November 7, 2010 - Walking in the mountains above Varazze The space next to the highway exit, between cells and Varanasi, is one of the stages of that journey, Opel now knows by heart: he has already spent so many hours waiting, patient, near the small kiosk e di fronte ad un bel tratto di costa adattato a passeggiata, con tanto di piastrelle, lampioni e panchine. Matteo ed io ci arriviamo alle prime luci del giorno, con bellicose intenzioni camminatorie e corsaiole per la giornata. L'itinerario di oggi è stato combattuto: il mio compare aveva proposto, in alternativa, un altro giro, lungo una traccia che lui stesso aveva precisato di non conoscere. Per carità: già quando la via ti è nota, chissà perché io finisco sempre nei guai... Non ho alcuna voglia di mobilitare la Protezione Civile e le squadre di soccorso con i cani da valanga, per riuscire a tornare all'auto. E' risaputo che chi lascia la via vecchia per la nuova, spesse volte nel guano si ritrova. Lascio a lui l'emozione della scoperta, quando vorrà; per oggi, preferisco rifugiarmi nella tranquillità di una via nota, e già così nutro comunque qualche timore.
La giornata si annuncia bella e limpida, a dispetto delle previsioni meteo infauste. Attraversiamo l'Aurelia in un punto da suicidi: per fortuna, a quest'ora l'automobilista domenicale medio ronfa ancora, della grossa. Sarà un luogo comune, ma a me, che vengo dalle nebbie della pianura, il mare ha sempre l'effetto di allargare il cuore... Solo d'inverno, però, quando in giro non c'è traccia di turista né di bagnante. D'estate è meglio che me ne tenga ben lontana; folla e cagnara mi suggeriscono propositi pluriomicidi. Ora si sente solo il fruscìo delle waves, which accompanies the passage a bit 'shuffling of the first meters of the race. Breathing dry air, your lungs, as he ran along the narrow sidewalk protected by guard rails: in addition to us, a few shady characters dealing with the morning walk or jog. Light breeze, deserted beaches and quiet. A short climb brings us in view of Varanasi, the beautiful promenade still deserted, palm trees a bit 'cramped from the cold and agitated by the breeze, the colors of the morning sun. I run, but struggled a bit ': the start, as always, is slow and agonizing. For me, of course, Matthew is as fresh as a rose, do not bat an eyelid, chat, your stride slightly. About ten km run before the ascent, announced Matthew: So I look at least twice ... We run along the old railway, now turned into a walking and cycling paths: an excellent job, the street that runs alongside the splash of waves, tunnels cold. Few passers-sparse, a few hired bully for a walk. The kilometers run with the story of a journey of Matthew in Casole Valsenio, a gathering of cavers or something: surely there is no time for boredom, if only to hear the adventures of the trip. Not to mention those of your stay! Check next Cogoleto between Aurelia and Arenzano Here we take a path that leads inward. At the first hint of a slope, stop running today runs like this ... For some reason, in the presence of someone else, I feel much more fatigue when they are alone. Maybe I'm afraid the comparison. And to think that there is no comparison with Matthew, especially when it comes to race would be like Angelina Jolie challenge in a contest of beauty & elegance or Garry Kasparov in a test of intelligence.
I can not help but notice a huge pile of rusty metal structures and in a large fenced-in area: it is the plant Stoppani, I said Matthew, a chemical company no longer in business, a manager in the past serious pollution of the area. In my ignorance, I knew nothing. A dismal place, motionless, would seem to pulverize a moment to another, an atmosphere of horror movies. "Stoppani" I promise to remember this name and go to hunt the nose here and there on the Internet.
proceed on asphalt, up to a place that is now well known to me to be passed several times both at the Gran Trail Rensen that in at least a couple of occasional trips, a township with a landlord, a bridge, some buildings received in bottom of the valley, which impressed me because they see the sun and not a few hours a day, and perhaps all, in cold weather. Building fervor here, but with taste, thankfully. Matthew let me decide the pace uphill, more than anything else, I do what I can, as always, and slowly. It will take a lot 'of ascent, before the engine decides to run decently.
trampling a little 'asphalt, under a sun tiepidino, or it may be the heat of the climb. Matthew indicates a path that climbs steeply to the right: it is ours. We are going, if I understand it, to the Refuge Father Rino. One of these days I'll have munirmi a map of the trails at least to stop groping in the dark Every time I walk in here. The names occur, but never having an idea of \u200b\u200bwhere I am geographically sensible. Luckily the tour guide is indigenous and, above all, always provided with maps. So, when faced with a fork, doubt takes us ... Avoid wasting your breath and steps in the wrong direction.
gets up a bit 'of wind, man we climb. The sky is not as clear as before, although, again, we see again the sea in bright colors. A light mist robs us of the light and brings a subtle change in agitation, at least to me.
