High hopes and high altitudes

A story of a mountain pt.1

Since we had moved to spend our winter in the Italian Alps, we were obsessively checking the weather forecast. Maybe a unhealthy habit ingrained in me after 8 years of living in the UK, maybe a foretelling sign of our high hopes for an altitude day. Yet, we never really set off to glacial Val Masino in winter to do anything but to enjoy the scenery and live close to the stunning granite boulders the previous summer we tried to climb in ravaging heat with little success.

In all honesty though, it didn’t take very much for us to start derailing our climbing plans for an adventure we didn’t even know we wanted. Until that first morning, that is. When we opened the shutters of our bedroom window and were welcomed by the rock and snowy giants watching over the valley. Cavalcorto Peak and the Iron Valley were looming over the horizon, an incomprehensible feeling of distance and closeness all at once. With tears of joy streaming down my face I disrupted my partner’s sleep and shouted ‘Oooooohhhh my Goooood Leon looooook’.

In any other given moments I reckon he would have not appreciated my indelicacy in waking him up, but by his reaction, it was clear I had been granted a free pass. As Italian, growing up with these kind of mountains in the backyard (is it still backyard if they’re 3 hours away?), I sort of took for granted the potent effect they have on people who see them for the first time. And the look on Leon’s face was the one of a religious disciple seeing their messiahs for the first time; of a hungry child biting into their first meal of the day; of a lover reuniting with their other half. It was such a gift to watch him glow up from the inside out. We hugged and stood in front of our bedroom window sipping tea and coffee (guess who drinks what?) contemplating the very same moment and enjoying each other silent company as we both felt at peace, like never before.

So the idea started taking shape, in the back of our minds, a homage to my 13 years spent in the scouts adventuring out every winter and every summer, a true new adventure for Leon, who despite having been to Everest base camp and Peruvian Rainbow Mountain, he had never been put through the ringer in a Alpine winter experience.

It hadn’t even been three days since we drove our reliable yet rattly Mazda 5 from my parents's home to the Sondrio province and there we were, taking full stock of our current gear, watching videos of avalanche prevention over and over again, spending all our budget money in several trips to the local Decathlon, putting ourselves on forced rest days from climbing so to feel really good and fresh for the big hike up.

Despite being somewhat experienced climbers, we knew the physical aspect of trekking up the mountain would have been challenging. So we started to run and hike often to build up a little bit of extra cardio vascular fitness and started deep diving into YouTube and local websites to see if anyone had ever done the trip we wanted to do in winter before. As popular as the route was in summer, being partially part of sentiero Roma, but also a really common 2 day trip, we found no proof, no YouTube video, no nothing to support our wild dreams of succeeding in this snow-covered 1700 meters of ascend up to Bivacco Kima.

And this is when my anxiety started playing tricks on me.

As Leon overconfident character took the job seriously and started learning about avalanche rescue, preparing all the kit needed, I was spiralling down a well of nerves and fear that this, if anything went wrong, could have very well been our last ever trip on this earth. Whether this was actually true or not, it really did not matter in my poor head, as it kept dreaming of drowning in avalanches or sliding down the side of a cliff. The thing is, you don’t adventure out into a two day experience in the mountains if you’re so scared even just thinking about it. It is counterproductive. And dangerous. So we postponed. We toyed with the idea of not doing it. We argued over it. I cried for not being braver. I nearly gave up but there was some deep yearning inside me that was overriding every other feeling and thoughts. It was yearning an adventure. An epic one.

After checking the weather window obsessively for 2 weeks, finally one morning we woke up dark and early, we had a substantial breakfast and set off in the dark of the alpine 6,30 am environment to begin our journey upwards into the natural reserve of Val di Mello and beyond.

The beginning was cold. The car was signalling -11 celsius. We were freezing for the first 20/30 minutes, thinking we might need to rethink our layering or pull out the big gun down jacket already. Yet, we were fresh, psyched, confident and we were walking in a dark and frozen winter wonderland were stalactites were poking out of frozen rivers and the pine trees were covered in thick snow. Our torches were shining onto a fully white and grey landscape, in which there was no more distinction between sky and land, water and sea and we were smiling like we were about to meet Santa and his reindeers.

With high hopes and even higher moods we kept walking through the valley, watching the sun starting to poke out behind the mountains, a shy shade of yellow now making its way through from the bottom of the valley.

Hey Leon, look! - I pointed at sign that said we were in for a 7 hours walk uphill. Whilst baffled to see that, as we thought it was going to be a 6 hour walk overall and we’ve been going since 7, we smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction as we knew we were in the right direction. All good, it’s only 8am, we’re good, the sun doesn’t go down until 4,30 pm anyways - nodded Leon in a way that was almost to reassure himself more so than replying to me.

