Twilight! Edelweiss were grey and ghostly among the boulders of barren Pordoi Pass. Below, the deep cut valley was already in shadow, the narrow motor road a twisting, silvery thread in the darkness. High above, glowing red and purple and golden, the ramparts, crenelated walls and fantastic towers of the Sella Group soared into a fading sky. What a world of enchantment the Dolomites offered. 

Tired of a season of bad weather in the high Alps, my husband and I took a motor trip to north Italian Hill towns. After a fortnight of art and architecture, we decided to visit San Martino di Castrozzo with the challenging Pale Range. The scenery, the walks, were magnificent, but when our legs began to itch for climbing, not a guide was to be found. Furthermore, hot water in the hotel never functioned; there were tarantulas or their cousins in the bathtub, and food was scanty for mountain appetites. ‘‘Let’s go to Cortina D’Ampezzo for a day or so; surely there we can get a bit of exercise on Cinque Torri,” suggested Tony. 

Driving over Falzarego Pass in the shadow of the savage red precipices of Tofana di Roces, all the memories of youth came flooding back, all the old enchantment of the Dolomites swept over me once more. 

In Cortina, by good fortune, Celso Degasper, Capa Guida (Chief Guide), most elegant and accomplished rock climber, and a charming companion, was obtained. With him I have climbed upwards of fifty peaks in the Cortina area. 

Probably many of you are familiar with classic ascents of this district: Punta Fiammes, the North Wall of Kleine Zinne, the sheer exposed Preuss Riss on Kleinste Zinne, the grand south face of Tofana di Roces, the strenuous Pompanin Chimney of Croda da Lago and the short, sensational Guglia de Amicis - just to mention a few. But I would like to tell you about some lesser known climbs which I feel are just as interesting as these better known ones. 

Just south of Falzarego Pass stands Averau, a fortress of gold and grey limestone. Like many of the Dolomites, it has easy routes, it has medium ones and difficult ones. Occasionally, Celso will permit me a Three Superior or a Four Inferior, but he usually snorts scornfully at such ascents. Early in July, after a day of training in the Cinque Torri, he announced we were going to tackle the Via Alvera on the southwest wall of Averau. There was a fine exposed traverse of Five on it - he was sure I would like that. I did not dare tell him that I felt untrained for such feats, and as usual, submissively accepted his plan. 

On a rather overcast afternoon, we left Falzarego and walked through meadows glowing with forget-me-nots, alpen roses and gentian to Forcella Gallina, a barren pass with huge, tip tilted rock masses - it was like a witch’s den. The valley below, the distant glaciers of Marmolada were shrouded in mist. Sheer above rose the walls of Averau, wet and glistening. Traversing around to the southwest angle of the peak, we left the path and ascended shaley ledges for a few minutes. There we put on the rope. 

The first pitch was a grey chimney with polished walls. In dry conditions, this chimney would not be too difficult, but with water coursing down the rocks and saturating the lichen of the chock stones at its head, it took Celso a good ten minutes of trial and error to stem himself up. Then came my turn. I got half way up, I slid. I went up again, and instead of stemming, tried the chock stones. My hands came off the wet moss -- bang, I was down at the bottom of the cleft. 

“Come on,’’ yelled Celso, a bit impatiently. 

Vainly I stemmed, my feet slithering on slippery walls, hands groping for tiny holds on the smooth, grey surface. Gasping, I called: 

“Let me down, I can’t make it. I'll try it some other day." The rope remained taut. 

“PLEASE slack the rope. I CAN'T climb this.’” 

“Yes, you CAN climb it,’’ from above came the implacable voice. “You are NOT going down."’ The rope jerked me sharply in the waist, and giving a lunge, I managed to squirm up onto the platform beside him, 

“So,” said my strict task master, his ice-grey eyes smiling, ‘‘don’t you ever say CAN'T to me again.’” 

