Rising over 1200 meters directly behind our house in the Italian Dolomites are the northern slopes of the Plan de Corones, or Kronplatz. The giant hillside is completely covered in thick, lush forest with a massive network of dirt roads and singletrack mountain biking trails. Literally 2 minutes from our door, it is our playground.

This afternoon, much later than I would like with “extreme thunderstorms” forecast, I headed out for a training session. Shorts, short sleeve jersey, vest for the downhill – it’s summer, right?

As I neared the 3/4 mark to the top I began getting glimpses west, black is an understatement for what was approaching. I continued up having no doubt it would rain but with little concern as it is not so unusual to get a good soaking in the European Alps. A group of downhillers came bombing towards me. Through each of their face guards I could see little beady eyes looking at me with sick pleasure. Turns out they had seen something from up high that I missed being down in the trees. The fact that they were on the dirt road, and not the downhill course should have been a good clue for me to turn tail and get the hell down.

Minutes after they passed the first drops began to pelt me. But this wasn’t rain, it was like waterballoons coming down. And then, like the sun had been extinguished, the day went black as night. Here, those that know me will surely question my exaggeration level – the “Dan Factor” as Janine likes to call it. I swear it to be a zero. Had I have had a headlamp I would have surely considered the On switch. Creepy is a good term to describe how it felt as I now crept upward.

The disturbing silence was shattered by what sounded like a military aircraft coming in low, as it came closer the sound grew, I thought for sure something was about to crash into the hillside, and then I was driven sideways, nearly off the road, my left foot unclipping just in time to save me from plummeting down the steep forested slope. Wind so violent it was more like a wave of water than air, a nearby tree exploded and crashed to the ground, I barely stayed upright. Determined, I carried on, intrigued by what was happening; the blackness, the wind, and now the thundering explosions of what was right on top of me. Basically, I thought, “Cool”.  I heard an SMS come in and quickly pulled the phone from my jersey pocket, it was Janine, “Are you okay? Get home fast”.

Suddenly my little game changed when one word entered my head. “Hail.”

Immediately I stopped, pulled out the vest, and by the time it was zipped closed all hell broke loose, hail, like a sand blaster. Summer no more. Back on board the bike I was ripping down best I could given that I couldn’t see and my bare skin felt like it was being torn off . But soon the hail stopped and my tempo settled into something tolerable, I actually began enjoying my 700 meter descent in what was quickly becoming a torrent of brown, rushing water. I imagined myself Captain Dan from Forrest Gump, on my bike, hanging on, loving that feeling of being really so small in something so big and powerful.

The entire ridge traverse, from the right to left and back to the where the photo was made before the last descent to the Val San Nicolo (below) >click to enlarge

Val di Fassa’s Val San Nicolo Ridge Traverse

After twelve years together, living, working and playing in the mountains – Janine and I may well have just discovered our perfect day. One of the very best of about 4000 days together in the mountains. Janine found it, right there on the Val di Fassa map; a feature, some trails, a little creative route planning and then an announcement that we’ll be doing a “big ridge traverse” this week. Ok.

First up, I need to make a disclaimer if this is to be used as a route planner. This trail is NOT for everyone, it is far from easy, includes exposed climbing sections, requires comfort in high places, and a bit of route finding. Nevertheless, it is all there and certainly not an epic unless you choose to make it so. We saw just two other people on the trail, I asked them in Italian if they too thought it was amazing, the answer, “Ja, aber nicht so einfach”. Okay, they’re weren’t Italians and they’re weren’t enjoying it quite as much as us, but you might. If the following sounds good to you, and you are in the Dolomites, do not miss this experience.

Highlights: Via Ferrate, exposure, no crowds, abundant World War 1 history, tunneling, caving, scrambling, countless summits, two huts, and quite possibly the best views of any location in the Dolomites (if only the afternoon had been clear!!).

Janine in the early morning headed to the Zeni Bivouac and the start of the Via Ferrata F. Gadotti

Via Ferrata F. Gadotti and the Alta Via B. Federspiel

What Janine discovered on the map was the Alta Via B. Federspiel starting from the Val San Nicolo above the Val di Fassa just outside Pozza di Fassa. The feature is a massive circular ridge system with a trail tracing its crest, alternating between Via Ferrata and “advanced” hiking route. But she added to the trail, starting on the Cima Dodici (Sas da le Duodesh) on the Via Ferrata F. Gadotti above the Zeni Bivouac. From the summit, trails and more ferrate link to the Forcella la Costela and the start of the Alta Via B. Federspiel. From here, one thing is immediately obvious. It is going to be a long day. And this was just the first part, for this ridge system terminates at the Rifugio Passo delle Selle. But the ridge continues, becoming the Sentiero Atti Bepi Zac which mostly follows a WWI trench and tunnel system all the way to the Costabela.

