I first heard of the Julian Alps in the summer of 1975. Driving out of Glenbrittle during a climbing holiday on Skye, I gave a lift to a German girl, a healthy and enthusiastic outdoor sort, who waxed particularly lyrical about the Julians. However, tucked away at the far bottom corner of the Alps, they're not somewhere you're likely to end up by accident. The more obvious attractions of dramatic glacier landcape and soaring alpine peaks were always closer at hand. Yet the Julians attract a special sort of devotee. Many have sung their praises, but none more than the pioneer of climbing in the area, Julius Kugy. With that typical late nineteenth century combination of boundless energy and heady romanticism he set about exploring every corner of the range, setting out his adventures in that special (German) purple prose of the period. Even today he is omnipresent whenever the Julians are written about. His most celebrated dicta, carved in gnarled wood, can be read at the most famous beauty spots in the area.
So it was with eager anticipation that I headed off to join up with Andy and Clara Hartley at their flat in Monfalcone. Only an hour and a half away, the Julians had suddenly become, not a distant secondary range, but the most obvious and convenient option. Once I'd recovered from the previous evening's somewhat hectic drive down from Treviso airport, Andy and I got packed up and set off for Valbruna. Andy, an ardent porer over map and guide-book, had prepared an all-action four days for us, starting with a hike up to the Grego hut. Having completed the (for me) laborious process of getting gear organised, changing clothes, pulling on boots, we set off along a dusty road in the growing heat of the day. We crossed a bridge over a wide, but completely dry river-bed. Of course, no glaciers! Once the spring-melt is over, the flow of water reduces to a mere trickle, disappearing altogether during a dry spell. And we were now in the middle of a heat-wave. As we reached the end of the road, we were relieved to enter a wood of reduced-size deciduous trees as we made the steeper climb up to the hut itself. Suddenly the wood opened up to a little alpine meadow and we were there. We flopped down at one of the tables outside the hut and got out our lunch. Bread, cheese and ham washed down by a mug of Apfelschorle. Andy started to set out his plans for the afternoon. I was feeling strangely listless, more so than could be justified by travel tiredness. Maybe I didn't feel properly a part of what had effectively become a sort of home game for Andy? Perhaps the loss of my mother last autumn had taken away my taste for adventure? Maybe middle age was blunting the edge of my Wanderlust? Suddenly the prospect of an afternoon's mountain climbing seemed a lot less enticing than the potentially blissful indolence of lolling around at the hut. With great patience and tact, Andy coaxed me into at least taking a stroll in the direction of the Jôf di Miezegnot, his projected destination for the afternoon.
No sooner had we set off than the evil spell was broken. The obvious truth was again revealed, that there are few activities that nourish both body and spirit as fully as mountain climbing. Once the body's habitual passivity is overcome, it becomes an eager participant in that experience of the more abundant life, which is surely the true, if unavowed, purpose of mountaineering. A delectable stroll up the mountain path to a bivouac hut set among the ruins of old First War barracks, then on up over broken rocks and scree to the summit. Jôf di Miezgenot confirms the tenet that the best views are to be had from lesser mountains. In the changing afternoon light the limestone walls of the "biggies" to the south took on an increasingly spectacular aspect, inviting comparison with the Dolomites. Yet the Julians retain their own special atmosphere - more intimate, more contained. Looking west, jagged horizon succeeded jagged horizon in a series of infinite nuances of blue and grey. To the east we identified the archetypal profile of Mangart which Andy had climbed the previous autumn. Meanwhile the northern battlements of the Jôf di Montasio seemed to grow increasingly intimidating. Our planned route for the following day would require us to pick a way through that apparently impossible verticality. We began to have second thoughts...