The next four or five hundred feet provided varied and exposed climbing on small ledges and in tiny cracks and chimneys. Compared to the initial pitch it was not difficult, but it required that we move one at a time. Soon we reached the Traverse. It was about one hundred feet long, running across an overhanging bulge. It was indeed airy. There was a piton at the beginning and one at the end. Celso snapped in a karabiner, took a thin rope out of his bag, and tied it around my waist. This rope he also snapped into the karabiner. Then he walked across the traverse as if he were strolling down Fifth Avenue. Reaching the end, he secured the spare rope in the piton there. Thus I was perfectly belayed, for an unsecured fall would have meant a dangerous pendulum swing into the void. The traverse was not nearly as terrifying as I had expected, even though there was little to hold on to; when there were handholds, there were no foot-holds, and vice versa,

Mists whirled around us. There was no time to lose. Just above the Traverse was a strenuous overhang, then easy ledges led to the enormous, flat summit. Hail began to fall, but since the descent was easy, we halted hungrily for a bite of chocolate. However, a sudden crash of thunder sent us scurrying down shale ledges, down an easy snow-filled couloir to Forcella Nuvolao, Here, in the shelter of a small cave, we finished our chocolate bar. Suddenly the storm ceased and in late afternoon sun we strolled back above lush green alplands, back to Falzarego Pass over the trail of wet, red earth, through the flower fields, while in the distance the sprawling glaciers of Marmolada gleamed over blue bands of mist.

High above gloomy, boulder strewn Val Forin tower the jagged Pinnacles of Croda da Lago Range – “like tongues of flame” as Celso aptly described them. Best known of these is Croda itself, with the interesting Eitvos-Sinigaglia Route and the arduous Pompanin Chimney. But two pinnacles to the south is Canpanile Federa, seldom climbed and equally challenging. This was our next ascent.

From the Passo Giau Road we followed the trail for Rifugio Palmieri for a little through fragrant forest, then branched off to the right, and for more than two hours trudged the rough, poorly marked path of Val Formin, The morning was hot, sultry; the black spires rising above were menacing, oppressive. A hard baked, disagreeable shale slope led to the initial pitch, Celso pointed upward, “There is our route. It is called the Via Merlet-Terschak-di Gregario.” I craned my neck, studying the small, slanting crack traversing the smooth 1,500-foot wall of Federa from right to left

The start was not easy. Celso had done this climb once before, many years ago and in the passage of time, certain ledges had fallen away, making the attack more difficult. After some searching, he started up a chimney. A bulge in the wall concealed him from me, but I could hear the piton hammer chipping on hard ice; I could hear him muttering as he “talked himself” up. For ten minutes I stood shivering in dank shadow, paying out the rope slowly, very slowly. Then I heard him laugh, and knew he had reached a belay stance.

“Momento,” he called. “I must make security." I heard him hammer in a piton.

Then the rope tightened, and I started. The chimney was broad, and I could just stem to the slippery niches he had cut in the icy side walls. Next came one of those typical Dolomite Traverses, where holds consist of mere wrinkles in the rock. And now we had reached the bottom of the great slanting crack which is the key to the clin. The interesting and exposed ascent on good rock lasted for an hour. Emerging from the top of the crack, we could see that we were not far below the summit. But an overhang with adverse stratification barred our upward progress.

“You wait here," said Celso, and disappeared around the corner to the left. Up and up, inched the forty metre rope, Wind howled and whined through the crags.

“Rope nearly out.” I shrieked.

No answer, I paid out the last metre, and then I heard a cheerful shout - “I'm on top. Cone along.”

I moved on, coming to a small stem pitch at the beginning of a cat walk high above the void between Federa and neighboring Campanile Inneskoffler. Suddenly the rope jammed. I could not move, I pulled on it, trying to lose it I tried twitching it, but to no avail.

“Swing the rope to the right. It's caught." I called at the top of my lungs. The only answer was the whistling of the wind.

For ten minutes I called; for ten minutes the wind drowned me out; for ten desperate minutes, spread-eagled above nothingness, I tried to free that rope. It was a horrible quandry. Then suddenly the wind ceased. I called again. There was scuffing of feet above; he was climbing down, At long last the rope came free, and I was released from my airy prison. With a sigh of relief I walked across the narrow, exposed ledge leading to easy summit rocks. As usual in the season of 1956, we were not able to remain on top long, for storm was headed our way. So hastily we descended the easy east face to the safety of the broad terrace which runs almost the entire length of the Croda Range on that side,

Celso inspires singular confidence. He is one of the surest rock climbers I have ever known. His memory for the complicated Dolomite routes is truly remarkable. Up to this time, we had always made ascents which he had done previously. I was curious to see him on a peak absolutely new to him. He too, likes to try the unknown, so for this we chose Via Haupt up the east face of Campanile Innerkoffler, the tower between Croda and Federa,

