DOWN IN ITALY

It all started, as many good ideas do, with a simple plan: five days, a night train, a pair of skis, and the urge to head in a different direction. Just moving, without obsessing over perfect conditions or waiting for the next storm cycle.

From Vienna to Rome, the journey began with the slightly surreal comfort of a night train. The four of us — skis on our backs and expectations still high — squeezed into narrow compartments, closer to tight bivouacs than real beds. The kebab, eaten properly sitting in the corridor, was already cold, but the atmosphere between us kept us warm. The steady rhythm of the train lulled us into something that could hardly be called sleep — more like a thirteen‑hour pause, broken by sudden jolts, station lights, and smells drifting in through the windows.

Rome welcomed us exactly as we expected: noise, history, and that feeling that every step was leading us into something bigger than ourselves. We wandered without a real plan, letting the city reveal itself between coffee, monuments, and crowds. For a moment, we left the skis aside for culture — something quite rare for people like us.

But the mountains were calling.

The drive toward Abruzzo was surprisingly short. And yet, as we got closer to the massif, a subtle disappointment started to creep in. The mountains were there — wild, open, beautiful — but something was missing. Snow.

Not completely gone, but scattered, wind‑blown, fragile. We made things worse when, almost automatically, we made the mistake of checking our phones. Videos from the Alps: deep snow, storms rolling in. Real winter. That’s when the familiar inner dialogue began — the one about enjoying the trip for what it is, without comparing ourselves to others.

The first day in the mountains was more about persistence than skiing. Starting from a deserted parking lot at the base of an abandoned ski lift, we followed the only strip of snow cutting through the grass. The wind was violent — at times uncontrollable — forcing us to move on all fours, skis on our backs, just to keep going.

Crossing the pass felt more like a small victory than just another step. On the other side, a wide, silent valley opened up, almost unreal. An old ski resort stood there, forgotten. The snow was scarce, but strangely, it was enough.

As the light began to fade, everything changed. A break in the clouds revealed the surrounding peaks, and for a moment the whole massif seemed to breathe. We finished the day skiing by headlamp on hard, icy slopes.

 

The next day, we raised the bar.

Gran Sasso — the highest peak — had been in our minds from the beginning. The forecast? Good. Reality? Not quite.

The mountain stood closed off, shaped by wind and snow. Getting closer felt like entering something austere. Hard snow, technical sections, and a summit that seemed to drift further away the more we approached. At some point, we stopped pushing.

We took shelter in a small café at the base of what felt like a forgotten ski resort. Three slopes, half snow and half grass. A place frozen in another time. We laughed about it, almost in disbelief — and over a hot chocolate, something shifted again: the way we looked at things.

Maybe reaching the top of Gran Sasso wasn’t that necessary after all.

 

So we aimed for a smaller summit. Not iconic, but reachable. From the top, the view opened up: mountains, sea, Rome — all so close. Closer than it seemed possible.

The descent required care. First use of crampons and ice axes, because on certain icy slopes, skis were no longer enough. Clouds started to close in, almost impatient, as if reminding us that our time was running out.

 

For the last day, we moved further south, toward the Majella.

Already in the village, something felt different. Snow! A simple sign, but enough. We found shelter in a stone house and were welcomed with an authentic, almost familiar warmth.

This time, we weren’t alone. Cars in the parking lot, snow along the road. For the first time on this trip, it really felt like winter.

The climb was direct, without compromise: 1,500 meters of elevation gain, getting steeper as we went. During the ascent, we met the Carabinieri, training in the area. We stopped, talked, exchanged impressions. They explained how the snow here is influenced by both Mediterranean and Adriatic winds, creating unique conditions.

Suddenly, everything made more sense.

 

Reaching the summit of Monte Amaro was a quiet but full experience.
The summit cross was covered in a thick layer of ice shaped by the wind — something almost unreal. A hug, a still moment — and then the descent. The snow, finally softened by the sun, gave us what we had been missing all along: flow. Not perfect, not deep — but skiable and fun. A final gift.

 

A few hours later we were back in Rome. One last pizza at the station, and then back on the train, in the same narrow bunks.

Tired, satisfied, and already thinking about the next trip.

 

 ✒️ 📸 Philipp Reiter