Back at the hut we fraternized with a group of Swedes who were staying the night. From Scania, they had the accents to prove it! We took dinner out on the terrace and enjoyed an evening that will linger long in the memory. Served a delicious meal of salsiccia, polenta and frico (a "deftig" fried cheese thing), we downed a mezzo-litro of wine while we drank in the mountain vision which surrounded us. The beauty of the evening enabled the subtlety of the light to work its effects as the extraordinary mountain architecture was revealed and then re-revealed like some magic-lantern show of the gods. As evening drew on, we gazed at the heavens while the dome of night slowly filled with stars, with even a hint of the Milky Way. Humbled into awkward silence, we went up to bed to the luxury of our own room, reassured that, whatever we did the next day, it wouldn't be something stupid. All we had experienced served only to confirm that life is too precious to be risked in acts of schoolboy bravado...
One of the charms of the Julians is that they sit astride the Italian-Slovene frontier, in fact the highest peak, Triglav, is wholly within Slovenia and is a place almost of pilgrimage to the Slovenes. We weren't going to Triglav, but we were going to Slovenia. Abandoning the idea of the Amalia route on the north wall of Montasio, we returned to the car and headed for the border. Our destination was Mangart. Having climbed it a few months previously, Andy generously agreed to guide me up it by way of an introduction to a via ferrata. Crossing into Slovenia I enjoyed that special frisson of being in a country I had never visited before. Slovenia is not as foreign as it was. A self-confident member of the European Union, it will be joining the Euro next year. And yet, the incomprehensibility of the language and the baffling nature of the signposts conspire to create a sense of the exotic as in a Tintin cartoon.
We paid the toll and nosed up the steep, narrow road to the foot of our mountain. It is an obvious tourist destination, and we were not alone. We got into the queue and arrived at the start of the climb. It very quickly became apparent that our ferrata was a pretty straightforward one. Before too long we emerged on to the summit into what amounted to a crowd of revellers speaking exitedly in a variety of languages! In between eating and admiring the surrounding peaks, we got chatting to a nice Austrian couple who kindly agreed to take our photograph together. We opted to go down by the normal route in order to avoid having to return by the ferrata. This involved a degree of wading through boulder scree where I contrived, humiliatingly and painfully, to fall flat on my face! Nothing more serious than bruised knees and pride. Gazing down the vertical face of the Italian side, one of our newfound Austrian friends described it as a Caspar David Friedrich moment. Just shows how you have to be ready for culture générale at all times!
Back down the valley and across the border, Andy insisted on a minor diversion to a sort of alpine lakeside lido, which encapsulated in some intense Fellini-esque manner the quintessence of Italy on holiday. We took turns plunging into the, literally, azure waters, before treating ourselves to an espresso and setting off to out to our next destination, the Piano Alto di Montasio. Storm clouds were gathering as we arrived and, allowing for my having to return to the car to fetch a replacement film, we made haste to reach the shelter of the Rifugio Brazza before the heavens opened. Racing ahead of Andy, I arrived at the hut just as the hail started to pelt down, only to be greeted by Andy looking like the cat who'd got the cream! He'd taken a short-cut I'd missed, and, in the nick of time, had succeeded in adopting a pose of studied nonchalance to greet my arrival!
It's strange how different the huts can be. I've stayed in worse hotels than the Grego, while the Brazza fell short of the average Scottish bothy! The evening meal consisted of, er, salsiccia and polenta. Not a patch on the previous night's though - no funghi and no rib-sticking frico! After mature reflection as to our next day's programme, we decided to go for the traverse of the Buinz ridge by the Ceria-Merlone route. It is a route "con attrezzatura", i.e. partly via ferrata. It was the "partly" which worried me. What would happen when we ran out of handrail? We didn't have a rope.There was talk of it taking up to ten hours. What about afternoon thunderstorms? Hoary hut denizens spoke of the climb as being seemingly never ending. Parts were apparently horrendously exposed. We agreed, however, to have a look at it.
