Officially There are ten Alta Vias in the Dolomites. The One through the Six, and the Nine (La Trasversale) are the most visited; the remaining three generally considered to be lacking the dazzle of the others. With two free weeks to spend in Italy before joining a friend for the Alta Via 5, I had asked him what he thought about the AV6. "It would be a shame not to complete the collection." he replied diplomatically. He and his daughter had walked it during Covid, finding it suitably isolated but not as rewarding as the others. Her opinion was undisguised: "Why would you want to?" "Because I can" I thought back, rhetoric begetting rhetoric. Starting in the north near the Austrian border and finishing almost 200 kilometers later in the south at the Venetian plains, it was the whole enchilada - the longest of all, and as wild and remote as the Dolomites could be. That seemed like a pretty good reason. I had walked the AVs 1 through 4 over the past 7 years, and with this humble addition - and the not-so-humble AV5 to follow, I would indeed complete the collection. So it was that I arrived in Dobbiaco, following a week in Norway and two days of character-building train travel, once again - just in time for dinner at my now-favorite Casa Alpina. I had a day to prepare before continuing east to Sappada and the start of the walk.

A short train ride up-valley would take me to San Candido where I would catch a bus to San Stefano di Cadore and from there, it being Sunday, trust my luck hitching to Sappada. Passing through the spectacular surroundings of the upper Val Pusteria and Passo Monte Croce was perfect emotional foreplay for the walk to come. A couple of rides left me in Sappada. After a visit to the church and quick lunch nearby, I was on the AV6, crossing the Fiume Piave (here little more than a stream) along path 314 south up the Val de Enghe. Predictably, there were several kilometers of easy walking, but as soon as the path began climbing, it became quiet. There were only two others and their dog ahead, and who, being faster, I didn't see again until the end of the day. Reaching a junction and crossing a small stream - the last water of the day, I topped-off my bottles and continued along the path, now steep and faint through the grass. The sun was hot but the views of the valley and the Austrian Alps to the north as I wandered into the hanging valley above made the sweat worth the effort. I soon reached Passo Elbel at 1,963 meters and my first views of the Fruilian Dolomites stretching south - perhaps not as dramatic as the mountains to the west, but I was sure I could get lost in them all the same. The path now dove steeply, zig-zagging through cliff bands for a hundred meters before striking east across a steep slope punctuated with several wash-outs. I had been alone and immersed in daydreams when I rounded a corner at a junction and was startled by the presence of a family with two children, all silent and watching me approach. They remained so as I returned their smiles and began the ascent to Rifugio De Gasperi. Here the path climbed relentlessly up switchbacks crossing a narrow gully. Just as it was becoming tiresome, a series of whimsical wood carvings appeared - strategically placed at every third or fourth corner. I soon heard the children laughing below, I supposed at these thoughtful touches. Just as the distraction of the figures began to fade, the angle eased and as I topped the last hill, framed by the forested path, was the rifugio.

Memory is complicated. Like an insurance policy, or Google's terms of use, there are the bullets, and buried deeper within - the fine print; and without an occasional nudge, the details can be elusive. Mine returned in a warm deluge when the woman at the desk greeted me with a smile and "Buongiorno! Are you Jim?". Anna Mainardi, soon to become the manager of the operation, showed me to my room. "Solo", she said, pointing to the other 3 beds. She smiled at my lopped-off "Grazie". After a quick wash-up, I was back in the sala commune with a beer. The place seemed busy, but not full, and I was apparently the only Yank. The couple ahead of me on the trail were here and they introduced themselves: Cristian - a stonemason, Mara, his wife - an engineer, and their shaggy dog Corsa, all veterans of the pooch's namesake trek, the GR20, and the AVs 1 and 2 as well. They were from Bergamo and shared my intentions, although like most, at a more ambitious pace. We were seated at the same table for dinner and it soon became apparent that there was more food than guests to eat it. We were given huge portions and plied with seconds. I left the table completely stuffed and was having a coffee in the library nook when Anna approached me with a piece of cake. I declined, but she sat it in front of me anyway - it was her special recipe. I found room for it and, to her delight, had another. Filled with remorse (and cake), but now content, I made my way back to my room and, even though living dangerously with the coffee and chocolate, fell asleep in moments.

