Where is the line between wisdom and cowardice? Prudence and timidity? Or, for that matter, between courage and temerity?
I spent the better part of a week watching that weather forecast come barreling towards me like my mom’s Samoyed, with zero compunction or restraint. Every day I logged in, expecting that the extreme precipitation projected for today would diminish. The algorithms, after all, can be a little goofy and overreactive, so it’s hardly unusual to see some tapering as the day in question approaches.
This time, though, the exact opposite occurred. The amount of rain expected only grew, from a couple inches early on to somewhere around five inches over a 24-hour span, with variable measures of lightning sprinkled in for good measure.
All afternoon, I sat on a bench in Polcenigo, stewing over this forecast and what it meant for my walk. Those days in the Apennines, in the latter stages of the Via di Francesco, left a mark upon me. On one hand, they fed into my self-narrative that I endure, overcome, and finish what I begin. That moment, in particular, of finding a fallen tree to cross over the raging river, will stick with me as a symbol of triumph. And yet, there was admittedly also something scarring about having to navigate around and through one swollen stream after another, of feeling my feet shift, however slightly, as the current coursed against me, of the moment when I slid in the mud, powerless, back towards the mini-rapids. Days later, when I had to climb up and around a landslide, I was reminded once again that, for all the stories I might tell myself about my boundless capacity, nature is a heavyweight, and I’m in a far inferior weight class.
When I first sat down on that bench in Polcenigo, which afforded me two essential virtues–access to the free wifi signal and shade–the two cafes were bursting with patrons, alternating between glasses of wine and mugs of beer. Around mid-afternoon, the crowds had cleared out from the center, opting instead to stroll a bit through the hills, or visit the convent and castle. By 5pm, it was gelato time; despite it having been open all afternoon, it was like an alarm had suddenly sounded, as everyone in town converged to grab a cone or a cup at the exact same moment.
I made some calculations. I could double-up on stages on Sunday, walking 65 or so kilometers to San Daniele del Friuli, a large town just off-route that sits very close to my planned destination for Monday, the historic Hospitale di San Giovanni in San Tomaso. With rain expected to arrive by 3pm on Sunday, this made it a near-certainty that my last few hours would involve a soaking, but better to catch the front-end of the storm, I reasoned, than to have to walk 35km through the heart of it. I booked a cheap hotel room in San Daniele, alerted the priest who would have hosted me in Fanna of my change in plans, and thus reduced my risk considerably.
I went to bed recognizing that I made the right choice. And kind of hating it.
The alarm rang at 4:45 and ten minutes later I was charging downhill, back through Polcenigo center and onto the trail. Full light comes around 5:30 these days, so I relied on a flashlight for the first 15 minutes on the footpath, but that was no trouble. After some uninspiring stages on the Sant’Antonio, this would prove to be one of the nicest sections, which simultaneously took a bit of the edge off such a long walk, but also felt like a waste, since I couldn’t fully enjoy it. Regardless, every kilometer without asphalt on a long stage is a blessing, and I savored the trail as it led me along a stream, through woods, and eventually up past a hilltop chapel.
The game plan is always straightforward enough when going so far. First goal: lop off the opening stage. That required me to power through Montereale, the first town of any size, roughly 25km from Polcenigo, cross the dammed Cellina River, and then push on another 5km to Maniago, where I could reward myself with the first coffee and brioche of the day. That all went smoothly, with me arriving around 10:30am, still early enough to order a cappuccino, without incurring the judgmental wrath of all Italians in the cafe.
The second half of the day is more of a blur. I remember the church in Fanna, where I would have spent the night, which is a shrine to the Madonna della Strada, and a lovely, peaceful place. I would have enjoyed it. I can see every closed grocery store in Sequals. This was the first time I was adversely affected by Sunday closures, in large part because I hadn’t planned for it; I tried to compensate by ordering a brownie at the bar. I made a mental note of every single river and stream I crossed, all of which were rocky, mostly barren beds. Was this a sign that I was overly-cautious, that this dry ground could have easily absorbed whatever fell? Or is it more indicative of a landscape that shifts between extremes at the drop of a hat–and a few inches? Most vivid of all, though, is the view from the castle-top hill overlooking Pinzano al Tagliamento, with the Bearzi River–a well-hydrated exception to the trend–shining down below. 3pm had come and gone at that point, and as I wobbled down the jarringly steep descent, winding back and forth along the hill face, I imagined how precarious it would become if a storm suddenly arrived.
Instead, however, the rain never did arrive during the walk. Not much in Italy operates with timeliness, so why should this? I gratefully checked into my hotel room, flopped onto the bed, sucked down another liter of water, and built up the will to shower and wash my clothes. Across the street were the duomo, a gelato shop, and a pizzeria, so the location was tough to beat. I ordered a family-size Margherita, ate a couple scoops, made a quick visit, and then snagged the pizza on my return trip to my room, done for the day with all public appearances. I slept fitfully.
With just a handful of kilometers to walk the next morning, and no possibility of checking into the pilgrim hospital before 3pm, there was obviously zero urgency. I spent a long time at breakfast, earning several blank stares from the hotel staffer overseeing the spread. I made a ton of progress on my presentation for the Annual Gathering which will take place the day after I land in Portland at 10pm, something Past Dave decided was a smart idea. And then, when the storm broke for an hour, I hit the road to San Tomaso, arriving dry. Fortunately, the church attached to the hospital was unlocked, so I spent a few hours inside, typing away.
Part of me wants to cackle with glee over the fact that I navigated this storm so adroitly, managing to complete these 73km without more than a rogue raindrop here or there landing on me. And another part of me is giving me that same blank stare from the breakfast buffet, or from an Italian cafe where I ordered a cappuccino after 11am. Did I take the easy way out? Should I have taken the storm head-on? Surely, that would have generated a more compelling story to write about! Nobody is buying Prudent and Dry: The Dave Whitson Story.
Given my capacity to walk long distances with complete impunity, it was obviously the correct choice. And there’s no way that I’ll avoid this storm forever; there’s plenty of soaking to come over the next two days. But it still feels like a bit of a cop out!
