Tag Archives: Italy

Hadrian’s Wall: The Bottom of the Rabbit Hole

“Sis felicior Augusto, melior Traiano” 

“be more fortunate than Augustus, better than Trajan” – spoken at the inauguration of later-era Roman Emperors


“To a considerable extent, Hadrian’s Wall is a monument to human sweat.” – Alistair Moffat, The Wall

There aren’t many ways to get me to go down the rabbit hole. Up until now I could count on one hand the topics that could set me up for hours of conversation or months of reading: the 1996-97 Detroit Red Wings, the combat history of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 1453 Siege of Constantinople by Mehmet the Conqueror, and the Palio di Siena. After six months I can deny it no more. Add the Ancient Roman Empire to the list. 

It snuck up on me slowly. Reading The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliff as a boy or a fragment of a Roman ruin in Vienna on a college trip. Then as I roamed further I consumed bigger and bigger portions of Roman history. The Celsus Library at Ephesus in Turkey, the temple of Volubilis in Morocco, and visiting the ruins of Jerash in Jordan were whole-day affairs.

Recently and unexpectedly I found myself living in Italy. I was practically stumbling over the Ancient Romans in between sips of espresso and magnificent pasta. And believe you me, I relished the proximity of it all. The Appian Way was a short walk from my rental, central Rome a simple train ride away. Capua, the starting point of the Spartacus-led Third Servile War appeared on the road signs I drove past daily.  

In for a penny, I was in for a pound. Even after I left Italy the Roman history books started piling up on my shelf. Mike Duncan’s History of Rome podcast started accompanying me on my morning commutes. And I put all six volumes of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the top of my letter to Santa Claus. I wanted, and still want, to know more. To understand the connections between this ancient empire and our modern world. 

This interest is what drove me to the north of England. Far distant from the Forum and Palatine Hill in Rome were the edges of the empire. There, on the south side of the Scottish border, lies what remains of Emperor Hadrian’s wall demarking the frontier. It was there, on a brisk October morning, that I came to Housesteads Roman Fort, an auxiliary fort once home to Roman legionnaires at the very edge of the civilized world. 

Conquering new lands defined the Ancient Roman Republic and early Roman Empire. Emperor Trajan pushed Rome’s boundaries to the empire’s high water mark. Emperor Hadrian, Trajan’s successor foresaw financial and logistical reasons to put some clean edges on the empire. One, to keep the barbarians out. Two, to keep adventurous Roman generals penned in. As the new emperor toured his domains he set Roman garrisons to building projects along the Danube and in Germania. In AD 122 he ordered the construction of the wall in northern Britannia after another revolt in the province. Britannia simply wouldn’t be a profitable Roman province if they had to keep fighting there. And so the wall was built over six years and stretched nearly the full 91 miles at the narrowest coast-to-coast line in Northern England. The hard edge of the empire became crystal clear. 

When Hadrian gave the word to build Romans from Britain’s legions turned out from their forts to quarry stone, haul material, and erect the long structure. Examples of other Roman walls still standing elsewhere are about 15 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Known for their uniformity and rigidity in military matters, this wall was likely the same. It’s imposing height, augmented by cliffs and ditches, was whitewashed and must have gleamed against the grey British skies. The mile-castles, roving cavalry patrols, and permanent garrisons intimated the reach and power of the Emperor stretching over a thousand miles back to Italy. 

For nearly 1,900 years Hadrian’s Wall has stood. Maintained by the National Trust preservation society in England, it’s line is still impressive. In Housesteads Fort the walls and gates have shed much of their glorious height. Beyond it’s northern gate lies what was once Rome’s frontier. The wall divided lands of the Brigantes tribes and kept the ancient Caledonians – the barbarians of the North – at bay. Here was the last line where the legionnaires stood guard against them all. 

Today the enemy was time. Bryce, Soren, Randy, Sean, and I, fresh off our day on Helvellyn, were there to dash across a section of well before heading back to our day jobs in the south. Dash being the appropriate term as we had one chance to get from Housesteads Fort to the village of Greenhead to catch the last bus back to our parked car. The only backup plan was a ten mile walk back. 

We walked, we jogged and we ran. Occasionally we stopped for a picture or just to gawk at the landscapes. To the south the ground sloped gently down. To the north the terrain drops steeply. The Romans incorporated the cliffs of the Great Whin Sill into their construction to form an imposing and formidable barrier. Overhead a ceaseless wind barreled from the north shoving the clouds across a threatening sky. It would be months before I turned back the cover of Alistair Moffat’s The Wall and really dove into the history of Roman Britain, but even in those moments my imagination could hear the cloth snapping on the Roman standards, and the low grumbling of lonely Centurians on duty from over a thousand years past. 

