You don’t need to be an Olympic athlete or a mountaineer to hike among some of the tallest peaks in the northern Alps. But advance training helps. So, what’s hiking in the Dolomites really like for us mere mortals?
I’m glad you asked.
‘What are you doing?’ My husband calls out against the wind.
The sun is directly overhead. I squint and look up. We’re in the Italian Alps, hiking a narrow ridge between two steep valleys. Daniel is ahead of me, or more precisely, 100 feet above me. Another gust knocks me slightly off balance, and I nearly drop my phone.
Once my equilibrium is restored, I call back, ‘Wait up! I’m writing a haiku!’
I can’t make out his response, but his expression is easy to read: total bewilderment.
Inspired by my mind’s inner chant—step after step after step—my haiku is a welcome replacement for Noah Kahan’s Stick Season, an earworm I can’t manage to shake. Step after step is not metaphorical. It’s the only way I’ll make it up this mountain.
I slide the phone into my backpack and take another step.
The Dolomites are a Walk in the Park
My husband usually plans our vigorous, rigorous, and risky trips. But with the Dolomites, I’m driving the adventure bus. When I proposed a hut-to-hut hike, he said yes before I got to the second ‘hut.’ That I failed to mention adding one of my wish-list hotels as a reward for all that vigor, rigor, and risk was intentional. You don’t get to twenty-five years of marriage without learning a thing or two about timing.
Daniel comes up with a six-month training schedule which includes day hikes, interval training, and weights. The Dolomites are no walk in the park. Well, technically they are. Some of our hiking will take place in Puez-Odle Nature Park, an area whose geological history spans millions of years, where peaks resemble craggy, ancient stone spires rising into the sky.
I’ll need to summon as much mental strength as physical strength. The Dolomites are intimidating. I can’t fathom facing the Val Gardena ranges we are destined to climb. Sassolungo and the Odles are no joke. I wonder if I’ve driven the adventure bus a little too far.
As a hiker, Daniel has a few advantages. He’s more experienced. He’s less risk-averse. And he doesn’t mind being cold, wet, or challenged. One of us was born for this kind of trip. The other is having buyer’s remorse.
Six months later, we board Air Canada flight 894 from Montreal to Milan.
Austria, Italy, The Alps… Where am I?
The Dolomites conjure up images of towering granite, saw-toothed pinnacles, and long ridges with deep, sloping saddles. I could picture these impressive mountains, but I admit, I didn’t even know exactly where they were.
Thankfully, I own an atlas.
After some research, I discovered the Dolomites are a region in Italy’s northern Alps influenced by Austrian, Italian, and Ladin (the area’s local language). The Dolomites cover over 500 square miles and include 18 peaks, some reaching nearly 10,000 ft. In 2009, UNESCO added the Dolomites to its World Heritage List.
Geographically satisfied, I close the book.
We touch down in Milan, the most direct route to the alpine valley called Val Gardena. And by direct, I mean a taxi, two trains, and an hour-long drive to Selva, the picturesque mountain town where our expedition begins.
Good Morning, Selva
From our hotel room’s balcony in Selva, an intimate village perched at 5,000 feet, I watch the morning sun spill across the Sella Massif. I’ve seen plenty of epic mountains, but this range is something else entirely. I’m awestruck. Sella alone makes it tempting to forget the hiking part altogether. But I know this view is only the beginning.
I grab an energy bar, gather up my motivation, and head to the hotel lobby.
Over a trio of double espressos, our Italian guide Marta outlines the itinerary. It’s surprisingly basic: four to six hours of hiking each day, moving from hut to hut. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what four to six hours of hiking would feel like.
I know now.
It was like hopping on a StairMaster at breakfast and climbing until lunch. But with better views.
It turns out the best motivation for hiking in the Dolomites is the Dolomites. Each foot of elevation gained brought me one step closer to the next view. And there was always a view worth chasing. One day, we cross a mossy forest floor and head towards the craggy flanks of Forcella San Silvestro.
Another day, we see snow-dusted Marmolada, the Dolomites’ highest peak, shimmering in the distance. By default, switchbacks become my best friends. The alternative is a straight-up climb. On the ascents, I can’t wait to descend. On the descents, I’m desperate to go up.
