Call it an Alpine fever dream. Or disorientation from a nearly utopian week in Italy's vertiginous, bone-white Dolomite Mountain region, hiking through verdant valleys and along exposed ridgelines, dining on impeccable rustic fare and drinking too much red wine. Or just chalk it up to childlike enthusiasm mixed with overconfidence.

Whatever it is, after hiking 1,500 feet to the top of Mount Lagazuoi and admiring the panoramic views of the cliffs jutting into an azure sky and the narrow Falzarego Pass far below, I decide to skip the gondola ride down — the easy way to the valley floor — and elect to hike instead.

I leave the camera-toting crowds behind, following one trail and then another down the mountain's western face. Twenty minutes and about 1,000 feet later, it's clear that my over-exuberance has made me miss whatever path I was supposed to follow. A massive ridge in the peak separates me from the route down to my ride, waiting with what I imagine to be ever-increasing impatience in the parking lot below the gondola.

I'd eaten only a bit of fruit that morning, my water is down to a few precious sips, the September sun feels as hot as it does at summer's peak, and only two options seem viable: Continue, hoping that a narrow, all-metal suspension bridge that I can make out in the distance will actually get me back to my hotel. Or turn around and retrace a punishing near-vertical uphill route back to the gondola.

In truth, disorientation has marked this trip from the start.

Leaving Venice behind

Shortly after landing in Venice, I'm driving north, leaving the city's picturesque canals, gondolas and narrow streets behind without a glimpse. After crossing a vast, featureless plain for an hour, I'm trying to convince myself that there's method to my madness.

Eventually the landscape hints at what lies ahead, and after navigating the first of many tunnels, I'm instantly transported. Just 100 miles and a world away from Venice, the Dolomite Mountains conquer the horizon.

The first things I see are the peaks that give the region its name: sheer white cliffs that launch into the sky like knife blades. Known as the "Pale Mountains," they boast a chemical composition dubbed dolomite (stratified calcium magnesium carbonate), deposited more than 230 million years ago when seawater covered the region.

The Dolomites cover 90,000 acres of the Italian Alps, ending at the Austria-Italy border, and the region boasts a heady mixture of both cultures. The Ladin culture, established when the Romans invaded the territory in the first century, also endures, with its own language and cuisine, such as crisp spinach-stuffed pancakes and barley soup.

World War I brought fierce combat to the Dolomites, and the military routes constructed to supplement the old shepherd paths draw legions of trekkers today. The trails are anchored by a vast network of rifugios, backcountry lodges that offer bottomless glasses of red wine, home-cooked food, a soft bed and morning espresso — as well as the ease of carrying only spare clothes and water during the day.

But the reason I left Venice behind is the via ferrata. Italian for "iron road," the term refers to the network of ropes and wooden structures that Italian and Austrian soldiers built during WWI to ease their passage over the mountains. Iron ladders, cables and suspension bridges now line these routes, affording easy access to some of the most dramatic Alpine scenery in Europe.

As I reach the town of Cortina d'Ampezzo, I can see ribbons of snow on the higher-elevation peaks.

No crowds

The dearth of crowds makes me feel as though I'm in on a well-kept secret. That's reinforced the next day on a bike ride. We start off easily, pedaling on the bike path behind Cortina before an uphill grind that leads to a pristine overlook.

From here the town looks toylike, as though painstakingly assembled by some overzealous child who covered every space on the valley floor with Tyrolean structures.

The next day, my guide, Agustina Lagos Marmol, and I head out for a two-night trek. At noon we stop at Malga Cavalli, a modest wooden structure with a porch overlooking the surrounding ridgeline that juts from the basin we've just traversed. The simple meal is perfection: dried sausage and gherkins sourced from the local farms and fresh bread, all washed down with a tangy mixture of beer and lemonade, a Dolomite staple.

From there, we hike deeper into the Dolomites. Switchbacks through a scree field leading to a narrow trail carved into a 50-degree slope. Cables anchored into the rocks appear whenever the 100-foot drop seems too close for comfort; members of the Italian Alpine Club maintain all the trails, and they know where to add a bit of reassurance. We reach the ridgeline and continue down the path, where cranberry-colored lichen grows in the thin cracks in the rock.

The route takes us into another valley, past other rifugios, Tibetan prayer flags flapping in the wind.

Nettle soup and views

The next day, Agustina hooks me up with a group of U.S. tourists on a 10-day hike through the Dolomites. We collectively brave the drizzle to traverse up to the Santa Croce Sanctuary, a somber white church built in 1484. As we hike up, we pass parishioners returning from the church, their prayers audible before they appear out of the mist.

Later, we retreat to the warmth of Ranch Andre, a simple restaurant near the church. Hearty portions of nettle soup, polenta and spinach ravioli are served by a waitress whose warm smile and inviting eyes make me swoon — as if I need another reason to love the Dolomites.

And I still have to visit the via ferrata.

Think of the via ferrata as assisted rock climbing: the thrill of the ascent minus that all-too-real fear of falling, thanks to cables mounted to posts anchored into the rock. You wear a helmet and a climbing harness with two carabiner clips attached to the harness via ropes.

Fix one clip to the cable and start climbing. When you reach the point where the cable meets the post, clip the spare carabiner to the next section of cable, remove the other clip, and keep moving. At the top, snow-covered Marmolada Glacier, the tallest point of the Dolomites at 11,000 feet, stands in dramatic relief against its rocky base on the other side of the valley.

In less than an hour it's over, but I'm not ready to leave.

My guide, Marcello, tells me to keep hiking. We agree to meet at the gondola parking lot.

I head out into a small saddle as Marcello returns to his car.

First over the short peak behind the rifugio, then onto what I think is the right path. I head down, following the well-marked routes, and reach a trailhead. One way leads into one of the many tunnels that honeycomb the Dolomites, another feature built during World War I.

With no head lamp, I go the other way, my stride wide and footfalls confident — until I realize that in my joy, I've gotten on the wrong side of a vertical rock fin that now stands between me and access to the parking lot.

I take a large bite of humble pie, wash it down with the last of my water, and start back up the 1,000 feet to the gondola that I should have taken in the first place.

An hour later, I'm in the parking lot, exhausted. My guide had waited for a while but finally left. "He waited for you for a few hours," Agustina says when I phone. She offers to pick me up.

"Wait at the bar," she says.

Smarter words have never been spoken.

By the time Agustina arrives, the beer has washed away the embarrassment of getting lost in one of the best-marked hiking regions in Europe.

Even with the missteps of my final day, the Dolomites still leave me feeling lucky.