I’m sixty-five years old and I’ve always been an enthusiastic and tireless walker. I like the mental aspect of it. But the fact that my love of walking wouldn’t help me much in the mountains was clear from the start, ever since I first came into contact with the SAF, the Friulan Alpine Society, at its Udine branch. Walking in the city, or at least on flat and even ground, and walking in the mountains aren’t equivalent activities in any way. I had a lot to learn, more than I ever imagined. The good news was that if I trained on a trail or two that had at least a tiny bit of altitude change, I would be able to join a hiking group, the Seniores, which was suitable to my age. The other bit of good news was that I could sign up for a class for beginners in the spring of the following year.

So, in the fall two years ago, dreaming of the outdoors, pristine nature and freedom, and after almost two years of the pandemic and endless lockdowns, I joined the SAF.

My “baptism by fire” (the expression isn’t my own, but that of O., the person who on that occasion, was both a godmother and guardian angel to me, passionate about World War I history) came on the slopes of a mountain with a tongue twister of a name: Mount Mrzli Vrh, in the Soča Valley in Slovenia, on 18 November 2021. It was my second outing with the Seniores. The first, Cava Buscada in early October, wasn’t hard for me at all and was actually quite enjoyable: pretty beech forests, a superb panorama despite the grey and drizzly day, lunch in a comfortable mountain hut, a small party for the birth of a grandchild and, lastly, the encounter with E., who I hadn’t seen for a lifetime and who I was happy to run into again.

Mount Mrzli, on the other hand, was the first time I felt fatigue, the weight of the rucksack, sweat as it fogs your vision, the slippery mud and leaves underfoot, the hidden danger of wet roots, the challenge of the climb and, even more so, the descent. Yet it wasn’t a bad experience; quite the contrary.

As with every tough challenge that works out well in the end, the memory is a good one. More than anything, I can see O. walking before me with the confidence of those who have that landscape within them (“Mrzli was my first love”, she said in the car), stopping every so often to let me catch my breath.

When I was getting started, the newest piece of my mountaineering gear was 10 years old: a pair of trekking poles which were given to me as a Christmas present, for Nordic Walking. The oldest gear in my closet was 34 years old: a pair of Lowa boots, purchased in 1987 at a nice sporting goods shop in Munich for a holiday in Garmisch. A real museum piece, but my trusted cobbler had reassured me that they were still in great shape and they wouldn’t let me down. They would do to get me started. The old boots held up, but they soon were set aside for a new pair which promised to be perfectly waterproof. Then I replaced the rucksack, the trekking poles, and so on. I also added lots of items which I didn’t already have, like a headlamp and a hydration pack, that now I can’t do without, and lots of small accessories which make time spent on the trail more comfortable, such as handwarmers.

A few years ago, the great English artist David Hockney made headlines when he completed a series of truly notable digital artworks with his iPad and a simple app which cost just 8 pounds sterling. Those with talent manage to express themselves even with rudimental means and I don’t think I’m wrong to assume that the same is true in the mountains. But for those who, like me, are just starting out and who aren’t particularly talented or young, easy-to-fold (and unfold) trekking poles with a good dual-position grip, a lightweight and practical rucksack with optimized spatial distribution which makes it quick and easy to find what you need, undoubtedly make a difference.

I like taking care of my hiking gear, checking that it’s all in order, keeping it clean, oiling things when necessary. I dedicate the same attention to this activity that I give to caring for my fountain pens and the drills and milling machines with which I engrave glass or my kitchen utensils. I’m attached to all these objects; they feel like extensions of my body.

One year ago, when I started the mountaineering course, I could barely read a topographic map, approximately at best. I believed that if you were bit by a viper, you had to suck the poisoned blood from the wound like a vampire and then quickly spit it out. I knew the word azimuth because it’s one of the many scientific and commercial words that Italian has borrowed from Arabic, but didn’t really know what it was exactly and, most importantly, certainly didn’t know how to calculate it.

The class gave me a basic understanding of the mountains and an awareness I didn’t have before. In addition to the classroom lessons, those outings in nature were fundamental, as they helped me understand and correct certain postural errors which made climbs and descents harder and more strenuous than they should have been.

As soon as I began to move with greater agility and safety, and the anxiety I felt during the first outings vanished, I started to have a lot of fun, in part because I was lucky enough to find a group of lovely people of all ages, enlivened by a team spirit from the start. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the last outing in the Ampezzo Dolomites in the Veneto Region, when we hiked the Croda da Lago loop. I can recall the entire route, which inspired a feeling that still persists, for the stunning and varied panorama. But the section near Forcella Rossa di Formìn stands out, where the landscape becomes rocky and lunar, and in certain points you have to climb up using your hands. I remember what it felt like to touch that rocky surface: pure joy.

Sometimes we don’t pay enough attention to what’s close to us. I hadn’t ever dreamed that, at a relatively short distance from Udine, the city where I’ve lived for about 30 years now, I would have discovered such spellbinding mountain landscapes, the kind that are interesting in every way: cultural, historical and of course naturalistic. For example, there are lots of churches, shrines and small mountain chapels which often have surprises inside, such as noteworthy wooden statues, paintings or frescoes. I have learned a lot from the experts that often join the group or are part of it, but on more than one occasion, it was a fellow hiker who every so often pointed out the footprints of an animal on the snow, a rare flower, the call of a bird, a dangerous insect, the ruins of the Great War fortifications, the still-visible dramatic consequences of Storm Adrian.

In a recent interview in the weekly Vanity Fair, Samantha Cristoforetti was asked what outer space had taught her after so many years of missions. Her reply was that “it doesn’t matter where you go, but who you go with”.

With due proportion, I think that this maxim applies to everything, everywhere. I have had a lot of help along the way, doled out with generosity and light-heartedness. First by these coordinating the hikes, but also by other hikers who know more than me. The sense of security which comes from not being alone was fundamental. I can picture myself at the top of a very steep and slippery grassy slope, panicking. I’m scared I might fall. I stay there, immobile, until someone comes and looks me in the eye to bring me back to reality as they say: “Trust your boots”.

With that statement, I wasn’t being asked to take a “leap” of faith, but to reason a bit and to rationally assess the situation, the tools available and my abilities. It worked. Ever since then, “trust your boots” has become my mantra in the mountains. But, come to think of it, it might just come in handy elsewhere, beyond the mountaintops.