Carry a Big Stick

Carry a big stick... or meaner than a junkyard dog

Rosa says it's very important to take a walking stick with me when I hike. “Always,” she reconfirmed that I understood. She went on to explain the stick wasn't so much for balance or crossing creeks but to stave off the diligent sheep herding dogs who tend flocks in the mountains. They get a bit territorial if they think you're out for their flock. These dogs are isolated for months with their sheep while their master is off managing other flocks and chores. Rosa then shows me a book with the local flora and fauna which includes deer, bear and wolves. Without dumpsters to keep them from getting the pre-hibernation munchies, encountering a bear could be an entirely different experience here... and do they speak Italian? What would I say to a wolf?

Rosa hands me a walking stick from the yard and points somewhere up a distance mountain, “You go up there until you come to a big curve, then turn right and take the dirt trail.” This is how she, as a young girl, walked to the neighboring village and ruins of Rocca Colascio, which should be about an hour and a half hike if you don't have to run from bears and dogs – then it takes less time. Basically, it's an old sheep trail. Santo Stefano was an important crossroad when it belonged to the southern province of Naples and livestock was moved south for the winter months. The journey is still taken, on a far smaller scale, and is called transumanza.

In the dining room I have my very own reserved table and my own bottle of wine on it for the length of time I'm here. It's almost as good as owning Italian real estate. That evening I am fortunate enough to befriend Francesco and Barbara, a Roman couple who also have a house in the village – and who hike, ski and speak English. They invite me to hike Piana di Campo Imperiatore, part of the Gran Sasso range only a few kilometers from the village. The day starts off perfectly blue and sunny so we're out the door by 9:30 a.m., before the clouds bizarrely and with astonishing speed drop down onto the mountains as though alive and possessed by strange spirits. It's quite unearthly to watch.

The base of the trail, also a small ski area, has the hotel that Mussolini was brought to under arrest. Francesco says there are still many fascists coming to pay homage. There is also one of Italy's best observatories but it's not open to the public. The wind is blowing at gale force and it's cold... I wasn't prepared for a frigid hurricane. The views are amazing – sheer and ragged rock peaks thrusting into blue sky, white furls appearing from hidden places and attaching to crags and scree fields. The landscape is lunar-like and void of trees. The trails are dangerously narrow with a steep vertical drop off and the wind now feels like a category 5 storm. I can't hold my camera steady to shoot as the gale threatens to push me over the edge. Fighting our way to the summit, we enter a warming hut. Always check the water bottle you take with you to ensure that you haven't accidentally grabbed the one that says, “Frizzante” because all the tiny little bubbles will explode when you reach the summit. Of course, the wind will dry your soaked backpack pretty quickly... Barbara says we're taking the easier way down because the face will be too dangerous now. Thankfully, it always takes considerably less time to descend.

Back in the car and toasty, we stop at an unusual grill that had been built as a spaghetti western movie set during the heyday fascination with the American west. You choose whatever meats, cheeses, breads you want and cook it yourself on long, wood fired open grills. Francesco and Barbara buy skewers of lamb, pork sausages and cheese, I have salami and fresh pecorino cheese (which I don't have to cook). The wind is still cold and nasty but the companionship and sun make it more than memorable.

We say goodbye, hoping to meet when I get to Rome sometime in the next week. Back at Rosa's the place is crazy – everyone and their family is crowded into the dining room and spilling onto the outdoor patio for Sunday lunch. I head to my room to study the map for my sheepless transumanza to Rocca Calascio tomorrow morning. Later when the crowd leaves a I pass the kitchen on my way for a short village stroll. Rosa reminds me, “Take a stick...”