We are standing on shoulders, but contrary to the expression, those aren’t the shoulders of giants. If the view is commanding, if the heights are dizzying, that’s not evidence of gargantuan presence, but simply a long historical record–millennia of feet affixed to matching shoulders.
My hike over these two days felt every bit as intimidating as scaling a multi-thousand-year human ladder. In particular, the first stage, with 2600 meters of ascent through the Ligurian Alps, was thoroughly intimidating, though perhaps less than the two miles of descent that would follow. But that’s all kind of the point–every long trip needs its peaks, its defining challenges, the personal benchmarks that allow me to see how I’m continuing to grow.
But first, coffee. I had an initial scare in Bobbio, when the bar I had scouted the afternoon before failed to open at 6am, because the espresso machine was kaput. Fortunately, though, a kind barista one block over waved me in before opening time; perhaps the desperation was written all over my face. Thank goodness for that cappuccino, because after an easy kilometer leaving Bobbio, the ascent began with absolute prejudice, winding back and forth along a stream that periodically morphed into a waterfall. Red and white blazes guided me through this section, following a local route.
I had already wrung the sweat out my shirt once before I reached the lone town of any size on this first stage, Brallo di Pregola, where I was thrilled to discover two open bars and even a small grocery. A second coffee and a pistachio croissant? This was almost making the day too easy. Brallo is a crossroads town, a hub of a staggering number of different hiking routes. On one sign, I discovered La Via Longa, Il Passo del Condottiero, Il Paese Fantasma, and Il Sentiero dei Briganti. None of which I was following, to the best of my knowledge.
Another relentless climb followed, carrying me out of town, through the tree line, and finally into grass-covered hills. On another day, I imagine the views would have been staggering; today, though, I was ensconced in clouds, a sea of white engulfing me on all sides, a pack of lazy cows barely visible in the haze twenty meters to my right.
On paper, somewhere around this time I completed the day’s primary ascent. Hikes aren’t made on paper, though, and despite having crossed 1600 meters in elevation and wrung out my shirt for a second time, I still had at least another 1000 meters of ascent to follow. By this point, I had merged with the Via del Mare and Via del Sale, overlapping routes that wind along the ridge line above two valleys. Alas, that ridgeline isn’t the least bit flat, but rather a constant roller coaster, climbing to the top of one peak after another, before giving back that elevation immediately after.
The Via del Mare is a modern construct, established in 2009 by local tourism interests, hoping to create a route linking Milan and Portofino, spanning roughly 170km through a series of natural parks. In this area, though, the Mare sits squarely on top of its historical predecessor, the Via del Sale. There were many salt roads, of course, as humans need salt to survive, and over the centuries the Italic peoples needed more and more salt to preserve their meat, fish, and olives. The specific Via del Sale in this case–the one for which I encountered a pilgrim credential and stamps–is the old Lombard salt road that originated near Pavia, climbed the ridge over the Boreca valley, and finally topped out above Monte Antola before descending to Torriglia. Indeed, I would follow that very same itinerary. A thousand years ago, I likely would have done so on mule. These salt paths were never large enough to support carts; the trails were far too narrow, the slopes much too unforgiving to accommodate such contrivances. But the salt was worth it.
Maybe that was on my mind when I stumbled across the greatest possible miracle. No, not the rustic, hilltop church with bottles of water available to walkers out front, though I certainly appreciated that. Rather, it was the rural bar and hotel at Capanne, where I was able to get a panino, some chips, and my third coffee of the day.
The ridgeline roller coaster continued, taking me to the top of Monte Legna, then on to Monte Carmo. The clouds had partially relinquished their grasp on the sky by this point, offering partial views of the mountains rippling outward in every direction. Briefly, the trail dropped me back onto a road, passing an isolated farmhouse with an infomation sign out front describing I Sentieri della Liberta. World War II is never far from the surface in Italy. Even here, so far removed from well-trodden towns and strategically-rich sites, the struggle made its mark.
As Piedmontese and Ligurian rebels sought to push back on the Nazi-Fascist forces in the area, it was only natural that they exploited the old salt roads to transport supplies and communications, to mobilize forces, and to find shelter when under threat. The first group of rebels, the Scintilla band, retreated here after making its first attack in December 1943. The country inn, the Osteria di Capanne–was it the very same place I had just eaten a panino?–became a base of operations for the resistance struggle, hosting a particularly important meeting of local leaders on September 23, 1944. A few months later, on January 23, 1945, a large German force sought to break through the region several times, hoping to destroy the Partisan command structure and capture Allied soldiers, but they were rebuffed each time by the joint Italian-American response.
