Jacqui Deevoy took her fear and fragile ankles and put them to the test!

The Dolomites rise like jagged cathedrals from the South Tyrolean landscape, their blindingly white faces scarred by a forever of wind, frost and snow. So, remind me again why I’ve decided to go winter trekking here?!

Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2009, these mountains, part of the Southern Limestone Alps, are not just a picture-perfect backdrop for a pretty holiday snap. They’re a living part of the once-Austrian landscape, exhaling mist at dawn, inhaling the shadows at dusk.

In winter, they don a mantle of snow that transforms them into a vast expanse of whiteness, where every ridge has a story to tell. One of the peaks – the Sassolungo – which I saw as a giant upright foot, rocky toes pointing skywards, was shockingly steep. Yet I’d heard that many locals had climbed it.

The beauty of the mountains and the icy air was a literally breathtaking combination. It was against this awe-inspiring canvas that I embarked on a 14km guided hike. My trepidation was somewhat tempered by the promise of discovery…  and the reassuring presence of our leader, Lara Holzknecht.

Lara, the sales and marketing manager at the Adler Spa Resort Dolomiti (where I was staying for three nights) was six months pregnant, yet strode ahead with effortless grace. “Hiking is everyday stuff for me,” she told me with a smile, her cheeks flushed.

Her words calmed my anxiety. Two years earlier, I had shattered both ankles on the rocky slopes of Comino, Malta’s diminutive sister island. The awful memories of surgery, leg casts and six months in a wheelchair still lingered. A troublesome sacro-iliac joint didn’t help. But, I reasoned, if a pregnant Lara, fearless and brave (though, it has to be said, a couple of decades younger), could do it, then so could I!

My bragging rights fell short…

When I sent friends and family back home live videos and photos of the day’s snowy excursion, a few said “Oh, you’re skiing!” and “Amazing! I didn’t know you could ski!” The truth of the matter is I cannot ski. I attempted it for the first time aged 56 and it was a disaster: poles flailing, legs rigid, ego bruised on the nursery slopes. A Kurt Cobain lookalike called Hubert was my instructor and he despaired daily at my uselessness: I could barely walk in the skis let alone actually ski. “At least I’m trying,” I whined daily. Hubert was not impressed.

After my previous disastrous experiences on the slopes, I wondered now, as we exited the car at the foot of the mountains, how I was going to fare. I didn’t even have a reconstructed ankle back then. I suppose this time I had an excuse, I thought pathetically.

Our group was mixed, but all women, each bringing their own quirks to the trail. There was a woman a bit younger than me, who confided that she too bore the scars of ankle reconstruction – metal plates, pins and wires anchoring her bones – though she mentioned it far less obsessively than I did mine.

A teenager, raised amid the sun-baked hills of Cyprus gazed wide-eyed at the vast expanse of snow. “I haven’t seen snow since I was a little child!” she exclaimed. “I’m so going to make a snow angel!”

A California girl, new to winter’s whims, discovered that snow could be treacherously slippery. Another spirited young woman instigated an impromptu snowball fight. Then there was the professional photographer, laden with cameras, lenses and tripods. How she hauled that hefty load up the slopes without collapsing under the weight of it all, I’ll never know.

We set off from the Adler Spa Resort Dolomiti…

This is a luxurious haven embedded in the heart of the Val Gardena, and had been my glorious home in the mountains. This five-star retreat, with its expansive 170 rooms, is a calming blend of Alpine elegance, relaxation and wellness. The deliciously-scented spa – just a small part of the whole resort – spans 3,500 square metres, boasting indoor and outdoor pools heated to a blissful 34°C and separated by sliding doors (yes, sliding doors actually IN the pool), saunas infused with pine essence, and treatment rooms where therapists wield ancient Tyrolean techniques.

My own indulgence the previous day – a deep-tissue massage targeting back, neck and shoulders – had been transformative. Hannah, the massage therapist, hands like forged steel wrapped in silk, had kneaded away years of tension from my lower back, leaving me supple yet fragile, as if my muscles had been reset but not yet road-tested. Little did I know the hike would provide the ultimate trial.

The dark path wound gently at first, skirting the base of the Dolomites with the mountains commanding every vista. The Sassolungo group loomed to our left, its 3,181-metre peak a serrated blade against the cobalt sky, while the Sella massif formed a colossal amphitheatre, its cliffs plunging into shadowed abysses.

Sunlight danced on the surface, turning the landscape into a glittering expanse that begged to be captured. I used my iPhone to take photos, wishing I had a ‘proper’ camera, whilst thinking what I’d really like to have brought with me was an easel, a palette, a few brushes and some paints. I decided I’d take pictures on my phone camera with a view to doing a painted version once home: whether that’ll ever happen is yet to be seen.

