The first stage of the MADE starts from Cima Sappada.
There are very human moments, like this one, when a group of friends, though separated by different lives, come together to spend time together. It almost seems strange to write it and experience it in an age where digital realities and constant overlap seem to dominate.
Strange, yes, because our Western lives appear increasingly complex, made up of overlapping layers to which, at best, we try to make sense.
But this is precisely the point: to uproot ourselves from this complexity and rediscover the essential.
The Meeting![]()
It is for this reason that on August 14, 2025, Michele, Matteo, and I, three friends with backpacks on our shoulders, met to experience something together that was not filtered by a screen or dictated by algorithms but that depended solely on the honesty of our steps, the quality of our conversations, the honesty of the paths we would travel.
The journey to get here has already been an adventure. Matteo and I crossed half of Italy by train, from Lugano to Pordenone, chatting, sharing ideas, and revitalizing ourselves. Michele, on the other hand, arrived from London. Different origins, different paths, but today the same destination.
The first day is always a time of adjustment: moving from cities like London or Zurich, made of concrete and skyscrapers, to natural surroundings can be a shock. But trekking is also about this: moving away from yourself to find yourself.
The Departure from Cima Sappada
We cross the village, searching for our first landmarks along with the others. The excitement is palpable, it's in the air, even after just taking our first steps. The traditional houses recall the Friulian mountains: sloping roofs, drawings on the walls, straw mannequins. These are images that seem to have been lifted from an ancient time, yet they still hold the essence of this valley.
The weather is perfect, the air fresh. A start that couldn't have been better.
The Sources of the Piave
The trail follows the direction of the source of the Piave River. The forest immediately welcomes us, its balsamic scents tickling our nostrils, and that feeling of freshness that only a pine forest can provide.
As we climb, the road branches out and becomes more intimate: just a few steps and we're already in front of the river, flowing clear against a deep blue backdrop. It's a surprise that comes quickly, almost too quickly. I'd heard about these blue rocks, but seeing them in person was like landing on another, unexplored planet.
Further ahead, we're surprised by a waterfall with a small natural pool beneath it. Matteo and I wanted nothing more: the icy water was the perfect antidote to the midday heat. I believe water, especially cold water, has miraculous powers: it shakes you, wakes you up, makes you feel alive.
We walk over enormous roots, crossing small bridges that seem to have been built for an explorer film, and it's impossible not to let our imaginations run wild. The trail is well-maintained and well-marked, but never loses its wild soul.
Every time the forest opens up, I look up and see the peaks all around us: silent, majestic, as if they were patiently watching us. I wonder what they think of us.
The Climb
The climb begins to steepen. The ground is wet, slippery in some places. Care is required, but that's part of the game: nature doesn't grant comfort; it demands respect. The scent of moss becomes more intense, filling our lungs and accompanying our steps.
Let's start walking in silence again. It's a simple yet powerful practice, almost revolutionary in a world that pushes you to shout everything just to exist. Walking in silence means listening: to your thoughts, your breathing, the sounds of nature. In that moment, everything was there: life in its purest form.
Then the forest opens up, and vast meadows appear before us. We cross them like a group of explorers, encountering almost no one. A few grazing animals watch us curiously, distractedly. It's the mountain in its purest form: alive, yet discreet.
We continue along the mule track that zigzags. The higher we climb, the more rock replaces the trees. The surrounding mountains cut into the sky, stark and imposing. We hear the marmots whistling, the occasional rustle in the grass. Then, suddenly, two donkeys grazing peacefully: we stop beside them for a break, drink some water, and laugh, with the enthusiasm that comes from the little things.
The Marmot Trail
In the distance, the refuge finally appears. It stands there, high up, just below the summit. The Pier Fortunato Calvi. I look at it and think of how much it still has to tell: stories of climbers, of hard work, of friendships. A refuge like those of old, which preserves the true essence of the mountains.
The climb presents us with two choices: continue along the gentle zigzag of the mule track, or follow a huge painted rock that says "Sentiero delle Marmotte" (Marmot Trail). It's the steepest route, made of rocks that climb up the mountainside. Naturally, we choose that one. In some sections, we use our hands to help us, but it's not impossible: even less experienced hikers can manage it easily.
Then, suddenly, the trail rejoins the mule track. Only a few meters further, the refuge opens up before us.
Arrival at the Calvi Refuge
The last steps are light. We pass a small shrine, a small house used as a warehouse and chicken coop, among chickens pecking at the ground as if keeping watch over the travelers. Then there he is, Calvi.
We take off our backpacks. Ahead, the view is a tangle of mountains chasing one another, dark pine forests nestling on their backs, clouds moving swiftly around the peaks. Inside, the scent of wood, the buzz of light conversation, voices at the bar, sounds drifting from the kitchen. It's a lively, welcoming place.
Climbing up here, we encountered landscapes that seemed to come straight from a movie: an immense forest, ancient and wise. A waterfall that roars tirelessly, filling the air with freshness. Blue rocks like I'd never seen before, almost as if from another planet. Smooth walls, shades of gray and brown that bear the marks of time. Even old windows carved into the rock: traces of war, makeshift hiding places, signs of distant histories.
Next to the refuge, the remains of a fort remind us that these mountains were once a border and a garrison. The landscape speaks even in silence.
Anna and the Lesson of the Mountain
Welcoming us is Anna, who has managed the refuge for over forty years. A woman who has become a mountain herself: kind, strong, and deeply rooted. She tells us about her husband, who passionately wanted to build this refuge, and about her family, which has grown with children, girlfriends, and grandchildren. And now, alone but never truly alone, she continues to guard it with love.
"When winter comes and we close," he tells us, "I can't wait to go back. This is my home. Not down in town."
Every word is a life lesson: here you learn to share, to say hello, to care for others. The mountain unites, stripped of vanity, reminding us that we are all equal. At the summit, it doesn't matter if you're a lawyer, a worker, or a student. We all got there on our own two feet, with the same breath, with a backpack on our shoulders.
That evening, a young couple at the next table joins our conversation. Anna offers us grappa, the boys smile, and in a moment we're one group. When they get up to leave, he looks at us and says, "That's the beauty of the refuge," making a circular gesture with his hand, indicating everyone.
This is why Dolomist exists. To live authentic experiences. To meet people without labels. To feel like you truly belong to something bigger.
This climb awakened me. It made me remember why we started. The mountains never stop teaching.
Who knows what else I'll find on the trail. Who knows what else you'll find.
Send.