We arrived in Greenhead with time to spare. At the bus stop we leaned against a less ancient stone wall waiting for Bus 122 (appropriately numbered) to take us away. In the preceding six hours we had climbed the ancient walls, crossed bovine and sheep pastures, and transported ourselves back to the time when the area was bustling with Legionnaires, Auxiliaries, and the human activity that followed the Romans to each corner of the known world. 

In the end, the only tension of the day involved a couple of beers. While waiting for the bus Bryce, Soren, and Sean disappeared into the Greenhead Hotel. Just before the appointed hour they emerged with giant smiles and five bottles of cold ale in their hands – held high in the victory stance. Time slowed as we sipped the amber ale. We weren’t just drinking a toast to our successful day. The five of us were welcoming a new appreciation for the ambition and achievement of the Romans, their mark on history, and their invasion of our imaginations.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

The Hard Earned Joys of Ski Mountaineering

“All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”

― T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

The Italian winter of 2020-2021 saw one of the greatest snowfalls in recent history.  For those of us in the plains below, it was endless rainfall; but up above among the peaks; it was light snowflakes which make the powder of skiers’ dreams.

Passo Giau Covered in Snow.

Except, in a cruel irony; the Italian government had closed all the ski resorts to protect their population from the dangers of a virus which had gripped the world. 

In terms of the lives and livelihoods lost from the virus; the story of a lost season of epic skiing doesn’t quite reach the threshold of a tale of woe and suffering.

Luckily, this isn’t a story of woe (but there is some very real-physical- suffering).

Necessity is the mother of invention.  And with epic snowfall, closed borders, and regularly updated decrees from the Italian government on what we couldn’t do; we had to find a new way to experience our beloved mountains in winter.

Since fate has a way of bringing you what you need; I conducted training with the Alpini– or Italian mountain troops- who taught me the basics of Ski mountaineering, or Ski-Alpinismo as they call it in Italy.

An Alpini Eagle’s Wings Catch the Snow.

Ski mountaineering also known as ski-touring is the act of climbing up a mountain with specially modified equipment in order to ski down them.  On the bottom of the skis are “seal skins” which allow you to move uphill without sliding back down, and your heels are free to allow a more fluid movement.  When you are ready to go down, you take off the seal skins and lock your heel in.

Simple right?  Well sort of.  Like all things, the devil is in the details.  I had been interested in ski mountaineering for many years, but in the Pacific Northwest, where my lifelong passion for the mountains was solidified, the skills and equipment necessary to participate appeared too high. 

Those of us in America at the time accepted that in-depth knowledge of avalanche conditions (a science and art that can take a lifetime to acquire) and expensive equipment from Europe was required.  Plus, if the desire to ski came upon me; I could always go to a resort, which would whisk me-effort free- to the top of the mountain with none of the costs and risks.

Thus, the dream to ski-mountaineer remained unrealized; to lie where all the other adventurous dreams of the day burned. 

Until there were no resorts.  Then the dream became a need.  And, thanks to the Alpini, I now had some of the necessary skills.  We decided that every free weekend that month; we would head to the mountains.

As a family, we drove up to the breathtakingly beautiful mountain village of Arabba in the Dolomites.  In a normal winter, it is a world renowned way point in the classic Sella Ronda ski tour. 

Snow covers the road signs in the Passo Campolongo

This wasn’t a normal winter.  The snow was piled so high; it felt like we were driving through a white tunnel as we approached.  The lifts were closed. The village quiet.  The slopes empty.

With our friend, John, my wife and I rented our ski-alpinismo equipment.  Then we promised to meet before dawn of the following day.

At 0530, in the darkness of the winter night, Lisa and I got dressed and sleepily struggled to put together our equipment.  Then we trudged outside and met John.

Together we stepped into our gear and began climbing the empty slope.  Alone, among the trees, we saw the beginning of the sun lightening the valley below us.  Slowly, the sun began to share its warmth with us.

The Sun Creeps out to warm the Valley.

Lisa, a member of the ski patrol, quickly mastered the technique to glide as much as possible on the skis while climbing. 

John heads up, led by the light.

Technique mattered, because this was hard work.  Our heart rates soared as we trudged uphill.  The suffering alleviated by the tremendous natural beauty around us.  It was, according to John, our own “Private Dolomites.”