This section is certainly the most raw for WWI history, for much still remains from the war 95 years ago. It is not prettied or tidied up, it is a mess of barbed wire, artillery placements, tunnels, living quarters and stone barriers. We found bomb shrapnel, pieces of old leather boots, and oddly, very oddly – many bone fragments of unknown origin. We have never seen bone fragments elsewhere, why here? While traversing this section the pace will certainly slow to have a morbid look at human history. The Austrian and Italians had it out on this high and lonely ridge. The Austrian tunnels have gun turrets facing south, the Italian versions with windows pointing north. Trenches are still in place right on the crest and dotted with caves built as sleeping quarters – it is this very system of trenches and exposed ledges that the trails follows.

Dan; How big is the Zeni Bivouac? This small...

From the Costabela the trail plummets from the crest down deep into the cirque at the end of the Val San Nicolo. Here we found another trail, not on the map, that connected us to the parallel ridge starting at the Pas de San Nicolo where a well placed hut awaits. This is the beginning of an all new ridge and the second, and return, section of the traverse. From the Rifugio Pas de San Nicolo the remainder of trail is much more well traveled and less rugged. While the entire first section is straight up & straight down in rocky terrain, this section is singletrack through grasses and wildflowers traversing up and down until it ends at the ski station Col de Valvagin. From here, we took the service road 800 meters down to the valley below where we had left the car at the Malga al Crocifisso.

We did the entire trail in one day, beginning at 6am, we returned to the car at 8pm. Stops were made for photos/views and a sizeable lunch of pasta (of course). The trail is slow going, especially due to the Via Ferrate and rocky terrain in the first part. We thought to run much of it but the running really only comes towards the end.

As described, the tour could be done in many ways, even using the huts for overnighting. Or, the first big peak climb and Via Ferrata could be skipped. All names are from the Tabacco Map 06 Val di Fassa. It is very difficult to say how long this trail is with how intricate the route is, we estimate 26-28 kilometers and about 3800 total meters of climbing. An interesting note is that the tour begins on Dolomite rock, turns to a long section of Gneiss (complete with a completely different feel), and then turns back to Dolomite.

What allows this trail to have such magnificent views is its position. The ridgeline is part of what separates the southern Dolomites from the northern. Therefore, when on top of the crest nearly everything may be seen. I have never seen one area where so much is visible; from the Sas dla Crusc, Tofana, Sassolungo, Catinaccio, Odla to the Pale di San Martino, Civetta and even the Agner. It is the perfect location from which to see the Dolomites.

Janine at the start of the Via Ferrata F. Gadotti

From the summit of the Cima Dodici looking into the Val di Fassa, the Cattinacio and Pozza

The second peak of the day, the Sas Aut

Via Ferrata F. Gadotti with the approach trail far below

Janine descending in caves from the summit of the Sas Aut

Long, steep descent through a chasm from the Sas Aut

Finally, the ridge traverse begins here, at the Forcella de la Costela. Far in the distance, at the top left is the Rifugio Passo delle Selle and the end of this section, just the beginning

Endless up and down on the ridgeline in this terrain getting to the first hut

Before the Rifugio delle Selle is the beginning of the War area with ledges that served as the frontlines

The majority of the day is spent right on the crest

War ledges

Dan having a pasta at Rifugio Passo delle Selle

Immediately after leaving the hut is a long climb and the real War trail through tunnels and trenches for about 3 kilometers

Barbed wire and religion

The trail leads through tunnels that were the network for moving around without being exposed to gunfire

Windows can be seen in the cliff faces that were gun placements

Finally some terrain for running, the original goal for the day, comes after the Rifugio Passo San Nicolo

Janine on the last section of ridge before the big descent back to the Val San Nicolo. The first ridge's earlier sections can be seen in the background

The final section on perfect running terrain. The ski station, the end of the ridge, can be seen in the distance

Dan, end of the day, end of the ridge - the final meters to the last summit

As we descended, our first climb came into view, the beginning of our giant circle. The bright orange Zeni Bivouac can be seen in the green below the walls

In the valley, the final obstacle to the car

Walking through WWI trenches, Monte Lagazuoi

The bottom entrance to the Lagazuoi Gallery

A Historical Walk to Dinner through the Lagazuoi Tunnels

Part of the culture of life in the Italian Dolomites is to share a dinner with friends in one of the many mountain huts (rifugi) – for us, this is habit. Sometimes we hike, other times it’s a ski approach, maybe a trail run, or even a mountain bike ride. But last night was something unique, we arrived to the Rifugio Lagazuoi via a pitch black tunnel from WWI that ascends nearly 400 meters to the top of Monte Lagazuoi.