The next morning we were up and away before 6.30. The path up to the col at the start of the ridge was a thing of true beauty. It elevated us effortlessly to the required height, traversing elegantly across the mountainside to the start of the route. After some initial faffing around, we found the line of steel hawsers and red marks which indicated the route. From then on we were able to follow the climb almost without difficulty, up onto the ridge, which we followed, poised between earth and sky, through breathtaking rock formations and over precipitous escarpments. Groups of ibex with their demonic horns edged surefootedly aside as we passed. We proceeded with a steady rhythm, up, down and over, stopping only briefly for a drink or a bite to eat. Our pride in our own progress was only slightly undermined as we found ourselves overtaken by a guy in running shoes with a dog! The exposed part was definitely exposed and although one was as likely to fall over the precipice as one was to throw oneself off a pavement into the path of an oncoming truck, we were not unimpressed! And then suddenly we found ourselves at a small col with a marked route down off the mountain and it was all over. It was with a certain sense of anti-climax that we picked our way down to the main path and found the beaten track leading to the Rifugio Corsi. As we relaxed from the concentrated attention of the climb, we became aware of the almost miraculous expanses of alpine blooms clinging to the rough slope of scree above a residual snow-field. Arriving at gentler slopes, we dawdled, luxuriating in the afternoon sun and the satisfaction of our own tiredness. And then finally we drifted on to the hut. Subtracting dawdle time, the route had taken us eight hours - respectable by any standards.
The Corsi hut was different again. Beautifully situated, it had the atmosphere of a seventies commune. Love, peace and the comradeship of the hills was in the air. Andy dug up a guitar and gave a rendition of his very seventies repertoire. In the circumstances he could hardly fail. By mountain standards we caroused until late into the night, not getting to bed until after ten o'clock. The next morning we rose at our leisure and, not without a sense of regret, set off back to the Piano Montasio. We walked up to the col separating the two valleys through exquisite hanging gardens of mountain flora. At the summit we lingered, neither of us willing to tear ourselves away from the intimate embrace of the Julian Alps, spread before us in all their rich variety and spectacular glory. Unable to stay longer, we headed down to the tree-line, the larch and the dwarf-pine, on down through ever richer yet infinitely delicate plant-life.
As we walked, we put up hosts of tiny butterflies, which rose in greeting as if sharing with us the joy of being alive. We hit the track leading back to the car. Our short holiday was over, but I felt invigorated, rejuvenated even. This is the real secret of mountaineering which is not to be measured by routes ticked off or graded difficulties overcome. It is, in a sense, a drug, which, working in ways beyond our ordinary ken, feeds us with the elixir of life itself. Can't wait for my next fix!
So it was with eager anticipation that I headed off to join up with Andy and Clara Hartley at their flat in Monfalcone. Only an hour and a half away, the Julians had suddenly become, not a distant secondary range, but the most obvious and convenient option. Once I'd recovered from the previous evening's somewhat hectic drive down from Treviso airport, Andy and I got packed up and set off for Valbruna. Andy, an ardent porer over map and guide-book, had prepared an all-action four days for us, starting with a hike up to the Grego hut. Having completed the (for me) laborious process of getting gear organised, changing clothes, pulling on boots, we set off along a dusty road in the growing heat of the day. We crossed a bridge over a wide, but completely dry river-bed. Of course, no glaciers! Once the spring-melt is over, the flow of water reduces to a mere trickle, disappearing altogether during a dry spell. And we were now in the middle of a heat-wave. As we reached the end of the road, we were relieved to enter a wood of reduced-size deciduous trees as we made the steeper climb up to the hut itself. Suddenly the wood opened up to a little alpine meadow and we were there. We flopped down at one of the tables outside the hut and got out our lunch. Bread, cheese and ham washed down by a mug of Apfelschorle. Andy started to set out his plans for the afternoon. I was feeling strangely listless, more so than could be justified by travel tiredness. Maybe I didn't feel properly a part of what had effectively become a sort of home game for Andy? Perhaps the loss of my mother last autumn had taken away my taste for adventure? Maybe middle age was blunting the edge of my Wanderlust? Suddenly the prospect of an afternoon's mountain climbing seemed a lot less enticing than the potentially blissful indolence of lolling around at the hut. With great patience and tact, Andy coaxed me into at least taking a stroll in the direction of the Jôf di Miezegnot, his projected destination for the afternoon.