This being Europe, once we reached the top, a small mountain rifugio, or cabin, was improbably open.  I can only imagine the lady who served us was hoping the government would soon allow the the resort to open.  We had cappuccinos and strudel, filled with the pleasure of hard physical work finally accomplished.  Then we headed down.

The snow was perfect and all too soon we reached the bottom where we had started hours before. 

Lisa and I were addicted.  After a spirited fondue dinner with another couple, we agreed to go again with them the very next day. 

Derek, Cassandra, and Lisa push through the powder.

As before, in the winter darkness, we met and began to climb uphill.  The mountains on that side of the valley were steeper and the wind stung our face with its bitter cold.  At times our skis would slip and we worried we might fall down the face.  We climbed higher and struggled at the limits of our stamina.

The wind bites us.

When we were ready to ski down, our frozen fingers had trouble preparing our equipment for the descent. 

But once again, we were filled with joy as we took long swooping curves on empty slopes of fresh powder.  We had in the parlance of ski mountaineering, “earned our turns”, and as result the descent was even sweeter.

Lisa and I headed out another time that month to ski-tour.  Under blue skies we found ourselves surrounded by beautiful rock faces and snow covered peaks that stretched to the horizon.

Snow covered peaks stretch out endlessly.

At the end of the month, in the iconic Olympic ski town of Cortina; we arranged ski lessons for our two oldest daughters.  With lifts closed, I carried the girls up the hill after each run. 

Then in one of the serendipitous twists of fate, we met Prince Hurbertus-the father of our daughters’ instructor.  He is an Olympic skier who represents Mexico at international competitions  in a Mariachi spandex suit.  We had followed him since our first child was born in Mexico City.

Prince Hubertus, also known as Andy Himalaya and Royal Disaster welcomes the next generation Mexican Olympic Skier.

We commiserated with him on the lost ski season of epic snow. 

Except for us, it hadn’t been lost.

We had been introduced to the hard earned joys of ski mountaineering; where hours of laborious climbing were rewarded by fleeting minutes of floating velocity.

We had a new passion and will still be ski mountaineering even when the resorts reopen.

The dreams of the day made possible.

The eternal pleasures of hard physical work accomplished.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

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Aosta: History and Climbing

“I expected snow, not icy concrete,” Rich shouts from about twenty feet behind me. Halting, I lean into my ice ax and gasp for a few quick breaths of the frigid February air. We’re halfway up a steep 600-ft snow slope. Time does strange things when you’re zoned in and kicking steps. “I know, let’s take a minute” I mumble back. “It’s probably best,” Rich retorts. “This could be where that one climber slipped and cracked his femur.” I shudder. “Yeah, I can see why, let’s stop here and grab a snack. It’s really packed down solid now.” We both plop down in hardened divots of the icy hard pack. Looming above towers a 650-ft icy couloir, the first objective of our adventure. Sprawled before us lies the tiny mountain town of Lillaz, our humble refuge for our week in Italy’s northern Alps. With my back crammed into a snow dugout and my rucksack precariously resting beside I finally can appreciate the grandeur of the valley.

First pitch of the Lillaz Gully. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

Every year hundreds of climbers and thousands of Nordic skiers flock to this rugged corner of Italy’s Gran Paradiso National Park. Lillaz isn’t Chamonix. You won’t find raucous crowds or a flashy après ski vibe. It’s a resilient town with a unique history and an esoteric sense of solitude. One doesn’t stumble aimlessly into this valley. Everything about it is intentional, the inhabitants, the intrepid bands of ice climbers, and the deep ruts left behind by the endurance skiers. It’s deliberate and yet unassuming. One experiences Lillaz for a reason. 

Gran Paradiso. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

Lillaz rests in the historic Aosta Valley forty miles from the French border and three hours from Turin, the capitol city of Italy’s Piedmont region. The journey from Turin Airport into Italy’s least populated region whisks one into antiquity. As we speed past the medieval castles and ancient vineyards, the alpine walls of the valley envelope us. Dead ahead sits the most impressive fortress, the Castello di Fenis with its mighty buttresses and unscalable towers. It’s impossible to not contemplate the past during the journey into the valley. This region has played a role in Italy’s history for thousands of years. The very name Aosta originated with Caesar Augustus after his generals violently wrested this region from barbarian tribes in 25 BC. But it’s not Caesar that captures my imagination on this drive through the plains of the Po River valley, instead it’s Hannibal of Carthage, Rome’s most capable adversary.