The freshness however began to fade quite quickly, as our steps began to lead us uphill through a series of pine needle-covered hairpin turns. Each one leading us higher and higher, with the few human traces we’d seen previously starting to fade away. As we kept our nose and head down ascending the steep side of the mountain, I observed that in some spots the snow had melted into ice sheets, so slippery you could skate on them and heard the crunching noise of the pine nuts and the screeching of the bear rocks when we stepped onto them with our low range crampons. It was a full, deep-forest ASMR experience, complete of some tiny yet super puffy birds chirping, our ever so heavier breathing, and the every so often sound of ‘ahhhh’ or ‘woow’ when we spotted something that made us be happy to be living this experience.

We realised the treacherous way up started becoming flatter, and after a quick look at our offline digital map we realised we had reached the view point. We were happy. It was a magnificent view and it was only 10am. We’re smashing it - said Leon with a chuffed look on his face. Let’s take some pictures. So we did. Lots. We smiled at the iPhone camera, our bodies still feeling great, the sun now cresting on the east side of the valley turning the mountain from cold granite grey to a soft and warm winter morning yellow. A true glow up was unfolding beneath us but it wouldn’t be until 2 hours later that we would have been sat in it.

Almost as soon as we left the view point and adventure further, we knew this was as far as people had previously gone since the latest snow fall, as we were now stepping on intact, fresh, deep-to-our-mid-thigh snow. That viewpoint, and the fact that there was no other human traces would have marked the end of the easy trail, and the beginning of the effort of our life. This process was gruelling, yet familiar from previous experiences of trudging through tall snow. This time at least I had snow shoes to benefit from, but I hadn’t been able to put them on yet, as there was literally no dry place to stop and sit down or rest. We snacked, peed, rested while standing.

With underestimated food reserves and an increasingly hot day looming on us (hello sun reflected by snow?!), we started speeding up, making our way to the last man-made refuge, used in summer by Shepards and live stock grazers. We were so confused to how this heat that we were currently basking in, could have been the exact same day as 4 hours before when we were shivering next to our locked car, strapping our boots and crampons on.

All of a sudden, 3 graceful figures appear in the distance, perhaps very confused and startled to what two human idiots were doing up a steep mountain in winter, with little to no experience and sub-par mountain gear. Leon and I looked at each other as we tried to quietened down, so we managed to catch another glimpse of the recurved horns creatures, 3 Ibex, hopping gracefully from rock to snow and snow to rock, in search of food or perhaps scouting the territory for threats. (Like us?)

‘Oh my god I never seen an Ibex before!!!!’

As we chanced a glimpse of our happy faces, another burst of energy came through our veins and we felt right in the middle of a planet earth episode, now putting on our best David Attenborough voices, as we tried to describe the scene that was unfolding before our eyes.

Leon was a terrible navigator and every time he took the lead we ended up having to find the red and white C.A.I. (club alpino Italiano) tracks again, so I took charge for the final (what we thought it was final) climb up the side of the mountain, moving past the final tree line, onto the saddle of the mountain. Fatigue, thirst and sweaty armpits were accompanying us as we passed right below the flat-topped Cameraccio peak, in the bright heat of the day, moving slower and slower. As we turned the corner we spotted a group of sheep sheltering from the sun under a slightly higher and more inclined granite boulder and so we decided to do the exact same.

Another quick stop over to look at the map. It was now 1 pm and the digital offline trail app was indicating 2 hrs, 36 minutes to go. We can do this. It wasn’t that far. It was only 3 km away. But oh boy, it’s undeniable how far that feels after a 7 hour day on your back. ‘There is no way we’re going back now.’ And with that subconscious outburst of pride and energy, Leon and I locked in the position, and dragged our feet, one snowshoe step after the other, in a transversal crossing of the saddle, battered by the wind.

An hour later, we felt our legs becoming heavier by the minute, the intense day now catching up on our sore feet and knees, we noticed time was going too fast and we were starting to need break every 5 to 10 minutes. Sunset was at 4,45 pm and we were now cutting it fine with time. Our confidence wavered. The exhaustion started kicking in, and I was almost in tears. Leon was rendered speechless though hunger and exhaustion and we felt, for the first time in the whole day, that we could soon have been in some kind of ‘need to make a shelter’ kinda situation. Alas, through a binocular glimpse of the western end of the mountain saddle, we spotted a tiny red roof with solar panels on top sat at the far back of a big snowy ridge . Our goal for the night: Bivacco Kima.

Up until then, my moods had gone up and down the usual rollercoaster of feeling great and then not so great, then awfully low and incredibly high. I am used to this. It doesn’t ever get easier for me, but I know that it happens pretty much at any time I go beyond my mundane life baseline effort and things begin to feel physically challenging. Then, the brain kicks in and it begins to overcomplicate your physical pain by adding mental layers to this. Your knee is hurting, you can’t walk anymore, you will freeze here tonight. There is no way this hiking towards the 2669 meters above sea level is a good idea, you will regret this…. etc etc. The anxiety takes over. The self deprecating thoughts drain you out of energy even more so that your body is capable of, and there it goes the spiral of doom begins.

