Vines in the Shadows of the Dolomites

I will be forever grateful to my parents for bringing me to Alto Adige for our summer vacations long before the enchanted valleys of the Dolomites became a fashionable destination. Back then, there were no luxury hotels, no Michelin-starred restaurants, and certainly no wellness circuits hopping from hay baths to Jacuzzis. Visitors came for something more primal—a magnetic pull toward raw, majestic nature and a passion for hiking that often bordered on fanaticism.

I have been trekking through those mountains for as long as I can remember. Though I grew up two hours south—on the flat agricultural plain between Verona and the Venetian lagoon—I have always considered le Dolomiti my spiritual home. Those early visits in the 1980s forged a bond that has never faded, only deepened over time.

Even now, certain scents trigger an immediate, visceral reaction, transporting me back in an instant: the fragrance of sweet hay drying in rolling meadows beneath the summer sun; the bracing resin of pine, fir, and larch in the deep forest; the pungency of smoked meats wafting from a butcher’s shop. They form a sensory bridge to a world that feels suspended in time. And then there are the colors. By day, the peaks shift between white, gray, bronze, and gold, streaked with sudden brushstrokes of black. At sunset, the rocks ignite, glowing rose before deepening to crimson and finally softening into violet dusk—a phenomenon locals call enrosadira. It is a spectacle worth witnessing at least once in a lifetime. If there is a place where one feels closest to the divine, it is here. Perhaps that is why nearly every summit is crowned with a cross, while the meadows below are dotted with churches, Gothic chapels, and weathered wooden shrines. Maybe the unforgiving environment pushed those who lived here toward a deeper spiritual consciousness. Or perhaps, as in my case, it was simply the overwhelming grandeur—the humbling beauty of it all.

More than forty years later, I can still recall the thrill rising in me as we passed the city of Bolzano and entered the gorge carved by the impetuous Isarco creek. The wide, sunlit Adige Valley would narrow dramatically into a steep, almost ominous passage. That crossing always felt sacred, like entering a magical realm. At that point, my father insisted on stopping for coffee at a modest roadside café in the tiny village of Prato Isarco. It became our ritual, and one I still uphold today with my own family.

Lying just south of the Austrian frontier, this is a borderland in every sense. Alto Adige only became part of Italy in 1920, after Austria’s defeat in World War I, and even to the occasional traveler, the Teutonic influences are unmistakable: in the language (German is spoken more often than Italian), the food, the architecture, the customs, and the rhythms of daily life. It is a place where Mitteleuropa meets the Latin world, where Alpine austerity softens into Mediterranean warmth.

Now that wine is part of my life’s work, the region holds yet another dimension of meaning. It is no longer just a landscape etched in memory, but also one of the most exciting and beautiful wine regions in Europe—combining the vertical drama of Côte-Rôtie with the storybook charm of Alsace’s Haut-Rhin. Vineyards spread across the slopes surrounding the region’s largest city, carpeting the Conca di Bolzano (Bolzano Basin) in summer with an emerald sea of vines. Yet it is the Isarco Valley (Eisacktal in German), just to the northeast, that has my heart. Perhaps because it is so deeply tied to the memories of my youth, or perhaps because its landscape seems almost designed to resist cultivation, as if growing grapes here were less a profession than a mission. Aside from the gentler slopes around Bressanone—where the valley finally opens—the Isarco is a narrow, V-shaped canyon carved by its namesake creek. For much of the day, it lies in shadow. The sinuous stretch of the SS12 from Bolzano to Chiusa reveals an overwhelming panorama. The road traces the bottom of a deep ravine, hemmed in by mountains on either side, where pointed steeples and medieval fortresses rise from dense forests and daring rows of vines. Here, vineyards cling to improbable clearings along the western, vertiginous slopes, angled carefully to catch what sunlight they can from the east and southeast.

But this is not just a picturesque landscape—the wines are equally remarkable, shaped by both natural conditions and generations of dedication. The soils, born of moraine deposits and glacial debris, combine with hot, dry days and cool nights to produce whites that are fragrant, fresh, and mineral-driven. Although the region remains a kingdom of whites, led by Silvaner, Riesling, Müller-Thurgau, and Kerner, reds are steadily gaining ground, with Pinot Noir and Schiava leading the way. Throughout Alto Adige, the extreme growing conditions and the small size of most holdings led to the formation of cooperatives, which here—unlike in much of Italy—have always prioritized quality. Yet across the region, and especially within the boundaries of the Valle Isarco, the true attraction for wine lovers lies in the micro-wineries scattered across its precipitous slopes. Many began as traditional farms, where grape growing was just one of several self-sustaining activities alongside orchards and livestock. Often the cellars are literally caves dug into rock beneath the family maso—the traditional alpine farmstead comprising barn, stable, shed, and residential quarters with a kitchen. Today, a new generation of young, visionary winemakers is pushing the region forward, blending respect for tradition with a global outlook and an intimate connection to their land.

Though fine dining is steadily on the rise across the region, I still find pure happiness in the simplest of meals. For all the sophistication of tasting menus and wine pairings, nothing captures the essence of Alto Adige more than a few thin slices of speck, a hunk of schüttelbrot (the typical crunchy rye flatbread), and a glass of bright, vibrant Schiava. That humble trinity speaks more eloquently of this land than any elaborate plate, distilling its character into something timeless and true.