No sooner had we set off than the evil spell was broken. The obvious truth was again revealed, that there are few activities that nourish both body and spirit as fully as mountain climbing. Once the body's habitual passivity is overcome, it becomes an eager participant in that experience of the more abundant life, which is surely the true, if unavowed, purpose of mountaineering. A delectable stroll up the mountain path to a bivouac hut set among the ruins of old First War barracks, then on up over broken rocks and scree to the summit. Jôf di Miezgenot confirms the tenet that the best views are to be had from lesser mountains. In the changing afternoon light the limestone walls of the "biggies" to the south took on an increasingly spectacular aspect, inviting comparison with the Dolomites. Yet the Julians retain their own special atmosphere - more intimate, more contained. Looking west, jagged horizon succeeded jagged horizon in a series of infinite nuances of blue and grey. To the east we identified the archetypal profile of Mangart which Andy had climbed the previous autumn. Meanwhile the northern battlements of the Jôf di Montasio seemed to grow increasingly intimidating. Our planned route for the following day would require us to pick a way through that apparently impossible verticality. We began to have second thoughts...
Back at the hut we fraternized with a group of Swedes who were staying the night. From Scania, they had the accents to prove it! We took dinner out on the terrace and enjoyed an evening that will linger long in the memory. Served a delicious meal of salsiccia, polenta and frico (a "deftig" fried cheese thing), we downed a mezzo-litro of wine while we drank in the mountain vision which surrounded us. The beauty of the evening enabled the subtlety of the light to work its effects as the extraordinary mountain architecture was revealed and then re-revealed like some magic-lantern show of the gods. As evening drew on, we gazed at the heavens while the dome of night slowly filled with stars, with even a hint of the Milky Way. Humbled into awkward silence, we went up to bed to the luxury of our own room, reassured that, whatever we did the next day, it wouldn't be something stupid. All we had experienced served only to confirm that life is too precious to be risked in acts of schoolboy bravado...
One of the charms of the Julians is that they sit astride the Italian-Slovene frontier, in fact the highest peak, Triglav, is wholly within Slovenia and is a place almost of pilgrimage to the Slovenes. We weren't going to Triglav, but we were going to Slovenia. Abandoning the idea of the Amalia route on the north wall of Montasio, we returned to the car and headed for the border. Our destination was Mangart. Having climbed it a few months previously, Andy generously agreed to guide me up it by way of an introduction to a via ferrata. Crossing into Slovenia I enjoyed that special frisson of being in a country I had never visited before. Slovenia is not as foreign as it was. A self-confident member of the European Union, it will be joining the Euro next year. And yet, the incomprehensibility of the language and the baffling nature of the signposts conspire to create a sense of the exotic as in a Tintin cartoon.
We paid the toll and nosed up the steep, narrow road to the foot of our mountain. It is an obvious tourist destination, and we were not alone. We got into the queue and arrived at the start of the climb. It very quickly became apparent that our ferrata was a pretty straightforward one. Before too long we emerged on to the summit into what amounted to a crowd of revellers speaking exitedly in a variety of languages! In between eating and admiring the surrounding peaks, we got chatting to a nice Austrian couple who kindly agreed to take our photograph together. We opted to go down by the normal route in order to avoid having to return by the ferrata. This involved a degree of wading through boulder scree where I contrived, humiliatingly and painfully, to fall flat on my face! Nothing more serious than bruised knees and pride. Gazing down the vertical face of the Italian side, one of our newfound Austrian friends described it as a Caspar David Friedrich moment. Just shows how you have to be ready for culture générale at all times!
