Despite the oompah band playing outside my window for half the night, I still managed to get to sleep, thanks to my trusty earplugs. It was now my final day in Sauris, and I was all fired up to go hiking in the mountains. At 7:30am, some patches of blue sky had opened up, letting the golden beams of morning sunlight come streaming into the valley below me. By the time I had finished my breakfast, however, the clouds had spread themselves over the sky again, like a thick layer of white frosting.
I left my hotel around 10:00am, when the food stands of the Festa del Prosciutto were scheduled to open. Since it was still early on that Sunday morning, there were no lines yet. I bought a panino filled with prosciutto di Sauris to take with me, as well as a slice of crostata—this one with strawberry jam and a cornmeal crust—to round out my picnic.
My destination was Casera Festons, a malga (dairy farm) located in the mountains above Sauris di Sopra. Because buses normally ran only three times a day between Sauris di Sotto (where I was staying) and Sauris di Sopra, I had not been able to attempt my hike until now. To my great relief, I had learned that free shuttle buses would be running continuously between the two villages for the duration of the festival, so that visitors would have the freedom to park in both spots.
An annual ritual every June, cows are herded from dairy farms in Carnia’s valleys to mountain huts called malghe, where they can graze in tranquil Alpine pastures all summer long, providing their milk twice a day for the making of formaggio di malga. I anticipated that today I would not only see lots of cows but also get an inside glimpse into the cheese-making process.
From the bus stop, I skirted the edge of Sauris di Sopra until I found the entrance to the trail to Casera Festons. It began as a narrow, paved road that wound tightly up the mountain into the clouds, its steep switchbacks zigzagging like a slalom ski run through the forest. Once I cleared the woods, the trail opened up into an expansive meadow, where a herd of goats was placidly grazing in the misty mountain air. The roughly paved road had by now turned to gravel and dirt, damp and muddy from the recent rains.
As soon as the summit came into view, it began to drizzle. I had been climbing for over an hour and was ecstatic to finally reach the top. Along the way, I had not encountered a single soul, save for two vehicles that had passed me on the ascent: a tiny, blue three-wheeler and a maroon station wagon that was now parked in a dirt lot next to a couple of picnic tables.
A little ways ahead I could see the malga, a tiny speck amid rolling green hills, with a few snow-capped peaks poking up behind them in the distance. Even though the rain was coming down harder now, I continued on, past a couple of marshy ponds, until I reached the gate. There were no cows to be seen, no people, no cars—no sign of life whatsoever. The surrounding gate was locked, with a formidable sign that read Proprietà Privata, discouraging anyone from passing through. As far as I could tell, Casera Festons looked to be abandoned, although I knew this was impossible. There was supposed to have been a guided excursion here just yesterday. Then it occurred to me that perhaps everyone was down in Sauris di Sotto enjoying the festival. But where were the cows? Before long, I would learn that it was common practice to herd cows to higher pastures, away from the malga, to graze during the day.
I felt exhausted and utterly disappointed. In the distance, I could barely make out the next closest malga, Casera Malins, but I just didn’t have it in me. The rain was now pouring, so I headed back, umbrella in one hand, panino in the other. The descent took only an hour, despite the occasional pause to rest. Surprisingly, this downhill portion was much more challenging than the trek up. The road was so steep in places that I had to turn around and walk backwards much of the way to relieve the pressure on my knees.
Immediately upon reaching Sauris di Sopra, I caught the shuttle bus back to Sauris di Sotto, where the rain had suddenly ceased and the festival was in full swing, with crowds even larger than the previous day. Hotel Morgenleit was hosting a tasting event, offering samples of prosciutto, cheese, and beer. The lobby was packed, the line for food extending out the door and down the street. I felt fortunate to have picked up my lunch when I did. With my thighs and calves aching from the hike, I gingerly climbed the stairs and spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in bed, reading and napping.
At dinnertime, I made my way down the hill to Ristorante Alla Pace for one last meal. To start, I was served a complimentary plate of prosciutto di Sauris, topped with some fresh greens, walnuts, grated horseradish, and a balsamic dressing. For my entrée, I ordered the capriolo in salmì, a venison stew served with triangles of grilled polenta. I had been in the habit of ordering a mixed salad with my meals, but Signora Franca urged me to try the verdure cotte (cooked vegetables)—on this particular evening, the chef had prepared boiled beet greens.
Since I had saved that slice of crostata for my dessert—it had been too tricky to maneuver eating while hiking backwards downhill in the rain—I skipped dessert at Alla Pace and said a final goodbye to Franca. Just as I reached my hotel, it started pouring again. With any luck, the storms would soon pass, for tomorrow I would be moving on to my next town, Arta Terme.