Although historians debate the exact location, it was Hannibal that bypassed these precipitous crevasses, towering ledges, and alpine heights with 100,000 soldiers and 40 African elephants during his journey from northern Africa to modern-day Italy in the Second Punic War. The endurance required is almost unimaginable. In similar fashion and a few centuries later, another historic figure traversed this dangerous valley to reach fertile fields of Italy. The meteoric young French general, Napoleon Bonaparte etched his name into military lore by crossing Switzerland’s Saint Bernard’s Pass and into the Aosta Valley with 40,000 troops in the Spring of 1800. Bonaparte’s southern advance was halted at the Italian Fort of Bard, which we unwittingly speed past on our highway journey into Lillaz. These historical episodes reveal that at great costs a few passed through this inhospitable valley, but most would never dare to inhabit this austere region. This valley is rugged, and its inhabitants are no strangers to its allure and hazards. Understanding the history of this region helps contextualize the modern adventurer’s experience.

The area surrounding Lillaz is an alpine adventurer’s paradise with over 140 multi-pitch ice routes and fifty miles of Nordic ski track. There are two parallel valleys that extend from the towns of Lillaz and Cogne—Lillaz and Valnontey. Beginning at the town of Cogne, all Valnontey’s routes rest within view of the 13,323 ft mountain, Gran Paradiso. Rich and I spent three days of climbing in Valnontey and two days in Lillaz. The route—Lillaz Gully—that Rich and I climbed the first day was six pitches of a combination of steep snow, easy mixed sections, and waterfall ice; a perfect route to loosen the nerves and stoke the excitement. There are few locations in Europe that offer the assortment and variety of ice climbing lines in such a close vicinity. The British make the trip across the channel when they tire of the Scottish storms and weather cancellations on Ben Nevis. The French are here to avoid Chamonix crowds. The Italians, well, because it’s home. Wherever you may call home and whether you seek long days of vertical ice or beautiful days winding through Nordic ski trails, Lillaz is perfect.

Right after the traverse that leads to the first pitch of Pattinagio Artistico. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

After our mid-slope snack, Rich and I continue towards our morning objective. The couloir’s ice is in perfect condition. Utilizing dual ropes, Rich leads the first pitch while I take the second. Swapping leads increases our rate of ascent and keeps the body warm. Each section completed offers a wider and more beautiful view of the valley and Gran Paradiso. Climbing in the Aosta valley requires total focus. One must constantly remain present and aware of the sounds, and dynamic nature of the ice. From the thundering of avalanches careening across the opposite sun-soaked side of the valley to the soft thud of an ax striking a hollow section of ice, all must be heard and understood. We top out after the final pitch, 4.5 hours later, toes numb, hands unable to grip, but with beaming smiles. There really is no such feeling as the completion of a climb. Cold beer and savory Italian pizza spur our descent. That night, over wine from one of the region’s top vineyards we swap tales with two of our friends, Baz and Annabelle in Lillaz’s top ice climbing restaurant—Bar Cascate. I can think of no better way to end a day in the mountains.

Post-climb beers. Photo by Bryce Mitchell

The next morning early before the sun has emerged from behind the ridge, Rich and I hungrily stumble into the lodge’s dining room. Three separate bands of climbers huddle together, discussing the day’s agenda over thinly sliced prosciutto, peaches, and buttered crescents. The four young and haggard Italians offer a welcoming nod. The French duo barely recognizes our disturbance. The light chatter continues unbroken. We unassumingly slip into our seats, joining the room’s quiet anticipation. It’s a mixture of excitement and wonder, all stirred together by a unifying respect for the valley. We’ve come from the far corners of the world with one task, to explore Aosta’s alluring beauty. Suddenly, the sun begins to emerge from behind the Gran Paradiso. Like a signal flare all seem to notice. It’s time to climb.

Bryce Mitchell is a contributor to Pushing Horizons.


Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Adventures Among the Relics of War

The Italian Dolomites are filled with both the most stunning mountain scenery in the world and the remnants of man’s unending willingness to struggle violently against other men.

The wheel of fate had brought us to Italy and we always intended to experience it in all of its full-throttled glory.  Roman ruins, Renaissance cities, fast cars, faster mopeds, and succulent pasta dishes washed down with endless bottles of red wine are the hallmark of this overwhelmingly immersive country. 

Of course, for those drawn to the vertical world of mountains, there are also other attractions.  The pink hued Dolomite mountains are some of the most stunning in the world.  This chain branches off from the greater Alps; but due to the mysteries of geology, it is only in eastern Italy that this mountain range becomes a series of iconic imposing colorful rock faces.  The French Climbing Guide Gaston Rebuffat said of the Dolomites, “one ray of sunshine is enough to give them life, the effect…make them shimmer, take on color and charm for all their verticality.” Their beauty defies description.

