Hiking in the Dolomites

I’ve been hiking since I was a kid, we didn’t call it hiking back there, we called it “subir el cerro” (climb the hill), We used to vanish into the backcountry like it was Narnia, just snacks and sibling squabbles, Sometimes we’d tag along on my dad’s fishing expeditions (read: us fighting with wood sticks while he tried to catch dinner), or we’ll go alone pretending to be explorers. We would do day trips, or camp. Sleeping on tents (that may or may not have been waterproof) or truck beds, or other questionable places. I bet at the time it was 30% fun, 70% mosquito bites and questionable food… but somehow my memory insists it was 100% epic.  I even managed to lure some of my city friends into some camping trips while I was in college.

Then came grad school, work and a partner that wasn’t much into the outdoors, so I didn’t do much of that for a big while. Fast forward to post-divorce and a friend roped me into Utah adventure. We did some day hikes in Arches, Canyonland and Capitol Reef. It was glorious. I’d forgotten how much joy lives in sore calves, sunburnt noses, and eating a slightly squished sandwich while sitting on a rock that may or may not be older than dinosaurs.

Since then, hiking has become my vacation sidekick. Whether I’m solo, with friends, or dragging family members who didn’t read the fine print (“moderate incline” is a lie), I squeeze in a trail or two. Naturally, the next logical step was a multiday hike—because why not add blisters to the mix?

Since I was going solo, I got seduced by the European version of “roughing it”: mountain hut hikes. You walk all day, then roll into a cozy lodge where someone hands you wine and a hot meal, and you don’t have to carry a tent, a stove, or your dignity. It’s like backpacking, but with a concierge.

One night, while deep in an Instagram scroll spiral (you know the one), I stumbled on photos of the Dolomites looking like they were photoshopped by a very enthusiastic mountain goat. I blinked twice, zoomed in, and thought, “Yeah, I could totally do that.” And just like that, I was emotionally committed to hiking across Italy with a backpack, a dream, and a very questionable sense of altitude awareness.

I planned this vacation almost a year in advance, back when I was still a responsible adult with a job and a calendar. Little did I know that a few months later I’d be quitting said job and entering my “Eat, Pray, Hike” era.

Because I was still working (read: drowning in meetings and pretending to understand spreadsheets), I had zero bandwidth to research trail routes or decode the ancient art of Rifugio booking. I mean, who has time to figure out which mountain hut serves polenta, and which one makes you sleep next to a goat?

So, I outsourced my logistics to a tour company called Alpenventure Unguided—which is basically the hiking version of “choose your own adventure, but with backup.” They hand you a map, book your huts, and say “Good luck out there!” It’s like being gently shoved into the wilderness with a safety net.

I picked a 5-day, 4-night route because doing the entire Alta Via 1 right out of the gate felt like a fast track to crying on a rock. I mean, I love a challenge, but I also love having knees.

I knew this wasn’t going to be a walk in the alpine park. I was genuinely nervous it might be too much, especially with the whole “you must arrive at the hut by a certain time or sleep with the marmots” situation. And let’s just say I hike downhill with the grace and speed of a cautious sloth on roller skates.

I took this hike seriously. I trained. I gym’d. I walked as much as I could, even if it meant dragging myself onto a treadmill in the frozen tundra of Indiana, which I loathe with the fire of a thousand suns. Elevation training in Indiana is… optimistic. But I did find some surprisingly decent trails at Turkey Run State Park, which I hit a few times.

Still, I knew it wasn’t enough. So I booked a spring training trip to Colorado, aiming for high-altitude hikes in Breckenridge. What I didn’t do was check the snow report. Turns out, in May, Breckenridge is still basically Narnia. Most trails were either closed or required snowshoes, skis, or a strong will to survive.

Nevertheless, I persisted. I found a couple of open trails and knocked out two 8-mile hikes. I was still working at the time, so weekends were my big hike days. On weekdays, I squeezed in two miles after work, thanks to the time difference—except for the days when a snowstorm said, “Nope.”

What I’m trying to say is: I was committed. I trained. I planned. I froze my butt off. I did everything short of hiring a sherpa to make sure I didn’t end up crying into my trail mix halfway through the Dolomites. But I can say now, the Dolomites are a different beast. At least they were for me. Stunning, humbling, and just the right mix of “wow” and “ow.” Every switchback felt like a personal challenge from Mother Nature.