Our friend Carolyn is doing the Alta Via 1 and called to invite us for dinner at the hut. It was the perfect summer evening to head up and see her as well as the hut’s owner and friend Guido Pompanin. Dinner was set for 6:45 – we arrived at the trailhead at 6 and immediately took note of the trail sign indicating a two hour walk to the hut. “Merda, RUN!”

Inside the Gallery

A couple hundred meters above the parking area the trail splits; options include a long hike around the peak to it’s backside and up to the summit hut, or a tunnel going straight up within the mountain itself. The tunnel is a kind of museum as it is a perfectly preserved piece of war history. Built over a period of many months by the Italian army during WWI, the tunnel was meant to access the top and ultimately blow up the strategically located Austrian artillery placement. The monumental effort of boring through a mountain simply to then blow it up paid off and the Austrians lost there stronghold. Today, where men once lived in misery and fear, iPhone wielding tourists now strut about bound for the hut and a pasta, I was no exception.

Janine, aka Little Red Riding Hood, exiting the Gallery on top

We opted for the tunnel as it is faster and more direct and we had done it many times before – but never in a rush to make dinner. Up we went, each step inside the inky darkness gaining us a half meter. The lights from our headlamps passed over the many interior features; the soldiers living quarters, a water cistern, and many portholes in the tower’s side for dumping the stone and debris from the tunnel. Finally, we arrived at the top, exited the tunnel and like the Italian army in WWI, found not a soul about. But while the Austrian army made a rapid departure after catching wind of the impending arrival of the Italians and a potential large explosion, today’s summit inhabitants were gathered inside the Rifugio enjoying an aperitif.

After the Gallery there is an easy walk to the summit

Our own dash for the hut ended with the front door opening and Carolyn stepping out to greet us – promptly at 6:45. From the dank tunnel we suddenly found ourselves in a room full of cheer. Guido handed us towels for washing up, drinks arrived, and many friends gathered about. A fun feast was next, storytelling and a beautiful sunset making silhouettes of distant Dolomite towers. The evening became late, people wandered off to bed, we said good night, put our headlamps on and headed back to the tunnels.

The final steps to the top and the Lagazuoi Hut

______________________________________________

Travel in Italy’s Dolomites

A visit to the Heart of the Dolomites should certainly include a day or two exploring the Lagazuoi and Cinque Torri area. This is some of the most rugged and scenic terrain in all of the Dolomites and is accessed from any of the surrounding valley’s; Cortina d’Ampezzo (Passo Falzarego from the east), Alta Badia (Passo Valparola) or Arraba (Passo Falzarego from the west).

Rifugio Lagazuoi is accessed by trail on foot, via the tunnel described above, or by cable car (open seasonally). The common summer itinerary is cable car up, hike around the summit, lunch & nap on the Rifugio Lagazuoi’s famous deck with unrivaled views of the Dolomites, then a descent of the WWI tunnel. Headlamp required, helmet recommended.

Visit Rifugio Lagazuoi for complete information, pricing, and booking.

Also, the hut keeper, Guido, is a great photographer and thanks to the situation of the hut, gets incredible weather photos. Follow the Hut’s Rifugio Lagazuoi Facebook Page or on Twitter @rifugiolagazuoi

Guido Pompanin & Dan Patitucci inside the Rifugio Lagazuoi

Dan Patitucci training on the Sella Pass, Italian Dolomites

A couple of years back I had a realization. Riding a road bike was feeling as natural as breathing or eating. Since 1987 I have been training, racing and riding a bike for the pure joy of it – almost everyday. But it wasn’t just a comfort level I noticed, it was something more, the bike was literally a part of me, a part of my life.

2007 Maratona dles Dolomites. Buddha time

Then I read Malcom Gladwell’s book Outliers and discovered his 10,000 hour rule. He says that for any skill, at roughly 10,000 hours of dedication, one “masters” the art of what it is they are practicing. I went back to my pile of training logs, did some math, and sure enough, I was at 10,000 hours.

Now, years later, I still ride and think about this. Mastering cycling doesn’t mean being the fastest or best bike handler, it simply means the body knows how to be on a bike, knows how to make it move and knows how to respond to training stimuli.

But what about my head? As an aging athlete with a lifetime of sports behind me, I am beginning to think about all of this a bit more, to really understand my body, to understand its health and most of all, to understand what it is I am all about. On the bike I sit, often alone, for hours at a time. Pedaling is my discipline, it is also meditation. It is important to practice the discipline, but it is crucial to look inward when doing so.

Uphill, spinning, relaxed shoulders, relaxed seated posture, breathing; I call it my Buddha time. The mind is clear, not doubting, not thinking too much, letting everything go and just pedaling. The head clears, life is simple, a discipline allows this. I return to this quiet feeling in times of stress and it gives me strength. Like the Buddha beneath the Bodhi Tree, the Tree of Knowledge, we cyclists are on the path to our own enlightenment as we sit on the bike processing so many things.

