mountains

I am, for so many reasons, very happy to have Diane with me in Italy. There are the predictable reasons. And, as it turns out, ones I couldn't have predicted. And the ones that you wouldn't necessarily have predicted -- like the fact that she, too, likes to take her camera to breakfast.





But much as I love spending time with her here, today we went our separate ways again. She'll stay around Gargnano. I will go to the mountains for a long, solo climb. Not to any summit in particular. Just as far as I can, given the circumstances.

What circumstances? Well, take a look at what happened up there overnight:





At the hotel, Valerio tells me this is the coldest March in Gargnano in fifty years. And it continues to be cold. Low of 35, high of 43 -- these are January readings for this gentle place nestled in a pocket of Mediterranean air. Snow falls in the mountains maybe two or three times each winter. Never in the week of Easter.

And yet there is, suddenly, unexpectedly snow up there. The heavy fog and dripping clouds transformed the world up high. Not that I can see the summits.  But halfway up, the mountains shed their spring appearance and hide under a wet, thick and frilly petticoat of snow.

More than anything, I want to be up there now.

My father loved the mountains. It wasn't an obvious love of mountains per se -- he would vacation only in the Polish High Tatras. And he never really hiked through them. At least not in my lifetime. I think they were, for him, full of childhood memories -- of less complicated times when you could scramble up a trail effortlessly, with your brother, or maybe your school pals. And the war came and it  ripped everything to shreds and by the time it was all over, you were grown and in search of ways to support a family.

In later years, he would go down south and soak up the aura of the mountains just by taking a stroll along the lower valleys and later he didn't even do that -- he just stayed put in his small pension-hotel until it was time to return to Warsaw.

Once you develop an attachment of this sort, you never really let go of it. Ever.

So I spent a day in the mountains today. Climbing, with my father in my head. 

Photos -- I did take those. Here's a quiet run through them all:




At first, only traces of snow





then, quite suddenly, the world is white





clumps of snow fell periodically to the ground -- like being doused with wet confetti





the cypresses stood tall, but the olives sagged under the weight





Lake Garda, visible below





olive garden, revisited





stunning and memorable; I made a tape of its pounding waters





a glance down to Gargnano





olive grove, just outside Sasso





and two hours of climbing -- Sasso











I took a trail to climb even higher, but, after a half hour, I had to turn back. The path was snow covered. I could not pick out the rocks.





following a different trail to Gargnano; past one of the region's old lemon houses





thick clumps of snow around every spring bud





easier now, with a clear path





two layers, mismatched





and finally, spring again











a mountain, torn between two seasons





for a fleeting second, the summits reveal themselves



In the evening, Diane knocks on my door. Take a look outside! Two men, rowing oars on the now very still waters of Lake Garda.





It's always better not to go at it alone.


Our hotel dining room is closed and so we go the Trattoria Sna Martino, a.k.a. 3 Oche -- it's like a warm blanket of love there: they do well by you. They do well by us.






Night. I see the Comer summit is reemerging.


 


At the hotel I talk to Valerio about life's events. Just the other day I had watched his parents sit in the entry way, holding hands, watching the visitors come and go. He tells me now -- there's an Italian saying: vivere tutta la vita da maleti per morire sani. [Live life by malady to die healthy]

I smile and go upstairs with a glass of their local white and a plateful of peanuts.

{P.S. Thank you so much for all your kind comments, emails, words. There is one thing that I know and it is that good words reflecting good feelings are what make life fine.}

March 25

I've been thinking that it is extremely fortunate that I climbed the Comer summit our first full day here. It began the process of setting high goals for the remaining days. Perhaps not scaling summits, but solid hikes. Long hikes. No matter what the weather. Screw the weather, it just dictates how many layers to pile on before heading out. It doesn't stand in the way of hikes, of good, solid hours of exertion.

I cannot inflict my now feverish desire for pain (of the challenging activity kind) on Diane, especially not when the weather moves effortlessly between drizzle and fog and so we agree to hike separately today.  I plunge too quickly. Immediately after breakfast I want to go!