For much of the route, we followed a well-trodden track

The snow compacted into a forgiving ridged ribbon that crunched satisfyingly underfoot. Lara led with unerring confidence, pointing out landmarks: the tiny hamlet of Ortisei below, its onion-domed church a speck in the valley; the distant gleam of the Alpe di Siusi, Europe’s largest high-altitude meadow, now blanketed in white. The air was pine-scented and bitingly pure. I tried to imagine the vista in the summer with animals grazing and cowbells tinkling. I promised to look up some images online when we returned to the hotel. Conversation flowed as we walked: it was only towards the end that I realised trekking was twice as tiring when chattering. But as the kilometres accumulated, a companionable silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic pad-squeak pad-squeak of our steps.

Towards our journey’s end, the worn trail ended and we started to traipse through virgin snow, untouched drifts that rose to mid-calf. The Dolomites still loomed majestically, still gleaming but darker now, more sombre.

Our destination, the Adler Lodge Alpe, where we’d been promised lunch, appeared as a distant smudge on the horizon. It refused to draw nearer. In fact, the more we walked, the further away it seemed to get! My mind wandered to sinister tales: I remembered reading the book Alive!, the harrowing account of the Uruguayan rugby team’s Andean plane crash ordeal, where mountains stretched endlessly, sustenance scarce, survival descending into the unthinkable. Why was I thinking about that now? “I hope we don’t get stranded and have to eat each other,” I blurted out, my voice carrying on the wind. Fortunately, I don’t think anyone heard.

And then lunch at the lodge

My back aching from the therapist’s thorough pummelling and my legs unaccustomed to such exertion since scaling Machu Picchu 18 months prior, I lagged somewhat on the final stretch. A short, cobbled incline led to the lodge. “Hooray! We made it!” I gasped, lungs burning. “Bit breathless now though.”

“That’ll be the altitude,” offered my metal-ankled companion, her stride unbroken.

“Oh, it’s not because I’m really unfit then?” I laughed, relief flooding in.

“Not at all,” she replied kindly. “We’ve just trekked seven kilometres across quite tricky terrain. You did really well.”

Seconds later we were walking through the front entrance to the exquisitely-designed lodge.

In the foyer we were instantly too hot. Tearing off our outer layers, we adjusted to the warmth of the lodge’s interior. Lara showed no hint of weariness, she and her unborn child seemingly unfazed by the expedition. Her poise was inspiring; I sensed she had conquered far sterner paths in these mountains she called home. In fact, she’d told me earlier that she’d climbed the foot-shaped peak as a young girl, with her uncle.

At the Adler Lodge Alpe, a cosier sibling to the main resort with just 32 rooms, we were welcomed warmly by the manager. The lodge, built entirely from local materials – larch, oak and pine – pays homage to Namibia, inspired by the original owners’ travels.

Abstract artwork and sculptures evoke African savannahs, contrasting exquisitely with the Alpine setting. Colourful zigzagging patterns on some of the wooden walls contrast with the simplicity of the others. We were given a brief tour: spacious suites and chalets with private saunas overlooking the cirque of peaks; a cosy lounge where fireplaces crackle with applewood; and the restaurant, its panoramic windows framing the Dolomites in all their glory.

So what did we eat?

At a long table on the terrace extending from the restaurant, as a local accordionist filled the air with lilting Tyrolean melodies, we savoured a feast of regional delights. Platters overflowing with speck and salami from local farms. Artisanal cheeses aged in mountain cellars, venison tagliatelle in a rich juniper sauce, and mushroom pappardelle redolent of forest floors. Dessert was Kaiserschmarrn – fluffy shredded pancakes dusted with icing sugar and accompanied by tart redcurrant compote – accompanied by a deliciously golden and syrupy dessert wine (Roen, from local winery Cantina Tramin).

As the sun dipped behind the peaks, painting the snow lavender and rose, I reflected on the day’s conquest. The Dolomites had tested me, yes. Ankles, back and resolve all pushed to their limits. But they had also healed something deeper. Fear of fragility, born from past mishaps, dissolved in the crunch of snow and the camaraderie of new friends.

In the shadow of the Dolomites, these timeless and permanent giants, I emerged stronger, ready for whatever peaks (and troughs) lay ahead. The Adler Spa Resort Dolomiti and its lodge had not just hosted me, they had reignited my wanderlust. I will return, metal ankle and all, to paint those vistas for real.

Details of the trip

Jacqui was hosted by the Adler Spa Resort Dolomiti, where the trek was arranged. She lunched at the Adler Hotel Alpe. www.adler-resorts.com
Flights from London Gatwick to Verona with easyJet starting from around £100 return, Easyjet.com
Roen wine from Cantina Tramin