Some sports let us do this, they give us time to think, or to not think if this is what is needed. My own are often solo, in the mountains, where I go to practice what I believe is ultimately best for me. I look back at my own writing and find consistency in what I share; reflections on life, whether it be while cycling, running or backcountry skiing.

I genuinely hope that you, while reading this, can replace each reference to myself, with your own “I’” and “My”. Maybe hitting 10,000 hours really only allows more clarity, or it allows the mind to be a bit more free. But no matter, as long as one is mindfully on the way is what seems most important.

“There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth…not going all the way, and not starting.” …The Buddha

Stress Management, Pordoi Uphill Time Trial

We’d love to hear your thoughts, feel free to comment below with your own experiences. Thanks.

Huts vs. Camping

“But one doesn’t really camp in the Dolomites…”.

I knew further protest could jeopordize work for a favorite client, instead I listened, “But for the shoot we need camping, we want to see that kind of ski tour, no huts”.

The PatitucciPhoto workplace

“No huts?” The pain was lessened by the fact that the huts are actually closed this time of year so camping would not include any windblown scent of Penne all’Arrabbiata. “Ok, let’s do it.” But my next thought was, “With whom are we going to do it?” Italians don’t camp in their own mountains, and with snow on the ground, I had some work to do.

Enter Alberto De Giuli (aka BG, Bloody Gorgeous): BG, “Sure, when do we go?” Me, “Really!?” BG, “Ya, let’s do it, and I know the spot”. Me, “We need someone else, another guy.” …”My friend Andrea will join us”. This was too easy, something was wrong.

Enter Stress: The weather forecast for our shoot days went from sun, to snow. I considered canceling. Then, with 48 hours to go it turned to iffy.

Enter Volcano: Let’s not forget the eruption and a little change in the wind direction that put Europe under an ash fallout warning. More stress.

Enter Good Fortune: The morning we were to start was crystal clear and cold with ash free blue skies. As if made to order, 10cm of fresh snow covered the Dolomites. Our approach was track free, things were looking good. With the huts closed, less people were venturing into the mountains, our determination was going to pay off. A little piece of the Dolomites would be our own.

Smartwool Review

This is our third year shooting advertising for Smartwool. Early on the Marketing Boss saw Janine and I as photographers with whom he would like to build a relationship. Rather than hire us for a shoot to see how it went, he had the vision of building a relationship where together we developed a style for the brand. It wasn’t a one off, it was a multi-year commitment. For all involved it has been great.

Camping in the Dolomites

But, there is the case of my stubborn willingness to try wool. For this, I am teased and taunted. Janine is a long time fan while I have been committed to synthetics. Finally, this last December we received a size-able box of Smartwool goodies as a gift. I dug in, liked what I saw, and implemented wool into my wardrobe. I told Smartwool I would review the stuff, but that I would do it with an honest voice.

Briefly, I like it. A lot. And the fashion & function conscious Italians? “Bello”, was repeated over and over. But, the Gear Review will have to wait and be part 2 of this little tale.

Smartwool Consensus: Andrea & Alberto say "Thumbs Up"

Andrea Gabrielli skiing powder

Enter an Admission: NOT being in a hut was fantastic. It all came back to me, my roots, how it all started, that feeling of being out and not on any program. Melting snow, sleeping on ice, being cold, the wind, everything frozen… well ya, it does kind of suck. But this sort of experience tends to come with lots of laughter, the people make it, they always do. BG was, as always, brilliant fun. And his friend Andrea was equally as fun – all this made for a great time. For two days it was how it all started, Janine and I living in a tent, charging around the mountains, making photos of friends.

And with this realization came another; As much as I love using huts, they don’t belong everywhere. There is something about the freedom and that little added hardship which completes the mountain experience (but not all the time). California’s Sierra Nevada come to mind. I have been engaged in a friendly debate regarding this subject with several close friends back in my home mountains. I am throwing in the towel. While planning a month climbing in the Sierra later this year with Janine and Alberto, I am finding myself increasingly excited to get into the backcountry and on our own (BG, …more of the same minus the snow).

Pasta dinner - of course, it's Italy

Alpine start to make the summit for sunrise

Andrea and Alberto bootpacking the last bit to the summit

Sunrise made better with volcanic ash in the Dolomites

Andrea Gabrielli skiing in the Italian Dolomites

The line is obvious, a quick snap, commence turns.

My friend John Dittli just posted his thoughts on this same subject over at his Blog – it got me thinking, while I was out backcountry skiing alone today…

Why would you ski without a partner? I too am challenged with the same questions as John as I often venture out on my own program – isn’t it just so dangerous? For me, personally, I love skiing alone, just as I love to go trail run in the mountains by myself, train alone on my road bike, or climb an easy route solo. It is an entirely different experience to do these things alone.