So, first the breakfast. Today's morning meal photo is of the Italian Easter bread. ("Colomba di Pasqua" -- because it has the shape of a dove. Sort of.)





It's hard to remember otherwise that we are in the pre-Easter season. Like back home, the temperatures seem more appropriate to late February rather than late March. Last year when I was here (almost exactly on the same days), the irises were nearly done. This year, they haven't even thrown up their buds.

But once you accept the fact that it's cold and wet, you understand that it is that way for everyone here and the day moves forward anyway. Even though you have to add more layers.

Since the higher trails are wet and slippery and since it is, in fact rather nippy (maybe 41 degrees F, but it feels colder), I decide on the "Tuscan loop." It has a modest elevation and it doesn't really care about views onto the lake. I did it last year and it took me just under four hours.

And I have to say, at the beginning I am jubilant. The very slight mist, the occasional drizzle -- they add to the landscape. As if I am stuck in the overgrown forest of some Italian estate where everything is lush and exaggerated and faintly mysterious.





Last year, I took one of my favorite photos from the trip  -- of olive groves and deep purple flowers under light blue skies. This year, I'm admiring the green moss, the ferns on walls and the sleek grayness of the olive against the clouds of the moody skies.

A bird will sing, a goat will bleat, the walk is beautiful and though not difficult at all, it's long enough and hilly enough to present a modest bit of exertion.





But as I move in a southerly direction, the delicate mist is replaced by very indelicate fog. The kind that produces little and big drips of water. The kind that makes your pants wet  and your fingers cold. And there's plenty of mud so that within an hour, my shoes and socks are suffering, as if I had been clumsy again and hadn't noticed puddles.









I'm thinking about visibility: were I on the road, I'd be unhappy. You can't see anything. But I'm on a dirt path and in many ways it does not matter. I see receding olive groves and faint contours of goats (if they be goats). I'm not threatened by seeing no farther than that.





Though perhaps I should have taken heed. I'm so busy protecting my camera from the wetness and stepping daintily through wet terrain that I truly must have missed the turn, because suddenly I am somewhere off the sketched map that I carry with me.

In other words, time to ask the honored Nina (often with Ed) hiking question: where the hell am I and how do I get back home?

I seem to be in a town. That's good. There'll be people to ask.





I come across school children returning home for lunch. I blurt out -- what is the name of this place? An odd question from a kid's point of view, but there you have it.

I get help, I get pointing fingers and rapid fire instructions, do this, go there, turn there. Needless to say, eventually I find my way home.



I wrote this first part of today's story before I got the message telling me that just two hours ago, probably when I was stuck in the thickest fog, my father had died.

So be patient with me as I write here, at the same time that I process this new reality.

The odd thing is that the drama did not end there. Ten other sagas surrounding my far away family, my far away job, my far away everything erupted and each required my undivided attention. And so I could not really face my father until now, as I sit down to write this. So my immediate impulse is to say to him now -- wow, dad -- you really threw everyone for a loop (he was himself, to the core, until he was no more).

My guess is that I wont be traveling to Poland just this week. And one more thing: you probably wont hear much more on this topic on Ocean. Nothing that I can say here will adequately give nuance or credit to whom he was and what role he played in my life. So I wont say it until the day I can do so in a way that serves this chapter of our life together well -- father and daughter, complicated by the different paths we chose to follow in life, bound by blood but also by a family history that belongs, I suppose, to every daughter, every son.

My father loomed in the recesses of my soul until the day he died. All that I could have wished for is in the past. All that he would want to be conveyed has been conveyed. So there you have it, dad: I agree with half of everything you ever said to me. That has to be better than what most daughters would admit, but here's the subtle truth: the things you said well (and there were those), were over the top brilliant. So thank you... 

rain

You can anticipate it, welcome it, you can accept or even embrace it. But at some point you'll have had enough. You'll not want a single minute more of the cold and wet weather. (Thank goodness for rooms with warm radiators!)

The forecast again was spot on. Rain. I looked out of my window just before dawn:





Yes, the clouds are taking control. The day belongs to them.