There were eggs for breakfast, and despite last night's gluttony, I was surprised with my appetite. In an hour I was descending the switchbacks from hell, and at yesterday's junction, took the path west. It was an hour later before I encountered anyone, and they turned out to be the family from yesterday. They were on their way back to the road and on a path across the meadow. We waved so-long. Though the walking was pleasant in the warm sun, I had to concede that today's terrain was so far, unremarkable. Another 20 minutes passed before I met one of the employees from Gasperi walking back up to the rifugio with his parents, all making better time up the road than I was descending it. I wandered on, along a series of forest roads, got lost a little, and eventually found myself at a parking area with a couple of cars. Here the correct path, still very much a road, descended to a real casera with live cows, one obviously out-of-sorts with a bad leg (and large horns). I gave her a wide berth, crossed a bridge and nearby, saw a sign - one newly-posted and officially signifying that this was indeed the Alta Via 6. Then it was up the last hill to Rifugio Fabbro. The road was steep and rocky, zig-zagging through an area that had been logged sometime in the past, but now washed out in places. Soon I was high above the valley and the views of the mountains improved. I reached the rifugio in the early afternoon. It was on a road, and quite busy. The same guy I had met with his parents earlier had called ahead and reserved a room for me. It had a pair of bunks and a nice view south across the road to a long crest of pinnacles some 300 meters above.

The action was outside, so I took a beer and sandwich then sat down to watch the show. "Everybody Loves Everybody", "at least here...", I thought to myself, humming the tune. As the afternoon passed, the visitors thinned and I found a comfy seat. The cameriera had just finished her shift. She took one next to me, waved a cigarette and asked if it would bother me. "No, I think we're going to die anyway...". She laughed as if it were her first of the day. "Alessandra", she said, smiling disarmingly. "Jim", I replied, suitably disarmed, succumbing to my second crush in as many days. I bummed one and we lit up. "Do you like cats?", I asked, pointing to the huge purple feline with yellow eyes and inscrutable gaze gracing her shirt - a David Kilgour album cover. "I love them.", she said, almost reverently. "I have five.", and pulled out her phone. We discussed our mutual affection for cats, and she hooked me up to the rifugio's wifi to see our Wyoming menagerie. After a while, I asked her about the crest across the road. She pointed to a cross on one of the summits, saying she walked up to it every day after work - "To make up for the cigarettes...". I asked if she wanted company, and with the nod, put on my boots and followed her up the path. She was dying to leave nearby Pàdola and go to America to become a CPA, "The land of opportunity". I remarked that my bus had stopped there and that the AV6 had brought me here. She was educated and well-traveled, yet always found herself returning to the village where she had been born, and I could hear quiet resignation in her voice. We reached the crucifix and she pointed out one landmark after another across the remarkable view. I mumbled something about her being lucky to live in such a fantastic place, realizing too late the implication, then fumbled awkwardly to undo it. We walked quietly back to the road. She got in her car and scribbled her email on a rifugio card. "Maybe I'll see you in Wyoming", she said with a wistful smile, then drove away - an apparent end to the ephemeral friendship. The couple from Bergamo were here, and we (and Corsa) shared a table for dinner. The food here was hyped as excellent, and it was. We talked engineering, our common passion for bicycles, the GR20, and the Continental Divide Trail. I found I had bitten off a little too much with the afternoon's additional diversion and gave up after an hour. No grappa tonight...

The four of us walked along the road for a couple of hundred meters, then found the marked path that bypassed the next 2 kilometers of narrow, guard-railed hairpins. We paid a price for the shortcut however - the trail in this little ravine had been washed away, forcing us into the twisted stream bed. Corsa lead the way to the road crossing. They resumed their speedy pace and soon disappered, the dog at the rear, wagging her tail goodbye. I shuffled the hour up to a vast meadow and the working Casera Doana. Here, I caught the three speedsters and got a long drink from a fountain overlooking the deep valley to the west through which ran the Piave, now large enough to be dammed. I did not share their interest in dairies so was ready to climb the short hill and follow the nearly level, abandoned road to Passo del Landro. Along this grassy way, Corsa discovered a viper and soon, another, so Cristian leashed her until the pass. Here, the way climbed a narrow ridge to its high point, Col Pioi at 1863 meters. Now the views were to the south over the deep valley of the River Tagliamento some 900 meters below. I opened the map, trying to wrap my head around the incredible tangle of topography. Soon the sounds of the trio faded in the forest below. The path dove straight down the ridge for 400 meters, first through firs then into beeches before abruptly leveling out and turning due west to follow the contour of the hillside for a couple of kilometers before reaching a 2-track. Here there was a large sign commemorating the visit of Pope John II some 20 years earlier. I continued along the road, now lined with clusters of barns that had been converted to summer cottages, and the tempting aromas of del pranzo in the air. A kilometer later, I was at Passo della Mauria.