The wind grew in intensity. Before gusts are more or less strong depending, I believe, the slope of a more or less fixed; veils of fog that surrounds us and retreat, at times, tufts of grass that bend, so they run on the grass, it seems that violence must strip away from the path of air from one moment to another. After a meter is absolute quiet, a ray of sunshine that gives me hope that is past, it was just a wrong episode and again mist. More and more thick and tenacious. The edges appear and disappear. The slope is steep, but the legs become wooden. Cold, penetrating. Matthew is in front, is perfectly at ease, more slips in a jacket with lots of phlegm. I can not hardly breathe, the bursts are violent, perhaps more the fear, the deep concern that the real threat. Breath like a bellows, I drag myself, chills everywhere. Should I dress myself, or freeze. Now. From what little I can see, it appears that little further on, the trail starts shrinking in a channel must be over the hill ... Yes, I remember this place, you climb this far and nothing else. An absurd but uncontrollable fear until then pushes me to the point I hoped was a bit 'more sheltered from the fury of the wind spots. I have to dress up, though. I lift my backpack, but nearly frozen hands do not respond to commands. Tribolo to open the pack, struggling to put the jacket, you can not, fingers stiff as nails, were it not for the help of Matthew. Once again left speechless, I'm a whining and quivering lump of flesh and bones, shall we say more flesh than blood, and he is sitting there as if it were lying on the beach to sunbathe, seraphic as always. By Gian, see to give you calm down. At least every now and avoid the hysterical scenes. First, do not lead to anything, certainly not to a sudden improvement in the weather. Second, you already know, and mathematics, and some as much as the fact that two plus two equals four, if there is the Genovese of the way, are trouble. Large or small, are still guaranteed, there is nothing to be done. Fantastic on the remainder of the trip, he: now we go down to such and such place, then go back up. Back on? But even with the winch, look. I want one, get out of this icy outpost of hell, down to a reasonable share, return to see the sun. If this time I will be allowed to save me from hibernation, I is not coming up here, even after reasonable compensation. I said.
proceed along the High Street in the direction of Rama, so I think I understand. These are places that I have trod, I'm sure, but if you leave me here, I might live by hunting wild boar or attacking tourists. I doubt I could find the way to the sea. Certainly not today, with the fog that envelops everything. Matthew consoles me a bit 'of his always abundant supplies I followed it like a dog, hoping to see sooner or later the trail points down. C'infiliamo in the vegetation, to take a gut narrow, winding and treacherous - the easy path, according to Matthew - which plunges us down, determined. Finally. I open my heart and mind if I play here the ankles. Down, down, has only come down now, and more drops, more mood rises from the lapel of his trousers. Light del sole, poi, è un toccasana, un'iniezione di gioia diretta in vena. Ricordo bene questo tratto; l'inverno scorso ho tentato di risalirlo, ma mi sono imbattuta nella neve troppo alta per poter raggiungere la cima. Ricordo il panorama sul mare, una serie di tornantini, il tratto iniziale, oggi finale, a salti in mezzo al bosco, ed un guado che, lo confesso, attendo oggi con un po' di preoccupazione. Vero, ho imparato l'estremo rimedio per superare i guadi difficili: basta levarsi calze e scarpe... Ma la temperatura, oggi, non è precisamente confortevole.
Beh, temevo peggio. Il guado è già alle spalle; riguadagno il sentiero dopo aver malamente superato in arrampicata, con unghie gomiti e ginocchia, un tratto collapsed. I enjoy the sight of the sea, now a bit 'grayer, as a bit' more gray the sky, which semvra veil. Traces of life, the first houses of the town of Sciarborasca. He finally stepped on a little 'asphalt, excellent opportunity to attack the pool of dried figs, with an eye to the little cabin in the meadow to our right, from whose window, check the muzzle of a horse. Already left the unspeakable desire, but many times confessed, hot chocolate, here is good, the blood is returned to run up to the fingertips.
A brief stop at the fountain, then we take a lane uphill stuff crampons, and say it is paved ... I would by clinging with his hands on the ground, because, with this slope, the land I've got a short distance from the nose! Other than wheelchair ... Those who live up here to be in full health, otherwise it is doomed! Suffer the lack of sticks, complaining of his back so unnatural position, her hands pushing on his knees. Overcome in a short space of ascending altitude Himalayan, fortunately, at the end of the road, about-face: we joked ... It was just to add a peak in the altitude profile of the trip.
We take a better road, more or less asphalt, that climbs the mountain with ample curves and offers breathtaking views of the valley, despite the gray sky, sad, confuses the sea in the background. Another appealing to climb on two wheels. I try to guess the location on a slope in front of me, beyond the few houses perched up here. At the bottom, bottom of the valley, a bridge looking a bit 'unstable crosses the stream of metal color, like the sky, like air. How much is pleasant to march in a good rhythm on the asphalt. S'inciampa not, there is twisted ... The road starts to climb more determined, winding, between a curve and the other, I observe the ongoing work to reforest the mountain fires have spared this beautiful side. I know where to set the fire, the authors of such feats.
