Chapter 13: Hiking the Alta Via 4
Hello everyone! I’ll be jumping around a little here for the next few chronicles, as I’ve been most inspired to write about our time in the Dolomites. A lot has happened between leaving Canada and our time in the Dolomites, but I hope to get to that all very soon. In the meantime, please enjoy the mountains!
~
Of all parts of this European chapter, hiking in the Dolomites with my sister and her friends, Jamie and Chloe, was the one I’d been looking forward to the most. The cup that I’d filled with the most spectacular nature in North America had emptied a little since arriving in Europe, having spent the last week enjoying the metropolitan life in cities such as London, Amsterdam, Edinburgh and Stockholm. While these cities were wonderful in their own ways, I couldn’t wait to get back to the wider open spaces and breathing alpine air.
Walking the Alta Via 4 (AV4) in the northern Italian alps had been six months in the making for us (shout out to Helen for booking the rifugios way back when). For a while we tossed up between walking the Kungsleden in Sweden and an alpine trail in Slovenia, but hearing about the dramatic Dolomites made us reconsider those initial plans. Helen’s friends, Jamie and Chloe, were going to join us for this one.
The AV4 spans 85km through the most superlative mountain passes in the Italian alps. The route climbs almost 6000 metres of elevation in total. Perhaps a little ambitiously, we planned to take 6 days to complete the trail. Too long don’t read: this trip tested our physical, spiritual and mental strength in so many ways, but being surrounded by this beautiful yet fragile environment was beyond rewarding and — classic type 2 fun — I’d do it all over again.
Day 1: Die Alte Säge restaurant to Die Dreischusterhütte / Tre Scaperi Rifugio, 6km
As beautiful as Venice was, I was so ready to get out of the claustrophobic heat of the city and into the mountains. We met Jamie and Chloe on the train heading northwards to the border of Italy and Austria where the AV4 trailhead lay. The trip was a little convoluted, but it all went pretty smoothly for a journey that involved four trains and two buses.
On the train, we watched a flyover of the AV4 (a dot traversing a 3D map of the mountains) to see what we were in for. We soon regretted watching it, as it reminded us just how technical and steep the trail would be in parts. (Some things are better left as surprises!). We also knew there were a few exit points from the trail if it ever got too much.
Once in San Candido, near the trailhead, we stocked up on snacks and waited until the outdoor shops reopened at 3pm for the afternoon, to pick up a few last-minute pieces of gear. Turns out that outdoor shops in San Candido sell clothing, but not much more than that — we would just have to hope that we didn’t get hypothermia and need an emergency blanket (it’s impossible to imagine getting cold in this Mediterranean heat, but anything can happen in the mountains).
Enjoying the last moments of civilisation, we hopped on a local bus to pick up the via ferrata gear in Sesto. Via ferrata, meaning the iron way, is a system in the alps that allow people to scooch up, down and around sketchy rock faces and ledges by hooking themselves with carabiners to steel cables. The guy at the gear hire place was disconcertingly chill about it all, given that we confessed to having no via ferrata experience. His nonchalant attitude did calm our nerves a little - maybe it wouldn’t be too hard after all. Stuffing the harness, ropes and helmet into our already-full bags proved to be a challenge, but we made it work.
A short bus ride later we were at the trailhead, squinting in front of the sign for an obligatory pre-tramp photo in the afternoon sun. We followed the sign to our first rifugio and the red and white stripes painted on trees and rocks that marked the way. Being my first multiday tramp overseas, I was curious to see how different the navigation and hut systems would be like to New Zealand’s.
As we climbed steadily through the forest next to a babbling creek, the lack of time I’d spent tramping recently was felt deeply through the usual pain my tight shoulders. This pack was heavier than I’d have liked it to be, but all those snacks would eventually be eaten. We knew that today’s walk would be a breeze in comparison to the next days’ adventures, which involved climbing up passes described by some guide books as ‘terrifying’ and ‘exhilarating’.
We heard the sheep bells before we arrived at the rifugio Tre Scarperi, our first for the night. Goats and sheep munched grass around the hut hidden around the corner under sheer rock faces cutting into the evening light. To call this place a hut, and therefore conjure up images of a six-bunk DOC bivvy painted emergency orange with a little wooden stove, is misleading: this was a full-blown restaurant and lodge bustling with German, Italian, Südtyrol, English, French and more.