This trip was my idea. I make peace with the steps.
To Share or Not to Share: Rifugio Nights
I don’t remember why I wanted to do a hut-to-hut hike.
Luckily, the me who organized this trip realized that hiking with Daniel for more than four days could impact our marriage. That me also had the foresight to plan three days of recovery at FORESTIS, a property I’ve coveted for years.
In northern Italy, mountain huts are called rifugios. Originally built to support shepherds and early mountaineers, the rifugio system dates back over 100 years. Today, these alpine guesthouses serve as stopovers for hikers, climbers, and skiers. Simple and basic, rifugios offer beds, showers, and hearty fare like goulash and bread dumplings. Their convivial atmospheres feel like après-ski year-round.
But the views? They’re all-encompassing—like living inside a postcard.
Some rifugios have private rooms with en suite bathrooms. Others offer shared bunk rooms with shared bathrooms. Most have a combination of both. Shared accommodations are much less expensive, but I’d rather have Stick Season stuck in my head for life than share a bathroom with strangers.
Architecturally, rifugios look like oversized cuckoo clocks, with alpine flowers cascading from window boxes, beer on tap, and views so mesmerizing they can make a grown man cry. I did, in fact, see a Dutch man cry, and not because he had to share a bathroom.
We practice good hutiquette, the rules for polite behavior in shared hiking accommodations. This unwritten social code includes pleasantries like trading muddy boots for indoor slippers, keeping noise to a minimum, and leaving things as you found them.
Hmm, hutiquette rules sound just like my rules.
What’s the Rush?
Our only goal each day is to arrive at our overnight rifugio by dinner. This is an unusual phenomenon for us: hiking without rushing. This means I can take breaks without disguising them as photo ops or watch grazing sheep without watching the clock.
Breaks are necessary. Even Daniel would agree. Most of our hikes start around 5000 ft and climb several thousand more. The highest mountain I trained on stood at 4000 ft. Had I known this little tidbit sooner, I might not have boarded the plane.
We carry daypacks with water, a few snacks, and rain gear in case the weather turns. The rest of our gear is in a small duffel bag that magically arrives at the rifugio each night. We hike from breakfast to coffee, coffee to lunch, and lunch to an afternoon beer. Rifugios seem to pop up exactly where we need them.
It’s bliss.
Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I want to throw Daniel off a cliff. Sometimes he’s so far ahead of me I wonder if he’s trying to lose me. Alpine divorce is trending. But I have a witness. If Daniel had planned to abandon me at 8000 ft, I knew Marta could get me home.
Transhumance: An Alpine Circus
Having a private guide takes the guesswork out of our hikes. We don’t need to chart our routes, calculate the distances between rifugios, or understand Ladin. This follow-the-leader approach lets me focus on nature’s details: like the twisted trunk of an emerald pine, the sapphire-blue trumpet of a late-blooming gentian, or the peeling bark of a silver birch.
If I’d thought hiking was just about the views, I was mistaken. The Dolomites aren’t about any one thing; they’re about the confluence of everything. Dense forest and rolling pastoral farmlands. Scree-covered ravines and open, exposed rock. Meadows filled with donkeys, cows, alpacas, and the occasional deer. The chirps, tweets, and whistles of nutcrackers, tits, and eagles.
One day, while crossing the saddle between two peaks, I notice a large shadow sweep across the cliffs. Looking up, I spot a group of paragliders riding the currents above the famed Odles peaks. In Ladin, Odles means needles, an apt description of the chiseled spires the gliders delicately thread.
Later, over lunch at a mountaintop rifugio, we see hundreds of sheep being driven down the steep, narrow, scree-filled trail we’ve just climbed. Marta tells us this is transhumance, an annual migration that moves thousands of reluctant sheep through the Alps to their winter pastures.
The shepherd leads the flock with his long wooden crook. Behind him, hundreds of sheep follow, bleating and baaaa-ing as they scramble down the trail, the bells around their woolly necks clanging across the valley.
It’s like stumbling upon an alpine circus.
Going Nowhere Fast, at FORESTIS
While hiking, I clock over 20,000 steps a day. At FORESTIS, I’m lucky to surpass 200. This is part of my brilliant plan. After days of vigor, rigor, and risk, I’ve earned the right to do nothing. At FORESTIS, nothing means lounging by the pool with a glass of wine, gazing at the mountains, and getting a massage.
