Picture a dewy morning in a campground surrounded by towering pines. Scattered spots of sunlight have escaped from the mist, but the rest of the forest is shrouded in the canyon’s shadow. The Maritime Alps tower overhead, squeezing this narrow river corridor so tightly that it seems an unlikely location for a town of 1,500. Of course, Limone Piemonte is a ski town. During the Middle Ages, this village was the destination of a “salt road” to transport maritime goods from the Ligurian Sea to Alpine settlements. The railroad arrived in 1891, connecting isolated farmers to the world. Skis came six years later, and snow sports have been the providence of Limone Piemonte ever since.
In the summer it’s a quiet place, with empty cobbled streets and stone buildings hiding the sleepy citizens at 9 a.m. You pack up your tent, which is as drenched as it might be if you had thrown it in the river, pack up your mud-caked bike, and pedal into town. At a grocery store, you buy cherries, prosciutto, and focaccia so fresh and hot that you want to scarf it right there but refrain from stealing your own lunch. You buy a glass bottle of mysterious orange liquid that turns out to be fresh peach juice, so sweet and concentrated that it tastes like a peach tree exploded in your mouth as you chug the bottle next to your bike.
You continue pedaling skyward on a smooth, narrow road. Up the col, up the col. It seems like this is your life now. If only this could be your life. Your friends left the campground at varying times and you figure it likely they all got ahead while you savored peach juice and focaccia (okay, you did take a few bites.) The road is switchback after switchback and each turn adds new layers to views. Soon you can see snow-capped summits that span the border of Italy and France.
At Colle di Tenda, your friends regroup and discuss the options. You can choose a quick, paved descent — no pedaling required — to the town where you plan to spend the night. Or, you can opt for the remnants of the medieval salt road, the Via del Salle — 22 miles of rugged 4x4 track that hugs a high ridge along the border. The limestone slopes are waterless, the drop-offs severe, and snow could still block the road. You won’t know if this route is crossable until you’re committed.
Still, the correct option is not a question for you, and you’re pleased when your friends agree.
First, you explore the ruins of a fort constructed along the border in the 1880s, when French-Italian relations were openly hostile. The forts are the reason these otherwise impractical mountain roads exist. Both are considered masterpieces of military engineering. The forts brought the train, the train brought the skis, the skis brought the tourists, and now the tourists seek out these military roads. Road maintenance continues by agreement between the two now-friendly countries.
So you turn onto the Salt Road, and it’s up the col, up the col, yet again. There are at least six cols along this road. Maybe seven? You lose count. Everything you can comprehend is contained within the crumbling texture of the road, the hairpin turns cut into dizzying cliffs, and the expansive scenery from which you can hardly look away.
At Col de la Perle, 2,086 meters, you straddle the border — feet in France, eyes on Italy. A cold wind blows and clouds begin to condense. Is a storm coming? How long will it take to escape this exposed ridge? A sign tells you the next shelter — Rifugio Don Barbera — is two hours away. It’s six miles, and that’s supposed to be walking time, but it’s probably not an inaccurate time for a slow mountain biker.
Thankfully, nothing comes of it. The clouds clear and you continue pedaling through a moonscape, all cliffs and chunk with tufts of pale tundra and occasional road markers to remind you that somewhere far below is a lush forest and civilization — so close, yet so far away.
As the afternoon grows concerningly late, you still can’t resist a snack break at Rifugio Don Barbara. Like the other rifugios you’ve visited during this mid-June ride, it seems like it’s still pre-season here. The building is empty as a brisk breeze blows down Colle dei Signori. Outside are two other guests, unladen mountain bikers who must be out for a day ride but seem oddly glum as they eat their enormous sandwiches in silence. Although you’re still full from your lunch of focaccia and cherries, you can’t resist the draw of a large baguette filled with tomatoes and cheese for six euros. You also score an afternoon pick-me-up. When you ask for an “Americano,” it seems the barista has interpreted your order as “These Americans want to take my exquisite espresso and water it down into a large bowl.”
The bowl of coffee was still pretty strong.
The road takes a sharp turn into France, where cliffs plunge to a steep valley below. It’s now 3 p.m., and you turned onto this road at 11:30 a.m. Those hiking signs haven’t been wrong. You’ve covered about 11 miles. But hey, the bike affords you extra time for all these photo stops, coffee-bowl breaks, hiking when you feel like looking around, and grinding when your blood is surging with caffeine. The bike is an optimal vehicle for Via del Sale. If you were riding in a Jeep, you’d probably faint from fear of exposure. The drop-offs don’t quit.
