Photography by Richard Giordano
In A Philosophical Inquiry Into the Origins of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757), Edmund Burke identified the sublime as the overwhelming sensation we feel in response to intense natural phenomena. Burke believed that sharp cracks of lightning, dizzying heights, hurricanes, storms, and waterfalls instilled a sense of fear, admiration, and horror—all of which could transform the self, reminding us of our fragility and mortality as humans.
The concept of the sublime gained popularity in the 18th century, when Romantic philosophers, critics, and poets shifted their focus from describing nature picturesquely to emphasizing the sensations experienced by the observer. “One night we enjoyed a finer storm than I had ever before beheld,” wrote the English poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, in History of a Six Weeks’ Tour through Part of France, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland, during a visit to the French and Swiss Alps with his wife in 1816. “The lake was lit up … and all the scene illuminated for an instant, when a pitchy blackness succeeded, and the thunder came in frightful bursts over our heads amid the darkness.”
Over 200 years later, I also arrived in the Alps for the first time. Sailing from Morocco with our 2008 Tundra and Overland Explorer Vehicles pop-top camper, Richard and I landed in Genoa, Italy, with grand summer plans involving a lot of hiking (and plenty of espresso) before continuing east through the Balkans toward Turkey. The following months were filled with incredible beauty and, quite unexpectedly, an intense encounter with the sublime.
Like Shelley, we were awestruck by the first glimpses of Mont Blanc—albeit from the Italian side—as we cruised along several sections of the 170-kilometer Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB) trail. Parking the Tundra at Grandes Jorasses, a campground situated at the foot of the northern Mont Blanc Massif in the Val Ferret Valley, we used the spot as our hiking base camp for the next few days, taking in the snow-splattered crags and verdant valley below. Littered with meandering livestock tracks and patches of larch, pine, and spruce, the TMB trail leads past glimmering rivers and waterfalls, hot pink rhododendrons, and fields of alpine wildflowers to various refuges along the way, where hikers of all ages can rest their feet and enjoy an espresso or a meal with a view. After an 8.5-hour, 21-kilometer hiking day with nearly 5,700 feet of elevation gain behind us, we trudged our tired legs back to Camping Grandes Jorasses just in time. The terrific Mont Blanc, now masked by clouds, remained only in our memories as the heavens opened, releasing a torrent of rain.
Just over an hour’s drive southeast of Camping Grandes Jorasses lies Italy’s oldest national park, Gran Paradiso. Thanks to King Vittorio Emmanuel II, the 2,100 hectares surrounding the Gran Paradiso Massif are now protected. In 1856, the king declared the area a royal hunting reserve, establishing a corps of specialized guards and constructing a network of mule tracks. The ibex population, which was facing extinction, bounced back. In 1919, the king donated this land to the state, which declared the area a national park. The mule tracks remain and are used by rangers and tourists, providing an effective trail system for the protection of alpine fauna. Eager for more hiking and for the chance to spot an ibex or two, we turned off European route E45 past the lush meadows of the Aosta Valley to the hamlet of Valnontey, where the road terminates and trekking trails begin. Surrounded by the Punta Rossa della Grivola peak and slopes of fir and juniper, there’s only one road in (and out) of the valley.
We chose Campeggio Gran Paradiso as our spectacular hiking basecamp in Valnontey. Constructed in 1965 by Carlo and his wife, Luigia, and their daughter, Luciana, the campsite offers splendidly grassy park-ups near a crystal-clear river, a small grocery store, and a bar area serving espresso and freshly baked bread and croissants each morning. In addition to local cheeses, meats, and snacks, small glass bottles of absinthe, génépi, and alpenbitter are available—liqueurs made from locally harvested Alpine herbs, such as mugwort, juniper, and wormwood, for their aromatic and bitter flavors. My first call to order was taste testing a refreshingly citrusy aperol spritz made by Luciana’s son, Patrik, who confirmed the recipe: two parts aperol, two parts prosecco, one part soda water, ice, and an orange slice.