The wait staff welcomed us in and assigned us some seating after we chose our three-course meals. Given the apparent lack of vegan options (was not expecting them to cater), I chose one dish that sounded safe enough. But as the waiter gave the others their lasagne entree, he gave me a bowl of veggies, and more vegan dishes after that. I was very grateful that they could cater for me. Never in our lives have we eaten this well on a tramp.
We shared our narrow bunk room with 20 or so other travellers, mainly older European couples. Communicating, for example how to get past each other, is always a fun exercise when everyone comes from different places and speak different languages. (I’m writing this as I lie in the top bunk under a very slanty ceiling, realising I forgot to pack ear plugs and hoping there aren’t too many snorers here tonight).
Day 2: Tre Scaperi to Fonda Savio, 18km
Luckily the snorers weren’t too loud. The buffet breakfast began at 7am, the line forming a little earlier by all the hungry hikers eager to start the day. It was perfect timing for us to start the day’s tramp nice and early, and we enjoyed the müsli and crispy Brötchen.
The path started along a gentle track through the field fills with goats ringing their little bells around their necks whenever they moved. We pondered about whether the goats ever get tired of the dull clanging of the bells, or if when the bell stopped, how they experience the silence. Is it too silent?
It was shady in the mountain valley and several parties were heading the same way as we were — occasionally leapfrogging each other, we said ciao, sometimes hallo if we had heard them speaking German. It’s nice that the default language is not English, and fun to figure out which language to use. Some groups we conversed with more than others, a little bit of German here and there, but mostly basking in the perceived novelty of having come aaaaaall the way from New Zealand.
The track went steadily up and up, luckily on switchbacks and nothing too technical. Finally, the sun broke over the mountains and we stopped to smear sunscreen on our bodies. We had a few moments of false hope where we thought we’d reached the top of the climb, but when we really did reach the crest, the views of Die Drei Zinnen, a famous rock formation, were spectacular. I was getting other-worldly energy from the dramatic rock formations that surrounded us. Helen told us that these ranges were once (billions of years ago) underwater, forming a coral reef. That really tripped me out.
Our first hut of the day that we’d be passing through, Locatelli, was packed with day hikers having a bite to eat and drink. We, too, stopped for a mid-morning snack. Three hours down, five to go: today was no small walk in the park (none of these days would be). I was impressed with how well signposted these trails were. We chose the shorter of two routes taking us to the next hut, not too far away. This stretch was particularly buzzing with people, walking up to have their moment with the Drei Zinnen. It stayed that way until the next huts, Lavaredo and Aurozo (we later learnt that it’s the holidays in Italy at the moment, hence the busy-ness on a Monday morning).
We ate lunch at the latter hut amid cute dogs, sweaty cyclists, and no shade. Jamie found enough reception for us to do the Stuff quiz. We got 8 out of 15, and blamed our average score on the sun frying our brains.
We left the hut onto a quieter path, knowing the next and final section to Fonda Savio (our destination for the night) was the most challenging and involved our first via ferrata! 🧗♂️🧗🧗♀️ Sure enough, we soon approached the first iron wires bolted into the rock, and decided on an order: Jamie would lead in the front, Helen next, then Chloe, then me as Tail End Charlie.
We put all our trust in the cables and etched along the ledge. The first one wasn’t too bad, a gentle warm-up for the routes to come. Two Italian men coming the other way gave us some intel on what the route was like ahead. The via ferrata gear was necessary, they said, but if they could do it, so could we.
The trick was only to focus on the path ahead. Looking to our right, down the sharp rocky drop-offs didn’t do anyone any favours. The clipping and clicking of the carabiners onto the wires quickly became the soundtrack to this section of the trail. We got into an otherwise silent rhythm, Jamie occasionally giving the odd tip to Helen about where to place her feet, and Helen passing that on to Chloe, Chloe on to me. I fluctuated between having so much fun, channeling mountain goat energy (though goats don’t need wires of course, I spot a flaw in my thinking there) and being terrified of losing grip beneath my feet.
Down a steel ladder, and then back onto relatively flat land. We’d survived our first iron path. The map told us we were still on track, which was a relief — going back up would have been less than ideal. Once we’d sidled round the mountain, we could see various paths zigzagging up into various crevasses of the mountains. A sign kindy told us which way to go, and so we followed, eager to get to the rifugio.