Except for a family picnicking in a patch of grass behind the buildings, it was deserted. Hoping for a sandwich and a beer, I settled instead for a Kate's Bar, forced down the last of my warm, electrolyte-infused water and set off around the hillside to Rifugio Giàf, still some 6 kilometers away. There were two scree-filled chasms along this otherwise beautiful traverse, each requiring a descent and climb to regain the path. There was however, water running in both, mysteriously cold and clear. Beeches lined the walk and the leaves softened each footfall. Here on the northern slopes, the mossy ground was dotted with late-summer Cyclamen, Amanita Muscaria, and a gentian I did not recognize. Eventually, the path rounded a broad ridge and traversed a series of south-facing scree slopes and gullies. Dwarf pines lined the path that finally entered another forest and crossed a stream just before the rifugio. On the other side of this steep valley, there was what looked like another path, but upon reaching the rifugio and seeing the vehicles, I realized it was a supply road carved into the hillside.

Cat Girl had called ahead for me - a smart move, for the rifugio was packed. The owner, Alessandro (go figure...), who had bought the place during Covid in 2020, had beaten the odds and turned it into what looked to be a massive success. This super-friendly, pony-tailed and bearded guy had a young, engaging staff, and the place was filled with infectious energy. Marina, a young grad student in botany and who was responsible for the creation of the numerous exhibits and small gardens surrounding the rifugio, showed me to my bunk which was the last in a dorm of twelve.

There were eight of us seated at the table for dinner: a couple from the Netherlands, two American techies working in Portugal, and Mara and Cristian (and Corsa - of course). The eighth was a German fellow from the area of Garmisch, who, in the hour to follow, detailed his skiing and climbing adventures, and his wife's passion for learning the viola da gamba. It was comprehensive. The couple from the Netherlands were the first to crack: "We've had a exhausting day", they apologized. Grateful, everyone took the cue and started to rise. "Wait - you must hear her playing my favorite "Bach". This was more than an invitation and froze everyone. With a caution of his hand between each of the four parts (as a conductor might signal to an audience of children), we listened obediently until the last dying note. He said, "Thank you. What a pleasant evening...", and left. With the look of someone who loved music and had been cruelly disappointed, the woman from the Netherlands murmured, "There was no harpsichord...". Back in the dorm, I fetched a ladder for my upper bunk. "May I have that when you are finished?". Herr Gamba was in the bunk across from me. "Sorry, I believe I'm in the wrong room", I mumbled, handing him the ladder and avoiding eye contact. In one swift motion, I shouldered my pack, snatched my cap and sunglasses, and was gone.

"Too much company for me", I confessed to Allesandro, asking if there was a spot outside for my tent. "Sure", he said, and with a look of understanding possessed only by rifugio masters, pointed to a place on the hillside. I set up my tent, suddenly not minding the extra 400 grams, and returned for a beer. It was now quiet, so we drank a bit and talked about British Columbia, the Tetons and the rifugio business - as much romance as business I thought. Marina joined us, and we resumed the conversation of the plants and the exhibits of the grounds. Allesandro, also an apparent admirer of alliteration, introduced her as "Marina, our Temple of Taxonomic Terminology!", and she blushed - then laughed when I told her I had a soft spot for girls who talked latin, and that my wife, who was a "flower child" (national park naturalist), could actually swear in it! "De armento cacas!", she countered gravely. She identified the gentian and explained that, though it looked almost identical to those in the western US, it was unique to the Old World. Dinner had added its weariness to the day and it was getting pretty late for everyone, so with a warning from Allesandro that one more liter of lemon soda would surely give me diabetes, I excused myself and went outside for a last look at the stars. Buona Notte...

Nothing beats a good night's sleep, I thought with regret. I had saved 300 grams by substituting a 4 millimeter, ultralight foam pad for my comfy Thermarest^® and had paid the price. Despite the poor night's sleep and a hasty breakfast, I was off early, happy with the sunshine (and to have side-stepped another music video). I made steady progress to Forcella Scodovacca some 600 meters above, leap-frogging a couple who were day-hiking the otherwise deserted path. From this pass at over 2000 meters, flanked on either side by 500 meter towers, the trail lost a steep 700 meters of elevation. Now filled with ascending walkers struggling up the trench filled with loose scree, I was glad to be descending. Eventually the angle eased as I reached Casera Pra de Toro, a substantial working dairy just above rifufio Padova. After 4 hours - and now running on fumes, I was ready for lunch. Hoping for a change from the customary pasta and polenta dishes on the rifugio menu, I asked for bread, cheese and tomatoes. The girl looked puzzled and left, returning in a few minutes to exclaim happily, "Posso!". With this gigantic open-faced sandwich and a couple of liters of water, I lolled at this place filled with hikers, cyclists and weekend tourists for an hour, hypnotized by the infectious happiness and the miraculous properties of lycra.

