Centa San Nicolò - Hike to Rifugio Casarota

Last Saturday I abandoned the family and went for a walk. This walk started with a short drive to a mountain called Vigolana in a mountain range called the Venetian Prealps. I parked at Bar-ristorante al Sìndech which is at about 3600ft above sea level (Trento is about 600ft) and adjacent to absolutely nothing but a trail up the mountain. A tiny mountain town called Centa San Nicolò is about 2 miles away. I’m fairly confident that the “parking lot” (read: slightly wider part of the road) was for restaurant patrons only, but I took the Italian approach to parking; if my car mostly fits and most other cars can get around my car…va bene, abbastanza buono. The trail goes up to the peak (at just over 7,000ft), but I was only interested in going up to about 5,100 ft to the Rifugio Casarota (mostly because there is no beer at the peak). The trail (about 1.25 miles long) was pretty steep but pleasant and well marked. I was limited to my macro lens (my usual 28-300mm lens became unfunctional in Corsica), but I still had fun taking some pictures on the way to lunch. The rifugio was small and slightly quirky (see picture of the llama laying by the sign labeling water for dogs). I had a beer and some canederli and then headed back down. On the way down I stopped to allow a hiker going up to pass. When I stopped I could hear something in the woods above. I took a (poor) picture of the goat and stood still. The gentleman passing paused and asked (in Italian) what it was that I was looking at. I pointed it out. He then (I think) waxed poetic about the beauty of the woods and what good habitat it was for wildlife. At this point I  felt obligated to admit that I only spoke a little Italian and that he had, regrettably, mostly, just wasted his breath. He was very nice about it. He asked where I was from (in English about equivalent to my Italian). He was very excited to hear that I was from Texas. It turns out his son spent about 3 months in Texas. This is where the story gets amusing (or weird). His son is a veterinarian from Padova. When I (showing off my paltry Italian) told him I too was a veterinarian, he asked if I knew his son, you know, ‘cause he’s been to Texas. Alas. He then pulled out his phone to show me a picture of his son, just in case maybe that would jog my memory. Alas. He then called his son (we are still in the woods on a mountain) to relay the unlikely events, then handed me the phone. As you might imagine the resulting conversation was as awkward as it was short. I handed the phone back to the exceedingly pleasant gentleman and with a handshake and a “piacere” I was on my way. I arrived back to the apartment just in time for the family to pile into the car and head out to a birthday party for a 7 year old we didn’t know.