Settle in, in the picturesque city of Cortina . Repack to “hut-life” simplicity, toast the journey ahead. You will meet your guide in the morning for the drive to Lago di Braies.

From the lake’s green mirror, climb through spruce and larch to pale limestone shelves. The water shrinks to a coin; horizons open. We pause on a sun-warmed boulder, then continue toward the Sennes plateau, a high world of turf, gentians, and easy stride. Marmots whistle, boots find rhythm, lunch is picnic-simple with backs against warm rock. The final rise eases onto rolling meadows and the welcoming balconies of Sennes or Fodara Vedla. Strudel, soup, and mountain chatter follow. Sunset spills rose and gold across the sky; stars appear in handfuls. Hut life begins—social, simple, and exactly right.

Morning light pours over the plateau as we stride out on easy turf. A gentle descent threads a narrow valley to Pederü, cliffs standing like pale curtains on either side. Coffee here is compulsory. Then steady switchbacks lift us into the broad bowl of Fanes, where green pastures meet serrated peaks. Wooden balconies overflow with geraniums; cowbells keep slow time. We wander to the little chapel, skim cold water from a trough, and take in a view that seems painted. Evening brings polenta and laughter; the quiet of altitude settles, warm and uncomplicated, as tomorrow’s lines sharpen on the map.

A crisp start carries us across the Fanes basin where water threads silver through meadow and karst. The path steepens toward the high cirque under Lagazuoi; walls lean close, history closer. We pass WWI traces—galleries, trenches, stories of a mountain mined and defended. At Rifugio Scotoni, the terrace peers into a bowl of cliffs. Those continuing climb again across scree and carved paths to Lagazuoi’s aerie. Windows catch the afternoon; the world falls away in every direction. Sunset feels like theatre; stars arrive bright and near. You sleep high, content, with tomorrow’s towers hung on the horizon.

We wake above the clouds, watch colour seep into the range, then set off along airy tracks with Tofane holding court. Paths curl past wartime positions to the amphitheatre of Cinque Torri, stone towers scattered like a sculptor’s models. There’s time to wander among them and warm hands on sun-lit rock. After lunch we traverse toward Nuvolau or Averau, huts poised like gulls on a rim. The panorama gathers Marmolada, Pelmo, and Civetta. As evening cools, alpenglow runs across the peaks. Dinner is lively; rooms are simple and quiet. Outside, the stars seem close enough to pocket.

Morning begins on the roof of the world, terraces still quiet, mugs steaming white in the chill. We slip off Nuvolau/Averau along a balcony trail where the rock feels close enough to touch and the Ampezzo basin opens like a map below. The path undulates, playful rather than punishing, weaving past wartime traces and sunlit slabs before tilting into larch and open pasture. Each turn loosens the landscape until a glimmer appears through the trees—Lago Federa, a polished coin set beneath Croda da Lago’s crenellated skyline. The rifugio sits at its shore like a storybook porch. Boots off, shoulders down, and everything slows: cold water on wrists, the smell of resin, laughter carrying across the lake. As evening draws long, towers blush with enrosadira and the surface mirrors a sky you’ll remember all summer.

A blue-sky summer morning, the pass still cool, larches throwing long shadows across the path. We ease off the shoulder of Staulanza with barely a rise, then the trail tips us gently toward the Ampezzo basin. Meadows show their July palette—buttercups, alpine clover, the odd edelweiss if you’re lucky—and cowbells keep slow punctuation in the distance. Underfoot it’s friendly: a ribbon of singletrack and soft forest duff, switchbacks made for conversation and photographs. Views open and close—Pelmo behind, Tofane ahead—until the world widens into the bowl of Cortina. Rooflines appear, then a church spire, then the clink of cups on a sunlit terrace. We step onto warm cobbles, boots dusty, smiles easy. Lemon gelato tastes like a minor miracle; a breeze lifts from the valley; and mountains ring the town like an amphitheatre waiting for tomorrow’s act.

After a delightful breakfast we bid Cortina farewell (or do we?) and head off on another part of our European adventure.