The rewards are sky high while the risk, in my opinion, is fairly low. I feel good about skiing alone. Compared to being in a group it puts me more in tune with the environment, I think more about conditions and what the terrain is doing by being on high alert. I also do not push it. The entire “group thinking” factor is non-existent – and this is what I believe to be one of the most dangerous elements for backcountry skiers. Alone, I have backed off many a climb and opted to ski much safer lines in stellar looking bowls. These decisions do not come as a result of stopping to dig pits, study crystals or any other methodical thinking, it is just a sense based on experience and a little probing around. Will I ever get into trouble? Maybe, but I’ll take my chances. With 20 years skiing in the mountains, I feel I make good choices, probably even better ones when I am solo. Crossing my tips and hearing tearing sounds concerns me far more than avalanches or falls. This is part of the risk, I get it and so too does Janine.

For me, there are few greater feelings than being in the mountains on skis in the winter. And so to have the experience to myself, to choose my line, drop into what I want to drop into, feel acceleration and begin turning – is freedom. And at the end of the run… back in safer terrain, hearing the swishing sound the skis make, playing like a kid as I pass through the forest or the brush, making turns here and there, feels perfect.

The Sellaronda Ski Marathon is 42 kilometers (26 miles) with 2800 meters (9280 feet) of climbing. It goes straight up, then straight down 4 times around the Dolomites famous Sella Mountain group and is done in teams of two which must stay together throughout the course. It starts at 6 o’clock, p.m…

In the last couple of years I have gotten pretty into this ski rando racing here in the Dolomites, but until this race I hadn’t done a truly big International event. The Sellaronda is part of the World Cup and as such would draw some big firepower.

My partner for the race was Werner Pescosta, a friend from the Val Badia and also part of the same team I am on for cycling and ski rando racing. Werner is a 2:30 marathoner, extraordinarily strong cyclist, built like a lumberjack and is known for being able to put away 3 pizzas, 5 liters of beer and 7 banana splits, all at once. It was his 13th Sellaronda, it was my first. I knew I was in for it, I have seen Werner in action, he squares his shoulders, puts his head down, and charges like a bull in Pamplona. My job was to stay with him amongst 740 participants.

-20 degrees and very windy up high. Up high, as in where we were headed. This was the forecast for the race. We went to sign in wearing only thin lycra one piece suits. I was already shivering. The start was in the village of Canazei, a classic Italian Dolomite ski town sitting beneath both the Sella Group and Marmolada. Thanks to Werner’s previous years fast times, we had a good starting position near the front, key for not getting tangled up on the first climb.

The entire village, along with every ski tourist and supporting friends were on hand for the start. The sound of cowbells filled the air and only stopped for a moment of silence for the race’s founder, Diego Perathoner, who was tragically lost in an avalanche this winter while trying to help others.

It was time to start, 5:50 pm, and in the day’s last light. The gun fired, we set out into the night and up our first climb of the Passo Sella. As is typical in Europe, race starts are an explosion of lycra and the sounds of scurrying bodies and heavy breathing. We wound our way on a narrow track through the village beneath fans screaming from balconies and windows. Many were swinging cowbells with enthusiasm to match that of the athletes – it was the classic European scene and sound that we Americans love about watching bike or ski races. Once we punched out from the confines of the town we were on the first climb. It was here that the helicopter rose from the slopes ahead and began following our progress. I remember thinking to myself how I am trying to introduce this amazing sport to the US, where it is basically unknown, and here we have hovering helicopters. In ski rando racing, I am playing a game that I know many friends and like minded people would be as happy as myself to take part in. I looked up ahead to the towering vertical walls of the Sella, neon pink and orange as the sun called it a day. My goosebumps weren’t only because of the cold, I was in heaven.

The Sellaronda's first pass of four, the Sella

We climbed. Werner and I found ourselves up near the front as we arrived to the Sella Pass where we removed our skins, took some hot tea and began the first descent, in the dark, on piste. Here I was baptized. The experience was more like a video game, torches lined the piste and in the pitch black we plummeted, turning was not an option, instead you tuck like a World Cup downhiller and point your tips to the bottom. The darkness, as it always does, plays tricks. Small rolls on the slope looked like massive dropoffs and I expected to be airborne anytime. It was a combination of bliss and terror.

Arriving to Selva di Gardena we were once again met with screaming fans, hundreds lined the street which we had to run down while carrying our skis. Back to the transition zone, on with the skins and back into climbing mode. The Gardena Pass is the shortest of the bunch and went relatively quickly, but here signs of fatigue were beginning to show with the pack breaking up and becoming more spread out. And here I too began to hurt, more so as I watched Werner clearly wanting to power away.

