were last year." The route was now more direct and the cables now more vertical, avoiding a dihedral that I had thrashed on the year before. A time or two, I found myself looking for Anna, who had been in the lead last year. Even in her absence, the route was still a delight. We reached the top just as the group was leaving - the sheperds realizing that their flock would clog the descent as well. There were a few others from San Marco that had followed us up the wire and we all sat down for a break. The view of the western side of Marmarole, hidden from view until now, was almost heart-wrenching. I supressed the thought that this could be a place that I might never experience again, then remebered that I'd had the same sappy feelings a year earlier. In the other direction lay Antelao's crevasse-filled Ghiacciaio Superiore, facing eastward, and adding its own reflected light to the cirque. The multitude was strung out below us, a position preferable to us as we brought up the rear and walked down the moraine to the last headwall with its cables. This was vertical, equipped with metal rings, and descending it was new and exciting for the less-experienced . Eventually the way was clear, the large goup was headed down, and we had the path ahead to ourselves once again. We reached Forcella Piria, our last pass of the AV5, walked the last few, sublime kilometers of the path and were drinking beer at Rifugio Antelao an hour later.

Livio, the delightful rifugio master, and Claudio knew each other quite well, I thought. Claudio had spent summers of his youth in Pozzale, a small village just above Pieve di Cadore. Between beers, Livio showed us to a private room. It was no small thing for me, as Claudio's friend, to receive such a gracious and friendly welcome. Tomorrow we would finish our walk. Over the past 7 years, I had made five trips to Italy to complete the 6 classic Alta Vias. This was the last night of my last Alta Via and life's complications made it unlikely that I would be adding a sixth. So, with Livio's help, we commenced a mighty celebration. He served us a special dinner, above any that I'd ever had at a rifugio. Then, it was time for grappa, and he began dispensing shots from his extensive collection. Now deleriously happy and seriously intoxicated - a state that I invariably regret - I posted "Wish You Were Here" messages to friends and family. Eventually though, the past six days of effort and soaring levels of blood alcohol caught up with us both and we found our way to bed.

We said goodbye to Livio and began our walk down to Pieve di Cadore. After only a short way down the road, Claudio turned onto a trail that wandered down through the beech forest. Here, he said was where he, and his dog Book, would make forays from Pozzale to Antelao. He seemed deep in memories, so we walked these last few kilometers in silence, enjoying our thoughts in the morning sun. Soon, we could hear the traffic below and then were in Pozzale. We passed the summer home of his youth, now seemingly vacant, and found a bar where we had cappuchinos and I, always hungry, a croissant. Pieve di Cadore was only a few minutes down the road and along the way, we met his brother-in-law Roberto. I caught only a few words as they chatted but understood that he was the widower of Claudio's sister and remained unmarried. A few minutes later, we were at the tourist office, signing the record book and receiving our pins for the Alta Via di Tiziano. In the town center is a statue of Tiziano Vecellio, aka Titian, with easel and brush in hand. This was the home of this remarkable Venetian Renaissance painter, considered the greatest 16th-century master of color. That the Alta Via 5 would be named after him seemed fitting. We caught the first bus of the three that would take us back to the van at Moso. In Cortina, during our wait for the second, Claudio described skiing on the pistes of Tofane, directy across the valley. It was steep terrain and, he hinted, could be a challenge when icy. It seemed comparable to the skiing at my home in Jackson Hole, and I wondered if the notorious glamour factor of Cortina would dampen my enthusiasm. I had seen people walking the streets, flaunting sunglasses worth more than my pickup truck: transcending the caiman leather cowboy boots and diamond-studded belt buckles of my home-town entitled. He remarked that there was a time and place for everything, but that Cortina was no longer for him either.

Our only remaining responsibility was to arrive at Claudio's home in time for dinner, and by early afternoon, we were back in the van, now headed east from Val Pusteria over Passo Monte Croce - the same journey I had made just three weeks earlier. From here, we would follow the upper Piave River one last time to Pieve di Cadore before continuing south to Treviso. He had graciously invited me to stay with his family until my flight home. I accepted, humbled by the offer. We arrived late in the afternoon and I was introduced to his wife Silvia and, after a year of emails, greeted Anna. Later, his son Marco came by to visit and we talked skiing. His was a warm and a casual family and I felt immediately welcome. The next day, we walked the streets of this beautiful, laid-back little city where Claudio's family had lived for generations. I began to understand the true meaning of home for him, with its deep roots that most Americans could only imagine. We shopped, drank spritzes, and finished the evening at a pizzeria. The following morning at the airport, we mumbled our farewells. Whether from age or fatigue or simple affection for these friends, I was overcome with the finality of parting. I could only mutter a goodbye, my eyes wet as I turned and walked away.