There's no point in ferrying over to the northern tip of the lake. No point in picking a longer hike. Must stay flexible. Do small things.

How about taking the bus to Limone? I checked on the Internet -- two buses appear to make the run on Sundays.

After breakfast...





(and after watching the odd lake ducks flirt...)






... I step outside to check on the day's conditions. It's wet. Pretty, yes, that too: rain adds depth to colors. But it is wet.








(the Hotel du Lac is the thin, taller, ruby orange building in the middle)




keeping an eye on the weather systems


We layer on the clothing and splash our way to the bus stop. We're five minutes early. We wait. And we wait. Rain beats against my mostly impermeable jacket. And we wait.

Half an hour later I comment ever so meekly -- I must have gotten something wrong.

Back at the hotel I ask the ever genial Valerio (owner/proprietor) to interpret the timetable for me. It says Sundays and holidays. It's says 10:45. What did I miss??
See the little circle next to this word? That means it's a seasonal schedule. It starts next week.
Who knew.

There is the afternoon bus: that one has no small circles in its column. It's nice to be given a second chance.

We dry off and set out for a little walk around the perimeters of Gragnano. No use staying indoors: the world beckons.









The rain keeps falling. Sliding down cobbled walkways, dripping down my once (way back when) impermeable jacket.

Diane pauses for a coffee at a lakefront cafe, but I cannot sit with her. I must keep going,  climbing, scaling -- it is the way I am programmed to be.






Okay. No more climbing. Back to the hotel again. I am so wet that a drying session is essential. I position socks, jacket, shoes -- all around the radiator.


But shortly after two we are out again: heading for the second, but really first, because the other first was no first after all --  bus from Gargnano to Limone. As we approach the stop, I plunge my foot into a puddle that surely is ankle deep. Socks, shoe, foot -- drenched. Jeeze Louise!

The bus comes -- empty, warm.
I reach for my purse.
I don't have a ticket for you. I sold out of them yesterday.
Oh, are you throwing us off??  You can ride for free.
Bliss.


Finally - Limone.  I don't take out the camera much -- it is a town of tourist shops. Enjoyable, though not necessarily from behind a camera lens. Besides, did I mention that it is raining?














My wet shoe/sock/foot is feeling squishy. My jacket is still trying to repel moisture, though it's, at this point, a losing battle.

We buy cookies for home and we admire how one small town  can get so much bang for the lemon buck. (This region once supplied a hefty portion of lemons to the rest of northern Italy.) You have never seen so many items for sale with lemons emblazoned in some fashion on them! 

To warm up, we pick a place that we think may be toasty and cozy. And it is modestly that. We drink espressos  and eat apple cake against a backdrop of very animated discussions.










And now it's back to the bus stop. And at 6 p.m. we pull up in Gargnano again. The village bells  are ringing as we get off the bus. If I turn right, I'll eventually get to our hotel. To the left, down the hill and around the corner, there is the Olimpia Cafe.

I turn left. I want to demonstrate my loyalties to the couple who run the cafe. And, too, I want to sit back and enjoy the Aperol spritz. I can buy Aperol back home, but it's an empty ingredient: you cannot enjoy this refreshing drink unless you are with people who love this ritual too, who open themselves up to its possibilities.


''
(to the right - a German couple, with beer; to the left - Italians with Aperol spritz)


It is still raining when I finally make my way back to dinner at the hotel.















But I see that the clouds hovering around my mountain are receding again. Light at the end of a tunnel you might say.









At the hotel, Valerio's family is there -- brother, nieces, nephews, other unidentifiable children and adults. I think about their gathering and about the business of running a hotel in your home town. Do you apologize for the weather when it rains? Do you smile and convey the feeling of acceptance, even of such basics as the weather?

Rice with bits of seafood, lake trout, lemon cake. I'll miss these simple and quite wonderful meals.





I think back to the return bus ride to Gargnano from Limone. Diane and I both felt tired and chilled. And of course, I'd pulled Diane out of her winter home in Florida for this. On the bus ride, she tells me -- this was such a perfect day! I can tell that this is not just her being nice. She really means it.

And of course, I agree with her completely.