The Pink tinged rock faces of Tre Cime.

But man covets that which is beautiful and tribes fight other tribes for reasons of fear, greed, and honor, as Thucydides so memorably put it thousands of years ago.  The Dolomites has been an arena of violent competition as long as there have been humans.  The prehistoric mummy “Iceman Otzi” discovered in the glaciers of northern Italy bears wounds inflicted by other humans.  Scientists believe he died, not by wild animals or natural causes, but by an arrow shot at him.  Otzi was only the first recorded casualty of conflict. For millennia warriors and armies of increasing fame and infamy passed through these mountains.  It seems like every valley of this mountainous region is watched over by an imposing castle meant to block the advance of rival forces.

A representation of Otzi, the prehistoric Iceman, at the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology.

More by happenstance  than by a plan, we have sought to experience the great mountains around us.  Although the Veneto region has been made immortal by the great trading city of Venice, it is also the gateway to the high country.  In a series of day trips, we have taken our small girls up to walk among this wonderland.  Sometimes, Lisa and I have escaped to try our hand at harder physical endeavors.  Time and again, in our travels, we have discovered the remnants of war.

Amidst the larger First World War, a hundred and five years ago, on 23 May 1915, Italy declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  The Italian or Alpine front was a series of battles between Italy and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, that quickly devolved into a struggle of attrition among the peaks of the region.  The tyranny of altitude, cold, and logistics imposed its own logic on the geopolitical desires of the Italian leadership who hoped to recover territory they believed rightfully theirs.  

Tre Cime

With another family, we hiked to the incredible Tre Cime or three Peaks.  British travelers in the nineteenth century described the peaks as “Egyptian Colossi.”  The otherworldly allure of these mountains has drawn Hollywood to use it as the location of an Ice planet in the Star Wars’ films.  After hustling small children into backpacks, we began following our friends’ fearless dog in the imposing shadows of the great peaks. 

Fearless scout.

We slipped and struggled through spring snow before coming to a pass that opened up to a panorama of rock and ice.  The children played in the snow, seemingly unaffected by the altitude or the climb that had brought us to that location.  Above us, incongruities in the rock on Mount Paterno attracted our eyes.  We climbed up to find hewn into the rock fighting positions where soldiers could observe the valley below us. 

Gingerly navigating the slippery snow.

Immediately after the declaration of war, Italian forces were meant to seize the high ground from their unprepared and surprised opponents.  However, the inevitable friction of war delayed the offensive giving the Austrians time to prepare their defenses.  Repeated assaults in the area and on the nearby Monte Piana led to an estimated 14,000 casualties.

An Austrian captain wrote at the time, “the Italians have justly baptised this mountain ‘Mount Pianto’ [Mountain of Tears].  It has already cost our side and the Italians so much blood and will cost even more, that I do not know if its possession can justify such a great sacrifice……In any case that’s not my concern; my task is to obey.”

Peering through the Italian machine gun firing positions, which they had seized on Mount Paterno, we could see an uninterrupted view on the low ground below.  It was their forward most outpost and from it they made it a killing field for the Austrians. 

The view from the Italian Positions.

We hiked back down from the high ground.  While our children played; the adults shared a celebratory bottle of prosecco.  We felt like the encircling rock cathedrals were for us alone.

A well deserved glass of Prosecco

Amidst our adventures, it slowly dawned on us that ironically, war had created architectural wonders which allowed adventurers, many years later, to reach deep into the wild and appreciate nature’s greatness.

The route of 52 tunnels.

Lisa and I had procured a babysitter, and early one morning we drove out to hike one such man made wonder in the wilderness; the 52 tunnels of Mount Pasubio.  On a clear day, Pasubio’s limestone ridge line dominates the lowlands around Vicenza, where we live.  It’s high ground used to mark the border between Austria Hungary and Italy; thus its strategic importance in the First World War.

The view of the Veneto plains from the side of Mount Pasubio.

All through 1915, the Italians slowly and painfully occupied the mountain range.  However, on 15 May 1916 a surprise Austrian offensive almost swept the Italians completely off Pasubio; the last defensible terrain before the Veneto plains.  Almost.  The Italians remained on the rocky summit and the ensuing battle became what one Austrian veteran described as the “witches’ cauldron.”

Lisa studies the military engineering.

In order to sustain their forward positions, the Italians built a series of tunnels through the mountain which allowed them to travel unmolested by Austrian Artillery.  The resulting incredible 52 tunnels cut through rock can still be explored today.

The tunnels open up to incredible vistas.