The final section was no joke, as we scrambled over boulders towards an Italian flag flying on a flagpole in the far distance — a sign we took as being close to the hut.
Just a little more via ferrata-ing to go. Jamie’s poker face at the top didn’t give anything away about how close the rifugio was, but we soon saw for ourselves that we’d arrived. At last! A few groups of walkers were lapping up the sun outside as we took off our smelly socks.
Fonda Savio had a more homely feel to it and we found some spare bunk beds in the room upstairs. The hosts were welcoming, but didn’t serve vegan food on their set menu, so I smuggled in a wrap with peanut butter to eat. Another little roadbump was the lack of drinkable water in this hut. They charged 2.50 for 500ml of water. I totally get that it’s such a scarce resource, but it’s pretty vital when tramping so it would be nice if they could make water more accessible.
Our favourite bunk mate, a no-fuss australian woman called Leonie with ample experience in these alps, reckoned we could drink it no problem. ‘I’ve drunk it lots and I’m still alive at 70’, was her justification.
To pass the evening time we stretched and played many rounds of cards.
Day 3: Fonda Savio to Vandelli, 20ish km
According to the informative blog (we’d been putting perhaps too much faith in) of a person who’d hiked the Alta Via 4 a few years back, today was meant to be more chill than the day before.
Over breakfast, Chloe let us know she’d made the call to exit the trail in case it got harder than it had already been. Luckily, it wasn’t far down to the next town. After downing a humble breakfast of bread and jam, Jamie led us three onto the trail and we said bye to Chloe, knowing we’d likely see her in Venice again (if we all made it out in once piece lol). It immediately felt weird not having Chloe’s warmth and fun company.
Our minds and eyes soon returned to the trail. The markers for the AV4, either the route number or flag, are usually painted onto the rocks on the ground and can be easy to miss. We spotted our turn-off, but then realised it was more of a pick-your-own-adventure situation up to the first pass. It was a decent scramble to get up to the top, but a relative walk in the park when we saw what we were in for on the way down (we couldn’t actually see much further down past the sheer drop). Some semblance of a trail emerged as we tentatively descended, making sure to have confidence in each step we took down the loose scree switchback. Thankfully, a series of via ferrata ropes and ladders aided the climb down.
Down, down, and further up we were swallowed, into the grey valley bordered by rocks resembling cathedral spires guarding us at all angles. A few paths snakes around the valley below. Consulting the map confirmed what we’d thought: the path we’d take was the steep zig zag heading up to another pass. It got a bit busy with two-way traffic. Vie ferrate only work one way traffic, so we negotiated in a mixture of basic words and hand gestures about who would climb which way first. Ciao, grazie, prego, danke.
One gnarly rock climb later, we were at the top of the second pass and made our way down to the rifugio, Col De Varda, a popular one with day hikers thanks to the chairlift leading up to it from a road. We encountered many fresh-smelling people who passed us going the other way, not wanting to imagine what we smelt like to them.
After what felt like forever, we arrived at the rifugio for a snack break, bought some water to be on the safe side (it was thankfully cheaper here than at the previous hut), and then continued onwards down a wide gravelly path through gentle forested slopes. We all remarked how good it felt not to have to watch our footing and instead enjoy the mountain vistas around us.
The gravel road continued for a while, with the occasional party passing by. I wondered where Chloe was at now, if she’d found a place to go and stay for the night. Clearly we were so in the zone that we missed our turnoff and had to backtrack a little bit. Better to back track on this easy path than on a via ferrata. Lunch was — you guessed it — a peanut butter wrap with olives. A surprisingly good combo, please hear me out on this one!
After lunch, more gravel road wound down. We began to feel the heat of the day at this point, and our attention turned towards fulfilling our basic needs: shelter and water. One of the day’s highlights was stumbling across a fountain spouting cold mountain water, presumably drinkable (it tasted that way anyway). Two local cyclists filled their water bottles up before us, so we followed their lead.
By the time we’d arrived at the main road, we’d lost 500 metres elevation. It was a bit jarring crossing the main road after having been enveloped in the mountains for the last couple of days. At this point in the mid-afternoon heat, our strategy had become to stop frequently to hydrate. We were in no rush.