Once again fortified, I shouldered my pack and resumed walking. After about an hour of up, down, and around, I crossed a small creek that marked the start of the final 500 meter climb through the beech, larch and fir forest to rifugio Tita Barba. During this hour, the skies had turned ominous and the rumble of thunder was all around. A hundred meters up the hill, I met four fellows hastily slipping and sliding down the steep rocky path. One was carrying a pack identical to mine (relatively rare here) and that sparked a best-pack-in-the-world conversation. They were also skiers and we talked until it started to sprinkle. Concerned that I intended to continue up into bad weather, and I suppose, confirming their suspicions of foolhardiness with a smile and shrug while pointing to the small sucker hole lingering above, they left with the caution, "Stai attento". By the time I reached the high meadows, the storms had dissipated and the surrounding peaks were reappearing. The Spalti di Toro, which had been astounding from rif Padova and obscured until now, were revealed in their full grandeur once again as I approached the tiny rifugio. Unlike Giaf and Padova - both teeming with visitors, Tita Barba was deserted and I was alone in the 8-bed dormitory. It was only midafternoon and a second lunch seemed only natural. I sat outside with my beer and sandwich and watched the rifugio staff playing Bocce. The cameriera invited me to play, but I chose to nurse another beer instead. Soon, a guy (who turned out to be her guy) showed up, and declining to join the game as well, got a coke and sat at the other table, giving a thumbs-up to the tune coming from my little speaker. He played guitar in a local band and came up to visit his girlfriend once a week. I asked if he would mind playing something on the guitar that hung from the wall inside. Tuning it to an open G and placing a slide on his pinky, he started into a great rendition of Leo Kottke's "Whine", a slider Leo had written for the Stratocaster. This ended the game as everyone gathered to listen. He was versatile and very, very good. He apparently did this on most visits, sometimes walking back down the same day if he had a gig. He played a couple more tunes, and I was starting to fear that music might be mightier than love, but after a while he put the guitar away and the two of them wandered off. I walked to the scenic overlook nearby and took some photos - poor ones since the light was fading with the building clouds, leaving little to work with. By dinner's end, I had just enough time to retrieve my laundry and settle in before it started to pour.

Sometime during the night, the generator quit, and with it, the lights (and the noise). I was up early and packed by breakfast. The morning was again perfect as I headed south. There was a choice of routes to my destination; path 350 to the east of Croda Spe at 2314 meters, or path 355 to the west. The second came with the best promise of solitude, so at the junction, I left the forest and turned right up the much fainter path. This variant soon regained the crest of the long ridge high above Tita Barba at Forcella Pian dei Lans before descending a little to cross the head of the huge bowl of the Pian itself. As the entire cirque came into view, I could see two figures climbing the path from below. Not knowing which direction they would take at the junction ahead and wishing to preserve the comfortable lonliness, I left the trail and scrambled up the slope a hundred meters to the ridgecrest to wait. At the junction, they took the path in the direction from which I had come and soon disappeared over the forcella. From this vantage point, everything seemed deserted, so I returned to the path west and after some attentive walking around the shoulder of Croda dei Laris, was soon at Forcella per Fedorcia.

Here, at 2,234 meters, was a sudden, stunning display. Every peak south from the tip of Antelao was visible to the west: Pelmo, Civetta, Marmolada, and even the Bosconeros, now dwarfed by the perspective. I wished my friend was here to name them all. I was looking across the heart of the Dolomites, with parts of each of the 5 great Alta Vias dreamily mingling with one another. One could be forgiven for mistaking the vast scree slopes for snow for they were every bit as white. Only from this humble Alta Via was this view possible, and for the moment, it was mine, and perfect.

Eventually , I realized I could not sit and watch the clouds forever, although it seemed this would be a perfect place to do so. It was a long arcing descent to Casera Cavalét at the bottom of this hanging valley. I stuck to the faint grassy path with its occasional red dot, having learned that paths in the Dolomites might seem to wander, but invariably go where they must. I reached the shuttered building and dry stream bed. It was another casera, and had died in just the last few years from lack of water. I could only imagine the days of simple mountain prosperity when there was water and livestock, and smoke coming from the chimney of this tiny, now abandoned building. I shuffled along in the hot sun to where the path began its final climb. There was a large rock nearby. I made a nest in its tiny patch of shade, ate some gummy bears and chocolate, drank the last of my water, then finished the 200 meters to the last pass of the day. Here at Forcella del Frate, there was no sign - just a tiny cairn of gravel, graced with a popsicle stick, and a view to the south into the huge Val dei Frassin. Bounding its right side was a phalanx of impressive peaks rising to 2,700 meters and within their passage, lay the now-destroyed path along the crux of the Alta Via Six.