With a few days of work behind us, a glorious weather window opened up. Conditions in June bounced from heavy rainfalls, solid days of sun, and thunder and lightning shows, but the sunshine motivated us to stuff our overnight packs with food, sleeping gear, and water, preparing for an 11-kilometer round-trip visit to Rifugio Vittorio Sella, 900 meters above us via a grueling slope of steep, rocky slabs. We booked two dorm beds in the hut—a long two-story building with 150 beds, windows perked up with shutters and flower boxes, and hot meals served at the restaurant. Not missing the lack of cell service, we wandered past the hut for more mountain views, filled our Nalgene bottles with fresh spring water from the tap, and watched as groups of bearded ibex played, ate, and ran. The tumultuous transition from spring to summer seemed to have passed; the sublime was, in that moment, nowhere to be found.
When Percy Bysshe Shelley visited the Alps in 1816, he was acutely aware of the continuously shifting environment around him. “In these regions every thing [sic] changes, and is in motion,” he wrote. “The echo of rocks, or of the ice and snow which fall from their overhanging precipices, or roll from their aerial summits, scarcely ceases for one moment.” A day later, we returned to our camper, taking care of the usual domestic tasks of laundry, dishwashing, and organizing our backpacking gear after a night in the rifugio. An ominous fog rolled into the valley, bringing with it the low rumble of thunder and a downpour of rain that drummed incessantly against the camper. We watched as water streamed down the open window, raising our eyebrows at each other before shrugging and returning to our tasks. We’d witnessed plenty of rainstorms like this one.
Hours later, and deeply invested in a Netflix show, we heard someone banging on the camper door. It was Patrik, the campground host, who had taught me to make the perfect aperol spritz. The last time we saw him, he was calmly cleaning the gutters of debris with a trowel; now, panicked and soaking wet, he yelled at us over the hammering rain. “You need to get out, now.” Cascades of rushing brown water flowed down the mountain behind us as we dropped the camper lid, stashing our belongings, and steered the Tundra toward the campground exit.
There wasn’t exactly a mass exodus happening, so we wondered if we could help in some way. Scanning the reception area, we slowed to a crawl but were forcefully ushered out of the property by Luigia. The first reception building she and Carlo built on the property was destroyed by an avalanche in 1966. She told us later that she hadn’t seen this much rainfall in over 60 years. As we turned onto the pavement, we pulled up beside a local man who was directing traffic. “The road out of the valley was destroyed,” he told us. “Go to the parking lot near the river or the other campground.”
As we passed the paved lot, we knew that parking next to the Valnontey River was not an option. The water had risen substantially and was forcefully snatching trees and other debris in its wake. Climbing the driveway to the Campeggio Lo Stambecco campground, we were greeted warmly by one of the owners, Remi, who asked jokingly if we preferred a site with or without electricity. Housed in a white Alpine chalet-style structure with a slate roof and plenty of pink and red potted geraniums, the reception area remained the place to escape the rain. But as we chatted, a flow of ankle-deep gushing water, reminiscent of chocolate milk, poured down the grassy terraces of the campground, over the stone steps, and into the reception hall.
The Aosta Valley is characterized by extreme geography. Home to the highest peaks in the Alps, including the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc, the region is characterized by complex glacial deposits, steep slopes, and climatic factors such as rainfall, snow melt, and increasing temperatures, all of which culminate in a recipe for destruction in the form of landslides, flooding, and consequently, loss of human life. As we parked our truck at Campeggio Lo Stambecco, Cogne, three kilometers away, was also pounded with torrential rain and mudslides, damaging aqueducts, cutting power to the valley, and blocking access to the village. Ninety millimeters of rainfall (3.5 inches) was recorded in six hours. Further afield, storms battered France, Switzerland, and other parts of northern Italy, resulting in deaths, evacuations, and mobilization of emergency services. This weather event had morphed into something more extreme than the typical seasonal precipitation and snowmelt.
Back in Valnontey, without power or running water, we joined dozens of our fellow campers in a small room located above the reception area. Above ground, this was the safest place to spend the night. Some perched on bulk packs of toilet paper and paper towels, while others soothed children and reassured leashed dogs. It was dark now, and we had no clue what the next day would bring. I tried to sleep, breathing deeply to calm the adrenaline high, but images of cars, full-sized trees, and shrubs sailing along the aggressively flowing Valnontey River flashed behind closed eyes. There was no way out—the road was in ruins, the river out of control—and the surrounding mountains seemed like ticking time bombs, ready to let go at any moment. There was simply nothing we could do. We were just mere, powerless humans faced with the sublime.
