I stop to catch my breath. Breathing heavily at 7,000 feet, the water vapor condenses into a thousand tiny droplets of ice. My foggy breath lifts into the air and becomes a cloud. Winter has arrived.The grey stone tips of the Italian Alps are heavily dusted in snow, but at the base of this particular mountain, a dreary autumn rain has forced us to start our hike swathed in rain gear. We’re following the footsteps of Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati, the “man of the beatitudes,” and we don’t really know what to expect.