FORESTIS is perched nearly 6,000 feet up the slopes of Mount Plose, above the artisan town of Bressanone. I could list everything to do in the area, but once at the hotel, the idea of leaving seems absurd.
Built with the Odles mountain range in mind, there’s virtually no place on the property from which they can’t be seen. From the cavernous panoramic, glass-paneled dining room to the Tower Suites’ floor-to-ceiling windows, the pool, and the veranda, every sofa, chair, and king-sized bed is positioned to face them.
Natural elements weave through every aspect of FORESTIS, from earth-toned furniture and linen fabrics to wood-paneled interiors. The spaces are deceptively simple and meticulously curated. In our suite, the windows frame the Odles like a postcard, and I spend a lot of time on the balcony, attempting to read.
FORESTIS is Quiet Luxury at its Quietest
The views at FORESTIS are so compelling that it’s easy to forget how much else the hotel offers—an indoor-outdoor pool, a 21,000 sq. ft. wellness center, three restaurants (one in a secret location), a bar, lounge, silent room, complimentary bicycles, and access to numerous hiking trails.
I notice there is no artwork—not in the lobby, the lounge, the rooms, or the restaurants. This feels intentional. And although I have no proof, I suspect the architects decided the Odles were the only art worth displaying.
Or maybe they spent their entire design budget on windows.
Artwork isn’t necessary, and not only because of the surroundings. Everything at FORESTIS is art. Breakfast is one example. I can’t bring myself to call it a buffet; the food is displayed like it’s the latest exhibition in a SoHo gallery. Matte-finished ceramic bowls hold homemade muesli or heaps of ripe fruit. Liquid gold slowly drips from raw honeycomb. There’s an array of artisan breads, six varieties of apple juice, and five types of butter. A dedicated juice room invites you to create a signature smoothie.
The Panoramic dining room is a study in white and wood. Designed like a stepped amphitheater with semicircular banquettes, no guest has to have their back to the view.
We are seated at the same table for each meal. A tabletop placard says ‘Edwards’, just in case we get lost. I spot a small ‘E’ penciled at the bottom right of the card and realize it stands for English. FORESTIS draws guests from around the world, and the servers are matched accordingly.
The hotel staff are dressed head to toe in greige athleisure wear so comfy and cool I want to buy it. At FORESTIS, nothing and no one competes with the view.
The cuisine revolves (spoiler alert!) around the forest. Executive Chef Roland Lamprecht blends traditional and modern alpine cooking with foraged, organic, and often hyper-local ingredients, and the results are extraordinary. But perhaps the most extraordinary part of dining at FORESTIS comes from Mother Nature herself.
In the form of light.
Experiencing Enrosadira
The Dolomites may be about mountains and rock, rifugios and decadent hotels, but they’re unequivocally about light.
As the light shifts and clouds move across the sky, the mountains always reveal something spectacular. But nothing more spectacular than enrosadira: a mesmerizing phenomenon when the rising or setting sun bathes the peaks in vivid color—changing the mountains from gold to pink, then red to purple, before fading into twilight.
In Ladin, enrosadira translates to “turning pink.” The pale dolomite rock allows the peaks to absorb the sky’s palette. Whether on the wide-open patios of the rifugios or on the balconies of FORESTIS, just when you think the sky is refusing to cooperate, the ominous gray rock comes astonishingly alive with color.
It’s over in minutes.
Enrosadira. It can bring a Dutch man to tears.
How Hard is Hard?
When we get home (physically intact and still married), a friend asks, “Well… how hard was it?”
I shrug.
How can I answer? My version of hard is different from hers, from Daniel’s, and probably from yours. I thought it was hard. But how hard is hard?
“Can you ask me something else?”
She asks, “Will I love it?”
“Yes, you’ll love it!”
Even if your quads and calf muscles try to convince you otherwise. Even when 3,000 feet of vertical climb stand between you and a hot shower. And even when you want to throw your partner off a cliff.
Of this, I’m certain.
A Haiku, by Jamie Edwards
threading the needles
step after step after step —
always chasing views
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