The Italian Dolomites: Gran Cir
One of my bucket list items while in the Dolomites was to hike the Gran Cir Via Ferrata at Passo Gardena. Via ferrata literally translates in Italian as "iron path", which are protected climbing routes found in the Alps involving steel cables, rungs, or ladders secured to the rock face, to which climbers would typically affix harnesses. The via ferrata portion of this hike was reputed to be quite short and relatively easy, which is why I felt it would be a manageable introduction to the discipline.
I wanted to try to catch sunrise (or close to it) atop Gran Cir, so I left Ortisei at about 5:30 am to make the 25-minute drive through the darkness. As I drove up the steep mountain roads and neared the parking lot, a thick fog rolled in. I was grateful for the advanced research I'd done (there are a lot of excellent blogs that provide detailed, step-by-step accounts of these hikes, such as here and here), as it allowed me to have a slightly better idea of where I was going in the foggy darkness.
From the parking lot at Rifugio Frara, armed with my trekking poles, camera, and a headlamp, I located the signage pointing me towards Jimmyhütte, a rifugio nestled at the base of the Cir mountains. It was about 20 minutes to the hut, and the skies were already lightening--wispy, pastel clouds painted across them that Bob Ross would be proud of. After navigating past a children's playground and a large bird sculpture, I found the wide gravel path, gradually ascending towards the intersection with the Gran Cir trail.
From there, the real work began--up a series of gravel switchbacks, for which I was glad to have brought my poles (as I was out of breath faster than I cared to admit), before finally being faced with the climb. When looking up at a vertical ascent, I'm not sure what compels a person to haul themselves up a mountain--enthusiasm, the thrill of adventure, sheer stubbornness, perhaps a pinch of foolhardiness. I summoned all of those traits to start scrambling up the rocks. I very much appreciated that the trail was well-marked with painted red dots along the way.
Ultimately, this is the kind of hiking I really enjoy: making my way through loose rock and screes. Rather than just mindlessly trudging up a smooth, dirt path, it becomes a kind of puzzle, where best to put your foot or pole to get the best leverage to haul yourself up. Though, I was keenly aware that I needed to get a move on if I were going to catch the early sunrise light. After about 20 minutes, I reached the first cable. I admit I'd been a bit nervous about tackling my first via ferrata, and whether or not I needed to rent gear (most of what I read said it wasn't really necessary in this case). Grabbing hold of the cool, steel cable, I pulled myself along, my poles dangling at my wrists.
The first cable only took about 5 to 7 minutes to traverse, so it wasn't long before I continued scrambling up the rock unaided. The route steepened, and I found my trekking poles to actually be more of a liability than an aid, as I wanted to be able to grab hold of the rock to pull myself up. At one point during my scrambling and pole-juggling, I bumped the side of my backpack and knocked my water bottle out of the pocket. I watched in dismay as it tumbled off the cliff, feeling both the guilt of littering and loss of potential hydration. Ultimately, I ended up just stashing the poles in a crevice to be picked up on the way back down.
After pulling myself up a second via ferrata, I spotted the giant cross, a typical summit marker of many major peaks in the Alps. Buoyed by the sight, I determinedly climbed up the rocky trail. The gorgeous morning light caressed the mountain tops that came into view, highlighting every gully and ravine. There was an interim viewing spot, and some of the bloggers I'd read had just stopped there and didn't continue to the top, as there was still a bit of steep climb to go. But it did seem a shame to have hiked all that way to not have the satisfaction of finishing the journey (I know, it's about the journey, not the destination--but, you know, mountain tops!).
I passed a group of sunrise-seekers making their way back down from the summit, now that the sun had breached the horizon. It wasn't too much longer before I finally reached the top of my 474 metre-ascent, treated to 360 degree views of the mountains--the Sella Group, Sassolungo, all the way back to Alpe di Siusi and the hand-shaped Mt. Schlern, high-fiving my feat in the distance.
I shared the summit with two young German ladies, who were positioning themselves for their ideal selfies. The vista was short-lived, however, as the clouds quickly swept in, engulfing the peak in a sea of white. The motto of our time in the Dolomites, after all, was "Waiting for the Clouds"--so I sat on a cold rock, scarfing down an apple for some much-needed hydration after gravity wrested my alternative away from me, and waited for the clouds to part. And indeed, after 5 or so minutes, the clouds cleared, dramatically unveiling the mountainscapes and valley below (half expected to hear an angelic chorus accompaniment).
The clouds came and went several times--a fickle lot they seemed to be that morning--until eventually they settled in for the long haul, which I took as my cue to head back down. I signed a guestbook, stowed in a metal box on the cross--hadn't ever seen that before at a mountain summit, but the German hikers went straight for it, so perhaps it's a custom in the Alps. I made the trek back down the mountain in the pea soup that was now the weather--mercifully, it wasn't so foggy as to completely obscure the path. I picked up my poles, grateful for the relief on my knees as I descended back down to the car park.
After 3 hours and 4.5 km, a journey (and destination) well-worth experiencing.
