Pro Guiding Service - Italian Redemption

Twenty years after the fact the Italian nightmares persist. In one, I grab the limestone wall and feel the hold ripping free. My body spins outward and the plunge begins. Alternating streaks of black-and-white tell me I'm somersaulting and one thought permeates my brain: "I'm toast."

In another dream, the slope I traverse suddenly unglues and I swim to reach the side of the white torrent before it spills over a thousand-foot cliff. Sometimes I watch my body tumble over the edge.

The attempt to erase these subconscious stains begins accidentally after a conversation with Martin Volken, a certified Swiss mountain guide living near Seattle, who innocently asks if I've climbed or skied in the Italian Alps.

"Both," I tell him. "At considerable risk to my health." I tell him about the climbing accident that hospitalized me, the avalanche that nearly killed me, and the nightmares. Then he tells me about his experiences in the Ortles Group near the Italian-Austrian border. He talks about huts at 10,000 feet where ski tourers can order cappuccino and fettucini, about the dozen 11,000-foot peaks you can ascend without ever removing skis, about skiing north-facing powder and south-facing corn on the same day. Finally he talks about the lack of 4000-meter summits, which keeps the European peak baggers at bay.

Volken delays a bit, wondering whether or not to lay honesty on the table. He goes for it. "This stuff that happened to you in the dark ages has messed you up. You need to go back...as therapy."

Despite Volken's assertion that the Ortles will set me right with Italy, when I arrive at Santa Caterina, the starting point of our tour, it's questionable whether Italy and I are on reconcilable terms. Locals tell me it's the worst snow year in memory. Although it's early April, an ideal time to tour the Alps, the glaciers are in late-May condition.

Furthermore, I've been saddled with the well being of a 20-year-old. Patrick is the son of Austrian friends. He's a capable skier but his mother's anxieties have become my anxieties. "You'll bring him back, won't you? You won't let anything happen to my son." It's a threat, not a question.

I explain about the fickleness of mountain weather, avalanches, hidden crevasses, unpredictable snow bridges, ice falls.... I tell her that after twenty-five years of mountaineering the reason I'm alive and some acquaintances aren't boils down to luck. "I understand that," she tells me, "but promise me you'll bring Patrick back."

By the time our party of four leaves road's end en route to the Branca Hut, actually more of a 75-person hotel replete with running water, electric lights, electric heat, and telephones, pessimism grips me. But by our third day out, pessimism has given way--to frustration. Our very first campaign dies due to delays. Wasted time in packing up and leaving the car, a siesta mentality at lunch, too many stops to adjust gear, and the ever-present desire to snap photos all erode our attempt to bag San Mateo, one of the major summits towering over the Branca Hut. Late afternoon blows in the white hand of bad weather and we are 1500-vertical-feet and 90 minutes shy of the summit.

The same whiteout forces idleness upon us the next day. We kill the morning practicing crevasse rescue. The afternoon is devoted to the hut experience--cards, storytelling, food, drink, and satirizing the German arrivals who complain, "This hut is too nice."

Day Three brings cobalt skies and golden light. And that's the problem. Hank, our photographer, can't keep the camera capped long enough to urinate much less make progress up Pizzo Tresero, our 11,700-foot goal. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, we work over the Ghiacciaio dei Forni, a massive reservoir of ice fed by the glaciers cascading off the ten major summits surrounding us. Hank has just cause to keep film flying through the camera--short of Alaska, our homeland lacks blue glaciers of this scale, denuded hills of this acreage. But that camera will be just cause for murder if it keeps us off our game today.

At about 10,000 feet, Hank finds a steep slope that puts him in photographic rapture. Shooting from below yields spectacular backdrops of Tresero and San Mateo whose ridges are accented in light. Shooting from above delivers views over the three-mile-wide expanse of ice we have traversed. The slope itself is beautiful because it is littered with many things ugly to skiers--rock bands, crevasses, avalanche potential.

Hank discusses options with our accompanying ski talent, Eric DesLaurier. "You see the rock band on the roll--what about flying off that?" Hank's framing the image in the camera, "Got these monster crevasses in the foreground and look at the light on those ridges."

I'm looking at the avalanche potential. So is Eric, who is also not at all keen about the sunken lines of snow around the cliff's base. "What are we looking at here, Hank? I fly over the cliff, auger into a crack, and get buried by the avalanche I kicked off?" Eric gives Hank a deadpan stare. "Looks good."

While the two discuss saner options, I take stock of my Italian therapy. A few more days of this treatment and there's no telling what I'll do when I return State side and receive surly service from a postal worker or a McDonald's employee. I study the route ahead and ask Patrick whether he's game to jettison the anchors. "Of course," he says with polite enthusiasm.