Ahead lay the descent to Casera Laghet de Sora. Another improbable path, it followed a series of switchbacks down a steep, slabby face. I had been warned about this section (and a recent accident on it) by the girl at Tita Barba, and she was right. I rarely dwell on the down-side of solo travel in the mountains, but this 100 meters of what could only be described as a frosting of gravel over rock was undeniably risky. Striking what I felt was a reasonable balance between confidence and cowardice (the laws of gravity applying equally to both), I began my cautious descent. I looked back a last time to the north. The popsicle stick seemed to be flipping me off. At the base of the rock apron, the path wound through a series of cliff bands then into a sea of waist-high grass. It was still early so I took the path to Forcella del Drap to reconnoiter the trail to bivacco Greselin. It was longer and more difficult than I expected, but from from the forcella, what I could see of the path ahead looked very unpleasant and dangerous. I dozed in the sun in this lofty, wild place until a cloud chilled me from my daydreams, then retraced my steps to the main trail. A few minutes from the casera, I could see people sunning on a promontory and upon reaching the tiny shelter, took the last of the eight beds.

Of the eight occupants, I was the only one who had come from the north. Just one of the others was walking the AV6 and he had come from bivacco Gervasutti via the eastern path. The remaining six were members of a climbing club who had walked up the valley from Cimolais. They were all young and had schlepped massive loads for their visit. As we cooked dinner - mine in my tiny pot and theirs in a massive wok, I asked about their climbing gear, curious about the soft iron pitons that made up a substantial portion of their racks. Here, one of the guys explained, there was a need for softer iron with its ability to conform to, rather than fracture the soft rock, and subsequently, more frequent placements. The long runouts common on the smooth granite of Yosemite were considered to be poor form or a mark of inexperience here. Laughing at this pronouncement, one of the women showed me a medical kit filled with steri-strips and bandages of every size. As I marveled at this substantial "trauma kit", someone said something in Italian I didn't understand, and everyone laughed. "What does that mean?", I asked. "Slice and dice!", she cried - prompting another chuckle. It was a completely different climbing environment, calling for a different mindset. If you were going to take a fall, you had better know how to do it. This area had good climbing, they said, but they were here only for the weekend. They confirmed that the original AV6 path to biv. Greselin had been washed away in a storm a few years ago and was literally impassable. The alternate route did indeed descend to the valley, then to Cimolais before rejoining the route up Val Cialedina via a short bus ride to the village of Cellino.

The other AV walker was determined to follow the now-destroyed path to bivacco Greselin. The climbers said nothing but I think they thought him a fool. I filled my water bottles from the spring nearby and headed down. I was almost to the road before meeting a solitary hiker, then shortly thereafter, several families. Once at the road, there were many cyclists and cars before I passed the entrance to the Friulian Dolomites Natural Park with its kiosk and nearby trailhead for bivacco Greselin. I asked if I had to pay to exit (sometimes required in US national parks). "No.", the warden replied with a smile. The trail was closed at some point ahead, I thought due to reconstruction, but several groups of young backpackers were starting up, perhaps to some intermediate destination. It was a Sunday, and many people were dusted with brightly-colered dyes as part of a local festival. The road soon took me to Cimolais where in the square, men had taken hoses to the dyes spread everywhere. I found a restaurant, but no one who spoke english. I managed to make what I was pretty sure was a lunch reservation and sat outside drinking coke until my head buzzed. About then, the other AV6 walker from Laghet di Sora appeared and took a seat at a nearby table. Given the time frame, I figured it had required a walk to Forcella del Drap to convince him that lunch in Cimolais was a better alternative and, I thought, a better decision. After about twenty minutes the woman who had told me not to worry fetched me and seated me at a table. "This would be fastest.", I thought she said in Italian. It was a lot of food, and I struggled to get it all down in time to catch the bus that would take me to Cellino and the entrance to Val Cialedina where I would resume the walk. Getting to the stop just in time, I found that I needed a ticket for the two buses that would take me to my destination. The driver helped me with the app and ticket purchases, then dropped me at the next stop. Here I found Cristian and Mara. Corsa had developed heat stroke and needed a day of rest. She looked pretty sad, perhaps sensing the frustration of her people. I relayed to them the warning of vipers from my friends and this added to their concern with taking her on the steep south-facing ascent to Passo Valbona. They would take a bus to the nearby village of Claut, where there was a market, spend the night, and formulate a plan B. As it turned out, it would be the last time I would see them.