To get to Belluno, the launchpad for my Dolomites adventure, I flew from London to Venice, which greeted me with sunshine and vibes. I thought, “Wow, this trip is off to a cinematic start.” Cut to: me on a train to Belluno, watching the weather do a full mood swing. By the time I arrived, it was raining sideways and my backpack was crying.

I had a six-minute walk to my hotel. I arrived at Suite Hotel Astor looking like a drowned squirrel. It was not cheap, but very nice—and it came with breakfast, which is non-negotiable when you’re about to hike for five days and pretend trail mix is a food group. The breakfast? Surprisingly solid. I may or may not have pocketed an extra croissant for emotional support.

The bus from Belluno to Palafavera runs about as often as a solar eclipse. There was one at 7 a.m. that would’ve dropped me 2 km short of the trailhead—tempting, but also a little too “character-building” for my taste. The next one was at 9:30 a.m., arriving fashionably late at 11 a.m., which felt more my speed.

Now, I did consider the 7 a.m. option, but here’s the thing: I had zero snack supplies. And starting a multiday hike without snacks? That’s how documentaries begin. The stores didn’t open until 8 a.m. (because I arrived on a Sunday, I couldn’t buy anything then either), so I made the executive decision to wait for the later bus. I was not about to hit the trail fueled only by vibes and desperation. Hydration and carbs are non-negotiable.

I hit the trailhead a little past 11 a.m., feeling fresh and optimistic. The hike to Rifugio Coldai started off like a dream: a gentle gravel path, birds chirping, legs cooperating. I thought, “Wow, I’m basically a mountain gazelle.” That illusion lasted about halfway—then the trail got rocky, steeper, and suddenly I was a sweaty photojournalist fighting for breath and stopping every five feet for “just one more” picture. The scenery was so stunning I forgave the trail for trying to murder my thighs.

I reached Rifugio Coldai in decent shape, still riding the high of trail mix and delusion. But then I checked the time—almost 3 p.m.—and realized I had just over 3 hours to get to Rifugio Tissi. Cue mild panic. I’m a slow hiker, especially downhill, where I descend like a cautious grandma with trust issues. So I inhaled a snack like it was a power-up and started moving.

I tried to go fast. I really did. But the downhills were steep and slippery, and I prefer arriving alive over arriving early. The rain joined the party, just to keep things spicy. I didn’t stop for photos or water as much as I wanted to, but I kept a steady pace, channeling my inner tortoise.

Eventually, I spotted Rifugio Tissi in the distance—yay! Except… it was uphill. Like, aggressively uphill. I swear I walked toward it for 30 minutes and it never got closer. Just a cruel mirage in hiking boots. By then I was tired, damp, and mildly cranky, but I made it. Closer to 7 p.m. than 6, but still “on time” by hut standards.

I dropped my stuff in the shared dorm, skipped the small talk, and beelined to dinner. The pasta tasted like victory. They had Coke Zero, which instantly restored my will to live. After dinner, I showered, climbed into my upper bunk like a clumsy ninja, and passed out around 9 p.m.

Normally I get cramps in my calves and feet, but this time my quads decided to join the party. That was new. Still, I managed to sleep like a rock, just one with sore thighs.

The next morning, I woke up a little sore but shockingly functional—like my legs had filed a complaint but HR hadn’t processed it yet. I had breakfast, packed up, and hit the trail around 8 a.m. In hindsight, I should’ve left earlier, but my distracted self lingered like a tourist in a gift shop. I even paused to watch a helicopter doing something dramatic—either rescuing someone or delivering cheese. Hard to tell.

It was still raining (because of course it was), and my next target was Rifugio Vazzoler. The trail signs pointed one way, but my GPS map from the tour company had other ideas. So I did a few scenic loops—up, down, sideways—like I was auditioning for a mountain-themed musical. Eventually, I gave up on the GPS and followed the signs like a rebellious teenager ignoring Google Maps. Which was frankly tiresome and little stressful.