What's the point, a paved road here, in a place so barren desert? I replied the apparition, almost unreal, some horses in a corral, and, later, a group of houses, built quite recently, I think. Must really be a misanthrope, who lives up here: I envy him ... Here's some risk that some fratturagonadi is not to disturb the sleep of the just, on Sunday morning, to propose "The Watchtower" or the catalog of the Elf. And if, despite everything, some foolhardy dared to defy fate, however, it might fall down from the mountain or buried without any witnesses that you nail in court. It is this: if I should still ask for something for a life that I can not ask for anything more than infinity already I won, I would ask a job I permatta of living away from the world and reduce the contact with my fellow cornered survival needs. Up here, for example. Location Ciazze.
And now? The road goes right up in a courtyard. Assuming that this is not c'impallinino before, where you go now? The report of the route relies Matthew speaks of a journey "clear and easily passable by mountain bike." It will also be evident, but around here I can not see anything that has the appearance of a path. We cross an esplanade with caution dirt that has the air of a private passage: I can already see the barrel of the rifle behind a window ... The Ligurian not radiate a sense of hospitality, moreover, is made known.
In fact, there is a trace of the trail. A clue among brambles, brushwood and mud. Matthew proceed safely along a line that only he is able to guess, or perhaps to invent. Here, I knew, I would bet. Let's not forget things from messing up the ritual. From a non-existent path, we find ourselves in a jiffy in the middle of a swamp. Comfort me a bit 'still echoes of the voices that I hear coming from the houses, until we are close to a bastion of civilization, perhaps we are not quite done for ... Matthew slips like an eel from a pool to another, I keep one eye glued to his feet and the other lightning research some place to stand a little 'less muddy. It reminds me so much a mouse lab, in the midst of a labyrinth, in the course of an experiment to study the sense of: make sure I see a line that could be well described by a ball rolled on the ground. "It should be here," proclaims already ... But here, where? It 's a single marsh, without rhyme or reason ... Tracing the passage of horses you are going somewhere. But the horses we've seen them before ... It is not at all certain that you have gone beyond this trap mud and grass running! "And if you forget it, at least until we can go back?". Imagine, this ear by my driving can not hear. The concern I run on your skin too long, the light will fall ... And if the darkness sorprendesse us up here? We would be breaded. I know, perhaps I exaggerate, but it is the horrible feeling of being trapped.
I do not know how or why, but, like the caged swamp us suddenly, just as suddenly expels us on a track, so evident here, a path, it marked. Just what we were looking for. What a relief ... Without the weight, I feel almost more than a few inches high. We go down, sometimes even on steep slopes, in the direction of the Desert. There are signs of the passage of wheels of a bike: great ... If this is the "easy path traveled by MTB", allora il mio concetto di MTB ha bisogno di una robusta revisione... Attraversiamo un torrente in un guado dall'aspetto molto tormentato: terra, pietre buttate all'aria, radici scoperte, piante divelte. Il sentiero travolto; lo recuperiamo più avanti, nel fitto del bosco che crea una volta naturale e sembra anticipare l'arrivo della sera. L'eremo appare improvvisamente, sotto i nostri piedi, in un tratto in cui il sentiero cala ripido ed accidentato. Ordinato, lindo, ma senza traccia di vita, almeno sembra. In compenso, c'è vita nell'agriturismo che sorge proprio lì accanto: tre cagnoni schizzano fuori dal cortile, abbaiando furiosamente, salvo poi inchiodare e rinculare non appena mi fermo. Calpestiamo asfalto, adesso, finally, on the way back, including a picnic area and beautiful plants impressive, until Muraglione Pass and Le Faie, a name that begins to sound familiar. Marching along the asphalt, improvise the usual calculations of trip purpose, length, height, hours spent. And, when we were sure of having escaped ... Checked on the seafront in Varazze and begins to rain. Four drops that quickly turned into a half-storm: a wind blowing angry, when it was dark. I was hoping for a peaceful return to step to loosen the legs and contemplate the placid sea, but touches row, with the gusts that we almost turned over and the waves crashing furiously against the wall of the marina and the sea. I had never seen him so angry ... Just a few hundred meters, to find ourselves drenched in the dark, not able to proceed to the violence of the wind. I do not have the heart to dig in the backpack in search of the torch, despite the risk of putting a foot wrong: after all, now, my lower extremities remember this path almost by heart ... Exploited, even on foot, in the wake of Matthew, who runs the wind in your face: after all, should be used, and is himself a native. But the foam of the waves, blue in the dark of night shoots almost to us and surprises us both. The headlights of cars traveling along the Aurelia dazzle us. Missing very little, by now ... A little 'I'm sorry to give up to go down in what a beautiful part of well-equipped walk farther down the road, just opposite the exit of cells, the last glimpse of the sea before returning home, but I would say that is not the ideal time to go back to tap water . Risk that someone should pay me a fish out then off Bastia. The ultimate thrill, go through the Via Aurelia in the dark in this infamous, even this time is our moment. Contemplation of the poetry of the sea, we should prefer the prose Plate ravioli with ricotta. It will be for next time.
Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon Predator is the new tactical shooter game created by Ubisoft for the PSP and set in the jungles of Sri Lanka. 