{I am curious to hear if you have ever felt like the too?}

Up until then I was experiencing my usual level of self doubt, which normally works like this. You take your daily trash talk that you have in your head and then you multiply by the hardship coefficient. A term I use to describe how physically daunting or hard or scary the things I am doing are. So Let’s say I have had an okay week and my trash talk is only a 3 out of 10 and I am climbing on a bit of a tricky boulder with a not so great landing that’s a coefficient of 2 out of 5 and there it is my self doubt level is a 6 out 50. That day, self doubt was high, ranging between 20 and 40.

Up until Leon and I realised that this final steep climb up the squeaky clean compacted snow to the Bivouac meant the difference between a safe, sub-par night of sleep and a freezing nightmare of a dark descend back to the valley. One, guaranteed our life to be intact the next day; the other, left quite a questionable and unknowing opening.

At that exact moment of realising this, all superfluous thoughts and feelings got ejected from my brain and there was truly no more thinking, just a continuous steady action of just.keep.walking. It’s like I thought I was a petrol car and had already shifted through all of my gears, just to find out that at the very end of my journey I had a crazy sturdy diesel motor. Pain in my knee, tiredness, the sun now going down and us being nowhere near the hut yet, nothing mattered. I glance quickly to the side of the mountain to check the sun position relative to the mountains and I catch the sight of a gorgeous all encompassing orange and pink and purple sunset sky. No time for photos, I tell myself as I refuse to stop to take it all in, knowing I would have appreciated touching a bed later on in the evening.

As we unpacked our jackets and hats and gloves to prevent any cold burns to our faces, the high wind started picking up and it was so strong that it made our ascend faulted and stumble and hide from rock to rock. A strap gets blown away down into the valley and for a moment I fear that the same will happen to us soon, so there is only one thing to do and that is to just.keep.walking. Now fully surrounded by gusts of winds and dark sky, we have our torches guiding us from point to point, 1 km left to go, swapping every few meters to take the lead and create the snowshoe tracks needed to stay steady on our feet and not slip or break any big snow sheets. I look ahead and I see the hut. As the crows flies it is right there, 200 meters max. Only the hut is on top of a massive hill to climb and we’re right on top of another hill, so we have to loose altitude and descend one final time before ascending again. This truly feels like the test of a lifetime. Bent in half to fight the wind, backpacks becoming heavier by the minute we are beyond exhausted, we are done. We are zombi-ing to the end of this. Our breaths heavy, My asthmatic lungs in full spasm. One step at a time we finally see the hut again. This time much closer, only 10 meters away. A final burst of energy curses through my veins and I end up charging at full speed uphill. Before I know it I am crying my eyes out, taking my backpack off as I reach the side of Kima, my hands now touching the cold stoned walls, feeling like I reached some kinda of nirvana.

We did it, we did it, we did it - we cry out loud as we hug tightly, two Michelin-man-like figures swaying together like a human sized karyogami (fusing of cells).

Full darkness had descended so fast. As we used the emergency shovel to remove the ice and snow blocking the entrance door, we looked around. Not a human trace in sight. It was just us, the cold and the mountains. We felt so small, yet so vast, inside, like what we were seeing was just an extension of ourselves, and we were guests visiting a new world.

As we entered the bivouac we realised it was so well equipped it even had a log burner, a few semi used portable stoves, lots of spare tins of food in the storage. Leon wept some more, overjoyed by the idea of fuelling more than a heavy breakfast, a few tangerines and 3 meal replacement bars. We also noticed that there was no wood left, and that the water, the soap and anything containing the minimal amount of water inside had frozen over. We were in for a cold night, but it so didn’t mattered cause we were sure as hell prepared for a little discomfort after what we’d been through.

We melted the snow for some fresh water, we cooked, we wrapped up and around 8 pm we were nestled in the top bunkbed, surrounded by extra blankets and old sleeping bags left there by kind souls.

At 4 am we both woke up, hearing the wind slamming one of the window shut. Unfortunately the latch had broken which meant we couldn’t do anything about it. Both me and Leon needed a wee so bad, yet I so didn’t want to leave the coziness and the heat of this sleeping bag nest. My knee was so sore I couldn’t move it independently but I tried to take my mind off it, as there was nothing I could have done right there and then. That was going to be a tomorrow’s problem.

Reluctantly, we both wormed out of the sleeping bags and climbed down the bunkbed, put our sore feet into our boots, and climbed out the door, trying not to get any snow in our socks.

Immediately, as we took turns peeing next to the hut, we looked up to the sky. It was like a dark blue blanket with thousands tiny embroidered details unfurling infinitely over us. Despite the cold, we felt so warm, so loved, so connected. We were in love with the striking simplicity of how great it feels to see the sky so clearly. No light pollution, no obstructed views, just us, at 3 am, in - 22 celsius, seeing the Milky Way expanding before our eyes. Not another soul in sight. We held hands and our jaw dropped. So much vastness it was hard to believe. So many stars, there were more than all the grains of sand on Earth. It felt like we were witnessing a miracle up close.