Alpine Francesco De Bastiani, class of 1994, within the 7th Alpini Regiment, 66 Battalion "Feltre", one among many who lived in first person the 'epic' of Cauriol during the First World War. Among his memories, that leaves most upset, was the 'attack to conquer the summit, over one hundred men, only a dozen survived. Rather than by bullets, were killed by the shock of rocks thrown by the Austrians who were at the top. Given the nature of the land for those who went up there was no escape. Were saved only those who had the quickness to take refuge it under the rocks and wait for night to withdraw. Small incidents of fighting a senseless war of position that swept a generation of young people. Battles at enormous cost of human lives unnecessarily use to conquer a peak to lose you again tomorrow. With this and other memories of the grandfather of my wife I am going to climb. Meteorologists had predicted a sudden drop in temperatures at the beginning of September. In fact, the refuge Refavaie blows a cold wind chill. Date back along the forest path beside the bed of a stream flowing powerfully harnessed downstream, the higher you will soften in a thousand streams each revealing its own melody, its own character. The sky is clear, beyond the forest Senior fir, can be seen self-cones of the peaks that form the complex of the Cima d'Asta. A pasture ponds follow signs to the Cauriol. I climbed up a steep, hard (after all ... we are alpine) which persists to induce fatigue. From time to time traces can be seen as ruins of the church, the command of the battalion, the same track that stifle nell'oblioe nell'incuria time. Then suddenly, over the woods, I find myself under the steep slope toward the south. Date back hard, too, voted as the Alpine to the sacrifice and I identify with them in this environment for goats. Between landslides, sparse tracks passing through the remains of trenches, trenches, barracks, continuation unstoppable to the top, in a breathtaking scenery. Wide open spaces, blue skies, green valleys, silences accompanying each step. In an orchestra of top peaks seem to pose for my view. Traces of ice still persists in the cold night, the wind is easing in the hot sun, the stones seem to speak. People who stop coming down, you let yourself be enchanted by the place. After a break that allows me to focus on stories of a time I get off on the way past the Italian Small and Cauriol Sadole step, first corricchiando then travel back to the valley, while the clouds slowly take hold of heaven, a prelude to bad weather looming in the night will bring the first snow next september.