I exited the sleep realm to the sound of birds chirping and the absence of rain. Richard, as usual, had woken first. “You need to check this out,” he said, as we quickly descended the stairs, passing the Tundra and squishing through damp silt, debris, and tree branches. After about 50 meters, we couldn’t go any further. A landslide had ripped its way down the mountain, carrying huge boulders and chunks of earth along for the ride. Several other campers approached the scene, including Laura and Simone, an Italian couple on their second day of summer vacation from Genoa. We’d used our MaxTrax to help free their Fiat Ducato from the mud the day before. Surrounded by rubble, we stood together in silence, knowing how lucky we’d all been.
“Everyone will be evacuated by helicopter.” Our campground host, Noemi, was doing the rounds with an update as everyone returned to their vehicles. She was the coolest of cucumbers over the past 24 hours, somehow keeping it together while her property was decimated by sand, water, and sludge. If we were leaving by air, this meant our Tundra—our full-time home—had to stay. Wet clothes needed to be dried, perishables disposed of, and our bags packed for an indeterminate amount of time as backpackers? The E45 was blown out in multiple spots, and it would take repair crews weeks to fix the road past Cogne and into Valnontey, which begged the question: what would we pack for an unknown destination for an indeterminate period? And, with more rain in the forecast, would our Tundra be safe in the meantime?
The sound of spinning rotor blades filled the valley for the next 24 hours as helicopter pilots and local rescue teams transported supplies and evacuated hundreds of tourists from the area. We waited until the last moment, prioritizing families and older folks, before joining the queue. Running across the silty tarmac, we loaded into the Heli Mont Blanc chopper. My stomach dropped as we took off into the air, lifting from the valley floor, where residents, wearing gum boots, pushed wheelbarrows of mud. Unfortunately, it was not possible to stay and help. As we continued through the valley, the scenery was both spectacular and sobering. Sections of highway were completely gone, as though chewed and clawed by a giant beast. But then we passed a meandering river, an old church, or a section of vineyard. The flight was truly a journey alternating between the beautiful and the sublime.
About a week later, we returned to the Tour du Mont Blanc trail. Whisps of purple thistle and curls of lilies lined the path, while the tinkle of cow bells and trilling birdsong formed the soundtrack to our day hikes. The weather was splendid—clear, sunny days meant we could explore the ridgeline of the TMB with full views of Mont Blanc. It reminded me of Shelley’s poem, Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni: “The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams/Ocean, and all the living things that dwell/Within the daedal earth; lightning and rain/ Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane…/Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there/The still and solemn power of many sights/And many sounds, and much of life and earth.” No matter what, nature will prevail.
After three weeks, we returned to Valnontey—well, Richard did, as only drivers were allowed to access the stranded vehicles parked in the valley. As he joined the convoy of exiting campers, cars, and trucks, a local man handed him a red carabiner with a card that read, “A little souvenir, the carabiner: mountain icon and symbol of union, safety, and bond. A deep bond with you, friends of our mountains, which we are sure to welcome again.”
Our experience with the sublime changed how we travel overland. Heading east through Bosnia Herzegovina, where wildfires filled the skies with smoke, and Greece, where earthquake activity forced residents of Santorini to evacuate, we adapted by becoming more vigilant about where we park, how often we check the weather forecast, and how we approach risk management overall. Heavy winds, intense rain, thunder, and lightning storms still keep me up at night. But the antidote to a triggered nervous system is, of course, nature itself. There’s plenty more beauty to come.
Thank you to Aosta Valley Mountain Rescue and the Guardia di Finanza Soccorso Alpino, to the residents of Valnontey who lost homes and businesses and rebuilt with incredible resiliency, Campeggio Gran Paradiso and Campeggio Lo Stambecco for keeping us safe, the Sei di Cogne se Facebook page for the frequent updates, the Omama Social Hotel in Aosta for comping the stays of those displaced in the Aosta Valley, and Karen Griffiths, for her generosity.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Winter 2025 Issue.
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