South6

I’m lying in my tent on one of those many afternoons when bad weather is raging on K2. The Baltoro has been a place of reflection and inspiration for a long—yet at the same time short—month. It was right there that my desire to climb on rock, in the sun, and to keep traveling—without necessarily having to fly to the other side of the world—became so strong that it sparked the idea for this project for the following summer. And it’s always there that I think of my friend Aurélia as the perfect companion to bring this adventure to life. I sent her a message via InReach (a satellite phone), and, as usual, her enthusiastic reply brought a smile to my heart—one of those inner smiles that can’t be seen but that allow us to feel happy about the choices we’ve made, the people we’ve chosen to have by our side, and the path we’re traveling.

South6 consists of climbing six south faces of the Alps, which we have chosen as the most beautiful from both a climbing and aesthetic perspective—in contrast to the heroic, “grueling” mountaineering that characterizes the six north faces of the Alps. We want to link these faces by bicycle, on a unique journey from the sea at the southwestern end of the Alps to the sea at the southeastern end of the Alps. The bicycle is the means that allows us to experience this journey in a completely eco-friendly way, without the use of motorized vehicles and without anyone deliberately using them to support us. The desire to spend a month of our lives living a zero-emission, physically intense lifestyle gives us the strength to embark on a discipline that’s somewhat new to us: bikepacking.

And so a year goes by… After a few changes of plans and hours spent on the phone, we finally manage to finalize the plan; July 31 is the chosen departure date. We arrive by train in Ventimiglia, as excited as children setting off on a new adventure, without any fear, unlike what might happen with other mountaineering projects. The journey will be so long that we’ll have plenty of time to worry about any potential problems—so long, in fact, that it forces us to envision it one small section at a time, making it feel like we have many small projects within one big project.

So, loaded down with all our climbing gear and the bare minimum needed for camping, we set off.

The result is 1,500 kilometers and 22,000 meters of elevation gain covered by bicycle, 10,000 meters of elevation gain covered on foot, 4,000 meters of vertical rock climbed, three days of rest during exactly one month of travel, and two dips in the sea at the two opposite ends of the Alps!

The first climb we chose was the Corno Stella, in the Argentera massif. We set off from Ventimiglia at 1:00 p.m., our underwear and bras still wet from the obligatory dip in the sea, with a temperature of 30° and high pressure. This weather would stay with us, more or less unchanged, for the next three weeks! The adventure begins, and so do the first climbs with our bikes, each loaded with about 18 kg. We spend the first night camping by the roadside in our little tent and have breakfast at dawn to try to avoid at least a few hours of the intense August heat.

Corno Stella is a little-known mountain, and to see it, you really have to make a special trip there. It’s a bit of a “local” mountain, and it was precisely this aspect that drew me to it. Only the chamois keep us company on the approach to the Bozano refuge, where Marco, the manager, welcomes us with a delicious artisanal pizza, and two new friends from Borgo San Dalmazzo make for a lively evening and help us fully immerse ourselves in the place’s family-like atmosphere. I’d like to sincerely thank Lorenzo and Andrea for their company and logistical support!

The next day we climbed the Ge.La.Mo. route—it’s the first route in the project—and even though we’d only been gone for two days (which means we hadn’t climbed for three days), finding myself pulling on the small holds of the first pitch with frozen fingers after so many hours sitting in the saddle makes me feel like I’ve forgotten what climbing is all about! But the temperature eases up, and so do my movements; hold after hold, the rock starts to flow quickly beneath my hands again, and everything feels more familiar and enjoyable—so much so that I find myself at the top without even realizing it. We descend quickly, don’t waste too much time, and immediately hop on our bikes, heading toward… Mont Blanc!

Our next destination is Mont Blanc itself, via one of its most iconic routes: the Central Pylon of the Freney. We chose the Bonington route on the Central Pillar because it is by far the most aesthetically pleasing and technically challenging line on Mont Blanc’s south face. It’s a significant route, steeped in history and meaning, that was still missing from our list of achievements.

When we see Mont Blanc for the first time in the distance while cycling along the Aosta Valley, it’s a truly thrilling experience. It’s a mountain we both see all the time and have already climbed via various routes and slopes, but knowing that we’re coming from the sea on our bikes and that we’ll have to cross it along that route to reach France gives us a brief shiver.

And so, after a few days of biking, we headed up to the Eccles bivouac to spend the afternoon and part of the night there. That night, we set out on our climb. Luck seemed to have officially decided to be on our side—not only were the weather conditions perfect, but the glacier and rock face were also in optimal condition.

We climb nonstop, illuminated by the light of our headlamps, mostly in a single file; the sun begins to appear in the distance, and as the hours pass, the temperatures also become milder, helping us maintain a good pace. We reach the Chandelle, where we allow ourselves to adjust our pace; the difficulty increases considerably, and with it, our awe at the courage of the first ascenders back then. From the summit of La Chandelle to the summit of Mont Blanc, however, it’s still a long way; snow-covered ridge sections alternate with rocky ones. Fatigue begins to set in, but then, finally—the summit! I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve climbed up here—the first time with Stefano, Giovanni, and Matteo along the full Peuterey ridge; many times on skis for high-altitude spring training; and today with Aurélia, coming straight from the sea by any means necessary—it’s beautiful! But it’s not over yet—a long 3,000-meter descent awaits us all the way down to Chamonix, where, after a pizza and a beer, we finally collapse into my small but cozy little nest of a home!

