Alpe di Siusi, South Tyrol
It was one of those mornings that don't wake up. They stretch out. They enter the room slowly with the dull light of the closed curtains and settle everywhere, without haste. Even the dog seemed to have understood: he didn't bark, he didn't paw. But he was there. Motionless, sitting in front of the door, with his tail on standby and an expression that said: "I know we're leaving today."
My backpack was already full from yesterday. A small bottle of water, some biscuits, two sandwiches wrapped in paper that already smelled of good cheese. And then a map, which I wouldn't have looked at even once, because I knew very well that I would have trusted him, his curious pace, his tireless nose, his sudden changes of direction. We left early, but not very early. Just in time to find the streets still empty and the bakery still warm.
The cable car from Siusi took us up in a hushed silence that felt like anticipation. The dog rested his muzzle on his leg, watching the world fall beneath us. He didn’t seem scared, but rather absorbed. Maybe, for once, he wasn’t thinking about what to sniff first. Maybe he was just enjoying the ride.
The Alpe di Siusi welcomed us with the discretion of things that do not need to be noticed. The meadows stretched out wide, the distant peaks seemed barely drawn. The air was still and transparent, and the sky so clean that it seemed like a new floor.
The path to Compaccio began almost without realizing it. A strip of beaten earth that ran softly between the pastures and the huts, like an invitation. He walked in front, his ears moving to the rhythm of his steps and his own way of smelling everything as if it were the first time. Sometimes he turned to look at me, for no reason. Or perhaps to say: “Come on, move.”
We passed by a mountain hut that gave off the unmistakable smell of polenta with melted butter. I ignored it. He didn't. He stopped, pointed his nose in the direction of the scent and took that half step of someone who still hopes. A lady came out with a rag in her hand and smiled at him. She offered him a piece of bread and cheese without even asking. He took it as only dogs can do when they understand that it is a gift, not a prize.
We stopped on a wooden bench bleached by the sun. From there you could see everything: the fields, the pointed roofs of the huts, the thin line of cows walking. The dog lay down next to my feet, with that long sigh that is already almost sleep. I ate slowly, without thinking about anything.
When we started walking again, the sun had changed direction. The colors were warmer, the air more lively. The shadows ran through the larches like late children. He had resumed his pace, neither slow nor fast, but always determined. Sometimes he stopped just to look at a point in the void, as if he had seen a memory pass by.
At the fork in the road to Saltria we decided without deciding. We continued. The path became narrower, the grass taller. A stream cut across the road and he, without thinking, waded in up to his knees. The water was freezing. He shook himself next to me with surgical precision, soaking me to the waist. I laughed. He didn't. But you could tell he was happy.
Soon we found an old wooden watering trough. He drank for a long time, then lay down under the tub. His front paws stretched out, his muzzle on the cool gravel. He looked up, where the wind moved the clouds slowly. I wondered if he, in his own way, was understanding how beautiful it all was.
The last part of the walk was slower. Not because of tiredness, but by instinct. When a day is beautiful, you don't want to end it quickly. We passed in front of the small church of San Francesco: a rectangle of light wood, sober, placed there like a kind thought. We stopped. Not to pray. Just to be.
We finally sat down on the grass, directionless. The dog curled up next to me, his head resting on a root, his belly pointing to the sky. He had that look of someone who is just tired enough. I took out a thermos coffee and it seemed like the best in the world. There were no words to say. Only to stay.
And while the first clouds were swelling above the Odle, I thought that perhaps the meaning of certain journeys is not where you go. But who watches you go, and walks beside you.