Back down the valley and across the border, Andy insisted on a minor diversion to a sort of alpine lakeside lido, which encapsulated in some intense Fellini-esque manner the quintessence of Italy on holiday. We took turns plunging into the, literally, azure waters, before treating ourselves to an espresso and setting off to out to our next destination, the Piano Alto di Montasio. Storm clouds were gathering as we arrived and, allowing for my having to return to the car to fetch a replacement film, we made haste to reach the shelter of the Rifugio Brazza before the heavens opened. Racing ahead of Andy, I arrived at the hut just as the hail started to pelt down, only to be greeted by Andy looking like the cat who'd got the cream! He'd taken a short-cut I'd missed, and, in the nick of time, had succeeded in adopting a pose of studied nonchalance to greet my arrival!
It's strange how different the huts can be. I've stayed in worse hotels than the Grego, while the Brazza fell short of the average Scottish bothy! The evening meal consisted of, er, salsiccia and polenta. Not a patch on the previous night's though - no funghi and no rib-sticking frico! After mature reflection as to our next day's programme, we decided to go for the traverse of the Buinz ridge by the Ceria-Merlone route. It is a route "con attrezzatura", i.e. partly via ferrata. It was the "partly" which worried me. What would happen when we ran out of handrail? We didn't have a rope.There was talk of it taking up to ten hours. What about afternoon thunderstorms? Hoary hut denizens spoke of the climb as being seemingly never ending. Parts were apparently horrendously exposed. We agreed, however, to have a look at it.
The next morning we were up and away before 6.30. The path up to the col at the start of the ridge was a thing of true beauty. It elevated us effortlessly to the required height, traversing elegantly across the mountainside to the start of the route. After some initial faffing around, we found the line of steel hawsers and red marks which indicated the route. From then on we were able to follow the climb almost without difficulty, up onto the ridge, which we followed, poised between earth and sky, through breathtaking rock formations and over precipitous escarpments. Groups of ibex with their demonic horns edged surefootedly aside as we passed. We proceeded with a steady rhythm, up, down and over, stopping only briefly for a drink or a bite to eat. Our pride in our own progress was only slightly undermined as we found ourselves overtaken by a guy in running shoes with a dog! The exposed part was definitely exposed and although one was as likely to fall over the precipice as one was to throw oneself off a pavement into the path of an oncoming truck, we were not unimpressed! And then suddenly we found ourselves at a small col with a marked route down off the mountain and it was all over. It was with a certain sense of anti-climax that we picked our way down to the main path and found the beaten track leading to the Rifugio Corsi. As we relaxed from the concentrated attention of the climb, we became aware of the almost miraculous expanses of alpine blooms clinging to the rough slope of scree above a residual snow-field. Arriving at gentler slopes, we dawdled, luxuriating in the afternoon sun and the satisfaction of our own tiredness. And then finally we drifted on to the hut. Subtracting dawdle time, the route had taken us eight hours - respectable by any standards.
The Corsi hut was different again. Beautifully situated, it had the atmosphere of a seventies commune. Love, peace and the comradeship of the hills was in the air. Andy dug up a guitar and gave a rendition of his very seventies repertoire. In the circumstances he could hardly fail. By mountain standards we caroused until late into the night, not getting to bed until after ten o'clock. The next morning we rose at our leisure and, not without a sense of regret, set off back to the Piano Montasio. We walked up to the col separating the two valleys through exquisite hanging gardens of mountain flora. At the summit we lingered, neither of us willing to tear ourselves away from the intimate embrace of the Julian Alps, spread before us in all their rich variety and spectacular glory. Unable to stay longer, we headed down to the tree-line, the larch and the dwarf-pine, on down through ever richer yet infinitely delicate plant-life.
As we walked, we put up hosts of tiny butterflies, which rose in greeting as if sharing with us the joy of being alive. We hit the track leading back to the car. Our short holiday was over, but I felt invigorated, rejuvenated even. This is the real secret of mountaineering which is not to be measured by routes ticked off or graded difficulties overcome. It is, in a sense, a drug, which, working in ways beyond our ordinary ken, feeds us with the elixir of life itself. Can't wait for my next fix!
posted by asbo at 5:08 AM
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every word is true
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