The local train from Torino takes us to Carmagnola twenty minutes southwest of the Olympic destination scrubbed clean for the big winter event held last winter. Without the faculty of the Italian language, we make a phone call and await the farmer on his way to pick us up at the train station. With our legs squished in the back seat of a mini-car, we wind our way on tight, two-lane roads. Big stands of paper harvesting trees, corn and wheat roll in each direction. This sign greets us at the entrance to the farm.
From Rome, the train ride north along the Italian Riviera pops in and out of tunnels passing famous places such as Pisa, La Spezia, and Cinque Terra. Our ride takes us up into the north country of Italy near the base of the Italian Alps. The rugged coastal mountains give way to a flat, lush valley. This is the farming center of Italy with Torino and Milan capitalizing on its wealth and the charm of Venice flourishes where the river meets the sea.
During the weekdays a bus load of little kids come to tour the farm, feed the animals, play, and eat an elegant pasta meal. It is wonderful to see six year-old kids served with white dishes and real silverware on a long table prepared under a grape vine awning, rather than given plastic everything because they can not be trusted or throw-away is temporarily cost effective.
The World Wide Organization for Organic Farmers (WWOOF) provides a network of farms in every corner of the globe for farmers, adventurers and travelers alike to get their hands dirty, manure on their shoes, taste the local food and drink (The wine and espresso being the fortes of Italy!), and delve into some local culture. The exchange is a full week's work, months if the time suits, for room and board. Each farm posts a bio of their location, accommodations, and the focus of their farm. We stayed a week. We got dirty. We drank wine. We ate wonderful meals and we slept well. Our host was fabulous.
We, with zero glacial experience yet tons of backcountry wanderings, strap on some crampons and lug some ice axes and rope to the base of the glacier at Vallanaraju (5885 meters above sea level). In one guide book, the author suggests that anyone who is a rookie with big mountaineering aspirations should not attempt their first peak in the Cordillera Blanca. Whatever!? The guy is just over cautious. We have hiked all over the Himalayas and I have spent months in the backcountry of southern Utah. With some phone discussion, thirty plus years behind us and our bravado slightly diminishing, we acquiesce to hiring a local guide and include a mountaineering course within the excursion package. 
On the jagged outcrop perched below the glacier and above the ravine, my general fear of heights or more importantly falling from heights and a fabulous companion at home, I lay awake in my tent. Really, what the hell am I doing up here. I have plenty of outdoor things on my plate and adding one with mountain weather being so inherantly sporatic and dangerous, not to mention the sport carrying a decently high price tag, is not so responsible.