Lisa and I brought our headlamps and hiked 9 miles along the path so laboriously built over a hundred years before.  Sometimes we would scramble through wet tunnels with no natural light that cork screwed in the heart of the mountain only to pop out into the gorgeous sunny day with endless views of the terrain below us.  The path was littered with the mementos that soldiers always place to mark an achievement and ensure their sacrifices are not forgotten.

A unit carved its insignia into the rock, not to be forgotten.

In a similar but more manageable walk with our children, we hiked Mount Cegnio on Father’s Day.  It was here that the Sardinia Grenadier Brigade entered history with their heroic defense of the Asiago plateau. Our eldest daughter Marie found a rusty piece of metal in one of the tunnels, which she was convinced came from the era of those battles. 

Marie inspects her historical artifact.

Throughout the Dolomites, both sides had to wrestle with how to maneuver through the imposing mountains.  In order to aid the movement of troops amidst the vertical rock faces, a series of ladders, bridges, and cables were installed and are known as Via Ferrata or the “Iron Road.”  Their existence from World War One, has created an entire sub genre in climbing.  Naturally, Lisa and I had to try our hands at the sport.

Lisa analyzes the route up.

Via Ferrata is addictive.  Hanging off cables hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the ground below, one feels a tremendous thrill.  It was taxing enough for us in our ultralight clothing and modern climbing equipment. It was hard to imagine soldiers trudging up the same impossibly steep terrain with hobnailed boots, wearing woolen uniforms, and carrying their weapons, ammunition, and food.  They must have always been fearful of being observed by their enemies in the exposed terrain.

With a group of friends, we tried our hands at what is considered one of the finest Via Ferrata routes in the Dolomites.  This route, known as the Bolver Luigi, rises straight up the iconic Pale Dolomite Rock around the old world mountain town of San Martino di Castrozza.

Navigating the Via Ferrata route above San Martino.

We would catch glimpses of the beauty amidst the swirling clouds before being swallowed by them.  The day became an epic with pounding hailstones, a thrilling glissade down the snowy backside, and a lightning storm.  10 miles and 7 hours later, after reaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, we hobbled back into town with a greater appreciation of those who had built the route in the first place, long before.

The clouds close in the sheer rock face.

The mountains are neutral and impassive to human ambitions; whether they be the objectives of climbers or states.  Time has washed away the reasons of fear, greed, and honor which had led men to fight among the beautiful Dolomite mountains.  Only the relics of war remained. 

A memorial to the Fallen in Asiago.

Photo Essay: Palio di Siena

The great Palio di Siena would have run on 2 July 2020. With months of anticipation and preparation, a week of ceremony and tradition, the Palio is one of the oldest traditions in Italy. Unfortunately, due to COVID-19 the races in July and August have been cancelled this year.  One of our greatest fears at Pushing Horizons is that the rebalance of what is deemed essential and inessential in life will land heavily against traditions like the Palio. We would argue that traditions that stretch back centuries and tie communities together are the very definition of “essential activity” and the intangible, unquantifiable benefits sharpen what gives meaning to life. 

WIthout a Palio this year to attend, the team at Pushing Horizons put together a short photo essay to remind us of the passion and intensity of Siena, Italy in July that accompanies our website-launching article on the Palio di Siena . Enjoy!