With 5km to go, and 650 metres of elevation to gain again, we set off up to Rifugio Vandelli with collectively waning energy. I ate a chocolate müsli bar for a little boost. It didn’t take long to hit the real grind up. The trail didn’t give up for the whole 90 minutes we spent lunging up rooty paths, hauling our sweaty bodies up boulders, and navigating the two-lane traffic. Rifugio Vandelli is a popular day-walking destination as it sits on a gorgeous glacial lake.
Although the trail never flattened out, the encouragement of the people heading down the trail as we trudged up got stronger. I think they could sense our tiredness and over-it-ness by this point.
As eternal as the climb felt, we eventually arrived at the hut with a bit of sunshine to go. We talked to a British couple who were walking the Alta Via 3 and who had seemingly walked every famous hiking route around. They hadn’t gotten to New Zealand yet though, but we’re interested in walking Te Araroa.
The hut was beautiful and we ate very well, doing one of the newspaper quizzes Mum had recently sent (thanks Mum). Down at the lake, we guessed where the next day’s route would take us. Looking closely at the map, and then up at the mammoth rock faces towering over us, we put two and two together: the only way round to the other side of the mountain was to traverse its vertical face. As Jamie often said, that would be a ‘tomorrow problem’. He was great as keeping us in the moment.
Day 4: Vandelli to San Marco, 17km
Today was a big day, the biggest of this trip. It was described by the blogger whose info we’d been following (and increasingly not taking as truth due to wild time underestimations) as ‘a true wilderness experience’, and what an experience it was.
I write this now with a bit of hindsight, having finally had a chance to rest after 11 hours on the go and look back on some of the photos of what we got ourselves into today. It was a lot. Eleven hours of scaling mountain faces along iron ropes, taking literal leaps of faith in the grips of our shoe soles, getting dehydrated, and falling on dusty downhills. It feels good to rest for now, to say the least, until another big day tomorrow.
We left in the shade of the mountain face we’d be scaling up on our first and hardest via ferrata of the day. Approaching the face, we could see the general direction of travel thanks to a party who had started earlier, now mere dots on the grey slab moving incrementally along a slanted line. The scale of what we were about to do sunk in, but before we could dwell on the danger involved too much, we began our ascent.
Click, click, click. The rhythm of attaching ourselves to ropes became almost meditative. I didn’t give myself an option to look down at the vertical drop offs on our left, but only on the immediate task at hand. That’s what I love about this type of climbing: being present is not only necessary, it’s also a matter of survival.
Making the most of our adrenaline, we didn’t take too many breaks up the via ferrata — only for water and to let the party of five more capable climbers overtake us. We were more than happy to watch how they navigated each section.
Halfway through, Jamie helpfully pointed out that each section of rope had a number painted next to it, and we began counting down from 16 (there were about 50 ropes in total). There were some sketchy manoeuvres where we helped each other find footholds, but mostly the climbing was straight forward.
When we got to the top, I noticed that climb had taken three hours. Time flows differently when you’re hanging off a mountain face, I guess. After a snack break, we descended into the other side of the mountain via a scree switchback, dropping elevation quickly. Lots of sidling ensued, grasping on to pine trees for support in lieu of via ferrata ropes. My hands became sticky with sap.
As it turns out, water is a vital element of enjoyment and endurance when tramping (who would’ve thought!) We were reminded of that when our bottles got lighter and lighter while the next known water source still being kilometres away at the next rifugio. It’s so easy to underestimate how much water we need for the day, and between us, it wasn’t quite enough.
At one stage Helen began to feel faint with the sun hanging high in the sky, and the occasional cloud passing only did so much to rejuvenate us. A lunch stop in the shade of some mugo pine trees made things a lot better, and I stopped worrying about what we might need to do if Helen fainted. Our concerningly low water levels were saved when we decided to head down into the valley, and met the group of men who had overtaken us earlier in the day relaxing in a grassy patch, next to a river they’d just replenished in. This was the best news we’d had all day, and the next thing I saw was Jamie lying down next to the gushing water, gulping the liquid back. Helen, too, sat by the river and drank. It was as close to an oasis as we could get.
Water, shade, food: tramping teaches us not to take these basic necessities for granted. Rehydrated, and with newfound life inside ourselves, we continued on the path, which had transformed into a gentle slope upwards towards a pass. It was such a relief not to have to concentrate so hard on each step yet again, and just enjoy the drama of the mountains and alpine meadows we were walking through.