Once on top, the speed began again, we dropped like missiles to our Valley, the Alta Badia. Screaming into the town of Corvara we were met by a huge crowd swarming the transition zone, Werner and I, in the local team kit, were the stars and our arrival was announced to the fans, “Arrivano Werner Pescosta ed Andreas Irsara”……. I was Andreas, my name had not been changed on the start list. But, a priceless moment followed, for Andreas, otherwise known as Tata, is one of the Valley’s loverboys, a true Casanova with a large female fanclub, and it was this fan base that I heard screaming with delight. As I stood in the mayhem I laughed out loud as friends called me Tata, but Werner soon grabbed me and again we started to climb.

The third climb, the Campolongo, is a bitch. A long flattish section through a forest lulls you into a state of exhaustion, then the track rears up, straight up for about 800 meters. Pain was now becoming a companion. Every gram that I have saved at the cost of many hundreds of Euros and Janine’s dismay, was truly appreciated. Werner’s ski tails were just ahead yet I could not stay on them, I wanted this section to end. My own post of Born to Run Ski Bike Climb came to mind and I thought to myself that this was the moment I had been writing about, when you look inward and see some truths about what you feel, and what I felt was good. Above, the crystal clear night revealed endless stars twinkling as they always do, I peered behind and below me to discover that I was followed by an endless stream of headlamps, twinkling in their own way.

Finally the top and my spirits soared, I grabbed some dried fruit as Werner helped remove my skins. Werner claims to hate water as it is a waste of space that could be better utilized by beer. He passed on the tea, and encouraged me to move. 4 minutes later we were 2200 feet below in Arraba.

The last climb, the Passo Pordoi is my favorite pass to ride on the bike. But tonight, it was the venue from hell. 3 hours in the well below zero temps with high speed descents in lycra were catching up. My core was frozen, all 130 lbs of me were stiff and achey. I was a Dansicle.

Up we went, but this time Werner disappeared ahead, I was hurting. My left leg so tight and frozen I could barely slide it, my hands so numb I just thought it best to forget them. No matter how hard I worked I couldn’t warm up. It was difficult to see teams pass us when I was keeping Werner back, but nothing could make me go any faster. I just put my head down and slid along. Finally, the brightly lit pass was just ahead and I knew the mental suffering was about to end. I vaguely remember seeing a huge group of skiers holding fiery torches descend the piste in perfect arcing turns. Fans were once again lining the course screaming, “Forza Forza” and here I thought to turn my grimace to a smile, something I learned a long time ago. A smile flashing across the face is like a restart. But I was too frozen, my cheeks wouldn’t flex. Arriving to the top I realized just how cold I was. I couldn’t pop off the skins and I could not get my fingers to close my boots. Somehow, from someone, it all came together and we were dropping into the darkness one final time for the 3000 foot descent to the finish line.

A frozen body combined with tired legs made for a wobbly descent. I tucked in behind someone, maybe three meters from the ends of his poles when suddenly he careened out of control and began tumbling on the icy snow. I swerved around him and continued alone through the darkness. I thought it would never end, and somehow this was okay, but soon the lights from Canazei came into view and I knew I had skied around the Sella, I knew a magnificent experience was coming to a close.

Arriving into the finishing straight I had to find Werner, he was waiting, he descended like Bode while I descended like Bambi. I skied alongside, grabbed his arm and together we crossed the finish. He was looking at me the whole time with a huge grin, he knew I was psyched. Once stopped we were swarmed by girls, perhaps they thought I was Tata, but they were only there to make sure we were okay and to help us get out of our bindings. I am sure I was a mess, I couldn’t move I was so cold, they kept saying “A posto? A posto? Ma sei sicuro?” But I was okay, and once out of my skis I stood with Werner as a photographer approached, he pointed the camera at us and it was then I realized I was smiling after all, it was just frozen in place.

Werner Pescosta and Dan "Dansicle" Patitucci sporting a frozen smile

Without hesitation we headed away from the finish to find the car and warm clothes. But within minutes realized we were not just cold, we were desperate to get warm. I suggested we go into a hotel next to where we were standing. We went through the huge sliding doors in our one piece suits, carrying skis and looking like frozen mummies that Reinhold Messner might find stuck in a glacier. Of course having good taste, I had selected a four star hotel who’s lobby was another world, most noticeably a warm one.

I was half expecting to get the boot, but instead we were met by the concierges who knew were in some trouble. They helped us with our skis, brought us tea and made us comfortable in the lounge. A crowd gathered around to listen to Werner provide details as to our evening’s activities. I soaked it all in while trying to control my shivering and teeth chattering.

Finally, half an hour later, we were able to move. We found the car, put on every item of clothing we had brought, and headed straight for the pasta party. Once warm, life resumed normalcy.

In the end we were 59th out of 320 teams with a time of 4:10.31. It was the coldest ever Sellaronda. Thanks to Werner for showing an American the way, and some patience.