The driver of the second bus pointed to a seat and took me the last 5 km to the trailhead without asking for my ticket. It was very hot and I worried that my three liters of water might not get me through the rest of the day and, I suspected, most of tomorrow if I couldn't find more in the Val Cialedina. The stream bed up the valley was dry, and I was starting to think about a retreat when I came upon a small pumping station. At the door was a crate filled with 2-liter bottles of water and a sign that I understood to mean that there was no water ahead. The implication seemed charitable and pragmatic. "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission", I thought, in these circumstances. I drank one and supplemented my load with another. Near the end of the road, I dropped my pack and walked up the side path looking for the stream referred to in recent online accounts, but after a couple hundred meters, concluded it was a fable. There was only a dry streambed and I returned disappointed. I found a spot to camp nearby and called it a day.

At the time, I would not have thought that this would be one of the best days I would ever have in Italy. After a night spent wishing for my Thermarest^®, I made breakfast and broke camp. Just as I was starting up the last few meters of road, a jeep with two park rangers appeared. Had I stolen the water? Was I in deep? I felt guilty already... Apparently not, for one got out, walked over to me and asked if I had enough water for the day. I said I thought a liter would be enough and he looked doubtful. "You should take more. We have some here.". I took a 2-liter bottle and we chatted a little before parting. He had tagged me as an American by my pack. He also warned me of snakes. Now I had something to think about as I walked to the head of the valley where I was abruptly surrounded by steep faces on three sides. The path went up an unlikely-looking series of forested terraces as far as I could see. There were a few cables tying the sections of path together through the cliff bands and I was eventually left at the base of a hundred meters of steep grass. This was, according to the slope gauge on my poles, right at 40 degrees and I was convinced, teeming with vipers. The alternative was an attractive-looking series of slabs at the same angle, and easy going unless you slipped - in which case only divine intervention would save you from tumbling over the cliffs below. I put on gaitors and leather gloves, thinking my chances with snakes in the grass were best.

I reached Passo Valbona without encountering any serpents (for all I knew) and saw the first person since morning. He was descending from the nearby peak of Col Nudo. Neither of us spoke as we watched a helicopter working above from our separate vantage points. After 15 minutes of activity, it flew away down the Val de Montanes. With a nod, he started down the path toward San Martino. I took a few minutes to snack and look around. After Col Nudo, there was just one massif remaining on the walk, that of Monte Cavallo, visible to the south and two days distant. I took some pictures, and though the images were safe, the memories were not.

The path of silence was living up to its name. I reached the valley bottom in solitude and there, found water. It came from a series of tiny seeps that had been channeled into a small basin carved from a section of tree. From it protruded a copper tube, stoppered by a wooden peg at its inlet. The flow was sufficient to quickly fill a water bottle. Whoever came before me had replaced the stopper, so the the reservoir was full.

It was still a way to San Martino where I hoped I would find a place to stay. In fact, most of the walk had been essentially ad-lib, an approach my Italian friends pulled off with great success. After some kilometers of road walking with increasingly ominous-looking skies, the church tower appeared. My initial hope was a room in the town's hotel. That was not to be, and again, I was frustrated by my poor Italian. "Yes, I could have dinner and breakfast (and all the beer I could drink) but there were no rooms. As I drank my first beer and ate mini-pizzas, I suppose, looking somewhat forlorn, one of the staff simply asked, "Camping?". It turned out her English was better than my Italian, for at my nod, she simply said, "One moment" and left, shortly to return with the news that I could put my tent up in the grass of the school yard nearby. "Would you like to shower?", she asked, sounding obliquely hopeful. I nodded again. She looked pleased and repeated, "One moment". I was finishing another beer and more pizzas when she reappeared with towels and a man who took me to the showers in the sports complex across the street. "Chiudi la porta quando hai finito, per favore.", he said, smiling. I got that...

