Walking Europe
Andrew Terrill walked from the heel of Italy to the northern tip of Norway on a 7000-mile quest to discover the wild side of Europe. In this extract from his new book about the journey, he describes a memorable ascent of the ‘Great Rock of Italy’
Andrew Terrill tackles an Italian summit in his 7000-mile quest to find wilderness
ON JULY 17, two days north of Celano, I completed The Walk’s thousandth mile. The weather gods found a dramatic way to mark it.
It was another day of imposter storms. Three times storm clouds built, three times I retreated from exposed ground, and three times the imposter storms dissolved without a whimper.
But at midnight the real deal finally erupted. A mighty KER-RACK ripped the night clean in two. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, torrents pummelled my tent. Trees tossed and churned as though the storm were trying to suck them into the heavens. This was no imposter storm – and I was grateful for it. Grateful for moisture after 1600 kilometres of heat and drought. Grateful for the storm’s uncontrollable wildness. It was everything I was walking for.
I lay awake for six hours, unable to sleep for the turmoil, but celebrating the violence. When the storm finally relented shortly before dawn I felt a stab of disappointment. Part of me hadn’t wanted it to end.
I slept late and didn’t strike camp and begin walking until nearly noon. Dark clouds prowled the sky, a blustery wind blew, and a few spots of rain fell. The tops of surrounding mountains were lost in fog, and I shivered, partly from the uncharacteristic cold, and partly from the hostile atmosphere. Wild mountains deserve wild weather, and the Apennines were better for it. The range felt bigger and harsher than it had further south, and it reminded me of home. After three months of challenging travel through unfamiliar landscapes the ‘British’ weather was curiously comforting.
HIGH DRAMA
Conditions remained stormy for several days, right up to the edge of the Gran Sasso d’Italia, the Great Rock of Italy. And then, as if by some command, the cloud curtains were drawn aside. It couldn’t have been stage-managed better. The Great Rock of Italy suddenly appeared, rearing overhead. It was pure theatre.
The Gran Sasso d’Italia is appropriately named. At 2912 metres it stands head and shoulders over its neighbours. On the Gran
Sasso, rock walls soar. There are buttresses, cliffs, gullies, needles, ridges, slabs, pillars, towers. There is rock everywhere, acres of it; exposed, solid, and unyielding. The Great Rock of Italy dominates the landscape with such vertical abruptness that it looks out of place. There is nothing else like it in the Apennines.
IT HAD TO BE CLIMBED
I walked towards it, warily at first, unable to forget the violent storms of the preceding days, but the excitement of rising rockscapes and clearing skies soon banished my nerves. From steaming pine-scented forests I climbed onto open hillsides bright with wildflowers. At first, I walked alone, but at 2000 metres I came upon crowds. The southern edge of the Gran Sasso National Park is easily reached by road and cable car. At Campo Imperatore there are buildings and car parks, ski runs and fences, cables and machinery, signs and regulations, masses of people and thoughtlessly trampled margins. For a few minutes I watched the mayhem; was this really the Apennines? Until now I’d had the mountains to myself. I’d discovered an immense, uncrowded, and thrillingly wild range, a side of Italy most people missed; a side few even knew existed. I’d begun my journey seeking the other Europe, the wild Europe, the Europe that still exists beyond road’s end, and I’d found it. The difficulties had been great, but the rewards had been many. But it was unsettling to discover the better-known Europe right here beneath the biggest mountain.
Disoriented by the crowds, I continued uphill. Happily, solitude was found on the far side of a grassy ridge, in the wide basin of the Campo Pericoli. As in other Apennine national parks, camping was probably banned – but having just seen Campo Imperatore I felt rebellious, if not angry. I wasn’t doing any harm. How did my gentle bivouac compare with park-sanctioned refuges, roads, buildings, ski tows, and pylons? If camping was banned, shouldn’t these intrusions be banned too? I would soon be gone, leaving no trace; could the operators of refuges and cable cars say the same thing?