Crests of all 17 contrade in Siena. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Selecting the horses for the Palio. Riders wearing the colors of Siena test the horses offered for the race. Only ten will get selected from a pool of over forty. Photo by Andrew Zapf
By random draw the horses selected for the Palio are allocated to the participating contrade. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The streets are alive with color as the contrade decorate their neighborhoods, engage in daily processions, and gather to celebrate the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The start of the Palio, and the prove, is marked by a heavy rope. The horses are unrestrained and may be pointed in the wrong direction when the race begins. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Prova. Testing the horses in the days prior to the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The days of the Prove. After horses have been randomly allocated to their contrada there are five trail races - the Prova General is takes place the evening before the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Piazza del Campo, the site of the Palio in Siena. This photo shows the number of people packed into the square to watch a Prova, or trial race. Unfortunately, some people within earshot did not understand what they were watching and thought they had witnessed the Palio. We waited hours to get a spot on the rail to take photos. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Piazza del Campo. This photo was taken from the top of Torre del Mangia. The orange dirt around the piazza marks the route of the Palio. It's worth nothing the corners, curves, and straight portions for they factor into the uncertainty of the race. Photo by Andrew Zapf
We found a place at the tables of the Contrada Capitana dell'Onda. The streets were bustling as the men, women, and children prepared the tables, hung decorations, and arranged the master seating chart. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Roland and Andy at the Prova Generale with the Contrada dell'Onda. The seating is given by order of precedence. We sat three seats from the end of the line and around the corner from the main stage. Still, it was a meal filled with singing and storytelling. Photo by un uomo della contrada
Light fixture above the streets of the Contrada Capitana dell'Onda illuminating the dinner and marking the contrada territory. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Horse running for the Contrada Capitana dell'Onda exiting the contrada's chapel after being blessed on race day. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The pre-Palio ceremony involved military costumes, cavalry charges, and elaborate flag waving. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Cavalry salute the youth of the contrade before reenacting a charge out of the Piazza del Campo. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The Palio banner pulled through the pre-race procession by a team of massive oxen. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Giovanni Atzeni saluting the members of Imperial Contrada della Giraffa before the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The passion of the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Military costumes. Part of the Palio procession. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The Palio. The race was tight for three laps and Giovanni Atzeni (wearing red and white) would take the lead in the last moments and win the Palio for Imperial Contrada della Giraffa. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The Palio. It's fast, intense, violent, and passionate. Photo by Andrew Zapf
Giovanni Atzeni, on the shoulders of the Contrada della Giraffa, holding his hands up in victory after the Palio, 2 July 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf
The banner of Imperial Contrada della Giraffa stands alone after its victory in the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Photo Essay: Memorial Day 2019

What a difference a year makes. In the time before COVID, when we could freely travel, the Pushing Horizons family crossed continents to visit on another. Weekends filled with simple moments with extraordinary friends formed the foundation  of what became Pushing Horizons.

This year, without the ability to travel, we went back into the archives to pull a few extra pictures from a truly memorable weekend in Italy where we remembered the fallen of World War II, celebrated the time our families had together, and did some moderate exploring in a rain-soaked Rome. 

Minez-Zapf Family Photo at the Sicily-Rome American Cemetery near Anzio, Italy. Memorial Day wreath-laying ceremony 2019
There's are several poetic contrasts here.
Army guys love maps. Always have. Always will.
Showing our children the Memorial chapel.
Showing our children the Memorial chapel.
The soft underbelly of Europe.
The constellations and planets Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn as they occupied the sky at 0200 hours on 22 January 1944 - when the first American and British soldiers landed at Anzio.
Sicily-Rome American Cemetery near Anzio, Italy.
Chilled wine on a sunny beach. Occupied kids and live music. Good food and great people.
Looking west into the sea.
Two strong personalities already.
Grilling can be serious business.
Memorial Day weekend grill at work.
A selection of Italian cheeses, bread, and tomatoes.
Courgette with garlic yoghurt.
A simple table to gather around.
After lunch playtime together.
Too few umbrellas for a Roman downpour.
The joy of jumping in puddles along the via della Conciliazione, Rome, Italy
Good clean fun. Getting to know some midwest nuns at a crosswalk in Rome, Italy.
Escaping from the rain with warm milks.
Rome, Italy

Andrew Zapf and Roland Minez are a co-founders of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Cooking in the Time of COVID.

“Life is weather. Life is meals”

James Salter

One of the many steps in preparing Julia Child’s classic Boeuf Bourguinon. It is according to Julia, “certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.” We agree. Remember to serve it with a “fairly full-bodied young red wine.”

Our life, and the premise of pushinghorizons.com, has been a relentless pursuit to experience that which makes life rich. We seek out the history that shapes our destinies, the sports that inspire, and the adventures that challenge us. Such a life, though it is one of our choosing, can be frenetic.

Then forces beyond our control, in the form of a novel and deadly virus-COVID-19, has upended the world. We are in the midst of the storm and its full damage in lives lost and economies wrecked is not yet known.

For those in Italy, the impact has been especially dreadful. Gracefully, we have avoided the worst. We are now largely restricted to the confines of our house. It has reminded us that some of life’s greatest experiences are its simplest. We have spent time as a family and sought to challenge ourselves by learning new skills.

The novelist James Salter once said that “Life is weather, Life is meals.” In that vein, we opened up old cook books and researched recipes to cook and share memorable meals. The dishes themselves, no matter delicious, were not nearly as important as the experience of making and eating them together.

The below photo essay captures some of the results. If any of the dishes inspire you, feel free to contact us and we would be happy to share the recipes. Be forewarned, some of these older classic dishes are incredibly time intensive and complex. One more reminder that simple pleasures are earned through hard work.