It had been three hot days since Tita Barba, so the shower could easily have been the high point of the day. It was not however, for after I had set up my tent, I returned to the hotel and with approving smiles from the lady at the bar, was given a menu. "Tutto", she exclaimed with a flourish across the two pages. This was the full dining room menu, and not the simpler bar menu, designed around the wonts of snacking drinkers. I looked at it cautiously. The year before in Belluno, I had asked for "Lingua" from the menu, and rather than linguini I had been served unexpectedly tasty pickled beef tongue. I pointed at the Scampi and she made a slight, disapproving shake of her head. I pointed at an item with the word "Manzo" (which I knew to be beef) and she smiled. It was beef and it was a feast! Finally stuffed, I sampled a couple of the locally-infused grappas, then asked if I could pay. "La mattina.", she said with a wave, knowing this would be the only place I would find breakfast. I wobbled outside, looking up and down the quiet street. If there was night-life in San Martino, it was well-hidden. I wandered back to my tent, collected the gear I had spread to dry on the chain-link fence and packed all but my camp, expecting rain before morning.

It rained quietly for several hours. The soft grass helped the inadequate pad just enough to allow sleep until the rumble of thunder awoke me just before dawn. I finished packing and had breakfast, then made a visit to the church atop the small hill overlooking the town. By the time I was walking, the sun had come out, but after just a couple of hours, the thunder resumed and there was a constant, light rain by noon. The road I had been walking since San Martino wandered through small villages of Alpago and ended at Magla Cate, a small working dairy with a restaurant, and since the visibility was reduced to only a few hundred meters, it seemed a good place to take a break. It was filled with people both eating and waiting for the weather to break. I was in no more hurry than anyone, and soon the waiter came over and, pointing to an older couple at their table, asked if I would like to join them. It had one of the only remaining empty chairs. They were from Florence and retired. They had a summer home in the Alpago and the rain had cut short their walk. The establishment had apparently made a lot of lasagna, for that was all that remained, and I received a gigantic portion along with a generous slab of polenta. My hosts were done with their wine, so the task of finishing that fell to me as well. They had both walked the AV 6 some years earlier and assured me that what remained of my day to the rifugio would be delightful - if the weather cleared, and not so much if it didn't.

I donned my rain gear and started off, but after an hour, the rain stopped and the sky began to lighten. As I walked up the Val Salitas, shedding layers of damp clothing, the clouds lifted, revealing the walls of the large cirque leading to the last pass of the walk - ironically named "Forcella Laste". There were flowers blooming and black salamanders in profusion - living it up in the salamander slow-lane. Observing them seemed oddly voyeuristic. I took the last few steps to the forcella. Would there be a revealing denouement, or the triumph of victory, or an overwhelming sense of closure? I was rewarded with simple, sweet fascination.

From the forcella, the last of these Dolomites felt every bit as magnificent as their huge brothers and sisters, their summits still visible beyond the wall of Val Salitas to the north. South lay a huge swath of forest and beyond, the Venetian plains, and through the fog, the first few twinkling lights of evening. Here was the simplest of answers to "Why?", revealed in the beauty of that moment in time and space, and I wished my young friend was here to share it. I lingered in the solitude until I got cold, then dragged my feet the short five minutes to Rifugio Semenza.

I was the only guest, and thought that the the fellow running the place share my ambivalence for company. He established my identity and where I would sleep, and except for the point and nod at the beer glass, spoke sparingly until it was time for dinner. He said, as if to warn me, that the cook would not arrive until tomorrow and asked if I would mind some music. I nodded. He played something I had never heard before, and that broke the ice. "Who are they?", I asked. He said they were Irish and were his friends, then showed me pictures of them together. I suspected that music was a large part of his life and the solitude allowed unfettered indulgence, and he liked this. I was ambivalent. It is easy to listen but harder to understand what the other person hears, even when you are sure you know...

Morning's view extended for only 100 meters into the fog. It was warm, so we went out onto the deck and had americanos to pass the time. No espresso rush today. I was content in this quiet mountain perch so asked if I could stay another day. "You'll get to meet the cook.", he replied. Around noon, a young fellow arrived. He had come up the same route as me with the intention of continuing the Anello del Guslon back to his starting point at Magla Cate - a loop around the four peaks of the Monte Guslon massif. When he found I was from Wyoming, his first question was about bears. He said there were bears in the Dolomites and people were terrified of them yet prohibited from carrying defensive spray. This fear seemed unfounded and mainly based on what seemed like folk tales and internet chaff. He had never seen one nor could he recall a time when someone had been injured by one. I told him some bear stories and how we coexisted with a couple thousand of them in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem, with only rare encounters and even fewer injuries. No one had been eaten for years, I assured him. The myths seemed entrenched nonetheless and I think my casual assurances left him unconvinced.