The Sellaronda Ski Marathon

Scott Jurek's foot and shoes after Western States

Now we understand why the question was continually asked of us when we recently visited the US, “Have you read Born to Run?”. Until now, the answer was, “No”.

I typically avoid such books. I don’t read any How to Do anything, avoid “Self Help” as if it were death and entirely ignore any outdoor publications. Why? 1) I don’t want to be influenced by segments of the very media I work within. And 2) A lack of soul from some of these same segments. If I am going to read something it’s going to be either a good book or some favorite blog of someone speaking from the heart. Born to Run was like both.

For me, the book spoke to my own soul by clarifying what I have been processing for many years. What do endurance sports offer than just the sports themselves? Age has introduced me to some small tidbits of wisdom, thinking about these tidbits has given me some clarity, and practicing this clarity has brought me much happiness.

I don’t want to analyze the book or quote much, if this is something you’re interested in and you haven’t already read it, just go get a copy. But, I do want to bring up something as it pertains to endurance mountain sports. It is this idea of training your soul as much as your body.

At some point in the last years my outlook on sport evolved. The idea of “sport” changed to “my life”. I get up in the morning and I go do what I do in the mountains, be it trail running, skiing, climbing or cycling. It finally struck me that this is what I had been striving for. I wanted my life, my work and my passions to all be one and the same. To live my vision of the life I chose to pursue. Amongst all this time, about 15 years, I went to the mountains 300+ days a year, and I worked hard both physically and mentally. What it has given me is an understanding of myself, how I relate to others, and a happiness within both. Born to Run speaks to this. We were meant to run, or, we were meant to push ourselves both physically and mentally, thanks to the fact that we can push ourselves.

For some people, “sport” is an art form, and mountain sports are superb for this. Through sport you express yourself. It brings out the best and the worst in you. Compete and learn even more about who you are. Pay attention and learn some things. As you practice, it becomes apparent that what you are really doing is being creative with living. When I was a fulltime rock climber in the early 90′s I read a quote by the famous Italian climber Manolo, “Climbing is the Art of Movement”. From that moment on I looked at climbing as an art form that I wanted to learn so as to be able to express my own balanced movement. It changed how I climbed and has forever influenced me in my thinking. Identify your passion and then pursue and dedicate yourself to it as an artistic expression of your being. What greater medium can there be than your very own mind and body, their health and strength? The rewards are infinite.

Endurance sports are not going to provide the answer to the Meaning of Life, but maybe they will help us, as individuals, answer some of our own questions as to the Meaning of our own Life.

Scott Jurek and Ann Trason at the Western States 100 Mile Race

Scott Jurek in the 2002 Western States 100 Mile Race

In 2002 I photographed my first Ultra Marathon, The Western States 100. What I saw was as influential as the line from Manolo. I saw what was possible by those pushing beyond supposed limits. I decided I had to experience the same things to learn something about myself.

The first location from where I had to shoot was at about mile 50. I knew Scott Jurek was leading the race and was well off the front. Having never seen a 100 mile race, I suspected the runners would slowly hobble through at only the halfway point of 100 miles and 100 degree heat. With my camera set up and ready to shoot on a long straight stretch, we waited. Finally, our spotter whistled, Scott was coming. I looked through the viewfinder and got ready to focus and fire. But when Scott came into site I quickly realized, this was something special. He was flying. Having just gone through an aid station he was eating and emitting grunts as he forced the food down. I doubt he knew we were there, we were like voyeurs into his private world. The passionate lover of human potential took over in me, instead of making photos I looked up and began screaming for him. Thankfully I managed a few shots and this one, because it is so very real, is my favorite.

Ann Trason in the 2002 Western States 100 Mile Race

The legend Ann Trason, La Bruja, in Born to Run. All of the same feelings and emotions I had for Scott were repeated when, not far behind, Ann came through. These are perhaps the greatest ultrarunners ever.

Scott Jurek after running 100 miles in a little more than 16 hours

The Piz Sorega Finish Line

Ski Rando Fun Racing

If you have come to this post looking for pro work of a ski rando race, you are about to find yourself disappointed. Rather, this is a quick summary of one of the countless night ski rando races in Europe. In my ongoing quest to introduce ths sport to Americans, it is time to show the simple fun of the experience.

Imagine this. It’s Friday night, get off work, zip yourself into your one piece skin suit, head to tram station for the start of an uphill ski rando race, race, suffer, finish at mountaintop tram station/mountain hut – eat pasta, drink beer and party. Once finished, zip up skin suit, turn on headlamp, descend piste to car.

Fun.