Our first attempt was abortive. We followed the regular route to the ‘Ataco of Croda by the Eitvos Route. It is always surprising to me how easily the gullies and terraces lead through this seemingly sheer face. The initial pitch of Innerkoffer is identical with that of Croda, By the time we reached here, ominous, black mists were pouring in past Becco di Mezzodi to the south, clouds were low on Tofana and Cristallo, and the many sharp needles above were rapidly disappearing in lowering fog. Since Via Haupt is all pitches of Four and upward, we decided to wait. An hour passed as we danced up and down on the shaly terrace to keep warm. Suddenly, hail tingled on the rocks.

“What shall we do?” said Celso. 

 

(Left) Celso rapelling in the Cinque Torn i Group. In the background, its summit lost in fog, is Tofana di Roces. (Right) Training ground for Dolomite climbers is the Cinque Torn i Group. Left to right, Torre Grande, Torre Barancio and Torre Quanta. / Photos by Georgia Engelhard. 

 

“Let's go back to Cortina -- there is no sense in this. The rocks are wet and icy, and we can't see more than five feet ahead.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” Gelso looked gloomy. “But can’t we wait just a bit longer?” Poor Celso, who loves his climbing so much, was like a small boy being deprived of his toy. 

“Alright.”

Another half hour passed; the hail turned into vigorous rain.

We smoked endless cigarettes, Gelso nervously jangling pitons and karabiners on his rope slings, pacing back and forth like a caged and angry lion.

“Come on, let's go just a little way up - just to see what it is like,” he pleaded. 

“No, If you want to go, go by yourself.” 

He gave me a look of disgust and climbed the first rocks. I made no effort to follow. Soon he was back again. 

"The rocks ARE awfully slippery. But we might wait a bit more. 

“YOU wait, I am going back to Cortina - ALONE - if you refuse to go down.”

His eyes were wide with surprise. Never before had I opposed him. Slowly, he started the descent, his feet dragging, every motion of his lithe body registering disappointment. Descents with Celso were usually foot races, but this was a funeral march. Every few minutes he halted and looked back longingly in the direction of Innerkoffler which had completely disappeared in cloud. He, usually so gay and chatty, was silent. Only when we reached Passo Giau Road did he somewhat reluctantly admit that our retreat was a wise one.

The next day we returned to try Innerkoffler once more. It ranks with the best af the Cortina clinbs which are made without artificial aids of Sixth Degree, such as etriers and double rope technique. At certain points it is more delicate and difficult than the Preuss Riss of Kleinste Zinne.

After the first easy rocks, the Eitves Route of Croda was abandoned, and difficulties began with a traverse to the left, then an overhang, then an extremely exposed descent into a tiny, outsloping slab leading to a vertical, almost holdless wall. Once above the wall, the Via Haupt follows a traverse to the right. Celso tried this, decided he didn’t like it, and climbed straight up the sheer black face on tiny, firm holds, often up short overhangs. This was a new variant.

His was one of the mast magnificent performances on rock that I have ever seen. I shall never forget him standing at the bottom of the pith, studying the route, his tall, strong body silhouetted against the clout-flecked sky, his handsome head, with the greying hair, flung backward, a slight smile on his face - the living symbol ofthe Will to Win. I shall never forget how he climbed unerringly with great ease and elegant nonchalence, yet with utmost caution, No false steps for him. I had no belay for him; he never attempted to hammer in a piton to secure himself.

“This is lovely,” he shouted down to me. “Just difficult enough to be interesting.”

His joy, his exhilaration were so contagious, that although I found the pitches extremely delicate, extremely strenuous and very exposed, I, too, felt I owned the world as we finally emerged on a broad terrace not far below the summit. Laughing, we raced together up the final chimney. We were no longer a middle-aged guide and his middle-aged client, but a boy and a girl out on a gorgeous lark.

We sat on the tiny summit for half an hour. How peaceful it was - how entrancing the view of the green bowl of Cortina so far below, of mist wreathed peaks in the distance. How good it was to relax hard-used muscles, how pleasant to have shared this grand climb together!