An hour and half later, Patrick and I are basking in summit sunlight overlooking the ripsaw landscape. Patrick pulls out the map and studies the peaks on the northern horizon that we intend to ski in the days to follow--peaks like Palon de la Mare, Cevedale, Pasquale, and Gran Zebru. Funny, the bends the road follows--the dread-locked kid who was a responsibility a few days ago may prove integral to my recovery.

Overnight the pressure plummets and several inches of powder fall to freshen the styrofoam snowpack. We prepare to move bases to the Pizzini Hut but with unstable weather can't decide whether to follow the low route (down from the hut then up a snow-covered supply road) or the high one (over the 11,000 foot Col de Pasquale and down a fractured glacier). We have shouldered the packs and opted for the safe-but-boring low route when the clouds part. Up on the high route views of Cevedale, one of the region's trophy peaks, and the powders of the glacier seduce us. Collectively we swing at the sucker pitch.

For several hours the sun bakes us as we climb to the col. I'm riding Hank. He understands we're racing the weather, but has flown 7000 miles to take pictures. Caught between my whip and his camera, he's pulled in opposing directions. It's early afternoon when Hank, camera glued to eye, reaches the col. The Grand Zebru, the 12,500-foot kingpin of the area, scrapes the sky on the opposite side of our cirque, but large cumulus clouds are crawling out of the valley floor and pooling up behind the dam of its black walls.

We vote whether to make for the summit of Monte Pasquale, still a half hour away, or to navigate the glacier below while we can actually see. The jury hangs on a two-two vote; I exercise my executive rights and announce we will be hutward bound.

Hank's had it. "You're always in a rush, Dappen. Let's get going. Don't stop. Keep moving. Let's hurry down..."

I interrupt him, "Will you hurry up and make your point?"

An hour later, after cutting powder turns around the ends of lethal cracks and straight-lining tracks across the sunken snows of hibernating crevasses, we lounge on the porch of the Pizzini Hut sipping chianti. The smell of tonight's dinner being prepared inside--soup, pasta, veal, fried potatoes, and peas--hangs with us. The clouds do not. They've dissipated. Hank points to the minuscule black dots--other ski tourers--on the summit of Pasquale. He tips his glass at me, "To you, Mr. Hurry."

By morning high clouds bleach the sky. They are accompanied by gangster winds that blast our faces with ice bullets. We take a crack at mounting Cevedale and, rather than following the less-glaciated tourist route, rope up the Vedretta (glacier) di Cedec. We cut a path to the side of icefalls, through crevasse fields, and up avalanche debris before reaching the safer upper slopes. Here chowder weather engulfs us. We top the 12,300-foot peak for views we could have received inside a pillow case.

For the descent we position Eric, our power skier, out in the lead and straddle him with the job of following the near-invisible tracks laid by the skiers who ascended the tourist route. He employs the French guide's technique, a double-pole stemming turn, and deftly glides downhill while the three blind men accompanying him stagger all over the featureless terrain. Eric successfully guides us to the Casati Hut, a fortress that can sleep 300, situated at 10,500 feet on the icecap fed by Cevedale and Cima di Solda.

Metal fossils of World War I still litter the area. Before 1918, the Italian-Austrian border ran across Cevedale, through this icecap, and along the ridge leading to the Gran Zebru. Barbed wire, strands of which are still strewn about, was piled higher than the winter snows and the cannons of two nations (one of them still lying outside the hut) were hauled to these heights and leveled at each other. The border changed with the settlement of the war: Sud Tirol, the geographic region to which these peaks belong, was stripped from Austria and ceded to Italy.

Pizzini Hut, we head into Casati Hut for lunch and hot tea. Italians, Austrians, Germans, British and, now, Americans are sharing tables, drink, and food. History rusts outside with the cannons.[include incArtBreak]Conditions look bleak for the crowning achievement of our week. The evening rounds to check on gear hanging in the drying room gives us a north-facing view. The Gran Zebru, tomorrow's target, is buried under clouds. When the alarm awakens me in the blackness of early morning, the view out our east-facing window is not encouraging--Cevedale is still prisoner to the clouds. I grab my headlamp, pull on slippers, and shuffle down black hallways to the drying room. Amazingly, the dark silhouette of the Grand Zebru contrasts against a charcoal sky.

We make fast work of the standard hut breakfast--brown bread, butter, jam, meat slices, yogurt, and coffee--then ascend the rolling terrain leading to the peak's base. The sun melts the darkness while we work up the steep access gully leading to the eastern skyline. At that skyline we catch the Germans who left the hut before us. One member of that party sits on his pack; apparently he has reached his high point.

"You OK?" I ask as we approach.

"Fine," he says, "but the footing is not so good and if you slip up there, you die."

There's an encouraging pep talk.

