Have you ever heard of Gigiàt?

Among the monstrous and legendary creatures that country imagination has populated in the woods, forests and the Alps, the Gigiàt of Val Masino surely deserves a place of honour. Its shape, though, is fairly hard to pin down, blending comic-grotesque features with downright terrifying ones. 

The problem is the sources: very few can credibly claim to have seen it, and those who talk about it describe it in different ways. The most reliable sources are surely the mountain guides and the long-standing managers of the refuges in Val Masino, who have been recounting its exploits for more than a century during evening wake-sessions. 

According to some, the animal’s summer habitat is strictly limited to the Porcellizzo, Del Ferro, Qualido and Zocca valleys, but the matter is controversial, because others extend it too to the south-west—meaning the Oro valley, the Merdarola and Spluga—and to the east, i.e. the Torrone, Cameraccio and Preda Rossa valleys, claiming that the Corni Bruciati mark the eastern boundary of its territory. It seems pretty certain that in winter it goes down to the valley floor, although—because of how fast it is—it is never spotted, unless it’s the one that wants it that way.

 It’s not even totally clear what sort of animal it is: it’s probably a cross between a goat and a chamois (or an ibex), with an extremely long coat (which is sheared every spring) and gigantic size, to the point that it can cross an entire valley with just a few bounds. The most puzzling thing of all, however, is that despite its size, very few people manage to catch sight of it—basically only the mountain guides.

Others say it isn’t that huge, after all. In any case, its description paints a head far out of proportion to its body, with a flattened nose and long horns; the front legs are fitted with claws, the back legs with grasping hooves; its long, scruffy fur gives off an unbearable stench of wild goat. 

Everyone agrees on its extraordinary agility: in the high mountains it moves with an unmatched deftness and sure-footedness, jumps from ledge to ledge, whirls over glaciers, runs towards the precipices and stops abruptly right at the edge—like it’s making fun of the laws of gravity and balance. Along with its nimbleness, it has incredible stamina: it’s never tired, it’s never still.

 One episode, among many, can give us an idea of what the true king of these mountains is really like.

It was told—myth that tells a myth—by the mountain guide Giacomo Fiorelli, caretaker of the Gianetti refuge in the early 1900s. He used to climb the mountain barefoot, even under the harshest conditions. One time, he found himself having to cross the last ledge before the summit of Pizzo Badile, which was a bit like his second home. But the ice betrayed him and he slipped. 

He would have gone tumbling, if he hadn’t managed to grab hold of a rocky outcrop. So there he was, suspended over the drop, unable to get himself out of trouble, because he had no other handholds or footholds. Then the gigiàt came; he could smell it before he even heard the sound of its quick, sure hooves on any kind of ground; it arrived and positioned itself just above him. 

He felt its long coat brushing his face, his features tightened with tension. In an instant: he let go of the outcrop and clung with the full weight of his body to its fur, pulling himself up using only the strength of his arms. He was safe, and he owed his safety to the animal—though, before he even had time to realise what had happened, it had already vanished from his sight.

From this, and from many other stories, it can be inferred that the nature of the gigiàt is deeply good. 

But it isn’t quite that simple: people also attribute to it the terrifying habit—basically vegetarian—to supplement its diet with some meals made up of hikers or lone mountaineers, caught wandering into its remote territories. 

Maybe it’s because the name they gave it (as with all names ending in “-àt”, it’s basically meant as an insult) deeply offended it—and it still offends it.

How do you reconcile these two sides? 

One way to read its apparently contradictory nature is suggested by a clearly visible mural in San Martino, on a house that sits, to the right of the entrance. Near the fantastic depiction of the animal, you can read: “El Gigiat, nume tutelare de esta splendida valle. 

Buono con lo homo che natura rispetta, mala sorte a chi lo trovasse non respetoso. Onori et gloria a chi el vedesse e notizia ne desse…”. So yes, it’s a fantastic creature—but not a beast. In fact, it’s almost an expression of ancient wisdom and justice, one that doesn’t harm the good, but punishes the wicked. 