The trail was allegedly “easy,” which in Dolomites-speak means “not vertical.” It had no major elevation, just a steep descent on gravel that felt like nature’s version of a slip-n-slide. I made it to Rifugio Vazzoler by noon, which sounds fine until you realize that the guide said it should have taken 1 hour and 45 minutes. I was expecting to do it in 3 hours. It actually took me 4. Math was not mathing.

That meant the next section—marked “difficult” and estimated at 4 hours—would probably take me 10. I did the mental math and realized I’d arrive at midnight, so I called my tour operator, who basically said, “Yeah… not a lot of options.” The best bet was to see if Rifugio Vazzoler had a bed. I’d have to pay out of pocket, which was fine. At that point, a was a little deflated.

Luckily, they had space in the outdoor dorm. Translation: no heating, more rustic, and slightly haunted by the ghosts of hikers who didn’t stretch. But I got a bottom bunk in the bunker, which felt like winning the lottery to me. I rested early, snacked like a champion, and waited for my tour operator to work their magic.

They managed to move my next hut reservation to the following day, but unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t finish the full hike in two days. I’d have to exit the trail on Day 4. At the time, it felt like a tiny failure. But honestly, anything else would’ve been borderline unhinged. And while I’m known for being “creatively chaotic,” this time I sided with caution—and my knees thanked me.

This time, I was early for dinner like a responsible hiker who hadn’t just wrestled with trail signs and existential dread. At the mountain huts, they assigned you a table with fellow hikers, basically a support group with soup. I ended up with a lovely couple from Australia who were cheerful and chatty. Honestly, they lifted my spirits more than my compression leggings.

Then came dinner: a glorious three-course meal that felt like a Michelin-star hug. And the dessert? Panna cotta. Actual soul medicine. I don’t know what magic they put in that wobbly little masterpiece, but I swear it healed something deep in my hiker heart. By the time I scraped the last spoonful, I was reborn. Slightly sore, slightly damp, but spiritually restored by sugar and strangers.

Then I headed to the outdoor hut, which started off feeling like a private mountain retreat—just me, my backpack, and my questionable life choices. I was the first one there in the afternoon, living my solo hiker fantasy. But by bedtime, there were at least eight of us crammed in like trail-seasoned sardines. I think the place could fit twelve, but that’s assuming everyone’s okay with zero personal space and a symphony of snoring.

It was cozy. I slept in my down jacket like a burrito with trust issues. At some point in the night, I even got hot—which is suspicious behavior for me. Not sure if it was the jacket or perimenopause making a guest appearance. Either way, I woke up surprisingly well-rested, ankle feeling better after its dramatic twist the day before. It had been sore, but apparently it forgave me overnight.

By 6:30 a.m., I was packed and ready to roll. I waited for breakfast (because hiking without carbs is a crime) and I was out the door by 7 a.m., determined to conquer what was labeled a “difficult” section of the trail. I wanted all the time I could get, because as I mentioned, I hike like a cautious turtle with a camera addiction.

This section had everything: streaming water, rocky paths, scrambles, forests, meadows, and a sprinkle of existential dread. The guide said it was 8.7 km, but my Apple Watch clocked more like 12, probably because it counts all the frantic zigzags you do while trying to figure out where the heck the trail actually is. GPS says left, intuition says right, and your soul says “nap.”

Most of the route was well-marked, but “well-marked” in mountain terms still means you occasionally feel like you’re ascending into another dimension. There were scrambles where I genuinely questioned what counted as a trail. At one point, I had to take off my backpack, yeet it over a rock ledge, and then climb up like a determined raccoon. I didn’t trust the backpack not to drag me down like a clingy ex.

It was a hard hike. Just when I thought the worst was behind me and the trail got easier, I turned a corner and saw the next section going straight up. I stared at it like it had personally betrayed me. I considered my options: cry, fake an injury, or keep walking and hope for a miracle. I chose “keep walking,” because apparently I’m stubborn and mildly delusional.

Once I got there, it was steep but doable. I powered through, then the trail mellowed into a meadow—still with ups and downs, but the kind that don’t make you question your life choices. Then, surprise! More rocks. More uphill. The Dolomites really said, “You thought we were done? Cute.”

Finally, around 5 p.m., I reached the rifugio. Ten hours of hiking, and honestly, good call not attempting this the day before unless I wanted to sleep under a rock and cry into my granola bar. The best part? I actually got to enjoy the trail. Well, as much as one can enjoy something while mildly suffering. I took photos, had water breaks, and even paused to admire the views without sobbing.