The cols don’t quit either. You climb and descend another before descending to lower altitudes in Italy, where you enter the Bosco delle Navette. The name of this forest derives from ancient times when the wood obtained here was used to construct boats and ships on the nearby Ligurian coast. It is a lush and beautiful forest, thick with larch and white fir. There are surprisingly few developments in the region. In most of Italy and France, any land that is farmable or grazeable is occupied, even high in the mountains. And yet the Bosco delle Navette feels like a true wilderness. It strikes you as odd when random large groups of hikers appear seemingly out of nowhere. You’ve been pedaling for hours through high-alpine desolation to reach this place. Where did these people come from?
The forest miles move fast and suddenly you’re another 10 miles down the road, climbing your last col of the day to the end of the Salt Road. At Passo Tanarello, you cross back into France, but not for good. There is still what your notes call a “rolling climb” that traces the watershed, which is also the border. From breaks in the forest canopy, you catch your first glimpse of the big blue horizon. After a week of building a life in these mountains, it’s strange to acknowledge that your path will abruptly end at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Stranger still that there’s only wilderness here. No farm buildings, no highways, no visible roads. Just the Ligurian Alps and a larch forest that after thousands of years of heavy use is still visually pristine.
Finally, you crest Passo di Collardente — is this col seven? 31? — and leave Italy behind for good. The French side of the road is extremely rough — a series of step-down slabs with “large gravel” (loose rocks) littering the surface when the road finally smooths out. Typically you are a timid descender, but after eight days of constant companionship, you feel at home on your bike. You let loose. Ker-clunk, skid, ker-clunk. Your long-suffering bike — lost in airport hell for days, dragged around in a case, haphazardly put together, and pedaled through mud and over rocks — cheerfully takes the abuse. Finally, we’re having some fun, says the mountain bike.
The road is so rough that Amber’s front rack breaks clean off her fork. You feel for your friend because you’ve had a rear rack fail on you on a rough road during a bikepacking trip and had to strap two panniers to your back, which was awful. Amber comes up with a workaround that includes loading her featherweight travel backpack, which even you — who prefers backpacks on bikepacking trips (easier to distribute weight, which makes the bike easier to push and carry) — can see isn’t comfortable. Amber takes it in stride. She’s a cheerful one, and strong — a perfect companion for an arduous bike trip.
Then it’s just down the col. Down and down and down. The air is drier here, the trees shrubby and the road dusty. You’ve crossed into a true Mediterranean climate in a day’s ride. The dampness of the morning is a distant memory — or it would be if you didn’t still have that soaked tent in your bag. Your breathing becomes raspy and you pull your buff over your face to block the dust. Fine particles paint your legs white. (Black tights. The coolness of the morning is also a distant memory, but you’re still wearing tights.)
You reach the idyllic village of La Brigue, which is in France. Danni asks, “When did we cross into France?” And you smile. “Many times.” There’s a nice campground at the edge of town. It’s packed with people and the owner wants to chat with you. He only speaks French, but your friends can parse out enough to realize he’s recommending a swim in the river, “which is too cold for the French but just right for Americans.” You guess the campground owner, too, has noticed the dust.
You go for dinner at the only restaurant in town, which you thought was a grocery store, but it’s a bar that serves a few variations of two food items. Those menu items are pizza and salad. Both are abundant and delicious. The server insists on serving the pizza first, which you find strange until you receive the enormous main course salad. You keep finding new ingredients the more you dig: Avocado, cherry tomatoes, passion fruit, buffalo mozzarella.
You lean back in your hard chair, stuffed. You’ve spent the day pedaling through a lunar landscape, a supposed limestone wilderness, gorging yourself on an overabundance of Alpine delicacies.
Such is a bike trip in the Alps — more incredible food and jaw-dropping scenery than you can digest in a lifetime, but you’ll continue to try, day after day.
Torino-Nice Rally, day eight
Limone Piemonte to La Brigue
49 miles
7,642 feet of climbing
5.7 mph average moving speed
11:08 elapsed time
(I promise I will wrap up this trip report in the next post. It’s been too fun to revisit but it’s time to move on.)