Monte Vettore hike ... in words

Monte Vettore is Marche’s highest mountain, as well as being the highest in the central Apennines. It’s been the aim of the boy king (our son Julius) to climb this beast ever since we got here. We had promised him on his birthday (January 8^th) to do it, but our first attempt (Jan 28^th) was stopped by ice, so we waited until June 24^th for a good snow-free day, and one that was agreeable to all social calendars.

This last point is no small feat since we did it with an Italian family that we’re friendly with. We hike with them often, and it’s almost always an event. We were five (us three and Julius’ friend from the US with his mother). Ornella’s family is four. There were 22 of us. This is normal – the supporting cast frequently outnumbers the lead players. This is hiking in Italy – the “popular” (or perhaps populous) way.

At 2,476m (8,123 feet), Vettore isn’t exactly a giant, but it’s still up there for us minnows. Getting up there is, if it’s not already obvious, a hike, not a climb. But it’s a fairly long one, and in places it’s rather steep. So it’s a full day … and then some.

We had a diverse group, ranging in age from 7 to 74. Gilda, the oldest, is a phenomenal woman, who apparently doesn’t stop going all day. She was the third person out of the 11 in our group that made it to the top. Alas, the youngest, Esther (Ornella’s daughter) turned back with her mother when a few drops of rain threatened to douse our enthusiasm.

Fortunately, the rain’s threat was nothing more than that. It was, however, a blustery, (thankfully) cool day, providing the necessary wind for the paragliders and microlites that soared invitingly above the soft green Piano Grande that stretched below us into Umbria.

In the distance sits Castelluccio, a gem of a town perched on a lone hill in the middle of the huge flat bowl surrounded on all sides by the Apennini. June is wildflower time, and impetus for the annual festival for the blooms that come with the maturing lentils for which this region is renowned. A poor rainfall, however, has rendered a poorer show than usual, and even though the place was busy, the festival’s organizers had to dump gallons of lenticchie and salsiccie (lentils and sausage) that were prepared for the throngs that never came.

In a group of 22 predominantly Italians, there were naturally several subplots. Gilda, the septuagenarian rock rabbit, was obviously the central character. But a few others coloured the day with the spice that always flavours such outings. HRH the boy king (Julius) twisted his ankle on the way down, resulting in free rides down on the backs of a few of us with enough energy and strength in the legs to carry him – one of these is a strong Colmurano woman who carried him with perhaps greater ease than either Giovanni or I. (It’s also somewhat unclear to me how much the injury might have been influenced by the need to divert Margherita’s attention away from the hovering Jack, but that’s a whole other plot for another time.)

Another subplot featured Ornella’s nephew, twenty-something Andrea, whose arrival with his new (and first serious) girlfriend was eagerly awaited. He was late (as he was the only other time he came hiking with us), but he didn’t disappoint in his choice of girlfriend (at least from a visual perspective). They made it to the first stop (for lunch), after which they were not seen again as we made our way to the peak. Turns out he – and therefore his girlfriend – thought we were going to have a picnic in the mountains. There was no expectation of having to work for it, least of all on the region’s highest peak. I’m told the girlfriend was unpleasantly surprised by this. I haven’t heard if they’re still an item.

From the top of Vettore one can look down over the edge of a steep incline into a bowl, in which lie two steel-blue lakes – the Laghetti di Pilato. Legend has it that Pontius Pilate is buried there. We haven’t been there to verify it, but we will soon.

Turns out that the legend of Pilato isn’t the only one around here. In fact, the place is rich with the myths of the Apennini Sibyl and the cave that she lives in somewhere in the area. In fact, the scree on the mountainside is supposedly created by her fata whose scrambling goat-like feet broke the stones as they hurried to re-enter the cave before sunrise (and therefore preserve their immortality) after a night cavorting with the local population. Apparently there are all sorts of “interesting” things that go on in the cave. I looked all over for it, but couldn’t find it. Perhaps I’ll creep back up there one moonlit night. And I’ll be sure to let you know what happens … if, of course, I decide not to stay …