Roland, learning that cooking is hard work.
Hard work deserves libations. Paloma, a cocktail of tequila, fresh grapefruit, lime, jalapeno, and club soda.
A Berry Tart inspired by Sweden, but made our own Chez the Minezes with whatever was in the freezer in a time of scarcity.
The Venetian cookbook Polpo‘s ricotta fennel salad and black cabbage gnocchi
Jamie Oliver’s “Best Chorizo and Tomato Salad in the World.” It was good.
Julia Child’s delectable French Omelette.
A “Venetian Style” beefsteak with salsa, and a bottle of Val Policella, of course.
Salad Nicoise a la Lisa.
A “Pytt i Panna”, the Swedish method of clearing out all your leftovers. Don’t forget the raw egg on top.
Leek Tart Tatin
Lisa puts the finishing touches on a birthday Lemon Meringue tart.
The head chef observes the kitchen to ensure standards are being enforced.
The lemon meringue tart, from the Slanted Door Cookbook, in the midst of being enjoyed.
Lisa’s piece de la resistance, Beef Wellington.
A cheese platter outside.

What We’re Reading This Month – March 2020

Snowdon: The Story of a Welsh Mountain & The Hills of Wales by Jim Perrin

There is a pseudo-legend frequently recounted about Cwm Cau on Cader Idris, forty miles to the south: that to sleep there alone is to wake either as poet or madman, so sublime are the surroundings – Jim Perrin, Snowdon

Ever since I walked the Llanberis Trail to the summit of Mount Snowdon part of my brain has remained in northwestern Wales. The freezing summit and zero visibility wrapped the mountains in mystery. Before going I was vaguely aware of Snowdonia’s connection to the earliest British mountaineering pioneers, but not enough to speak smartly on the subject. There are a number of books on the subject, but Jim Perrin’s offered me an opportunity to dig a little deeper into Mount Snowdon’s history with Snowdon: The Story of a Welsh Mountain, which is a compact natural, mythical, and historical review of Snowdonia. 

He also seeks to give credit to the unnamed flora-seekers, shepherds, and guides for knowing the crags and crevices of Snowdon before the so-called discoveries by British hikers of a certain class.  The Hills of Wales is a collection of essays that Perrin has written over the decade, so it gives a more meandering look at the whole Welsh countryside. These two books are not appropriate for reading in a single sitting, but I revisit them each night when my mind absconds from daily concerns and returns to the mountains.

Into The Silence: The Great War, Mallory, and the Conquest of Everest by Wade Davis

One of the peculiar and unexpected outcomes of peace was the desire of many veterans to go anywhere but home. For those who survived, as Paul Fussel writes, travel became a source of irrational happiness, a moving celebration of the sheer joy of being alive. – Wade Davis

Relatedly, Into the Silence by Wade Davis came strongly recommended to me by Roland, a more accomplished and well-read climber. More than a story about the first attempts by Westerners to climb Mount Everest, it tells a wide-ranging story about the devastation of World War I on a generation of British climbers, on the classist Cambridge-Oxford-bred British climbing elites, and the evolution of a climbing as a pursuit of national pride and imperial symbolism. Davis delves into the lives of each of the personalities in the English climbing community, exploration of northern India and Tibet, politicians and diplomats, and others that play parts in the quest for Everest. He explores the upbringing, their relations to the mountaineering community, the strictures of their class and upbringing, and their experience/trauma of the First World War that “cleared the board,” so to speak, for this undertaking. I’m still working my way through this one, but it’s had an iron grip on my attention.

Flashpoint Trieste: The First Battle of the Cold War by Christian Jennings

By summer 1945, five sides faced each other around Trieste. Geo-political, strategic and diplomatic necessity forced all of them to communicate and negotiate with each other constantly. Anxious fingers needed to be kept off triggers. But nobody trusted the other. There were too many hidden agendas, promises made, assurances broken, vested interests and covert priorities. At the top of the Adriatic, Great Britain, the United States, Italy, Yugosalvia and Russia circled each other like nervous cats. And each nations’ storm-troopers of the Cold War, their intelligence agencies were in action. – Christian Jennings

Finally, I needed a book for a commute and picked one of the more pocket-sized paperbacks on my shelf. With my recent fascination with Italy, the outbreak of the coronavirus, and my love for historical complexity Flashpoint Trieste: The First Battle of the Cold War by Christian Jennings hits a sweet spot for my intellectual taste. Plain and simple, the Cold War wasn’t always a tale of two superpowers. It began with the convulsion of the post-World War I order – which was extremely volatile, even at the death of Adolf Hitler. This is a pretty straightforward history, but it gives nuance to a corner of World War II often overlooked with the sweeping gaze of 21st Century hindsight.

~ AZ

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.