And I made it to the rifugio at a decent hour, showered before dinner, and didn’t have to eat pasta while smelling like despair. All in all? Felt like a win.

Dinner was, once again, a spiritual experience. Honestly, if food doesn’t heal your soul, we probably can’t be friends. I sat down with a lovely group of Australians I’d crossed paths with earlier on the trail. They were a bit older than me, yet somehow hiking like caffeinated mountain goats while I was back there negotiating with my knees. I had a brief moment of existential crisis—how were they faster than me? Should I be ashamed? Should I fake a twisted ankle for dignity?

But instead of spiraling, I reframed: they’re still out here crushing trails, which means I’ve got decades of hiking ahead of me—just at my own majestic tortoise pace.

Also at dinner: the young Irish girl who, earlier on the trail, had confidently told me “the rifugio is just around the corner.” Spoiler: it was not around the corner. It was around three false summits, two emotional breakdowns, and a goat sighting. So when I saw her, I smiled sweetly and said, “You lied to me.” It was cathartic. She laughed, apologized, and turned out to be absolutely lovely. No hard feelings—just trail justice.

The next day was a gentle hike down to Passo Duran—finally, a trail that didn’t feel like it was trying to kill me. I exited the trail and enjoyed a cappuccino at the rifugio. Then I waited for my taxi to Belluno like a very tired, very caffeinated forest goblin reentering civilization.

Plot twist: the hotel I’d originally booked for after the hike didn’t have availability for this night. Apparently, they didn’t get the memo about my heroic early exit. So I ended up at a cheaper hotel, which was… fine. Let’s just say it had “character,” and by character, I mean questionable lighting and a pillow that felt like a folded towel.

I took a little lap around Belluno, grabbed something to eat, and went on a noble quest for gelato—because I deserved it. But alas, the gelateria was closed. Closed. I stared at the darkened storefront like it had personally betrayed me. So I sulked back to the hotel, emotionally wounded but physically intact, and called it a night.

The next day, I packed up my stuff, dropped it off at the other hotel (the nicer one), and headed to Cortina d’Ampezzo for a bonus round of Dolomites magic. It’s one of the main towns in the mountain range, so obviously I had to go see what the hype was about.

Now, the bus route to Cortina is not exactly efficient. It’s like the scenic version of “Are we there yet?”—two and a half hours of twisty mountain roads and questionable Wi-Fi, instead of the breezy one-and-a-half-hour drive if you had a car and a reckless spirit.

I arrived just past noon and took a stroll around town. Cortina is adorable—like an alpine Hallmark movie set, but with designer sunglasses and hiking poles. Fancy boutiques, outdoorsy gear shops, and buildings that scream “I own a fondue set.”

I found a German restaurant that hit the spot—schnitzel therapy is real. After lunch, I wandered into the Museo Paleontologico "Rinaldo Zardini," which was surprisingly fascinating. Turns out the Dolomites used to be the bottom of the sea. Mind blown. There were marine fossils everywhere, which made me question everything I thought I knew about mountains and seafood.

Then I popped into the Museo Etnografico Regole d'Ampezzo, which dives into the region’s history. Very educational. Very “I’m a cultured hiker now.”

After that, I strolled through town again and finally got my gelato redemption. Sweet, creamy justice. I considered browsing the outdoorsy stores, but they were closed until 4 p.m., which was honestly a blessing. I didn’t need another overpriced fleece or a backpack that whispers “buy me.” And by the time they reopened, I had to catch the bus back to Belluno if I wanted to return at a decent hour and not become a mountain-themed bedtime story.

It wasn’t the adventure I planned, dreamed of, or saw in those suspiciously glamorous Instagram reels—but it was mine. Chaotic, soggy, scenic, and occasionally powered by Coke Zero and spite. And you know what? I truly enjoyed it. Not every moment—some were sponsored by blisters and trail confusion—but most of it felt like a win.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Just with one small adjustment: no more than 10 km a day. I’m here for the views, not an audition for a mountain ultramarathon. Let’s keep the drama in the scenery, not in my knees.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYWslLREtUg