Via di Francesco, Day 13: Gubbio - Agriturismo Tenuta di Biscina

Monday, June 5
22.7 km
895 m

Yesterday we took our first rest day of the Via di Francesco. It's infuriating how much our muscles scream when we take a day off, doing nothing, but they immediately quiet and readapt to the grind when we get back on the trail. Usually.

Today, though, seemed extra difficult. Despite departing at 6:30 am, it was blistering hot before we even found breakfast. Shortly after breakfast, we started climbing. What might otherwise have been a moderate climb was made more difficult by the sun, and the now ubiquitous Umbrian scotchbroom, to which I am highly allergic.

The road up the hill, and down the hill, and up the next hill, was thickly edged in scotchbroom. The spindly yellow bushes were thick with dusty yellow flowers. They overhung the road, dusted the pavement with pollen, and crowded us as we walked. Their sickly sweet smell was overwhelming. Thanks to the pollen, I struggled to breathe. In fact, I was unable to both walk and take a full breath, which made today's climb especially painful and slow.

We finally reached the crest of the first hill, wandered down a bit, then up again past the Eremo San Pietro hermitage, and down through more scotchbroom. As we descended, the sound of heavy machinery became apparent, grew louder and more insistent. A grinding, buzzing, ka-chunk-chunking sound rose from the valley. It felt hotter and hotter the further we descended. I chalked it up to lower elevation. Dust rose overhead. The air clouded. Then the trees grew thin, and I could see it: a logging operation.

The river valley into which we had descended had been completely denuded. Sturdy oak trees were sectioned and stacked as cordwood all around. The once clear river turned muddy and choked with debris. Heat rose in waves from the bare valley floor traced with dust roads down which great trucks rumbled at high speeds. In the distance, a giant claw fed whole oak trunks into a massive wood chipper and spewed out the shredded remains: ka-chunk-chunk it ate a tree, bzzzzzzzzzz out it came in a swirl of sawdust.

My stomach turned inside me. My heart contracted. Rage welled up. I do not know why the valley is being logged. Perhaps there is some great public works project underway; there appears to be a new dam rising at the end of the valley. But I was utterly devastated by the destruction in what I can only call the valley of death. Scorched vines and stacks of scarred logs covered earth that was once forest teeming with life.

In recent days, I've seen lizards and foxes, owls and flickers and deer, and the tracks and scat of many more animal. This is a living forest...or it was. I crossed the barren valley and the muddy rivulet that remains of the stream, unable to suppress my rage, or to stop my heart from jumping and contracting painfully. Just over the hill from where St Francis tamed the wolf, I couldn't make sense of such destruction.

I raced up the far side of the valley, eager to leave the devastation and noisy machinery behind, but it was a long climb and the sounds hounded me up the hill. It sapped my strength and made the remaining climb feel impossibly steep and long.

Upon finally reaching our agriturismo home for the night, I discovered we have a view of the dam, the bare valley floor, and the now muddy, sluggish river. The sounds of machinery are dampened by the curve of the hill, but the view is a painful reminder of the day's walk.

On review, I was surprised to learn our elevation gain was less than 1000 meters; it felt much longer than that. It would seem rage and a heavy heart make for a substantial burden to shoulder up a steep hill.