That’s why it is not only feared, but also respected: even today the custom is still alive of leaving a little hay in the fields during winter, so it can feed itself.

But we should also, in the spirit of honesty, mention the more sceptical versions of the story of the Gigiàt. 

It’s said that the belief in the Gigiàt began with a colossal prank, carried out against a very wealthy and eccentric count from Morbegno, who boasted that in his home he had collected everything in the land of Valtellina that was most curious and rare.

The prank was masterminded by two residents of San Martino, who told him they had seen—near Pizzo Badile—an enormous terrifying animal, with an extremely long, black goat-like coat, and nostrils that spewed flames. 

The count, burning with desire to enrich his collection by capturing that miraculous creature, then advanced a substantial sum of money to the two of them on the condition that they promised to catch it.

It’s easy to guess what happened: after that, neither the Gigiàt nor the two men were seen again. And two whole centuries have passed since then, with no one ever managing to come up with reliable proof that the mysterious animal actually existed. That’s what the sceptics say. 

Opposing them are those who defend—at all costs—the existence of the legendary creature. They claim that last century a specimen was indeed captured, but it didn’t live long in captivity. Brought to Morbegno to be shown to a disbelieving public, it couldn’t tolerate the valley-floor climate and died of the cold. A very sad ending for a champion of the harsh, severe climate of the high mountains! 

A second version doesn’t talk about death, but about release: the animal, in fact, proved utterly intolerant of being kept captive. It rebelled, started kicking to the right and left, and the mountain guides who had taken it to Morbegno eventually returned it to its mountains.

Yes, because perhaps the most distinctive trait of the gigiàt is its deep love of freedom, its vitality, its need to get away, its restless—and even mischievous—nature. It seems, in fact, that it loves to join in the marmots’ dances and sway on tree branches with the squirrels.

After so many “they say”, here’s a fact that’s certain and attested. At the 1956 Carnival in Morbegno, a chained Gigiat specimen was paraded through town between everyone’s surprise and laughter. It was led by two residents of S. Martino, who wanted to deliver a loud moral slap to all those people from Morbegno who, taking the cue from the episode told above, were saying that the “Valöcc” (that is, people from Val Masino) can’t be trusted.

Well, those people had to reconsider: in the end, the captured animal had indeed been brought to Morbegno, just as a few generations earlier had been promised. The truth was that it was a donkey covered with skins, led by a hunter with a wooden rifle and an assistant, who even tried to milk it. Among everyone’s laughter, the milking didn’t work because the cold had frozen the milk in the (obviously fake) udders. Without getting flustered, though, the assistant ran off to buy freshly milked milk and poured it into the fake udders—so, in the end, the Gigiat’s “milk” was publicly milked too.

But it isn’t the only surprise the Gigiàt has in store. People talk about it too beyond the boundaries of Val Masino—especially in the nearby Costiera dei Cech, in several other places across Valtellina and also in Valsassina. Once it comes out of the severe granite bastions of Val Masino, its figure becomes more vague, pointing back to the ancient myth of the god Pan, linked to nature’s inexhaustible fertility and to life’s always-renewing cycle.

So, it’s said, the Gigiat isn’t bigger than 40–60 cm, it likes to make the sound of its whistle heard without being seen, it hides among curled locks and chestnut leaves in autumn, it’s a being somewhere halfway between man and goat. It fights, playfully, with little bulls and chamois—or maybe it’s also a prankish, quirky goblin that dances with marmots and loves the best chestnuts and the small cheeses that country folk leave out for it on the doorstep.

You start thinking of it during times of cheer, like the grape harvest: a few clusters—some of the finest—are left on the rows as an offering that the gigiàt really appreciates. 
And then maybe that crystalline burst of laughter you sometimes hear, sharp and sudden in the sleepy hush of midday—between the doorway and the courtyard, behind a door or a chestnut tree—is also a kind of thanks. You go to see who it is. But you don’t see anyone. Still, you feel that the gigiàt has been there: a favourable presence, bringing plenty and joy in living.

Extract from http://www.paesidivaltellina.it