By the time we got to the pass it was early evening, and we realised the rifugio we’d planned to stay at was still feeling like a long way off. Today had been slow-going. If Rifugio San Marco had beds free, we’d consider staying there instead, we decided.
The climb down into the next valley started gently, but soon dragged on with more dusty slopes to slide down and washed out paths to navigate. At last, San Marco came into sight — but it was so far down, its appearance lowered my morale a little bit. Not enough, though, to find the strength to continue just a little more…
And we were finally there. San Marco was like walking into a little paradise, with green meadows and overlooking the town below. Helen went inside and talked to the host. She came out smiling: three beds were available for us! Our tired bodies decided for us that we’d stay here tonight and save our energy for tomorrow.
Rifugio San Marco was a little saviour. They made the best lentil soup and pasta and had a fantastic dog called Pongo and mountain panoramas for days. The rifugio was built in 1895 and is now run by a family, who were all involved in cooking and hosting us. It has been host to the king of Belgium and the eleventh Pope. We loved its coziness and were so glad we decided to stay here instead of pushing on to Rifugio Galassi.
Day 5: San Marco to Antelao, 17km
Saving our energy for the climb up to Rifugio Galassi was an excellent decision, as it was one of those scree climbs that required much mental attention to ensure we didn’t slide down the whole slope. The first section to Galassi was quite enjoyable and the sun greeted us through the pass as we popped over to the other side.
Galassi was a sweet rifugio, and like the others, nestled in a scenic location (not hard to do in this part of the world). Making sure to not repeat the mistakes from the day before, we stocked up on plenty of water, even if it broke our backs. After a quick toilet stop, we were off to ascend the slopes of Monte Antelao. It was a hot and sweaty climb with little shade. Helen commented on how arid and desert-like it felt.
Walking to the base of the next via ferrata sparked nervous anticipation. We could see the dots of climbers scaling the slab of slanting rock and knew this would be another challenge, but one we could rise to. I offered to lead this climb, for better or worse.
After the first set of ropes, we noticed a group of lean, tan, local men had caught up to us pretty fast. We waited in between rope sections until the group overtook us. Apart from one of them wearing a helmet, none were kitted out in via ferrata gear. The Tall Poppy Syndrome in me passed them off as cocky climbers chasing the adrenaline kick.
This route was different from the other big one we did yesterday, as it was a straight-up climb, rather than zigzagging up a narrow ledge with risk of falling 400 metres down a vertical face. Still, we daren’t look down. There were a few sketchy places where I felt genuinely stuck, but thanks to the help of Helen and Jamie behind me who suggested my next moves, I became unstuck and managed to continue.
The climb involved a few chimneys, narrow fissures in the rock that required ‘starfishing’ up the sides (credit to Jamie for inventing that term). Luckily, the rock was pretty grippy and eventually we made it up to the ridge, where magnificent views of the Antelao glacier lay below us.
Down by the moraines, we could see our group of bravado climbers doing something that looked like a photo shoot from afar. Maybe modelling new mountain gear? Once we’d clambered down the ridge into the glacial basin, and after lunch in one of the best spots ever next to a gushing glacial river, one of the men approached us. Turns out these men were scientists on a trip to measure the retreat of the glacier. Over-confident mountain gear models - I’d been so quick to judge! They must know this area like the back of their hands.
One of the scientists showed us where, back in 2011, the glacier’s edge had existed. This one was receding exponentially since. One thing that stuck with us, was his description of the Dolomites as ‘very beautiful, but weak’. After days of walking up, around and down brittle scree slopes, we felt beneath our hands and feet exactly what he meant: this environment was fragile and highly vulnerable to climate change.
The post-lunch descent surprised us with another short and punchy via ferrata climb into the next level of valley below (just as we’d packed away our gear for what we thought was the last time on this trip, oops). This one was brutal: a vertical chute all the way down. Helen led the way with the calm of a doctor who’s spent the last 6 months working in an emergency department, and we encouraged each other on in the usual fashion.
Each step was accounted for in the descent down to the true bottom of the valley. It was slippery and I slid a few times, resorting to a quick-step run to minimise the risk of falling again. When our toes began to hurt from rubbing up against our shoes, we knew it was time for a break in the beautiful grassy patch, next to a trickle of water that would be generous to call a stream. Jamie did a shout-out to Monte Antelao, whose peak provided needed shade from the hot sun.
