The Rifugio Pizzini, tonight’s destination, is also a good Italian hut; there’s a crucifix over the bar. The hut sits in the palm of prickly peaks at the high end of the Valle di Cedèc, on the back side of Il Gran Zebrù. In a normal week, the group might’ve bagged a peak like 10,764-foot Cima San Giacomo along the way. But again, terrible visibility stymies us. The snow down low causes problems, too: The heavy piles grab Midge’s knee as she skis away from the Branca hut. Midge is tough—she’s a cancer survivor who attempted Everest a few years ago—but she and Johnston have to pull the ripcord a day early, and they ski carefully out to civilization.
As if appeased by the sacrifice, the saltshaker snows relent, and the sun grows less coy. The rest of the group reaches the Pizzini hut, then heads out to ski up the glacier of the Gran Zebrù. We head up, past ruins of an Italian redoubt, the snow getting better. Occasionally, Il Gran Zebrù’s rime-blasted peak shows itself, 2,500 feet above. Finally, when we reach a saddle below 11,305-foot Cima Pale Rosse, the clouds even lift enough for the guides to pull out the rope for the first time all week.
“Anyone want to run up this side summit?”
“What’s this one called?”
“Consolation Peak,” quips Goldie. Then he and Ward expertly short-rope us up a brief ridgeline that’s as thin as a hatchet blade. Afterwards, we snap into skis and carve sine waves nearly two miles back down the mellow glacier.
That evening, after the plates are cleared, Claudio, the custode whose family has run this hut for a half-century, disappears into the back. He returns with a large wine bottle with a hand-lettered label. Its contents are the color of limeade, and the bottle seems to glow from within. Claudio pours shots into elegant glasses. Another smile splits Goldie’s lips. All week he has spoken rapturously of a mountain liqueur called génépi. Claudio explains that génépi is a flower that grows only in some high Alpine areas, including the meadows around this hut. Now he raises a glass and looks each of his guests straight in the eye, one at a time.
ACCESS
A great allure of Italy’s Ortler Mountains is that they’re less
trammeled than other areas of the Alps. The flip side: They’re harder
to get to. Ski tourers usually begin either from the south and the ski
village of Santa Caterina Valfurva, or from the north, through the ski
village of Solda...
Claudio’s génépi has a flavor never tasted before. And maybe it’s just that we’re drinking it in this bar, as the week’s first alpenglow rouges the peaks outside, and with the fresh image of Claudio picking the herbs for his mountain moonshine, but Goldie is spot on: Claudio’s génépi is the best liqueur I’ve ever tasted.
The final day dawns clear, but It’s edged with clouds that make the guides reconsider their plan to bag Monte Cevedale from the back side on the way home. (Their prudence once more serves us well: By the time we again pass by the high Casati hut, the wind is a banshee.) Final plates of torta licked clean, we dash outside when a scrap of blue appears in the window. Goldie and Ward have one last idea up their soft-shell sleeves.
The former leads to a notch just below 11,076-foot Cima di Solda. From here, the Solda Glacier rolls down into the mist. One by one, we skirt a yawning crevasse. It’s feeling like it might be one last blind-man’s grope, this time all the way to the spring grass.
Then the clouds rise like a vaudeville curtain, and the Alps come out to take a final bow: a jawbone of peaks, with gouts of ice pushing between them. The village of Solda comes into view nearly 4,400 feet below, so far away in its picturesque valley bottom it looks unreal—a saccharine thrift-store painting of an Alpine scene. Knowing it’s real makes it all the more ridiculous.
Our slope rolls toward that painting, coated with nearly knee-deep powder. Whoops go up. One by one, we plunge into the powder, taking long rides down the slope. It’s the best snow yet.
I look over at Goldie. He’s watching his friends descend the mountain, and he’s smiling that big, white toothpaste-ad smile.
The Rifugio Pizzini, tonight’s destination, is also a good Italian hut; there’s a crucifix over the bar. The hut sits in the palm of prickly peaks at the high end of the Valle di Cedèc, on the back side of Il Gran Zebrù. In a normal week, the group might’ve bagged a peak like 10,764-foot Cima San Giacomo along the way. But again, terrible visibility stymies us. The snow down low causes problems, too: The heavy piles grab Midge’s knee as she skis away from the Branca hut. Midge is tough—she’s a cancer survivor who attempted Everest a few years ago—but she and Johnston have to pull the ripcord a day early, and they ski carefully out to civilization.
“Consolation Peak,” quips Goldie. Then he and Ward expertly short-rope us up a brief ridgeline that’s as thin as a hatchet blade. Afterwards, we snap into skis and carve sine waves nearly two miles back down the mellow glacier.
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