Storm

It's already morning, and I reluctantly get up. I slept so well last night, on a real mattress! My tent lies crumpled between two bunk beds, an empty shell. I quickly pack my things and mechanically compress them into my backpack. I sling it over my shoulder and open the door to my room. My mood suddenly changes: above the hostel's squalid internal courtyard, where chickens and turkeys roam, a cloudless sky shines, and the mountainsides are illuminated by the dawn. I go down to the bar, downstairs, where the owner is waiting for me with a delicious homemade apple pie. I stuff myself, thank her, say goodbye, and leave.

It's a typical Piedmontese day, I'm used to it by now: with a straight, steep climb of more than 1,000 meters in elevation, on a path all stones and steps. I can't say I'm leaving the village behind me, but beneath me. Indeed, the further I proceed, the more San Lorenzo becomes a tiny dot at my feet, below but no longer distant. In front of me, the mountains seem so close; I can see the entire route I traveled the day before. I find myself in a small valley off the famous Orco Valley, where I spent a rainy day relaxing in Ceresole Reale. Today, June 23, 2021, is an important day, the thirtieth day of walking! I set out exactly a month ago, leaving behind the Tyrrhenian Sea that laps the beach of Finale Ligure.

I've had a thousand adventures and overcome many trials. My nerves are a bit frayed at this point; the constant rain and the snow still covering the highest passes have robbed me of the joy of admiring the beauty of the mountains, forcing me to resort to low-altitude trails, nights in hostels, and hikes in the fog. My destination, the Tyrrhenian Sea near Trieste, is still a long way off, and as I continue climbing, I consider how to approach the coming days with greater enthusiasm. Meanwhile, today is no different from the others: after much effort to overcome 1,200 meters of vertical gain, I finally reach the pass and find myself in the fog. So I begin the descent without even stopping, and arrive at Lake Eugio. The sky is leaden and doesn't bode well, but I stop anyway for a quick lunch at the top of the dam. Unexpectedly, a door opens behind me, and a smiling young man emerges from the guard's house, waving me in. He asks me about myself, what I'm doing and where I'm going, and above all, why I'm alone? I'm used to these questions and the surprised, tinged with reproach, faces of people when I tell them that it's my choice: I intend to walk alone for four months. But this time it's different. Andrea and his colleague listen to me, fascinated, while a moka pot simmers on the stove. Unfortunately, I can't stay; the sky outside is getting darker, so I say goodbye and begin climbing again among mountain pines and sharp rocks. The first heavy drops fall on my backpack, making me quicken my pace. I reach the pass in the thick fog, following the red dots painted on the rocks until I reach the Blessent bivouac.

This bivouac reminds me of Howl's Moving Castle: a lifesaving shelter that emerges from the fog at just the right moment, equally crooked and ramshackle. And equally magical. I climb the ladder leading to the entrance, and as I close the door, the sky opens with a mighty thunderclap and begins pouring water mixed with ice onto the earth with unstoppable fury. I laugh with joy in my cramped shelter, smeared with mouse droppings and too low to stand.

I inflate my sleeping pad so I don't have to lie down on the dirty mattresses, and I let myself be lulled by the roar of the storm, hermetically sealed outside my shelter. More than an hour passes before nature calms down. When even the last drops have stopped hitting the roof, I open the bivouac door and reluctantly stick my head out. The cold air freezes my nose, while a ray of sunlight blinds me for a moment. When I open my eyes, I'm breathless. The clouds let rays of light filter through, raining down on the bathed mountains in golden beams, illuminating the peaks around me. I leave the bivouac excited, and when I turn around, I almost drop my camera in amazement: a huge rainbow frames the valley. Its colors are so vivid that it appears as something tangible, a colorful bridge connecting the two sides of the valley, from where I started yesterday to where I will be going tomorrow.

It seems like a message I read as if it were addressed to me, to celebrate my month on the Camino, to tell me that I can continue, because even the rain must eventually end. With tears in my eyes, I remain still until the colors fade and give way to night. I crawl into my sleeping bag with a new certainty: no matter how much it rains and how difficult it gets, I will complete my journey, because beauty is around every corner!