I was reminded of this struggle yet again after completing the walk’s final ascent, to the top of Monte Antola, which is topped with a cross, a 70th anniversary memorial to the liberation struggle, and a small pack of cows. The monument commemorates the 400 locals who resisted. A small chapel sits just below. And a little further onward, much to my relief, sits the Rifugio Parco Antola, which has a water tap out front.
The cobblestones began soon after. Despite an overpowering adrenaline rush when I realized that the day’s final descent was on, any hope of a big finish was thwarted by an hour’s worth of ankle breakers, chomping eagerly at my feet. Nonetheless, I emerged unscathed, dropping into an almost perfect mountain village. Torriglia is tucked tightly into a crook in the hills, featuring pastel-painted buildings with intricate decoration. It was baptism day at the church, so perhaps a hundred townspeople were milling in the piazza out front. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Torriglia and Bobbio were a matching pair in the Middle Ages, each housing an important abbey. Today, though, I was more grateful for the Carrefour Express.
The next morning, I had to climb back out of this nook, returning to the Via del Sale’s ridgeline. Even if my legs were heavy from yesterday’s exertions, though, this didn’t hold a candle to those earlier ascents. And before long, the ridgeline was trending downward. Freed from yesterday’s tyrannical clouds, I thus had a perfect view when the mountains finally parted wide enough to afford me my first glimpse of the Mediterranean. I parted with the salt path near this point, winding along narrower footpaths until reaching the final–long, long, miserably long–descent to Genova.
Genova is famous for two things. The more delicious one is pesto. It turns out that the sauce’s name comes from the verb, pestare, which means “to pound.” And at this point, my feet felt thoroughly pestato from so many meters of rocky descent. There’s never a bad time to dip your toes into the Mediterranean, but this one was earned.
Some will challenge Genoa’s claim to being the birthplace of pesto. Certainly, a pesto-like concoction existed in Ancient Rome. We can find similar records in medieval Italy as well. But it wasn’t until 1863, in a book written by Genova’s Giovanni Battista Ratto, that basil was added to the mix. And what’s the point in pesto without basil? That’s like bruschetta without tomato. The point, then, is that Ratto deserves credit for the innovation, but he also benefited from a winning combination of other elements.
Which brings us to Genova’s other claim to fame: it is the birthplace of Christopher Columbus. You can visit his house, which stubbornly holds its ground as an outpost in a busy traffic intersection. There’s a statue dedicated to the man next to a major train station. And continuing southward along the coast, there are still other statues portraying the explorer. It’s a little jarring to see the man so unhesitatingly celebrated, given his declining status in the US. To my mind, he exemplifies our utter inability to approach historical figures with any measure of nuance; he’s either the great man who discovered the Americas or the perpetrator of history’s largest genocide. There is no middle ground.
I’m more interested in grappling with what Columbus knew and when he knew it. Clearly, some Europeans had traveled to North America before Columbus; the Basque presence in the North Atlantic is well established at this point, and Columbus had plenty of Basques on his boats. I’ve been listening to 1434 by Gavin Menzies, though, and it’s interesting to hear more about what was known. For example, 18 years before Columbus set sail, he already had a map of the Americas. One of his other captains had seen such a map as well, in the pope’s library. Meanwhile, Paolo Toscanelli wrote to Columbus around the same time, making it clear that the earth was a sphere and China could be reached by sailing westward. Heck, even in the original agreement signed with King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Columbus was awarded the role of Viceroy of the Americas–before he set sail. Behind all of this–and, Menzies argues, the remarkable cultural accomplishments of the Italian Renaissance–was a visit by a Chinese fleet under the leadership of Zheng He in 1434. The knowledge delivered to Europe, and particularly to some of those great Northern Italian towns, triggered so much of what followed.
On one hand, this dampens the Columbus legend. No way around it. At the same time, though, it has to be acknowledged that, despite this information being available, he was still the first to spearhead this particular kind of initiative. Others could have tried to build on this collective wisdom, to take the next bold step forward. He did it.
Those seafaring centuries were golden years for Genova, during which it became one of the wealthiest cities in the world. There’s not a ton of easy land wedged here, between sea and mountain, so the city architects wasted little of it on roads. Its famous “caruggi,” or narrow lanes, slice through tall buildings, interspersed occasionally by gold-plated basilicas and gelato shops. As a consequence, this once-wealthy city also became one of Europe’s most densely packed cities, and that feeling remains palpable today. Long-time residents, university students, recent immigrants, and tourists all line the streets, and in my neighborhood I walked past Senegalese, Arabic, Turkish, and Chinese restaurants in quick succession. What is the next innovation, the next transformation, the next bold step forward that will emerge from all of this?