Last Friday was just such a race in what is arguably one of the Dolomite’s nicest mountain villages, San Cassiano in Alta Badia. For me, this was one of the first races I was actually prepared for and willing to go 100%. At approximately 4km long and 500 meters up, one thing was certain – the start was going to be madness. These races are typically held on ski runs at night with torches lining the course, all making for an eery nighttime experience. Throw in heavy snowfall and you have the making for a kind of surreal event.

The start was, as expected, a violent explosion. Within the first minute another racer bobbled into me and broke my ski pole. Shit. I jumped off to the side, waited for everyone to go by, picked up the bottom half of the pole, and like a one armed man set off in pursuit. After 30 minutes of pain, cheering fans, and ringing cowbells, it was done. I managed 16th out of 150 and was a happy little American in my new land.

With my heart rate still pounding I grabbed a camera from my race bag and tried to document the scene to share how it all looks. My visiting friend Brandyn Roark Gray came in shortly thereafter and as soon as her own heart rate had settled down had the simple, but ever so accurate quote of, “That was RAD!”.

Proudly, we marched into the hut, each of us finishing as the Top (and only) Americans.

________________________________

I will be shooting, and not competing in, the upcoming Sellaronda Ski Marathon in early March – from this I will post images to show the racing

Dan Patitucci and Brandyn Roark Gray before the start

The Women's Badia Sport Sci Alpinismo Team

Too much beer or too much effort?

Upcoming Olympian? 12 years old and competing with the adults

Where else can you wear a one piece lycra suit and dance to traditional Tirol folk music? Dan Patitucci stepping up to sing a favorite song.

Dan's heart rate monitor data: 188 average for 32 minutes, max 196. SUFFERING as a graph

I Like Firewood

European inspiration

Endurance adventure athletes pair enlightenment with masochism.  The sweet with the salty, like the peanut butter and jelly sandwich stuffed in a rucksack for a summit snack (for all my Euro friends out there who don’t give PB its proper respect and don’t even stock it in your grocery stores, replace with Nutella).  A typical outing can involve riding 100+ miles on the bike while maintaining the dignity to sport shaved legs and lycra shorts with a built in crotch-cuddler.  Or maybe it’s a 4 a.m. start, swapping sunbathing weather for snow, omitting the Gucci speedo for a Pata-gucci shell and the electronic chic of an avalanche transceiver.

Yet for all the salt, sweat, suffering, and sacrifice we endure, there is always the luscious, mouth watering, jaw dropping, sweet reward: a day alone in the beautiful bosom of Mother Nature, perhaps exploring new roads with new friends, or the freedom of a simple focus on body, breath and movement, hour after hour.

It was on a winter afternoon when I found myself with the familiar taste of salt in my mouth, pushing an empty grocery cart, miles from its linoleum floored home, towards the local mountain. The previous week, at the end of a long road ride, an abandoned pile of firewood rounds in the ditch got my attention.  What got my attention even more was noticing later the crumbs of bark that were the meager remains of Old Man Winter feasting on my firewood pile.

The intention to train for a specific race or adventure eases the lactic acid burn, and I have plenty more on my list of “things-to-do”.  Justifying my idea of a shopping cart turned firewood hauler seemed perfectly logical and resourceful, and a good bit of cross-training.  People whizzing by in their cars were obviously the “Gold’s Gym” type.  Their confused faces blurred by as I loaded the cart to the brim, three miles from the nearest shopping center.

The trip back to my woodshed was mostly downhill, fortunately, since the wood was still pretty green, making for a heavy load.  The welds of the shopping cart squeaked and moaned, my hair and smile flew crazy with the wind.  Eventually I arrived victorious, bogging down the small wheels in the loose gravel driveway.

I unloaded and started savoring the sweet: winter fuel free of charge, bombing the last mile down smooth asphalt to return the cart, putting the cart back in the parking lot corral and imagining the story it was about to tell to all its metallic friends who were forced to spend the day under fluorescent lights and bar codes, a resourceful use of my body, sweet warmth to share with friends, food, and stories past and stories to be.  And a moment, when, a few weeks later, at the end of a day of mountain biking, I stand in the middle of my driveway, wielding the noble mountain man phallic known as a “splitting-maul”, taking a deep inhale between focused, zen-like chops, to observe the mountains’ rugged silhouette standing in front of a golden ember sunset glow.

Don’t tell Igor Tavella, but I’m preparing for a Despar shopping cart assault on Dolomite switchbacks.  Those Sud-Tirol folk are keen firewood stackers, and I imagine come summer there will be huts on the Sella ring in need of a few cords.

Feeding the beast, stoking the fire, fueling the flame, each adventure keeps the flame strong for the next.  The mountains have taught me many lessons, one of the most powerful being the truth of balance.  So with this, fellow bikers, hikers, skiers, and more, yodel loud and rejoice!  Whether it’s a wintry trip to the market or a full-on alpine escapade, the saltier your adventure, the more sweet the reward.