Pace is not an end unto itself, or at least it probably shouldn’t be most of the time. After all, if the goal were simply to move through the walk as swiftly as possible, one would probably be advised to stick to the highway and ignore the more scenic trails. It’s like the old line about the US freeway system–the best way to travel across the country and see none of it.
But as daylight ebbs, pace becomes a bigger consideration for me on these longer days. Indeed, I’ve been sifting through my remaining schedule and trying to find ways to mitigate the remaining 50+ kilometer days. There aren’t many of them, fortunately, and often they butt against a camping night, which makes them easier to manage. Advantageous, even, since I’d always rather be walking until dusk on such occasions.
Today, though, there was no room for fancy strategy. The best plan was to get out early, push hard, and aim to cover as much ground as possible as I powered through a lengthy descent from the mountains. And with a day that included 2500 meters of descent, there was plenty of that to come by!
Sometimes, departing in darkness isn’t just a time-saving maneuver; it rewards one with some magical walking conditions. As the sun cracked the horizon, the high valley turned golden, with a sheen of shallow morning fog hovering just above the ground, broken only by the silhouettes of lumbering cows, their bells tolling all around me. From there, I emerged into the village of Tirivolo, said to be the place with the cleanest air in all of Europe. The small complex of buildings, distinct with their shining red metal roofs, gleamed within the surrounding shadow of pine and beech trees. A man asked me what I was up to. “Are you crazy,” he asked, laughing. “No, I’m American!”
And then the descent began in earnest, plunging sometimes along the little-used provincial road and sometimes along parallel forest tracks, leading past another small cluster of houses with a hedge labyrinth, and otherwise through unbroken arboreal splendor. Just before 10am, I emerged on the outskirts of Sersale, a town of two seas, offering views of both the Ionian and Tyrrhenian from atop its high, sloping hills. The Cammino Basiliano makes a significant effort to extend here, adding a handful of kilometers to the stage, and winding in a figure-eight through the town, but that view makes it all worthwhile–as did the cheerful woman who immediately offered me a coffee in her home as I made my initial descent.
After some time on the provincial road, heading due west back from the double sea views, I found myself on a single-lane country road, descending into a different sort of sea, one of endless olive trees, rippling downward into the expansive valley below. A pair of canyons took shape on each side of my little road, both parts of the Valli Cupe Regional Nature Reserve, yet another Calabrian treat that remains a secret from the outside world. As the pavement receded, and the descent became more pronounced, I reached a trail sign indicating the turn-off for the Cascata dell’Inferno. Even on a long day, I couldn’t pass up this opportunity, so I stashed my pack in the bushes and began working through a long series of steep switchbacks, dropping swiftly into the mouth of the canyon on my right. The final approach involves a short walk along a metal grate installed over the narrow river, but unfortunately that grate was badly damaged, so some creative maneuvering is required to shuffle through and then over one large rock. The effort is worthwhile, though, to see this narrow cascade, shooting through a slim gap in the sheer, rocky cliffs. The name comes from the belief that the pool of water beneath the falls plunges deep enough to reach the very gates of hell, but I didn’t test that out. After all, I had plenty of kilometers left to cover above ground.
After climbing back to the trail, I was stunned to see the ruins of a large, stone complex further along in the gorge–an ancient mill that was once part of the village of Barbaro. Finally, the route descended all the way to the river, much further downstream from the falls, and after a tricky crossing through overgrown vegetation, the long climb to Sellia began, towering high on the hills across from me. It’s an entrancing sight. Even from a distance, it’s possible to see how the village spans two neighboring hill tops, with an arcing bridge joining the two. Castle ruins lurk in the background, while a more modern extension unspools below. Most everything was buttoned up for the afternoon siesta, but I wasn’t looking to linger. A quick snack outside the church did the job.
A similar process unfolded. A lengthy descent to a river crossing, passing through more olives and chestnuts. A more extended jaunt through the flat valley, alongside the Alli River. And then a sustained ascent, more gradual this time, and following a provincial road instead of a footpath. This led me past an elderly father and his middle-aged son, who were laboring over firewood. The son flagged me over, asked what I was up to, and then insisted on taking a selfie with me. Buoyed by the encouragement, I made the last push to the pass leading over the ridge and into the northern outskirts of Catanzaro. The urban sprawl persisted longer than I might have liked–after all, this is my first proper city in Calabria, with a population approaching 100,000, and the first McDonald’s since Salerno–but in time I finally reached my accommodation for the night. And on the whole, I was thrilled with my pace.
And then things went wrong. My B&B, which occupies a flat in a large apartment building, offered no response to my bell-ringing. Pulling up my reservation, I discovered to my horror, that I had screwed up the date. I booked the room for tomorrow! I suppose it was inevitable; given the scores of reservations I’ve made over the years, at some point I had to mess up one of the bookings. And here it was. I messaged the host, taking full responsibility for the error, but hoping they might still be able to accommodate me. After all, I could see they had a room available on booking.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. A woman advised me to call them. I did. No response.
Forty minutes. Fifty. An hour.
I heard a voice from above. That same woman, concerned about me, was checking in from her balcony above. Had I called? Yes, yes. A young man emerged from the building with his son. She recruited him. He confirmed that I had the correct number, and then conveyed that to the woman. She started making calls, unconvinced that I had exhausted the options, but soon she was every bit as frustrated and defeated as I was.
The young man, Francesco, asked me about my walk, and then told me that he used to be a guide and to volunteer on mountain rescue, before his son came along. After another ten minutes passed, I thanked him, and told him I’d just find another room on booking. He told me not to worry–that they were taking care of it. Above, on the balcony, the woman was working through her contacts, trying all of the B&Bs in northern Catanzaro to find a home for me. Eventually, she was successful, and suddenly Francesco was driving me two blocks over.
He accompanied me through the check-in process, and then to my great surprise he insisted on paying for the room. We had a bit of a stare-down in front of the B&B’s host, but I finally demurred. The exhaustion from the day was finally kicking in, and I was astonished at this final resolution. “So that you will come back to Catanzaro,” he said, smiling.
I took a shower, then discovered that the place had a washing machine. It was my turn to smile. I got everything in order, then set out to find the supermarket. I hadn’t made it ten meters out the door before I ran into a food delivery guy, with a hot bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you the American?”, he asked. “Is it that obvious?” The woman on the balcony–I never got her name, as Francesco only referred to her as the signora–had arranged for my dinner. Her nephew runs the pizzeria around the corner. Suddenly, I had a feast at my disposal, delivered to my door.
Every day, I find new reasons to be happy to be here, and to be sorry to leave before too much longer. Today, I approached the gates of hell, only to emerge in paradise.
