On foot among wise elders and green heroes
There is a path I love to follow in summer so that I can look at the plants when they are thriving. I can walk the same trail a thousand times and always catch a glimpse of something new. Walking close to the trees is harvesting good air. In the small municipality of Erto e Casso, one of the towns in the Friulian Dolomites, which is known for its tragic and painful history, there is a road that is conveniently called “beyond the lake”. Leaving the main route, it is possible to circle what is left of Lake Vajont. It is a one-lane carriageway that narrows in places, and there are several short, unlit tunnels. “The road of the trees” starts from the convenient square towards the dam, where I park my car, and so avoid the state road. I continue on foot with my headlamp in tow, a snack, some water, and a camera. We are in the mountains, and every outing, even the simplest, must be carefully organised. During the journey, I take the time to observe, to have access to Nature with the slow rhythms that she likes so much. I carve out a moment for a silent walk. I visit the trees. I have always done this since I was a child. I used to take them as points of reference. Erri de Luca also writes this in a beautiful story called “Visit a tree”. Looking at them, I invent their stories. They wrap me in magic: I imagine them to be guardians, wise old men, explorers, and curious. The forest bordering the Vajont landslide is a forest standing at attention. There are several trees, even shaggy ones, hugging each other very tightly. As I walk, I let myself be carried away by the melancholy that this path at first enters my heart, making me reflect once again on the terrible tragedy of 1963. A Scots pine, its branches and trunk not very straight, stands out on the right and I am comforted. As if saying “ let’s resist”. I then walk with a firmer step. I walk along the stretch of road that gradually gives way to the panorama. But as I gaze at the horizon, lost in my thoughts, a tall, solitary tree appears at the rockfall barrier that protects the main road in the distance. So tall that it seems to surpass the mountains around it. I greet him with a nod. By now my pace has picked up. I arrive at the end of the Vajont landslide and cast my gaze around, I watch the mountains narrow where the new Cerentón Bridge now stands.
I know this road well. I know that I will now meet a long birch tree on the left, just before a grated wall. In the dialect of Erto, a birch tree is called Brédol. I recognise it by its classic pale cloak. It looks like a sentinel and I get the impression that it is skilled at keeping secrets. I trust it with one of mine and move forward. I soon reach the point where a new road begins, it is a forest track, the one that climbs up to the Mesazzo Valley. I sit and listen to the forest. The many natural sounds soothe my mind. Here there are two guardian trees. They are very big and I can see them clearly. They seem to quarrel with one another because they are not the same. They each have their own point of view. They feel like protectors of the mountain. They both have few branches pointing downwards, they are all concentrated at the top. They push them up to catch the light and overtake all the other trees. When the first inhabited house appears, I wave goodbye and keep going. I have arrived in the hamlet of Pinéda. There is time to stop for something to eat and a sip of water. Just after the bend, there are more houses. An immense walnut tree lives here. Its branches seem to wrap around the sky. In front of him, an elegant evergreen stands guard over the valley and a restored house. But the most curious tree is yet to come: it is an unusual silver fir. After the first tunnel, at the end of the bridge, on the right, it clings to the rock, hovering over the void. I shift my gaze to the imposing Mesazzo Valley and witness Nature’s cunning creativity. The silver fir (Avedìn in the local dialect of Erto) does not like to be bothered. Even a photo is always frowned upon. I leave it alone and continue. But there is another guardian of the water a little further on, after the second tunnel: it is a tree that seems to spring from the stream itself. The stream moves and rumbles. Nature’s footsteps unceasingly envelop every stretch of the “ road of the trees”. It is only a short time before the great wise men are reunited: at Prada, a large meadow unfolds and there is a clearing near a hay barn. The old wise men argue animatedly. The wind rustles them happily. They tell each other old stories and help each other. Branches and roots are shared. They attract birds and serve as dens for insects, and also as a passageway for other wild animals. I stay, read the page of a book and then retrace my steps. I go back and try to catch a glimpse of those trees that were hidden on the way up. Erri De Luca’s words come back to mind: «In the mountains there are hero trees, planted above the void, medals hanging over the precipices. I climb up every summer to visit one of them. Before I leave I mount his arm over the void. My bare feet are tickled by the open air towering hundreds of metres into the air. I embrace him and I thank him for his endurance».