A decade after the earthquake: Is this Italy’s forgotten outdoor capital?

I enter a grocery store housed in a converted shipping container. A woman greets me warmly. She’s surprised to see a new face midweek.

Once upon a time, Castelsantangelo sul Nera, a small town in the southern Marche region, at the foot of the Sibillini Mountains in the central Apennines, was a postcard-perfect stop for outdoor enthusiasts who’d stock up on cheese and salami made following the tradition of norcineria (local pork butchery and curing), en route to the better-known village of Castelluccio di Norcia to the south. Then came the earthquake, one that would be followed by exodus and depopulation.

When I ask for sanitary pads, she chuckles. “We hid some behind the counter—there’s nobody left here who needs them.”

Her words stick with me as I step outside and look up toward the Sibillini Mountains, a wild range straddling the regions of Umbria and Marche in central Italy. This national park is one of Italy’s most underappreciated outdoor playgrounds, a place where adventure-seekers can fill their needs all year round: Ski touring, trail running, trekking, mountain biking and much more can take place among these valleys. And yet, almost 10 years after the 2016 earthquake that shook central Italy, the local villages are stuck in limbo.

Despite some signs of reconstruction, many residents still live in prefab housing units. It was supposed to be a ‘temporary’ solution—but it’s already been nearly a decade. The region’s natural wonders keep drawing visitors. But the villages are slowly disappearing. And that is why there’s never been a better time to visit.

On August 24, 2016, a 6.0-magnitude earthquake struck central Italy, killing almost 300 people. Its epicenter was near the Lazio town of Amatrice, birthplace of the pasta amatriciana (the classic pasta dish with tomatoes, guanciale (cured pork) and pecorino cheese). The quake devastated villages across the regions of Marche, Umbria, Lazio, and Abruzzo, including the mountain hamlets of the Sibillini National Park.

“This trail [Cammino delle Terre Mutate or the ‘Path of the Changed Land’] calls for a certain kind of walker. Conscious hikers who understand that changed lands isn’t just a name, it’s the nature of the trail itself.”

- Patrizia Vita, vice-president, Movimento Tellurico

In the years that followed, promises of reconstruction clashed with red tape and funding gaps. The result? Many homes remain uninhabitable, and the orange plastic fences that mark danger zones have become part of the landscape.

Last winter, I visited Marche for ski touring on the windswept ridges of Monte Vettore, one of the most iconic peaks in the central Apennines and the park’s highest peak at 8,123 feet (2,476 meters). Parked with my van at the trailhead, I set off alone at sunrise across a frozen landscape. I began skinning up one of the canaloni—steep gullies typical of this area—still packed with snow long after it’s melted elsewhere.

The surface was rock-hard from the night freeze, requiring ski crampons for the ascent. But on the way down, the crust softened, whispering beneath the skis. From the summit, the natural amphitheater of the Sibillini stretches out, the Gran Sasso massif rises in the distance to the south, and the Adriatic Sea shimmers on the eastern horizon. The landscape was a black-and-white postcard.

At its feet stretch the plains below the Umbrian village of Castelluccio, ironically named Pian Perduto—the Lost Plain. From late June to early July, the landscape turns into a living Monet during the famous ‘Fioritura di Castelluccio’, the ‘flowering of Castellucio’.

During this annual show from nature, fields of lentils bloom alongside wild poppies, cornflowers, and daisies in shifting waves of red, blue, and yellow, drawing crowds of photographers and tourists. The rest of the year, outdoor enthusiasts roam the area on weekends and holidays, on foot, by bike, or by horse.

I’d come here the summer before—same van, same spot, same mountain. No snow, just a riot of different shades of green. In a very different dawn, I set off solo along the steep slopes of Monte Vettore, this time in trail-running shoes. I knew I wouldn’t run much: The camera in my hand kept winning. As I climbed, the plains came into view—a swirl of colored dots below me, like brushstrokes on an impressionist canvas. It was still early in the season, but the vibrant specks of red, yellow, and blue below felt like standing over an unfinished painting, already full of wonder.

And yet, in both seasons, one thing stayed the same. I found myself struck by the contrast: Breathtaking nature all around, but villages still scarred and makeshift. Tourists queuing for lunch in converted containers, using chemical toilets parked along the roadside. Beauty and desolation, side by side.

Since the earthquake, those who stayed started rebuilding, adapting, and finding new ways to welcome travelers in a fragmented landscape. Some projects were born directly from the disaster, such as the Cammino delle Terre Mutate, the ‘Path of the Changed Land’.

