From the bluff, Old and New Cagli mesh into one large housing development, barely visible to a weak eye in a dark sky. For miles on, wineries, restaurants, and apartments known to exist have disappeared, and even the imposing limestone gorge towards the beach at Fano appears to be an apparition. At this height, a three-story weather tower and a large stone cross are the only objects that can survive the gale-force winds. An inclination for danger leads a few group members up the rungs of the tower, to go higher and higher for the best views of Cagli. The second story is a shaky platform for five brave souls who look upon the landscape below; the wind forcing our hair to dance in all directions. I feel the urge to fly, with my feet soaring up into the fiery red and purple sky.
Enjoying the sun's last rays from thousands of feet above, time becomes suspended, and just enough light peaks over the horizon to give one last breathtaking view. From afar, our tents are nothing more than small blemishes on Petrano's tan skin.
With the help of compliant locals Alessandro and Michele, a group of seven brave students drives the winding, ten-minute trip to the western edge of Mount Petrano, hoping for wild times on an impromptu camping trip. The group of three dashing men (Ryan, Nick, myself) and four stunning women (Katie, Katie, Kelly, and Christine) find views of gorgeous wheat fields and pop-up trailers when reaching close to the summit, surprisingly commercial for a place with a few scattered trees and an infestation of excited grasshoppers.
The group sets up camp by a lone tree and admires a mountainous backdrop similar to the Swiss Alps in The Sound of Music. Our attempt at creating a three-building piazza is rendered difficult to construct with Petrano's fierce wind. In a few minutes, the Sunday sun will retire to end another week, and our eyes shift to a small hill a few football fields away, the absolute highest point of the mountain. With the urge to capture some great film before dusk, we rush up the hill, risking twisted ankles for a more divine purpose of reaching closer to heaven.
Being the last to scale back down the tower, a feeling of calm envelops me as I look to the stone cross, silhouetted along with four students in the foreground of a dying sky, providing all of the darkest shades of the color wheel. I think of the famous line from Field of Dreams: "Is this heaven? No, this is Iowa!" From such a height, even heaven itself doesn't seem so faraway.
