Departure is perhaps the most tragic moment of any self-respecting journey. The most intense moment, more tense than a violin string, when you are preparing to leave and go towards? Who knows. You never know, and that’s terrible. The beginning of travel is almost worse than the end: when the journey is over, and we return home, tired and sad, we however have the (meager) consolation of carrying with us a nice baggage of memories, emotions and adventure.
But when you leave… there’s nothing. A sight unseen investment, without guarantee or right of return within 30 days like on Amazon. But perhaps it’s also that thrill of uncertainty that leads us motorcyclists to set off anyway. And this is how I set off on my journey, full of anxieties and fears, expectations and ideas. But without an itinerary. It’s better that way. Itineraries bind you, bind you, block you and force you to organize your day, marking it out for hours and kilometres, and take away a bit of poetry. I wanted freedom.
I had decided to go to explore the North West of ItalyPiedmont, and then to flow into France and go where my heart would take me. Or petrol, for that matter. As always, however, we must also deal with the reality of those who do not plan itineraries, and for this very reason, I immediately took the first step: Colle del NivoletGran Paradiso National Park, closed. You can only go up by shuttle. Damn famous and beautiful places and their breathtaking views.
Oh well, not bad. I continue, and head a little distraught towards what would have been my spot to camp for the night. To get there, however, the road took me towards Colle Sampeyre: I didn’t know it, and the hairpin bends that followed, immersed in the fog, didn’t promise anything good. For once, however, sensationally, a miracle happens: once you reach the top of the hill, the clouds open, and with them paradise. I find myself in front of a spectacle of steep and sharp mountains that outline the horizon, rising and falling, drawing irregular lines, covered with green meadows, under a sky painted by harmless clouds. I sharpen my sight, and I find a dirt road that deviates from the asphalt, who knows where it leads. It was 6pm, I still had maybe two hours of light, the temptation was great and in less than a minute I had already left.
What a road. Simply gorgeous. A dirt road of about 6km, which runs along the mountain and leads to Colle della Bicocca, offering breathtaking views, without putting you in danger, with a sun that was starting to lower and play with the shadows. If traveling without an itinerary means going to places like this, well, I’m selling the navigator. I was alone, and all the emotions I felt reverberated in me very powerfully, making me appreciate everything that surrounded me. I was where I needed to be. But not exactly, in fact I knew that an even more special place was waiting for me. I had found that place a year ago, one of those September evenings in which, without knowing what to do, I began to observe the mountains via satellite and came across a rather singular formation: The Fremo Conconnà.
I promised myself I would go there, alone, and sleep there. And between saying and doing… there were just 3km involved. I get back on the motorbike, and after a few minutes I arrive at my destination. I park the motorbike under a tree, and I head on foot (yes, on foot, for those 300 m which are inaccessible by motorbike) towards the rock. And here it is.. Everything was perfect. The right end to a day of travel, as it should be. Once my tent was pitched, I would eat something, and sleep, all alone, at over 1,800m above sea level, under the stars.