A special thanks to Stefano Ragazzo, my boyfriend, who, on his way back from a guiding job on Monte Rosa, took our bikes to Val Veny so they’d be waiting for us in Chamonix—but above all, for the love that drove him to meet us halfway down the descent with a backpack full of treats from a French boulangerie!

From Chamonix, we set off again for Switzerland. The bike stages get more challenging, the flat sections almost disappear, and with the Col de la Forclaz first, the Grimsel Pass next, and the short but steep climb to Wenden Alp, we reach the Wendenstock. It’s the first time I’ve finally seen the famous Wenden walls, and I’m ecstatic. I immediately reconnect with the rock, the desire to climb, and the need to pause for a moment to reclaim the steady rhythm and inner focus that climbing demands. Calmly, I immerse myself in the atmosphere of the place. The few other climbers there are very friendly; we all feel like part of one big family.

We climb the “Via Caminando,” a masterpiece on the Reissend Nollen. About fifteen pitches, each more beautiful than the last, where the sheer verticality (starting from the base) and the distance between the bolts allow me to feel light and at one with the wall.

Then we set off again for another two steep days of cycling, where the icing on the cake comes right at the end with a road that’s almost too steep for our gravel bike gear ratios. Luckily, my parents have come to spend a couple of days with us in this little corner of paradise. They’re here with their van, and besides carrying our bike bags, they’ll make our simple tent camping trip much more comfortable.

We’re climbing the Schwarzer Diamant route on the Drusenfluh. It’s beautiful. We start early to avoid the heat, and the temperatures still allow us to enjoy the essential grip provided by the tiny water-formed formations on these walls, which would otherwise lack any holds.

Once again, that sense of lightness and confidence takes hold of me; I’m thrilled when it’s my turn to lead, but a little uncomfortable when I’m second…! The final pitch is a different story—it’s a double overhang where I go up and down a couple of times before convincing myself that it’s actually that awkward hold I need to grab to set up a dynamic move toward something I can’t yet see from below, but that I hope to find—and voilà, right there, I find it! We manage to free climb it all again; our smiles never fade, and the desire to keep riding this wave of positivity gives us the right boost for our next destination—so we start pedaling again!

After three weeks of high pressure and favorable weather, the stars aligned against us, and the next few days of cycling turned out to be by far the longest and with the most elevation gain (about 140 km and more than 2,000 m of elevation gain each). It will be a mystical inner journey punctuated by the constant dripping of rain on the visors of our caps and on our jackets, which will soon be soaked through and useless.

The next mountain I have my sights set on is my beloved Marmolada. I’m choosing a route that I’m already somewhat familiar with and that isn’t too challenging for me, because I’m finding it difficult to get into optimal physical and mental condition at this point in the trip. In any case, climbing “Tempi Moderni” in a single day (…and even making it back down before dark) will be a wonderful, unhesitating ride—one that finally lets my friend Aurélia discover what I’ve been trying to explain to her in words, but which she, incredulous, couldn’t understand: climbing the Marmolada is something truly unique. And it makes me realize why people often tell me that “I come from the best climbing school.” Because if you climb the Marmolada well, there’s nothing that can stop you!

From the summit of this mountain that is so dear to my heart, the view is breathtaking—and so is the joy of being just one step away from the end!

We continue on to Friuli. The weather still has us on the fence. We take the opportunity to enjoy a few days at a slower pace: a lovely breakfast at my little cousin’s place in Caprile, a nice birthday dinner for Aurélia in Cortina, and a couple of days split between the Marinelli mountain hut and Agriturismo Morareto, waiting for the sun to come out and dry the walls wet from the recent rains. Just as the sun is shining brightly against a Prussian-blue sky, we find ourselves stuck inside a car where we spent the night—courtesy of the young woman who runs the agriturismo, who found this perfect solution for us given the weekend’s overbooking and the fact that we had nowhere else to stay. We wait for everyone to wake up and for someone to finally realize we’re stuck in here! We then set off determined; as usual, we hike quickly, climb quickly, and in no time we’re at the top of the “Nouvelles Sensations” route on the Pilastro delle Plote del Cjanevate! From here, the minutes flow seamlessly into one another, turning into hours, and the hours give way first to sunset, then to the darkness of night, and finally to the silence of dawn. But we see this first timid light of day emerging from the sea… Because yes, we did it—exactly one month after leaving Ventimiglia, after a night spent cycling and rationing what little food we had left—we dive into the sea on the other side of the Alps!

Monfalcone thus evokes the feeling of a dark, confusing night on a bicycle, of a double brioche and American coffee at the bakery open at 4 a.m., of the salt air and the cold but calm sea at 6 a.m., of a few minutes of stillness and disbelief, of a chapter that closes with the same simplicity and carefree spirit with which it began.