Homage to Gardetta
Words and Photos by Chris Hunt
Every now and again we get to visit somewhere truly special, one of those places and experiences that you come back to over and over. This is a love letter to one such place. A remote refuge deep in the Italian Alps and indisputable highlight of my Torino Nice Rally.
We've been pushing, carrying, heaving our bikes between rocks, over ledges and up smatterings of singletrack for the last hour. Perhaps more like two. It’s steep. The sun’s hot and the more we climb the less shade we find.
We reach a grassy plateau. High enough to see beyond the scree banks which surround us, slowly the valley opens up around us to let us in on what the fuss is all about. We sit, and share out what remains of the gummy bears and salty crackers. Not long and we’re back in the kind of fits of laughter that has defined these past few days.
We’re about 2500m up, deep in the Cottian Alps of North West Italy, following a series of iconic road and off road mountain passes of the Torino Nice Rally. Having never met one another previously, we’ve formed an organic group of six with whom we’ve committed to continuing the rest of the journey with.
Now, when I say the group was formed organically, truth be told I’m not sure how much of a say in it we had. On the same flight from the UK, we’d ended up renting apartments just a block away from each other, bumped into each other in the supermarket queue and seeking last minute fixes in Decathlon. It seemed like fate when we found ourselves sat next to each other at the pre-ride dinner and when we lined up for photos at the monument in the centre of the Piazza Giambattista Bodoni, of course we did so together.
Sat here, making our way up the Unerzio Valley it’s striking just how far we’ve come and how remote in this Alpine landscape we are. Just a few metres below Passo della Gadetta, we reach the remains of Alpine warfare from the Second World War. Brutalist concrete blocks which once housed gunman protecting the valleys against Austro-Hungarian and the German troops. I’m intrigued by what the reality of being dispatched here would have been. The harsh winters, austerity and violence. On such a day as this, it’s hard to imagine being here in the throes of war.
We explore the cold, dusty concrete corridors of the bunkers’ interior nestled into the mountainside. A dark and ominous staircase leads underground. At the bottom, a narrow tunnel into the darkness. On our hands and knees we wrestle our bodies through the gap, led by the clumsy light of an iPhone. This is exactly the kind of scenario I make sure to avoid in my day-to-day, but here, nervously egging each other deeper, it’s exactly the kind of childhood silliness I’ve been craving.
Eventually, we find our way to a small rocky opening, dragging ourselves one-by-one through a gap no more than a foot at its widest. From the exit we brush off the cold pale dust, dirt and powdered remains of the weathered concrete from our elbows and knees, standing up straight to admire the landscape around us.
Cresting over the ridge, lies the Gardetta Plateau. A wide open basin, surrounded by impossible granite spires. With a palm above my brow, I shield the sun from my eyes. Nestled in the middle of the alpine meadows, I make out the outline of the refuge I’d heard so much about.
We roll down the picturesque winding gravel track to the Gardetta plateau in the centre of which the famous refuge sits. Propping bikes up on benches, we spread out on the grass. Still with several hundred kilometres to go before we reach our destination on the Mediterranean, our stop is planned to be short. Enough time to grab lunch, bask in the sun, but no longer than hour.
But…how can we leave this place, like this, in this light, in this company?
A jug of white wine appears on the table in front of me. Beads of condensation run down its curves, pooling into the circumference of its base. Someone it seems has taken the executive decision. We wont be going anywhere this afternoon.
Over the hours which follow, more and more riders of the Torino Nice Rally filter in. And sat well over 2000m high, after another hot day riding walking and pushing bikes, it doesn’t take long, for the effects of the wine to take hold and a perma-grin settles in across my face.
More and more arrivals join our table, bringing their own tales of their joys and struggles so far, each one with the same signs of relief as they reach the shelter welcomed with knowing nods, warm hugs, cold drinks and warm plates of nourishment. With each new rider that walks through the door the cheers get a little louder.
Courses of chunky homemade soup, pasta, salad, bread and tiramisu just keep coming. It’s the tail end of the season, probably only days before the refuge will close for the winter and surely the last time these wooden walls will be filled with such warmth. There’s a surplus of wine of which the owner — who also hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here — is more than happy to see emptied tonight, so at the same speed they empty, our glasses are replenished.
With a hot buzz in my cheeks, I look up and down this table and can’t wipe the grin from my face. This event, this refuge and the hike-a-bike section that led us here, the food in our bellies, stillness of the cold night and star-filled skies and the people I’m surrounded by.
Slowly, one by one, in the same nature they arrived, only this time satiated and warm, riders slink off to bed as the buzz of the evening fades. We’re a mix of old and new friends, many of whom the months and years to come I’ll work, live, plan and adventure with. A real connection has been forged here tonight between so many of us sharing this journey and this space and just how meaningful this moment is, I think I’m still yet to discover.