We had two options for the next section and so got our our trusty paper map to decide which route to take. Either would take us over one of two passes that lay before us. As we could see the shorter, steeper climb etched into the hill from above, we opted for this one.
It became muggy as we trudged up the grassy slopes, but the few rain drops that fell did little to cool our sweating bodies. While it was a relief to get to the pass, Forcella Piria, I also felt a sense of bitter sweetness as this marked the final pass we’d climb over on this trip. It was all downhill from here, first to Rifugio Antelao, and then to Pozzale the next day.
From the pass we could see a little building on a hill, which we later found out was a small church sitting above Rifugio Antelao. While the immediate hills were becoming gentler, the silhouette of jagged teeth lay stretched out on the horizon served as a reminder of how sharp and dramatic these mountain ranges really are.
After a relatively gentle walk through some pine trees, we arrived at the Rifugio. A young guy with a broken finger in a cast welcomed us and brought out some cold drinks. We sipped our drinks on the deck, under the Christmas decorations that still hung on the rifugio’s awnings, and quietly celebrated having made it this far.
The host soon began blasting Queen and Pink Floyd from the loudspeakers, which reverberated through the old wooden walls and seeped into our bunk rooms upstairs. A few hikers who’d also been walking the AV4 were at the hut that night. We’d only exchanged a few words until now, given the assigned seating for meals in the rifugios had given us little opportunity to converse with fellow walkers. The two American women had also been following the blog we’d been following for advice, and we shared solidarity in the fact that all the suggested timing and recommendations had been very off. We joked that we’d write a rival blog post titled ‘Alta Via 4: THE TRUTH’.
With a small spot of reception in the windowsill next to our table, we did the Stuff quiz over dinner, which was a spread of deliciously cooked vegetables and a soup with fresh bread, and went to sleep for the final time on the AV4.
Day six: Antelao to Pieve di Cadore, 8km
It was only a brief 2-hour walk down to the end of the trail this morning. The amazing dinner didn’t quite translate into the breakfast of champions we were hoping for, but at this stage we were too preoccupied with getting to the end of the trail and eating a second breakfast once we got to town. I are some of my snacks I’d forgotten about at the bottom of my pack.
Finishing a big walk is always a bittersweet thing. I could have stayed many more days in the mountains, yet I was also satisfied with the adventure we’d had. We left early to give ourselves enough time to catch public transport back to Venice: that would be the real challenge of the day.
The track started along an old narrow 4WD track, a luxury — if a little bland. When faced with the definition of climbing up over a hill before getting back down again, we chose to skip the hill and continue downwards on a slightly more technical trail. The rain forecast vor this morning had rained itself dry the night before, to our joy.
One kilometre before the town of Pozzale, the country mile phenomenon hit once again. The trail just kept on keeping on, but more and note houses appeared. While there was no official end of the trail, we celebrated when we hit the tourist information centre at Pieve di Cadore. There, a lovely helpful staff member who was probably used to smelly hikers arriving in the building, asked us to write in a finisher book for the AV4 and gave us little green badges as medals for finishing. She even took a photo of us outside the council building, which was covered in Italian flags having from every window for some special occasion (or maybe it was always adorned that way).
With a little time to spare before our buses, we got coffee and pastries from a nearby bakery and sat in each other’s presence while catching up on our own worlds. Jamie had a bus and train to catch directly to Venice, while Helen and I would head up to Sesto (the trailhead) to return our via ferrata gear before our trip down to Venice. It was not the most ideal detour, but by now we’d embraced the fact that nothing about this trip, logistically or physically, was easy.
It did indeed turn out to be a very long trip back to Venice. One of the trains in our 3-train trip was cancelled, and all the alternatives delayed. I’ll spare you the details but we arrived in the humid heat of Venice at 11pm, and made our way to the Airbnb where Jamie kindly let us in. It was hard to believe we’d only said bye to him 12 hours before! After a very cold shower we headed to bed.
~
The Dolomites were — both figuratively and literally — the highest point of my time in Europe, and also the most demanding. If summarised in a Venn diagram, there would be no overlap (I think) between the circles representing us and our comfort zones. While there were a few moments of wondering how on earth we’d get down a cliff face or out of a rock chasm, or low-key scanning the valley for an exit to the next village, the masochistic side of me loved the rest this walk put us through. All the pain and discomfort was outdone by the magic of the mountains in our company.
