Ironically the Italian Riviera’s Wild West is on its eastern half, up and away and behind the seaside resorts of Camogli, Santa Margherita Ligure and Rapallo. Actually, the Wild West is everywhere inland in Liguria, once you’re off the coastal strip. The so-called entroterra – the outback – is depopulated, rough, spectacular, overrun by wild boars and mountain goats, and criss-crossed by seriously challenging trails. The only people you encounter are crazed hikers like us, or Elmer Fudds with shotguns and hunting rifles.
(photo copyright: Luciano Parisi)
On New Year’s day we set out at dawn, woefully under-equipped as usual: jogging shoes, no rain gear, a slim picnic, and only one bottle of water (we’d failed to buy an extra bottle, and all the stores were closed for the holidays of course). At least I had a wind-up flashlight, in case night closed in on us.
(Photo copyright: Alison Harris)
Under a gloriously gray sky – the color of the sea and the slate mountainsides – we set off on paved roads from Camogli for the 1,000-year-old Chiesa Millenaria in Ruta. Its stone campanile rises like a pointy pencil, on the ridge behind this village on the ancient Roman road, la Via Aurelia. From the church a pre-Roman mule trail climbs a series of humpback ridges, heading into the outback, toward the Sanctuary of Caravaggio.
This Caravaggio has nothing to with the painter. Caravaggio is a mountaintop aerie and hiker’s refuge perched at about 600 meters above sea level (1800-1900 feet).
Once you leave behind the isolated houses and olive orchards, you’re into scrub oak, chestnuts and arbutus (the Brits call it “strawberry-tree”, and the fruit, ripe in winter, does indeed look an awful lot like strawberries). In the deep, dark woods about an hour into our climb we heard a rustling sound followed by grunts.
“Boars!” I whispered hoarsely to Alison. “Naw, hunters,” she said calmly. I swore abundantly and shouted so they wouldn’t mistake us for game — a hike like this transforms your body into a dripping mass.
If you ask me all blood-sportsmen are chromosome-deficient but Italian Elmer Fudds are among the world’s most reckless, most gleefully irresponsible. We’ve encountered dozens of them, and been fired upon more than once – they love to scare hikers and pilgrims. This time around it was a pair of young men in camouflage gear – fashion-conscious Italians often spend a fortune on hunting outfits. They turned out to be a father-and-son team. They were friendly enough, smiling in that idiotic, sheepish way that hunters smile when confronted by non-sub-normals not out to kill wildlife.
Alison asked if they were after boars. “No,” said papa-hunter. “Songbirds.” Even the ever-mild Alison couldn’t restrain herself. “But they’re so beautiful and they sing for all of us,” she protested. “The trouble is,” said papa-hunter, looking at his large rubber boots as he spoke, “there are no birds this morning.” I guffawed with gusto. “You don’t say? Do you ever wonder why there are no birds left to shoot?”
Feeling unhappy about this encounter, we hurried along. There was no need to dwell on the point or the spot. Half a dozen hunters’ blinds were hidden in the woods and on the ridge around us. There were shacks and lean-tos, fire-pits, benches – all the usual camp necessities for overgrown boys building tree houses and playing war.
To say that the final climb to Caravaggio is breathtaking sounds like a ready-made from the travel-writer’s notebook. But if you scramble up the foot-wide paths of split slate and slippery shale, and haul your carcass up the last 200 or so stairs leading to this Incan temple of Catholicism, you will know that loss of breath is actually a part of the process. The 360-degree views don’t actually take the breath away. They merely mesmerize you, make you dizzy, make you giddy, make you want to fly or shout.
We got to Caravaggio in time for a mid-morning snack – slabs of torrone chocolate nougat, sea biscuits, coffee and water. Had we turned back at this point, we would’ve felt pretty good about the start of the year. We would’ve felt we were still in decent shape at fifty-something. But we both wanted to continue on, at least as far as Monte Manico del Lume. We could see its snaggle-toothed summit one set of ridges inland. About another 3 hours away, providing the weather held, and we didn’t run into feral beasts or drunken hunters, or slip and slide into a gully. From Monte Manico del Lume it would be too far to turn back and get home before dark. So if we went ahead, we’d have to do the whole thing, the whole nine yards. All the way to Montallegro.
Awaiting us: wild boars, mountain goats, more and more challenging trails and tribulations… and breathtaking views… Read on. Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow’s blog…
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