Suddenly we were cold. Clouds shrouded the sun, and in the west dark mists boiled, a bitter wind swept over the crags. This was storm warning once again. Hastily we scrambled down the north wall to the Eilvos Saddle, hastily we ascended the southern rocks of Croda da Lago. No time to lose. We signed in the summit register and started full speed down the Sinigaglia Route. Half way, we were caught in a driving snowstorm. But since we were familiar with the way, the storm did not delay us, and soon we were in the shelter of the Palmieri Hut, wolfing bacon and eggs and red wine. How triumphant we felt - Via Haupt is seldom done, and to us it had been the best of them all.

“I shall climb that often again,” declared Celso.

Then there was Campanile Rosa, just north of Ponte Fiames Campground. This is a dizzy spire with a succession of interesting chimneys (these are dangerous when wet), a very exposed wall, a summit just big enough for two, and three extremely long rappels in descent.

Just east of Falzarego Pass, the Spigolo Sud (south ridge) of Sasso di Stria was an interesting “first” for Celso and me. There was some loose rock, but the climbing was varied, and the last thirty feet, if you take the wall and avoid the easy couloir to the right, is good fun! From the summit there was a lovely view of rolling alplands, tiny blue lakelets and the savage north walls of Civetta and Monte Pelmo, while far in the blue distance loomed the Pale di San Martino.

Also north of Falzarego Pass stands seldom ascended Torre Lagazuoi, stark red and gold above Forcella Travananzes. We climbed the Via Constantini up the south buttress. This is short but very amusing, with one of the narrowest jam cracks I have ever seen. Again, from the summit there was an inspiring view of the flame-like spires of the Croda Range and of the grim north face of Tofana di Roces. Far below, deep-cut Val Travananzes with its smooth, glacier worn slabs, its forests of fir and larch, slept undisturbed in summer sun.

The descent of Lagazuoi was on the east face through a complicated series of gulleys of rotten rock. Again I marvelled at Celso’s instinct to route finding. He had never been on this mountain, yet he directed me down as if he were climbing on Kleine Zinne which he has done almost three hundred times. The last pitch was a long rappel over an overhang, bringing us into a ruined fort, a sad, battered reminder of fierce fighting which raged in the Dolomites during World War One. Return to Falzarego Pass was through fields of endless color and variety, contrasting exquisitely with gaunt, eroded crags, with barren sun baked shale slopes above.

In the region around Lake Misurina, Torre Wundt is now the “fashionable” peak. The approach to the tower was entrancing through flowery glades in the shadow of an amphitheatre of jagged spires, and the climb by the Via Mazzarana del Torso was this time for me “just difficult enough to be interesting”. As we emerged on the summit ridge we were in clouds; looking down we saw the eerie Spectre of the Brocken - our shadows ringed by a rainbow circle moving along below as we moved.

East of Misurina, there are fine cliffs on Popena Bassa. Via Mazzarana gave us an excellent morning’s exercise on slabs and in cracks and chimneys when longer climbs would have been out of the question due to the dank, threatening day. There are many other routes here too, some of them as difficult as Five Superior. Popena stands in a gigantic rock garden of fantastic pinnacles; these would make effective settings for climbing photographs.

The last climb of the season was Punta Erbing, haunt of chamois, in the Pomagagnon Range. Although the least difficult of the ascents described, and really “an easy day for a lady”, it remains a poignant memory. I remember the long trudge over boulder slopes to the attaco in a drizzle. I remember wishing that Celso would turn back. And then I remember how much fun we had in the climbing, even though rain was pouring down. How I enjoyed our teamwork. I remember that on reaching the summit, rain ceased, and we sprawled lazily in a little flower patch. For us the sun shone bright and hot, while all around Cristallo, Monte Rosso and Sorapis were drenched in downpours. Far below lay wild, lonely Val Padeon with its craggy glens. 

Happily, we sat for a long while, smoking and planning for the future.

Then down over rough game trails, down from the heights, down into the larch forests of Pomagagnon which always seem like enchanted forests from a fairy tale, down into green meadows and sweetly scented hayfields, down past quaint, weathered Tyrolean chalets. And although I knew that this was “goodbye” to Cortina for this year, yet my heart danced, here in the midst of this well-loved “mountains of youth”, the Dolomites.

 

 

The June 1957 Cover

Cover photo by Dee Molenaar.

 

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Feature image: Thunderstorm over Averau. The Via Alvera lies approximately up the left hand skyline. Shale slopes lead into Forcella Nuvolao. / Photo by Georgia Engelhard.