The 40-degree pitch of the slopes leading to the top are not the death walk the man claims. They are, in fact, exceedingly skiable. With the right snow. Today's breakable styrofoam, however, is not the snow for me. I deposit my skis next to Herr Doom. Hank hates what the cloudcap that now covers the summit means for photos. He decides to use the intermittent sunbreaks to photograph Eric on these steep lower slopes.

Patrick is again my rescue. Together, we kick steps upward through swirling clouds, puncture the cloudcap, and enter a soundless white world where a 20-foot cross eventually materializes to mark the summit. Here we lunch and lounge, hoping for a momentary parting of clouds. The big chill arrives first and forces us down.

Emerging from the cloud cap, we quickly plunge down to the others. We don the boards and, as soon as we drop onto the south slopes leading to the hut, the skis sink into corn. Eric, carving sweeping GS turns, takes advantage of the best skiing of the week to hit mach speeds. Patrick, I am delighted to tell his mother, is not only alive but skiing in Eric's wake at speeds where a mistake could blow apart the knee he recently had rebuilt. Hank, thanks to the gift of gray light, has packed away the glass god and is simply savoring the skiing.

Me? I have no avalanches to fear, no cliff bands to slide over. For 3000 vertical feet my skis cleave effortlessly through a crystalline atmosphere and I am within centimeters of flying.

Down at the hut we lounge on the porch in T-shirts, enjoying the warmth of this massive solar oven. When the clouds capping the Gran Zebru lift temporarily, Patrick and I note just how small the summit cross looks from here. It occurs to me that that cross has crucified a twenty-year-old monkey I've carried with me. I settle into a seat, cappuccino in one hand, European chocolate in the other. Ahhh...there's nothing like skiing Italy.

SIDEBAR: SKIING THE ORTLES

GETTING THERE. Lufthansa (800-645-3880) services Milan and Munich, the two major cities closest to the area. Also call Adventures on Skis (800-628-9655) and inquire about their Italian skiing packages.

ACCESS. From the south, access the group from Santa Caterina Valfurva, Italy. From the north, approach the group from Solda/Sulden, Italy.

GEAR. Strong tele-skiers with wide boards and plastic boots can negotiate this terrain, but the variable snow conditions make randonnee gear the preferred choice. Also recommended: ski crampons, ice axe, crampons, rope, harness, prusiks. Huts supply blankets and are reasonably warm at night--bring only the clothes needed for your touring comfort/safety.

MAPS. Available from local kiosks and sport stores, and at all huts. The Tabacco Ortles-Cevedale Map (1:25,000) is the preferred choice, but the Kompass Ortles-Cevedale Map (1:50,000) is adequate.

HUTS AND FEES. The huts along popular ski-touring routes are open from mid-March to mid-May. Bed space costs about $10/night/person. Half pension (includes bed space, dinner, and breakfast) runs about $37/day/person. Most huts in this region have winter rooms for skiers arriving before March. Besides a roof overhead and a bunk under hips, winter-room supplies vary--some (not all) have blankets, pots, and dishes.

MEMBERSHIPS AND INSURANCE: Membership with an affiliated alpine club offers discounted hut fees; some also provide rescue insurance. Joining the American Alpine Club ($65) provides world-wide rescue insurance; requesting the European hut stamp ($35) secures lower hut fees abroad. Call 303-384-0110. Joining the Austrian Alpine Club (about $65) buys rescue insurance and low hut fees. Get an application form from the Austrian Tourist Office, 310-478-8306. Members of the Alpine Club of Canada ($16 for the simplest membership) receive low hut rates abroad but no insurance.

FOOD. Most tourers buy breakfast and dinner, and bring their own lunches. Hut policies do accommodate budget skiers--hut wardens are required to provide pans and to let you prepare simple (i.e, one-pot) meals in the kitchen. Most hut keepers don't want you in the way, so they actually prepare the food for you.

RESERVATIONS. Reserve hut space. The most popular huts for ski tourers are Rifugio Forni (tel: 39-342-935466) at road's end near Santa Caterina. The Rifugio Branca (tel: 39-342-935501) a few-hour's tour from Rifugio Forni, and Rifugio Pizzini (tel: 39-342-935513) a half-day tour from Rifugio Forni. Rifugio Casati (tel: 39-342-935507) is a half-day tour from the lifts above Solda/Sulden on the north side of the range.

GUIDES: If you're not well-versed in glacier travel, crevasse rescue, assessing avalanche hazard, or navigating in whiteouts, consider hiring a guide. An excellent English-speaking guide who works the area is Martin Volken at Pro Guiding Service (206-525-4425 or 206-831-5558). To contact the Italian Guide's Office in the Ortles area, call 39-342-901353.

OTHER NUMBERS:
U.S. office of the Italian Tourist Board (310-820-0098). Italian Alpine Club (fax: 39-272-023085). Bolzano Mountain Club (39-471-978141). Bormio Tourist Office (39-342-903300)