This 155-mile (250-kilometer) trail through the mountains of the central Apennines connects quake-hit communities across four regions of central Italy—stretching south to L’Aquila, itself devastated by a major earthquake in 2009. It’s both a hiking route and a tribute to resilience. As Patrizia Vita, vice-president of grassroots environmental organization Associazione di Promozione Sociale – Movimento Tellurico which manages this project, explains: “This trail calls for a certain kind of walker. Conscious hikers who understand that changed lands isn’t just a name, it’s the nature of the trail itself.”

“Sometimes, you walk through ruins,” he tells me. “You pass active construction zones where the path may suddenly shift. There are stretches with no water access because the quake disrupted the the local water system.  And you sleep where you find hospitality, because accommodations are still scarce.”

But that’s the point. It is kind-of a pilgrimage. Not a religious one, but a path of reconnection.

Along the way, local guides offer multi-day treks such as the Great Sibillini Ring—a fully signposted circular route of about 120 km that encircles the mountain chain in nine stages, typically completed in seven to nine days by moderately experienced hikers.

As refuge huts reopen, and new B&Bs continue to appear, the number of outdoor adventures available keeps growing. In the Pian Grande, riding stables offer guided horse treks across the plains and up into the mountains. Mountain biking guides cater to all levels—some even tackle the Great Sibillini Ring itself. In summer, visitors can try alpine lake hikes or take to the skies with a paraglider; in winter, snowshoeing offers another way to explore the silent landscape.

But with every step, it’s clear that the landscape stirs with beauty, while everything else is wounded. “When you pass through the destruction of Arquata del Tronto, one of the communities with the highest casualty counts during the quake, you don’t walk laughing. You reflect,” Vita tells me.

In Visso, once listed among Italy’s most beautiful villages, the atmosphere is slightly more hopeful. Machines are working, but the reconstruction site signs show outdated completion dates. Residents tell me they try to stay optimistic—as they’ve been trying to, for almost 10 years.

The irony is the earthquake has also brought new life to an area already facing abandonment. Locals are aware that reconstruction funds can become a powerful catalyst for this region. Some, like Lorenzo Mattiacci, even returned from abroad, drawn by the beauty and potential of his mountains. “As a certified hiking and nature guide, I try to offer routes that go beyond the classic trails,” he tells me. “I want to help travelers—especially those from abroad—discover the beauty of this land.”

Lorenzo launched his project, DiscoverSibillini, to build a shared identity for the region, promoting collaboration instead of competition between small businesses, and positioning the Sibillini as a single destination for international travelers.

The most iconic town, and perhaps the most tragic example, is Castelluccio di Norcia. Perched on a hill above the sweeping plains of the Pian Grande, from afar, it looks like something out of a dream: a tiny, stone-built village rising from winter mist or floating above a summer mosaic of color, suspended in the vastness of the plateau. But up-close, it’s mostly ruins. The heart of the town is still a ‘zona rossa’ (a red zone), a high-risk collapse zone. Temporary cafés operate out of containers.

In one such improvised eatery, I order a plate of pecorino cheese drizzled with herbs, ricotta dusted with spices, and grilled arrosticini—skewers of sheep meat typical from Abruzzo. It tastes amazing—it tastes like resistance.

In Visso, deeper into the western side of the park, once listed among Italy’s most beautiful villages, the atmosphere is slightly more hopeful. Machines are working, but the reconstruction site signs show outdated completion dates. Residents tell me they try to stay optimistic—as they’ve been trying to, for almost 10 years.

I stop the van in Piedilama, a hamlet of Arquata del Tronto near the southernmost edge of the park, and step out into the silence. The village is empty. I wander through the streets alone. Some parts of the beautiful church Chiesa della Madonna della Pace still stand, and one of its stained-glass windows—now orphaned by the wall that once framed it—glows softly against the snow-covered mountain behind it. It’s beautiful yet haunting.

I step carefully into the alleys, avoiding the areas marked as red zone, with the uneasy sense that everything around me could come crashing down. One house is split open, its interior exposed: A staircase, some furniture, a boot covered in dust, even a table still set. As if dinner had been interrupted and never resumed.

Somehow, though, there’s still life. The prefab units, dirty-cream and sun-worn, have sprouted verandas and picket fences. Children’s toys sit on plastic chairs outside front doors, left by visiting grandchildren. Homes were made from what was never meant to last.

To understand how dramatically things have changed, you only need to check the live webcam run by Arquata Potest, a local volunteer group working to keep this village alive despite the destruction and loss. “It’s an eye always open on the wounds Arquata has endured,” says Carlo Ambrosi, one of the volunteers.

His hope? “That the earthquake becomes an opportunity—to rebuild Arquata to its former glory, to enhance its historical and cultural identity, with better services and homes built to last.”

I consider the Sibillini Mountains one of Italy’s most surreal places—where beauty blooms between broken towns, and where nature heals faster than people. But, nearly a decade on, visiting is about more than the adventures it can give you. It means taking part in this region’s slow rebirth.

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