It slowly began to clear and with mutual promises to stay in touch, he started off. "Watch out for bears!", I joked. He waved his pole. The rifugio master started the gasoline-powered mule and walked it to the upper terminus of the cable. There we waited for the loaded cart to arrive. It took several trips to ferry the supplies the 200 meters to the rifigio. We hadn't been finished with this process for long when the cook arrived. We spent a good part of what remained of the afternoon drinking coffee and eating fresh cookies.

The rifugio master was right - the cook could cook! Dinner and breakfast were great. Fresh eggs were served to the American's delight, and I left with a huge sandwich as well. The storm was to move out today and I had decided to do the full 30 kilometers to Vittorio Veneto - all down, except for a pesky 1000 meters of ascent that would accumulate in bits and pieces over this distance. The first two kilometers were steep and it was raining. At the point where the path crossed the supply trolly cables I looked up to see them disappearing in the mist. On a rock at my feet was another pair of salamanders.

The path now led through the forests of fir and beech that I had seen from the rifigio. The Foresta Consiglio occupied a vast area on a plateau above the Veneto plains. The AV6 wandered through this forest with the occasional village or isolated house, and followed a series of forest roads on which vehicles were prohibited. I reached the small village of Campon (where there was a road with real cars) and had lunch at the fountain. The sun had finally broken through so I spread my gear to dry and ate my sandwich. Cheers to the cook!

It quickly became hot and I was glad to reenter the shade of the forest. I had been losing elevation consistently but now found where I would regain big chunks of it as I climbed a series of switchbacks overlooking the meadows of Malga Mezzomilgio. From here, there were hazy views across Lago di Santa Croce to La Schiara, the southernmost peak of the Alta Via 1. I soon passed the magla and its restaurant, and now the path climbed through gentle meadows otherwise unoccupied but for a cow here and there. The muddy path entered an enchanting old-growth forest, rare in all of Italy and I believe, much of Europe. I walked through this silent, shaded place for nearly a kilometer, then it ended abruptly and the path entered a large stand of mature beeches in which every other tree had been felled, their leaves barely wilted. Had I passed through this forest only a few days earlier, I would have remained in the midst of beauty rather than a logging operation. I was sad to have missed it.

After a long series of contours through more forest and up grassy hills, I reached the final high point, the summit of Monte Pizzoc. I bought a bottle of water at the nearby rifigio, but there was a wait for food. It didn't matter. Vittorio Veneto was only a few kilometers away and it was (mostly) downhill. I followed a steep shortcut that eventually met the main path, wandering along one of the southermost ridges overlooking the plains. The finish was fittingly steep - very steep and it left me in a parking area at a sanatorium. A series of broad winding stone steps led down to town, 200 meters below. It was nearly 8 pm and I thought I should call my hotel to let them know I would be missing the check-in time. "Non capisco l'inglese.", the woman replied - period. A runner was skipping up these endless steps, saw my bewilderment, and asked if he could help. I explained the situation and he took the phone. After a prolonged, amiable conversation, he returned the phone and said that if I hurried, the woman would leave the gate open. I assured him that I thought I knew where the residence was located and with thoughts of cold beer and a hot shower dancing in my head, descended the remaining series of steps at a pace that surprised me. I found the right street but wandered along it a bit too far, for a woman called out to me from behind and I followed her to my room. She showed me the moka pot, the stove controls, the beers in the fridge, and apparently satisfied that I wouldn't set the place ablaze, left me to figure out the rest. I sat on the bed, thinking of John Prine's "How Lucky", and realized just how lucky... In nine fleetingly short days, I had walked what would amount to 150 kilometers of the Alta Via 6 and been moved by heartbreaking beauty and profound solitude. I had met many wonderful people - and some had touched my heart. With one though, I would remain hopelessly entangled: Italia. I managed to down half a beer before falling asleep for a sweet twelve hours...

Serravalle is a periferia on the northern edge of the city of Vittorio Veneto. It is quiet and small, and has been around for centuries. Its name reflects its location, tucked between the last of the plains to the south and beginning of the mountains to the north - a 'gateway city' in America. It was a perfect place to regroup for the Alta Via 5. I spent three days wandering her streets, learning of her history, sampling endless gelatos, shopping for groceries to make meals in my little apartment, and even absorbing some Italian. It was an easy place to strike up conversations, for people were both polite and outgoing, and soon greeted you by name. When I paid my bill, the manager of the residence insisted that this was the finest place in Italy to spend the fall. He jotted a number on the business card. "Jim, call and tell me when you will arrive, and bring your wife. It is a very romantic place. You will fall in love again ..."